Part 1
I set off from Batopilas, at the bottom of Copper Canyon in Mexico, intent on riding my mountain bike up the 40-or-so-mile gravel road to the intersection with the paved highway connecting Creel to the Batopilas area and Guachochi. My plan was to ride it as fast as possible and break the unofficial 4-hour record. Whether or not my quest was realistic will forever remain unknown.
We topped the ridge on the dirt road and began dropping quickly on our mountain bikes into the valley. Each of us knew that it’d continue to get warmer and greener as we descended from the Bolivian highlands, but our thoughts were mostly focused on what awaited us at the end of the ride. The anticipated post-ride rewards were different for each person- a warm bath, cold beer, hot coffee, or a dry room. And so, we thought of those things, and little else, as the town of Sorata came increasingly into view.
Ride the momentum,
To the top.
Since it’s down from there,
No need to stop.
Spin the pedals,
Think going faster,
Picture circles,
Then ride on past her.
Keep looking at,
The crest ahead.
Smile, relax,
And show no dread.
Breathe loud and proud,
From the gut.
Don’t hide your breath,
Or try to keep your mouth shut.
Loosen your grip,
And relax your neck,
Stay on the trail,
Avoid a wreck.
Don’t look back,
But think instead,
About what you’ve passed,
And the trail ahead.
Then suddenly you’re there,
And all the up’s behind.
That’s when you can sit back and cruise,
Because there’s no more grind.
Remember that
The climbs are fun.
Cause when they end,
That game’s been won.
Ryan had never bonked before, at least in the metabolic shock/ overexertion sense of the word. When he started bumbling around and losing more and more of his edge, I knew that something was up and figured that’s what had happened. Not realizing what was going on, he kept trying to mountain bike farther up the Colorado Trail, though with diminishing returns. The big patches of snow that remained on the trail, even though it was June, were probably a good thing since they ultimately stopped us and prevented us from riding any further. His disrupted mental and physical state likely made the retreat more palatable to the 13-year-old, since he wasn’t prone to turning around before his goal was reached.
The race is on.
Spin the pedals,
Faster, faster.
Time is of the essence.
Reach the forest first,
Gotta make them chase.
Hide the pain,
That’s on my face.
Take the inside lines,
Make passing tight,
No time for crashes,
Show no fright.
Spin the pedals,
Faster, faster.
Time is of the essence.
Push the pace,
Stay in the lead.
Heart is pounding,
Keep up my speed.
I cannot crack.
Must maintain edge.
See big root,
And watch for the ledge.
Spin the pedals,
Faster, faster.
Time is of the essence.
It’s okay to breathe loudly.
Ride the rut.
Must miss the tree,
Can’t feel my butt.
Getting thirsty,
And hungry, too.
Now, I creep,
Before, I flew.
Spin the pedals,
Faster, faster.
Time is of the essence.
I hate to ride,
I’m sure I do.
These times of pain,
Are surely through.
But then,
I cross the finish line,
And the race is done.
I love my bike,
I had so much fun.
Audio Version:
Embrace the time and place,
That puts a smile upon your face.
Wallow in it,
Soak it up,
Savor the moment,
Pour it in your cup.
Plant the vision in your mind,
Tell the story to remind.
The memories don’t have to disappear,
Or become less clear.
For me, I still….
Feel the river jostling my canoe as I marvel at the sunrise over the Del Carmens.
Ponder the quiet of the Tarryall Mountains as I lean against a rock on the top of Bison.
Taste the Tuna Surprise we ate on Mount Borah.
Am amazed by the midnight sun as it finally begins to set over the Kahiltna Glacier.
Hear the Popo Agie River roaring while I search for a good place to camp.
Feel the flow of the Puke Loop when I finally point my bike downward.
Make the right combination of moves near the top of the Rock Staircase.
Turn my eyes away from the blowing wind and snow as I near the top of Huayna Potosi.
See the Milky Way come to life as I look up from my bivouac in the Winds.
Walk to the cadence of the Semana Santa drums in Copper Canyon.
Smell the campfire telling me how to get back.
Each instant a wonder,
A tale of its own.
Remember and treasure,
Help it be known.
Audio Version:
Rolling,
Flowing,
Spinning,
Floating.
