| Riding the High and Lonesome, by Bill Hepp
We ride on in silence, our thoughts unwinding like the miles of horse fence along the side of the road. We pass an old man leaning against the fence in his front yard. His eyes sparkle as he takes in the spectacle of a dozen Carhartt and flannel clad riders in the middle of January. Someone shouts, “How much of the road ahead is closed?” “Oh, about five miles” he replies, a wry smile slowly pushing across his wrinkled, weathered face. ‘Five miles of snow?’ I think to myself, aghast. Thoughts of turning around and coasting back into town begin to cross my endorphin-softened mind as we continue to ride up the gravel road. But when we get to the closed gate, everyone wordlessly dismounts and begins pushing their bikes through the snow. I think about the old man and his twinkling eyes. Did we remind him of himself when he was young? What kind of crazy things did he do? What are his memories like? More importantly, what are my memories going to be like when I am his age? It is then that I realize just how precious the day is, and I keep going without another thought of turning back.
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This is the “Pennock Pedallin’ Pow-Wow”, one installment in the Simple Cycles Winter Ralleye Series. Jason Shellman, the proprietor of the Simple Cycles bike shop, organizes the rolling bicycle happenings. The rides, as well as the shop, are quietly becoming a Fort Collins institution. Eschewing the beaten path, the routes wind through the back roads of Northern Colorado like tumbleweeds before a storm.
The group stretches out. I find myself alone in a completely quiet forest, the silence punctuated with the bright chirps of mountain chickadees. The wind picks up. Patches of shade are interspersed with stretches of sun. Some of the road is rideable.
I am not the first to make it to the pass. It’s windy. A camp stove hisses as Jason makes tea for everyone. The Old Crow comes out, and the Pow-Wow commences. I sit in the sun, pull off my wet shoes and rub my toes. Thank goodness it isn’t very cold.
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The lengthening shadows and my lack of necessary gear for spending a night in the woods at 9,000 feet in January triggers some kind of self- preservation instinct, and four of us decide to go ahead of the rest of the crew.
As we begin to roll down the backside of the pass, it becomes immediately apparent that the snow is much deeper on this side. Snow jams around my brakes, fills my cogs, and immobilizes my derailleur. All I can do is hang on as my tires slice through the drifts. Miraculously, I remain upright. The view is spectacular. The Mummy Range, marking the northernmost edge of Rocky Mountain National Park, shines brilliantly in the late afternoon sunlight. Pingree Park lies in the valley below; it feels as if I’m flying down the heavily wooded flanks of the mountain. I glance back at one point to see a rider hit a particularly deep patch and flip over the handlebars; He gets up unhurt, laughing, snow in his sunglasses. There are stretches of dry forest floor where the sun has melted the snow along the sides of the road. We ride over the soft carpet of pine needles, avoiding the snow choked road where we can, slaloming silently through the trees.
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When we reached the bottom, and pavement, there are whoops of joy. I am ecstatic. From here, it’s only 40 miles down the Poudre Canyon to Jason’s house. Everyone knows that e pot of soup is waiting on the stove, and cold New Belgium beers are standing in the fridge. After cleaning the snow out of our gears, we make record time down the canyon in the gathering dusk, our toes cold but our hearts warm.
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