“Rest” Day in Telluride
Wake early, descend Gelida Street hillcrest down to Telluride’s main strip. Chilly enough for a jacket at 8,750 feet, it’s comforting simply wrapping my body in something after days of rawness and skin exposure. Buy a cup of coffee and dip carafe for a few free refills, nobody seems to mind or even notice. Sit and notice a kookish clique hammering out their next business endeavor at an adjacent table, hushed dialogue is audible but cloaked in mountain speak so I don’t grasp much. Two Indian academics at a rusty wobbly table argue whether “John” is the right person to build a new department at their university, disagreeing vehemently; peering intermittently around the cafe, they seem to bask indulgently in attracting eavesdroppers, myself included. I think, rarely do people carry ears so spare and free as mine. I kill two more hours, buy fresh muffins, eggs and a polygonal block of cheese; return to the house to cook for the sleepies.
10AM: Wrap a breakfast burrito in tortilla, parchment paper and foil, deliver it to Max at his shop. Max: “Are you coming mountain biking with John and I at noon? (A different John, small double take) If so let’s set you up on a mountain bike.” Grab the only XL-sized bike available, a Specialized Fuse, happens to be the nicest one on rental rack. The bike features a “dropper” seatpost, to employ Max’s parlance: flick down a button mounted on handlebars and the seat whooshes down hydraulically outta the way, useful for scrambling up rocks and standing out of the saddle. I nod and try act cool, as if grokking how to use it. (Later I figure it out, but much too late.)
Max has work to do, not least overhauling the wheels on Tucker’s nearly demolished 1993 Gary Fisher bike borrowed from his father for the tour. Max says come back to the store at noon and he’ll tune up my rental and swap out the pedals so I can ride with mountain cleats. Sure, I’ll bind in to descend a 10,500 foot mountain, what could go wrong?
Meander to the house and meet John, who grew up with Max in New Hampshire and now teaches entrepreneurialism in Vermont. John visited Telluride just two weeks ago and reacquainted with long lost friend Max, mountain biking all over the place together. Max tells me John is an insanely aggressive mountain biker. “I took him out and threw some tough stuff at him, he kept asking for more, more, more”. John has returned to Telluride to give a motivational speech at an event in town — my hunch is Hillary might have had something to do with booking him for the event. She’s lived in the San Juan mountains for 26 years, no event or happenstance seems to sidestep her purview in this sleepy little town.
John is riding clipped-in to a Moots full suspension. On his one leg:
I chuck my Specialized on the free Gondola service — mountain bikes have gotten lighter and sleeker since I was a kid! — Max/John ride up on the next Gondola.
Chat with dreadlocked bike crusters manning the park entryway at Telluride’s summit, I have no pass but apparently Max’s company implies free entry everywhere in town. Dreadheads warn, “be careful, it’s dry as a bone and the dust is slippery out there.”
Embracing the mantra “Leave before you’re ready” I drop into a sharply steep singletrack trail ordered Max => John => Kyle. This trail is no child’s play; I notice the encompassing ski slope is a black diamond. Shifting my weight to an athletic stance over handlebars, arms bent, I try my ability to flex the bike into quick left-right and right-left turns. The knobby 3-inch tires tear into the loose red dirt bordering the trail’s initial two berms; I appreciate the stability of the hunky tires run at low pressure, though the handling is starkly different from my hard and thin touring tires. I’m late into the next turn trying to brace over football-sized rocks, careening off the lip of the berm over twenty feet of meadow, churning over large rocks and airing masses of dust before rejoining the trail on the next switchback. This bike is a serious piece of equipment, I think, how did I just mash through that without falling?! Got to stay on the trail and keep focused — I need to break out of my heavy road bike mentality and shift my weight quickly or I could get seriously hurt up here.
Twenty minutes later I’m a few thousand feet below and keeping much better pace with John and Max. Max observes me close on John midst a dicey off-chamber gnarl, whooping in support, “Knew you could handle this!” Male validation!
Max murmurs something about “testing out” a trail he’s building. Building?! Yes, with a chainsaw and an axe, and nothing else — besides thick aspen trees or eight-foot scrub oaks, Max seems to enjoy other obstacles as fair game for ‘technical riding.’ I fair okay but shred the gears a bit on the upturn of an acute twelve foot dip in the trail; “welp, rental bike!” Max jokes. The final departure of the trail/experiment is a thirty foot downhill over a heap of brutally craggy rocks. My nervous system spikes me with adrenaline fear as I observe Johnny spill sideways off the crag in an ugly fall; I bail at the last possible moment, jamming my brakes and lurching my body backwards off the bike. In the process the seat jams upwards into my crotch and ribs in a one-two step; I didn’t technically fall but crumple to the ground in twofold pain. Guess I should’ve used the seat dropper.
Sit heaving, panting and whimpering until I can see again. Check on Johnny, he’s recovering at the same pace as me, bike shorts torn up, legs and buttocks a bloody, gravely mess. Max is a guilty puppy dog face, “what have I done.” But we are recovering and neither of us appear to have broken anything. I joke that he got some great beta testing on his trail.
Johnny says “no more experimental stuff” so we opt for Boomerang, a more straightforward black diamond on the north face descending into Mountain Village. No more injuries to report. Once in the resort Max shouts to his friend in a small coffee hut, who makes us affogatos; he won’t accept payment, “Not when you’re with Max” he remarks, dignified.
The rest of the evening reminds me that my ribs are certainly bruised and possibly a little worse; but all negatives are outweighed overwhelmingly by the joyful glow of mirth, vigor and optimism radiating on Max and Hillary’s porch. Potluck! Cheese and bread, fresh farmer’s market veggies; Tucker’s peanut butter and honey tortillas; hoppy beers from an ice cooler; Hillary makes a vegan pesto pasta with more peppers, eggplant and squash.
Shoup returns, heroically presents Lizzie with a hand-made waterproof frame bag for her Salsa; the product of countless hours of labor, he’s been working on it since 4AM. She squees and hugs him, nearly in tears.
Our clan. My people. Bike punks.
