Today's ride was quick. I slept in a bit, was offered coffee by a nearby camper (and beer the night before), and had a pretty standard day of riding. It was only 35 miles to Silverthorn, and I was in by 12:30 with 2:30 on bike, thanks to a killer tailwind and relatively easy terrain and some pavement. There was just one pass to climb and it was chill.
So here I sit at a Chipolte waiting for a pickup from Dan to end Phase 1 of my Divide adventure and head to RAGBRAI. I still have not decided if I will do Phase 2 this August or next August, but that is not what this post is about. This post is about: Story Time.
I've heard many great stories on the Divide, here are four or them.
Concerning Casey
Casey, who I rode with for about three days, left about 10-15 days before me from the Canadian border, and because of that had a very different Divide experience before I met up with him in Rawlins.
Casey was rained on for days, as opposed to rarely for me. He also dealt with much of the Divide "peanut butter mud" and sometimes would get completely stuck. Roads that were just rough and rutted out for me, where impassable for him. In fact, some of my worst roads where made bad while he and trucks were riding on them just a few days earlier. Coming out of Helena he had to rider through a flood, and people were being evacuated by helicopter nearby as he was riding through wheel-deep water.
One time the mud got so bad that it got sucked into his derailer and broke it. He thinks a rock got pulled through and it destroyed it. Luckily right at that time a van full of Mormon boyscouts pulled up and drove him to a nearby town and he was able to get his bike fixed. The scout leader thanked Casey for giving him a chance to show his scouts how to help others.
So while my Divide was hard, Casey's was much harder at times. The Divide is like that - you never know what kind of beast you'll get out here.
Casey, however, was undaunted. As he puts it: "I measure distance differently than you do. I measure it in bongs hits and pints of beer."
Very wise, my friend.
The Bulging Phantom
The day that I did Pine Creek to A&M Reservoir was a difficult one. I did 90 miles and was caught that night by a storm, and barely was able to hold my tent up. However, the phantom had a far worst day, and quit the ride that night. I never met him, but I know his story.
I first heard of him 10 miles into my ride. Wild Bill at Atlantic City told me that someone had left about an hour before me. It had rained the night before, erasing all tracks, so only tracks that day were visible. All across the basin I followed the phantom's tire track, expecting to eventually see him at A&M, since there was no where else to camp. I was going to tell him that I felt like I'd spent the whole day with him already, and that it was nice to finally meet him.
90 hard miles later I get to A&M campground and he's not there, but the two nobo rider from Wales were who I weathered the storm with. This part of the story is pieced together from their accounts, and later from Casey's account, who met him in Rawlins.
The phantom arrived at A&M with a giant bulge in his front tire and it was rubbing on his frame. He was upset and frustrated. He switched the tire to his front wheel where there was more clearance, but he had lost part of his pump, so he had to borrow a cheaper pump from the Wales folks. He was upset at how cheap the pump was and was rude to them about it, and then took off to Rawlins into a huge storm.
Rawlins was 55 waterless miles away, and he'd already done 80 miles and it was atleast 6pm. It was also straight into that storm that beat the heck out of us for four hours. The storm wasn't hiding either, it took up the entire sky and was full of lightning ground strikes.
He had gotten frustrated and lost his cool. He should have camped at the reservoir and calmed down, but instead he rode, at dusk, straight into a raging storm, with a bike that was about to fail, without a functioning pump, and probably without even filtering more water, because "he had to get to Rawlins."
He never made it.
Casey filled in the rest of the story for me. Either his tire failed again or the storm was too much, but partway to Rawlins he had to call a tow truck for rescue and pay over $200. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in the middle of the basin, with a broken down bike, in that storm, and have already lost your cool. He's damn lucky he had cell service. The next day the Phantom quit the Divide and went home. He had had enough.
As Casey says: There are many ways to fail out here.
The Lightning Rider
This story was related to me at Brush Mountain Lodge. Back in 2016 (I think) the guy who finished 2nd in the race (I don't remember his name, let's call him Rider) had this happen to him. I also don't remember the name of the pass or the town, so bare with me. This is a common Divide story, so if I get this wrong and you know it better, please comment.
A storm was brewing, much like the ones I often see on the horizon. Rider was climbing a pass, like we all do, somewhere in Colorado. The last thing Rider remembers is stopping on the way up the pass to change a flat tire or some kind of maintenance. Several hours later he was discovered on the other side of the pass, riding in circles on two flat tires and very disorientated and confused. He didn't remember how he got there.
Locals took him to a person who often helps Divide riders in this small town, and he was able to identify him as one of the racers and contact the race officials. The best they can figure is he was struck by lightning coming over the pass.
The next day Rider left town, saying he was feeling OK, and still finished 2nd in the race.
That, my friends, is a bad-ass Divide rider.
Bearly Pickled
This is another Brush Mountain story. It doesn't concern the divide, but is still a good story. That tagline is "That's why you don't do things because you are mad at women!"
This is a retelling of story told to me, so at this point consider it a folk tale, but again, if a commenter has better details, please correct me. I have no reason to disbelieve it.
A neighbor was upset at women and moved to Alaska, "because there are no women there." His therapy, other than isolation, was whiskey and fishing.
One afternoon he spent all day cleaning fish and drinking whiskey out in the backcountry, and passed out drunk in a pile of guts and what not.
He woke up the next morning under a bush with several scrapes and bruises, and with bite marks on his ass. A grizzly bear had, of course, come for the fish and found him. He was so drunk the bear thought he was dead, gnawed on him for a bit, and then shoved him under a bush. If he hadn't been so drunk, the bear probably would have killed him.
Moral of the story: You don't need a bear bag, you just need whiskey.
