The Final Installment

Howdy! Apologies for leaving everybody hanging here… I assume most of you reading this know, but I finished my ride in Banff last Monday, July 15th. My parents met Sarah in Banff and were there when I rolled into town and “crossed the finish line,” and we all spent the rest of the week relaxing and hanging out in Canmore (a town just down the road) before Sarah and I started the drive home to Santa Fe.

We just pulled into the driveway yesterday afternoon (it took us a little less time to drive home than it had taken me to cover the distance on a bike), so I haven’t really had the chance to settle in yet… but I wanted to update the blog while the memories of the last few days on the trail are still fresh. So, here we go:

As I alluded to in my last post, rolling through the Canadian border crossing at Roosville, MT on July 12th, was a pretty emotional experience. I was tired, it was brutally hot (and had been for several days), and I definitely got a little teary rolling up to the border crossing. The magnitude of the ride hit me the day before when I saw a sign for the Canadian border, but it really came to a head when I handed the border patrol agent my passport. In some ways, it felt like the end of the trip, even though I still had a couple hundred miles to ride. It was a bit surreal, and I felt this strange sense of both accomplishment and sadness that the journey was nearing its end. The milestone also led to a moment that evening where I felt like the ride was already over and was ready to be done with the whole thing. Let’s just say I did not want to get back on my bike the next day.

But, I did. For me, a long bike trip has a way of magnifying emotions. My friends and I found this on the Colorado Trail 5 years ago, and the same proved true on the Divide: that magnifying effect makes you feel things much more intensely, both the highs and lows. For someone who struggles with depression and anxiety, and often finds themselves deep in the throes of “emotion mind,” it’s an illuminating thing. The ability to step back, zoom out, and see just how quickly things turn around, and go from thinking about throwing in the towel one afternoon to loving every minute the next morning is almost incomprehensible. It must offer some greater life lesson about riding the waves of emotion and, for lack of a better term, “enjoying the ride.”

I stopped for lunch in the town of Fernie on the 13th, which Sarah and I quickly added to our list of places we’d move to outside of the U.S. The entire ride that day was through some of the prettiest country I’d seen on the whole route—people told me the Canadian section was breathtaking, but I was still shocked by just how gorgeous it was. I rode 71 miles total that day and met Sarah at a campground in Sparwood, a mining town that also happens to be home to the world’s largest dump truck… We made a stop by the truck on our way out of town the next morning so we could send a photo to our nephew, who’s obsessed with tractors and farm equipment, and found ourselves in awe of the thing. It was actually pretty insane how large it was! 

July 14th ended up being one of the hardest days of riding of the trip for me physically. The route from Sparwood north to our campground near Kananaskis Lakes ended up being 86 miles over 7300 feet of elevation gain, which was the second most amount of gain in a day of the trip behind Day 3 in the Gila. The route also followed a somewhat confusing network of bike paths and singletrack sections early on, and was pretty much a steady uphill grade the whole way until it reached its steepest point right at the end. Thankfully, the scenery was even prettier than the day before! If I was riding solo at that point I probably would have split the ride up over two days, but the route goes through an area closed to cars and the only way for me to camp in the van with Sarah that night was to push through to the lakes. I didn’t roll into camp until well after 9pm, but the dinner Sarah cooked up and the comfort of the van made the long day in the saddle more than worth it. I did, however, wake up with leg cramps in the middle of the night for the first time on the trip, despite drinking a staggering amount of beverages before bed. Ouch.

The real benefit of the big day on 14th was that it set me up for a relatively easy last day on the trail—we camped just 55 miles South of Banff. I left Sarah and the van that morning with plans of meeting her and my parents in Banff sometime in the early afternoon. The first thing that struck me about that day of riding was just how well Canada has their national and provincial parks system figured out, and how amazing all of their camping and outdoor recreation infrastructure is. Every place we camped in Alberta and B.C. was extraordinarily clean and well laid out. There were no loud generators running all night, no screaming kids, the showers and bathrooms were immaculate, and the campsites themselves were absolutely lovely. Most of the Provincial Parks I rode through also had dedicated bike paths connecting them, which made it incredibly easy (and so nice) to travel by bike through them. Moral of the story: Canada is awesome.

