SSINGLESPEED USA.
Salida, Colorado
October 11-12, 2024
The air was cool and clear, the sun bright in the October sky, as I navigated 400 American horsepower worth of Bright Red Pickup Truck into the town of Salida. I was wholly prepared for the journey, a cooler full of beer and high-octane rum, two bicycles (one with the requisite single gear), and a healthy sense of purpose to complete That Dumb Thing. Fifty years of roaming the planet seems a great reason, or excuse, to indulge in absurdity for at least a 48 hour period. A lone mule deer scampered across the street, breath misty in the cold. He didn't know what was coming. The town didn't know what was coming. We were arriving. The Singlespeeders.
Low-profile was the plan. Observe and react. I arrived at Sub Culture Cyclery early for the 9am gathering, and engaged in conversation with a few others, mostly locals, or Colorado-centric. Everyone has a capable look about them. The bicycles surrounding the crowd are beautiful and purpose-built, each one a reflection of its rider in some way. It is a defining characteristic of the breed.
The numbers of the motley assemblage grew as the nine'o'clock hour arrived. Legs equipped with knotted steel calves were swung over top tubes of aluminum, steel and titanium. The rambling crowd thinned itself into an orderly line, passing over the late-season laziness of the Arkansas River, through a gate, and onto the trails of the infamous "S" mountain. The terrain kicked up, and the fun truly began. Planned low-key demeanor wavered in the face of heavy breathing and near-maximum efforts I feared would expose the geographic predilection that is my current life, mostly spent at a mere 700' above sea level. These were hard men and women, and my eagerness had placed me near the head of a vicious snake winding its way up and up. No option to slow, lest a gap form, exposing me as a fraud. This was about pride, man. Suck it up. Go hard in the paint. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Type A fun is the only way to roll.
Left with a time gap and an empty stomach post-ride, it was off to find some faire in town. Pizza with homemade root beer and some salaciously applied 92 proof rum set the tone for an early afternoon of lazing by the river in town and enjoying the respite of a book. The local populous gathers by the water, some walking dogs, some running kayaks through gates, some others running illicit substances through their cerebrums. Its a scene.
The temptation of running a ruse with the good organizers of the Singlespeed event and giving my identity as Raoul Duke was a fleeting one...had there been more rum involved in the afternoon, it might have taken flight. Alas. The sign-in was completed, the swag bag in hand, it was off across town to the hotel for the evenings' accommodations.
Great googley moogley. Or some such. What an excellent haul in the swag bag. Stickers, because...we are mountain bikers and MUST have the stickers. A beer coozy. A buff. An amazing race "number" plate that was 100% plate...as in...METAL. And the kicker was something Dr. Gonzo himself would have looked upon with pride, two joints and a pack of matches. A well-set tone for the event.
The remainder of the evening was one of low-key introspection and low-grade imbibing of substances. A bbq food truck outside a local distillery filled one void, and a meandering bike ride through town, another. Salida is at an angle. Of this I am convinced. The whole town is angled. Consult a map. I am not wrong.
SWINE CHILDREN banging on hotel doors for 3 hours did nothing for the mood. Damn near had to consult my lawyer, something that nobody really wants. Sleep, finally.
The desert chill and a head full of pressure. It was cold and my head felt as though it should be advertising for Goodyear. Drat. There is no discomfort, we are here to ride bikes and have fun. Figure out appropriate clothing and the means with which to transport liquids, both sustaining and mind-altering.
Properly accoutremented, I swung a leg over and angled across town to meet with a breakfast burrito...and my contact for this mission: Kat. She arrived on schedule, and we mingled with the steadily growing crowd. There was danger in the air. The smell of coffee tinged with stray whiffs of marijuana. The occasional crack of a beer. A bottle of mescaline was proffered, and, delicately refused. The pile of bicycles grew to obscene proportions. The pressure was building as the temperature slowly rose, and the eagerness of the crowd became palpable. Let. Us. Go.
The crack of a pistol sent the unruly group surging forward. It was not an organized surge by any means, there was far too much unhinged swerving for this to be mistaken as a race in any way, shape or form. If anyone WAS racing, Kat and I had vowed to stay far, far away from that person. The order of the day was to be disorder, chaos and a scant hope that the person in front of us knew where they were going.