Down,
Across,
Up,
Over.
Gripping,
Braking,
Screaming,
Breathing.
Squeeze,
Push,
Lean,
Feel.
Gasping,
Hacking,
Hurting,
Snorting.
Relax,
Look,
Focus,
Squeal.
Shifting,
Laughing,
Weaving,
Grinning.
Hot,
Cold,
Thirsty,
Hungry,
Guessing,
Feeling,
Hoping,
And always thinking.
Audio Version:
Raindrops pounding my tent,
They sound like thunderous applause,
Every time the wind gusts,
And throws them in bunches
Against the fly.
Lightning flashes remind me
Of other power surges.
Thin sheets of nylon
Are all that shield me
From the wet and chaos.
But all is well,
Because the dome protecting me
Is well anchored.
And I am warm and dry,
Zipped-up inside it.
I’m getting sleepy,
Even though it’s only 4:00 in the afternoon.
It’s good to be
Settled into my sleeping bag,
Just as the music begins.
I close my eyes and listen.
As the Rain Symphony gets underway.
I’m intent on absorbing its every nuance.
The subtle pauses, the crescendos,
The somber moments, the tempo changes.
Have I heard this one before, I wonder?
Some parts sound familiar.
But I know better.
Because every Rain Symphony is unique.
Each performance only happens once.
There will be other concerts
That are nearly,
But not quite,
The same.
Each is composed of
Familiar and comfortable sounds,
Blended with surprise.
Like always, the music is spectacular.
Contentedly,
I let my mind wander,
And begin to dream.
Audio Version:
There’s a limit to the number of times your bike pedals will turn in your lifetime.
So, make them count.
Whoosh,
Damp and soft.
Fresh,
Smooth and fast.
Rolling,
Clean and free.
Feeling,
Strong and loose.
Leaves,
Yellow or red.
Trees,
Aspens, oaks, and pines.
Climb,
Up and onward.
Time,
Grinding and frozen.
Rocks,
Somehow over the top.
Ledges
That make you pucker.
Spin,
Faster, not harder.
Win,
Whatever that is.
Down,
Flowing and momentum.
Sound,
Silent, but alive.
Effort,
Easy or intense.
Curves,
Sweeping and weaving,
Turns,
Expect the unexpected.
Feel the trail
With your mind.
Adrenaline, fatigue, happy, and sad.
Confident, regret, proud, and glad.
Satisfied, worried, joy, and mad.
The destination– often unknown.
But no matter,
Cause the best rides never end.
Audio Version:
From the mines near Batopilas,
To the bank in Chihuahua.
And then by train,
To El Paso.
Haul the silver,
Hide the gold.
125 miles of trail.
Trains of mules with steel shoes,
Tarahumara’s with none.
Five stations along the way.
Mountains with pines,
Canyons with rocks.
Following the path,
That leads,
To the wagon road,
At Carachic.
A generation of travel,
Stopped by time.
Trees grow,
Meadows change.
The route forgotten,
Except for what,
The mules cut,
Into the rock,
With their hooves.
Forgotten stories linger:
Pilares, El Patron,
La Laja, Los Conchos,
El jefe with the knife,
Teboreachi,
The piano,
Huajochi.
Eventually, the day arrives.
And we go.
60 years later.
Years of talk and wondering,
Turn into action.
How hard could it be?
Mountain bikes, walking, and camping
Many questions asked,
But few answered.
Is this the trail?
We do it backwards- from Carachic.
First to El Ojito, then on south.
Past La Herradurra,
Night with Gabino Flores at Huajochi Station,
Walk through the Arroyo de las Iglesias,
Camp at The Hot Springs,
The next night with support at Pilares Station.
On to Siquerichi.
Cold night at La Laja Station.
Camping near Teboreachic Station.
Past Coyachique,
Then down to the Batopillas River.
From there, it’s ten miles of gravel road,
Finally, we arrive in Batopilas,
And Casa San Miguel.
The trail re-found
Was it ever lost?
Reconnoitered, mapped,
Ridden, walked, photographed,
Written and talked about.
Then,
Like before, the Chabochis
Move on.
But the trail stays.
Audio Version:
You must be logged in to post a comment.