Somehow, the scenery continued to get more spectacular the further I rode. I stopped for lunch at one of the prettiest alpine lakes I’ve ever encountered, and sat on the shore reflecting on the whole ride, and trying to fully appreciate the fact that it was my last day on the bike. The route threw a bit of everything at me that day: long climbs on lonely gravel roads, some washboard, cars whizzing by and dusting me, some bike paths, and even a bit of singletrack. It all felt very appropriate for a Divide finish day.

I made it to Banff right around 4pm, passed the hotel where the Tour Divide race starts, and immediately got stuck in traffic behind a line of cars. It was a bit of a shock to the system to come out of the woods and into an incredibly busy tourist town during the busiest month of the year, but as I rode through downtown and onto main street I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. There’s no official end point for the route—in fact, technically the ACA route now ends in Jasper several hundred miles north)—so I had planned to meet Sarah near the Banff Visitors Center (it seemed appropriate). As I rode through the barricades that blocked vehicular traffic onto the main drag in downtown Banff, I could hear yelling, and looked up to see Sarah, Mom and Dad all standing there waving signs and cheering. Bikepacking is not an activity where people cheer at a finish line—hell, the Tour Divide racers finish alone at the border wall in Antelope Wells—so it was a pretty amazing moment. Several other riders who were either leaving Banff or who’d finished earlier that day came up and jokingly asked why they didn’t receive such a warm welcome. As I’ve said many times throughout this blog, I’m a truly lucky guy,

I don’t think it’s possible to sum up a trip like this in a few sentences, but I’ll leave you with what I posted to Instagram the night I rode into Banff:

Today was my last day on the Divide. This ride has been a dream of mine for over 10 years now. The main thing I’m feeling (aside from an impressively deep fatigue and achy legs) is an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

I’m grateful to have legs and lungs capable of propelling me and my bike some 2700 miles; grateful for all the love and support via text, call or Facebook comment from my friends and family along the way; grateful for all the wonderful people I’ve met out here I can now call friends; grateful for the incredible kindness I’ve been shown from complete strangers; grateful for all the advice and beta from Bailey at Sincere Cycles before I left; grateful to my friend Aaron Gulley for taking me on a shakedown ride before this trip and then shepherding me over Marshall Pass, grateful to my sister Lauren for dealing with hundreds of photos and publishing blog posts for me; grateful for my best bud Eric who spent six days slogging through some of the hardest terrain and worst weather of the entire trip (with a smile on his face the whole time); grateful for my father-in-law, who religiously watched my dot and texted me about my progress at least once a day; grateful for my sweet parents for reading every single word of my blog and showing up in Banff to see me cross the “finish line,”; grateful for lemonade, Fritos and huckleberry ice cream; grateful that the Adventure Cycling Association put this incredible route together in the first place; and beyond grateful for my incredible partner Sarah who wholeheartedly supported this wild notion of mine from the very beginning, held down the fort while I was gone, and drove thousands of miles to (quite literally) support me as I finished this trip. 

Most of all, I’m grateful for the gift of time, because having spent nearly six weeks riding my bike from Mexico to Canada is something I’ll never forget, and hopefully never stop learning from.

Bears, Mixed Emotions, and Canada

July 9th-12th

Good Morning! When we last left off, Sarah and I had spent the night in Ovando with our new friends and were headed towards Holland Lake. Let me catch you up.

After a quick stop at the general store for some skittles and a Sprite, I rolled out of Ovando with Tom, Becca and Chelsea. We rode together for a ways, and then, as it tends to happen, we slowly spread out and I rode solo the rest of the way to Holland Lake. It’s an interesting thing out here—despite wanting to ride with other folks, you have to find your own rythym and pace and do your own thing. Everyone gets it, and there are no hard feelings when someone moves on or hangs back; we’re all riding the same route, but having our own, vastly different and unique experience.

The ride to Holland Lake was gorgeous. The mountains started getting bigger, and the scenery started to look like what you find in Glacier National Park—gorgeous river valleys flanked by huge granite peaks peppered with snow. The route took me on a couple of really fun singletrack sections, too, which is always a treat for this mountain biker.