Two streets over, before we could cross the river, the entire mob circled back upon itself and created what can only be described as a meteorological phenomena...but with bikes. A giant, seething circle of riders, rotating ever-faster, the outer diameter collapsing upon itself. Rogue humans on foot charging through the fray as others spew clouds of toxic smoke and caustic remarks...all with the goal of getting the riders to place a foot on the ground. My skill level was not going to be up to this challenge, but Kat, she was definitely set up for success as more and more riders were eliminated. "Stay in it, the bastards won't last!" I yelled. When the smoke and obscenity cleared, she was left standing as the woman's champion, and presented with a large bedazzled belt to show for her efforts.
The ride itself began from there. A long string of people incapable of real speed on the road due to gear limitations. The freaks were on display. Aliens, fairies, hipsters, burnouts, dregs, old-schoolers, heads, and a gentleman clad only in tighty-(not-so-much)whities that we had the misfortune of following. For miles.
Singletrack finally achieved, we climbed amongst the rocks and roots and more rocks. Groups formed and dissolved, riders passed and gave way as the snake assaulted the mountain. A particularly difficult section coincided with a phone call. As a journalist, constant situation awareness is key, so I took it. Curse it. The hotel...asking why my belongings remained in the room when checkout was an hour past. Somehow, the booking was done incorrectly (I blame the confusion of age), and just like that, I was a vagabond for the foreseeable future. Didn't matter though, there were miles to be ridden, and Kat was already far up the trail.
Unlike much Colorado riding, the Salida trails presented a varied profile. Short technical climbs and descents on repeat provided some variety from the typical "climb for interminable period, descend with hair on fire" type of ride. Midwestern sensibilities were pleasantly surprised, but enthusiasm was held in check by the level of difficulty, as well as the overall level with relation to the sea. Confusion crept into the general diaspora as intersections were introduced, but we were fortunate enough to find some dim guiding lights pointing in what seemed to be a correct direction. A turn up a County Road was a turn of the screws. Riders were bleeding out of their eyeballs grinding up the grade. Full maximum Midwest Power garnered a fairly solid percentage of the incline before I surrendered to walking. A cluster of riders at the top were enjoying a snack of evil beverages and Oreo cookies laced with horseradish. These are the people who chew couches for fun.
The closest we came to despair was our next encounter...riders coming up the trail we were descending. WHO WAS GOING THE RIGHT WAY. AND, DOES IT MATTER. We pushed through, and in doing so actually found a local, J, that was only too happy to let us follow on what he thought the route might entail. Fun on S Mountain was the order of the next hour, your correspondent will most certainly make a return to this destination in the future. Finishing off with the Chicken Dinner trail, a trailside siesta grabbed hold of us and forced the consumption of some freshly fried bacon, bananas, and our first beers on the day. The crowd was ALIVE. We were on a mission, and the mission was to live out loud.
The propensity for events such as this to have at least one unprecedented instance is quite high...expected, even. For Kat and myself (and, I would hazard, a high percentage of the rest of the riders), that occurred with the course taking a unique track UNDER a highway via drainpipe. The exclamation point on the instance being the saxophone accompaniment, a truly unique experience.
Methodist Mountain awaited on the other side of the road. Dusty, sandy, rolling. Our muscles sipping on the bitter lactate cocktail offered up by the previous two hours of fun. The climb seemed interminable, until its terminus. A brief high-five from a disco-clad crew and a fill of the water bidon, and we were off across miles of scrub and wash, a world of lizards and birds and not much else. Here was D from Durango speeding us along, wondering where it would end.
The glory of gravity. We cursed it through the day, but we were left to revel in its beauty for the last push back into town. BUT FIRST. The party. Out of the sage and scrub oak appeared an oasis of mayhem and singlespeeders. Hot dogs proffered from the grill, huge coolers of beer, and a margarita machine out in the desolation. Plenty of parking in the trees, and plenty of company with riders passing through regularly...most choosing to pause and partake in the imbibing...some continuing on to great aspirations that included another 13 miles and 1400' feet of climbing. Kat and I picked this moment to pause and celebrate all we had accomplished thus far, and our legs applauded that decision. The drop was made all the more pleasurable with the influence of our good friend booze, tires were leaving the ground, berms were leaned and shredded, and we blasted back into the angled streets of Salida as champions.
The level of debauchery for the evening was to be limited by the impending 2 hour drive each of us faced back to our homes, but still, a few celebratory cocktails and some sustenance after a day punctuated by hunger and exertion was welcome. The crowd straggled in, nestling into a post-ride viper pit full of tales of the trail. Music was loud, high fives and good vibes were everywhere, and the sun set upon the day that was #SinglespeedUSA.
Again, next year? Leave that to the fates. Selah.
I'm retired.
Mike
