The pace was civil, and the thin clouds spared us from the often brutal heat of Poudre Canyon, but it was always going to rain. At the store in Rustic a sheet of paper taped over the handle read “Soft serve closed for winter”. The sky darkened. Aside from a wet road, ten minutes of rain, and a moment that stung like hail, during which I pulled the bill of my cap low to shield my face, the storm quickly passed. I attribute the lack of precipitation to the talismanic nature of the rain jackets we’d donned in anticipation of a soaking. One hundred kilometer from our last visit, we arrived back at Ted’s Place, the filling station at the entrance to Poudre Canyon. The food situation was grim. The same sad breakfast sandwiches sat waiting, save for the one I’d eaten before the climb. None of the remaining breakfast burritos called to me. Three varieties of hot dog turned silently next to a novel option. I scooped up the two remaining “chicken and waffle” rollers, good for two hundred calories apiece. Paired with a hot dog bun they would fuel me to our next stop easily. Jenn, not a fan of a sweet and salty breakfast combination, declared the maple syrup topped concoction “disgusting” Departing Ted’s, it was clear that we should enjoy the journey north as we’d battle the typical headwind, if not worse, south from Rawhide, and we did. Mercifully, the storm had largely subsided by the time we finished up dinner, or whatever that was, in Wellington. At the 7-11 in Platteville the crowd was this year’s usual collection of weirdos. I can’t be sure what happened in this town. There appears to have been no meaningful change in the surrounding area. I can’t articulate how, but the characters that frequent the service station have taken a turn towards the bizarre. A light tailwind propelled us the final one hundred kilometers back to Louisville. Jenn and I headed home for light dinner, midnight being a bit late for big meal.
The train got me hard this morning. Fort Collins is cross crossed by train tracks and often plays host to multi-mile coal trains that stop on the tracks and bisect the town. Fortunately bicycles can often bypass the delays through a network of tunnels and bridges, but one must pick the right route. This shot, of a train stopped dead along Mason St, highlights the risk of picking incorrectly.
Another staple of the RMCC brevet early season calendar. One of the first truly warm days of spring, and everyone was out enjoying it. The ride up to Glenhaven is a mixed bag, US34 has too much traffic, but a wide shoulder. After the turn off at Drake things quiet down considerably. It’s nice to think we could continue up through Estes Park, but the better way to do Estes is from the south. A nice day out on the bike in any case.
This is the first year I didn’t captain a team, which in many ways was nice. Fewer logistics for me to manage, but it also meant embracing the uncertainty of scheduling. Lisa was kind enough to give us a lift up to Red Feather Lakes in the early morning and from there we descended down to Fort Collins for a swing by Jenn & I’s place for lunch. Criss crossing the dirt roads of north eastern Colorado, we had pizza in Eaton, tacos at the Mangin’s and cup-o-noodle with a well needed shower and nap at Chez Turek before crawling into Louisville for breakfast.
Our traditional season opener, delayed to this weekend, always hosts a few new faces. While it was certainly a busy weekend in Poudre Canyon, after the turn off, the climb up to Stove Prairie was quiet, as was the descent. Upon inspection, my rear wheel did not survive. I guess I'm building a wheel before the Glenhaven 300k
Things are going on at the Masonville Merc. There's a new door, and they're hiring staff for...something. Also Jenn got a new bike, she didn't ride it on this ride, but here it is anyway.
It didn't look promising. Precipitation fell continuously Friday, blanketing every unpaved plot in Fort Collins in fluffy white snow. A 6am "slip test" made us feel better about it, the icy bridges did not The route itself, like its ancestor the "Armageddon Amble", eschews pleasantries in service of its goal of finding old military installations. Unfortunately this presents less as sight seeing, and more a tour of Eastern Colorado's most debris strewn highways. By the southernmost point, things had turned around. We picked up the pace, aided by a light tailwind for the return north along more familiar, and much quieter, roads. By the time we arrived back in Fort Collins only puddles remained, and the prairie dogs were eagerly gobbling the green spring grass.
Finally spring. Little green buds on the trees and a strong breeze from the south
I like night riding. The lack of visual stimulus allows other senses to come through. The whirling of the pedals and chain, cold air against the skin, and somehow the dark smells different. But more than any of those things, a night ride means that the season for night riding has arrived.