Sarah texted me on the InReach midday to inform me that after working from Ovando all morning, she’d made it to Holland Lake and was now living her best life. She went on a trail run, and was laying on the beach of one of the prettiest alpine lakes she’d ever been to. That image helped me pedal quickly and get in to the lake early, around 4pm. We went for a swim, had an early dinner and camped at the lake.

I left Holland Lake on the morning of the 10th and headed into a section of the route that my friend Bailey nicknamed “The Bear Maze.” He’d warned me about this area before I left on my trip, and told me, “If you’re going to see a bear anywhere on the route, it’ll be there. The feeling that you’re in Grizzly country is palpable.” With his words playing on repeat in my head, I cautiously headed north and quickly realized why he gave it that name. For the first time in some 2000ish miles, the route entered thick forest and the road was flanked by tight trees on either side. It truly felt like pedaling through a hedgemaze at times, and I could only see about 100-150 yards ahead of me because of the circuitious path the road took.

The longer I spent pedaling through the maze, the more I got used to it, and the thoughts of a Grizzly lunging for me from the brush began to fade. But then, I came around a corner and saw a small black creature in the middle of the road about 120 yards ahead of me. It didn’t notice me at first, and I stopped as soon as I saw it, initially thinking it was a wolf. I reached for my phone to get a photo, and then it dawned on me that this critter was way too small to be a wolf—it was a black bear cub. The excitement of seeing a bear cub wore off instantly when I remembered that cubs don’t wander around in the woods by themselves, and that the cute little cub’s mom was very likely close by. I began clapping my hands and yelling “hey bear” in an attempt to scare the cub (and it’s hidden mother) away, and the cub ran off into the woods. I kept making loads of noise for a few minutes until I worked up the nerve to ride past where the cub had been, and thankfully didn’t see any sign of it or anything else as I rode past. I did, however, find this print in the mud just a little ways past where the cub had been, which confirmed that there were indeed bears in the Bear Maze.

As you can imagine, that encounter woke me up a bit. I began recalling the conversation I’d had with the wildlife photographer in Island Park about how to stay safe in Grizzly country—”make noise in the woods, don’t run from a bear if you see one, and the most important thing is don’t hike or ride by yourself,” he’d said. Perfect, I thought, as I pedaled on by myself with not a soul around.

I kept riding and making lots of noise, alternating between yelling “Hey Bear,” “Heeeeyoooo,” and singing songs as I came around corners in an effort to not surprise anything that may be waiting on the other side. You feel like a total idiot doing this, but it works, and makes you feel a bit better. At one point, the road turns to a thin ribbon of singletrack with knee-high grass on both sides, and winds through thick forest for a mile or two—I sang very loudly through there. 

After a little while I bumped into two women riding southbound who stopped to warn me about 2 massive piles of bear scat they’d seen on the road up ahead. The piles were so large that at first they’d thought it was horse poop, but upon inspection realized it was, indeed, from a bear. Yikes. I told them about the cub I’d seen, and as I rode away they told me to “keep singing.” Copy that! 

A few minutes later I passed the first mountain of bear feces right in the middle of the road. I can confirm that it was large enough to pass for horse manure, which was fairly disconcerting (my horse, Rio, weighs 1300lbs, for what it’s worth). The volume of my singing increased as I passed the second pile, and at that point I really began to wish my father-in-law, who’s a classicly trained vocalist with the voice of an angel, was riding with me— at least at then the singing wouldve been nice to listen to, rather than my tone-deaf “renditions” of John Fogerty’s “Lodi” and The Eagles’ “Take it Easy.” Don Henley I am not—but perhaps that would scare off the bears faster?

I passed a third, very fresh pile of steaming bear poop, and came around a corner mid-song to see a large brown creature running down the middle of the road. I was close enough to immeadlately tell that it was a Grizzly by the characteristic hump on it’s shoulder, which was both an amazing and terrifying thing to see up close. Thankfully, the bear must have been a music snob and thought my Don Henley impression was as terrible as I did, and it scampered off into the woods at full speed. I stopped and started yelling and clapping to make sure it kept running, and after a while took out my bear spray and walked my bike past the spot the bear had been. I found some very fresh grizzly tracks in the soft dirt, but didn’t pause long enough to get a photo.

Thankfully, that was the last bear encounter I had for the day. I feel both very lucky to have seen a bear at all, which is quite a rare experience and treat for a nature lover, and also very lucky that my encounters weren’t any more intimate. I rode to the town of Bigfork, MT, that afternoon, and met Sarah for a lovely night in one of the cutest towns I’ve passed through so far. We had a great dinner at a Sushi restaurant in town, and spent the night in an Inn she’d found on Flathead Lake. 

The next day Sarah and I ran into Chelsea, Tom and Becca as I was leaving Bigfork. They’d camped just about 20 miles outside of town and were on there way in to resupply and take a rest day. We said our goodbyes to them, and I rode on towards Whitefish. The riding consisted of around 60 miles of pavement through the towns of Columbia Falls and Whitefish that morning, and by the time I made it to Whitefish Sarah had already gotten her work done for the day and was en route to our planned campsite that evening at Red Meadow Lake.

I got an InReach message from her later in the afternoon that said “this road is ROUGH, yikes,” and started to wonder about how the 2-wheel drive demo van was doing. I kept pedaling and ran into two women going south, who, upon realizing that “the gal in the van” was my wife, started going on and on about how sweet and amazing she was. Turns out Sarah had stopped to offer them food and drinks just as they were nearing the top of their climb and totallty gassed. Sarah’s trail angel work continues, it seems.

The riding got significantly more challenging after I passed them, and it turned out that the vast majority of the elevation gain for the day took place over about 10 miles right at the end of the ride to Red Meadow Lake. I was completely wrecked by the time I got there, and immeadiately stripped down and jumped in the icey cold water. That was a godsend, as were the pretzels and home-grown apricots that a family offered me while I dried off.

As I was about to leave, two German guys rode up. They asked if I was camping there, and I explained to them that I was meeting my wife down the road at a different campsite. They realized she was “the girl in the van,” and told me to thank her for offering them food, as well. Turns out the one guy Sarah spoke to said they were fine and didn’t need anything to eat, and his buddy was livid with him for that because he was starving. 

I found Sarah at an incredible campsite along a river just outside the border of Glacier National Park. It was one of the most beautiful areas I’ve ridden through yet, and the campsite was like having a front row seat at a private concert your favorite band was playing—Glacier has long been one of my favorite places, but it, like so many National Parks, is crawling with tourists in the Summer. Not here, though.

The first time I visited Glacier was 15 years ago (nearlly to the month), with my dear friend Tyler West. We were in college, and had found internships at a television production company in Missoula for the Summer. That was our justifiation to our parents, but really we both just wanted to explore the Western US, and we ended up putting 10,000 miles on my old Jeep Cherokee doing just that. Tyler actually took me on my first “bikepacking” trip that Summer—it was a poorly planned and short road biking trip (that we both did on mountain bikes) from Missoula to LoLo Hot Springs. We loaded our backpacks with 30+ pounds of camping gear and pedaled on the road in the July heat, and at the time, I absolutely hated it—my how things change. Later that Summer, we went on a backpacking trip in Glacier NP that to this day remains one of my favorite trips of all time. I fell in love with the American West that Summer, and really credit the trip with steering the trajectory of my personal and professional life since. (If you want a good laugh, here’s an old video Tyler and I made about some of our travels that Summer that actually won a Lonely Planet contest back in the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=FKGaV1Io1ZI&fulldescription=1&gl=US&hl=en&client=mv-google). 

Alright, Sarah’s now telling me I’ve spent far too much time this morning waxing poetic about Glacier National Park and Grizzly bear encounters, and it’s time to ride my bike. I crossed into Canada yesterday at the Roosville border crossing station, which was a pretty emotional experience for me, and have about 205 miles left before arriving in Banff and finishing the ride. 

I’ve got a lot more to say about that, but for now, onward! 

Trail Angels

Dearest gentle readers (please imagine Julie Andrews’s voice for the rest of this).

I have finally joined this adventure for good and feel the need to add to the blog. I know Bryan has been weaving the trail lessons he has learned into his stories like the professional writer that he is, but don’t expect that from me; I draw pretty pictures. That said, I do feel that this experience has taught me some things that I would like to share.

The main lesson that has been solidifying in my head for the last few days is that people can do hard things. A friend of mine told me that she often repeats the mantra “I can do hard things,” and I have been mulling over that lately. As Bryan has explained, one of the special things about this trail is meeting the incredible people and realizing that everyone does this at their own pace. For some people, the “hard” things are the climbs; for others, it is the miles; and for many, they admit it is actually the mental game. No one out here seems to judge what is hard for others, big or small; they just try to help.

For me, the hard thing about this “eat, pray, love” journey of Bryan’s has been getting left behind (I know what you are thinking, it isn’t the hours in the van or trying to find wifi to work remote or the constant battle of keeping this man fed?). Something I have had to reckon with as I have gotten older is that I do NOT like being alone. While I am a “strong, independent woman,” I prefer being strong and independent in the same house as Bryan. The house is quiet, things break, and hard decisions have to be made, but mostly, there isn’t anyone to tell about my day or watch bad TV with. None of this is a surprise to me as my husband frequently goes off the grid on hunting trips; this is just the longest we have been apart with limited cell service. But enough complaining about lonely ole me; the point of all of this is to say that I, too, can do hard things. I got in a rhythm, leaned on my Santa Fe support system, and found my way. Watching these riders get up every day and get on their bikes for 10+ hours at a time over the last few days has been a fascinating lesson in doing hard things. I can assure you that no one is particularly jazzed about getting back in the bike seat day after day, but they put one foot ahead of the other and try to help each other out along the way.

So many people have been helping Bryan throughout this journey. I have been in awe of the kindness of strangers that have “trail angeled” for him, and I was excited to get up here and pay a little of that back, but I wasn’t prepared for the level that some have taken it to. The Llama Ranch, as Bryan mentioned, was a really special place, and I found myself taken by John and Barbara's mission of “paying it forward.” They have dedicated their lives to these small acts of kindness, cooking and providing for others at no cost and hoping that they have a ripple effect through their work. It was certainly effective for me as I spent the day after the ranch shuttling a biker 45 minutes in one direction before going an hour and a half in the other to arrive at Ovando and find another biker who needed a ride 30 minutes back the way I had come. (Stacey, if you made it this far, don’t panic about me picking up strangers, I could take any of these sweet souls out with my can of bear spray).

Watching these riders meet for 24 hours and become fast friends, trade food, advice, gear, and more has been really inspiring. And seeing people help them out of the kindness of their hearts has been even more inspiring.

So here are the takeaways. YOU CAN DO hard things. What is hard for one person may be different from what is hard for you. The best way to do a hard thing is to just, well…do it! And maybe help each other out along the way, because after all, everyone you meet is doing a hard thing in their own life.

July 3rd-8th

Well, howdy! It’s been a minute. When we last left off, I was drying out all of my earthly possessions on a barbed wire fence just south of Lima, MT. Once everything finally dried out, I started pedaling towards Lima, and thankfully, I only had to deal with some minor mud along the way, Actually, the longest delay of the day came courtesy of a cattle drive that was taking place, which was really fun to watch. One of the cowgirls came over to me and handed me a “Beef, it’s what’s for dinner” sticker as a gift. Too cool.

I rolled into Lima around 3 and headed straight towards the only cafe in town. The waitress (who was also the chef and owner) was the only person in there, and she made me one of the best hamburgers I’ve ever eaten. A guy walked in and sat at the bar as I was eating lunch and asked about my bike that was propped up against the wall outside. It was the usual line of questioning: where are you going? When did you start,” etc., and we had a nice conversation. I didn’t think much about it, but when I walked outside, I found a note on my bike with a $20 bill inside instructing me to have a drink on him once I got to Banff—the trail magic just keeps on happening, and this was maybe my favorite bit yet.

I grabbed a room at the motel across the street, did some laundry, and went back to the restaurant for dinner a couple of hours later. The next morning, I caught up with two guys I keep leapfrogging with, Alex and Will, who ended up staying at the same motel. They very smartly had waited a bit longer than me to get going the previous day, and ended up at a grocery store during the rain. A guy came up to them and asked if they were on the Divide, and then insisted they come back to his house to do laundry while they waited out the rain. The rain never stopped (as I knew very well), so the guy let them spend the night at his house. They were in much better spirits about the storm than I was.

Thankfully, the weather was better the morning of the 3rd and I got an early start with the goal of making it to Elkhorn Hot Springs about 80 miles up the road to meet Sarah, who had camped for the night outside of Rawlins, WY. She was going to drive through Yellowstone National Park that day, and then either meet me the night of the 3rd or the morning of the 4th.

Well, she did a quick loop through Yellowstone (on a holiday, no less) and had enough of the tourists, so she beelined straight towards my dot. I had a great ride that day and was so excited at the prospect of seeing Sarah for the first time in weeks that 80 miles flew by. We were going to stay at Elkhorn Hot Springs, but they ended up being completely booked, so we found a hunting lodge just down the road that had some availability—we figured we’d get plenty of time in the van over the next two weeks, so we’d treat ourselves to a room for the 4th of July.

I got to the Montana High Country Lodge first around 8:45pm, and honestly had no idea what to expect. I rolled up the long gravel driveway and rounded the corner towards the entrance to find a van with a trailer and about 20 bikes parked outside. Turns out there was a group of road cyclists on a supported tour with a company out of Portland staying there. The caretaker of the Lodge, Russ, was incredible and immediately brought me a beer when I rolled in. He apologized for the fact that the chef had already gone home for the evening and there wasn’t any more food, and I was about to make some ramen noodles for myself when the gal leading the bike tour offered me all of their leftover lunch from that day—score! I chatted with the other cyclists and ate an amazing spread of food until Sarah showed up around 10pm. What a sight for sore eyes she was stepping out of that van! That was easily the best view I’ve seen the entire trip.

The next morning, we ate breakfast with the other cyclists and took our time leaving the amazing High Country Lodge. I then pedaled a mere 6 miles up the road to Elkhorn Hot Springs, where we got a sweet campsite for the night of the 4th. I took a rest day, and we soaked in the springs all day and caught each other up on everything that’d gone on over the last couple of weeks.

On the 5th, I rode 86 miles from Elkhorn Hot Springs to Butte—turns out ditching some bags and having a good night’s rest does a lot for the ol’ engine. Since Sarah is here with the van now, I was able to ditch some things like my stove, tent, sleeping bag and pad, and carry significantly less food each day, which makes a huge difference. We camped at the KOA in Butte that night, which was the only camping option around.

I left Butte on the 6th with plans to make it to Helena that afternoon (another 80ish miles), and Sarah was going to fish a nearby river that day. I made it about 40 miles when my chain popped off on a downhill, and as I was putting it back on I realized how incredibly stretched out the chain was. As I was working on that, a group of Southbound riders came by and offered to help me (they had a few more tools, etc.). They measured my chain gap and took one look at the rest of my drivetrain and and confirmed what I’d been thinking: everything was completely worn out and would need to be replaced as soon as possible.

We patched things up as best we could and I rode a little further until I found the van and met Sarah for lunch. We talked about our options with my bike, and realizing it was Saturday, started texting Mom via inReach to find out how late the bike shops in Helena were open, and whether they were closed on Sunday. Turns out the shop was open until 5 and closed on Sunday, which meant our best option was to drive into Helena and see if they could work on the bike that afternoon (thanks, Mom!)—otherwise we would have had to burn a day in Helena waiting for the shop to open Monday, or I’d have to try to limp another few hundred miles to Whitefish on a worn out drivetrain and hope nothing catastrophic happened. 

One of the many amazing things about having Sarah and the van with me now is that mechanical issues like this become significantly less serious. We drove about 30 minutes to Helena (which would have taken me several hours on the bike), and got to Great Divide Cyclery with plenty of time to spare. They were amazing and were able to squeeze me in and get all the work done before they closed—Stachley (my bike, a Trek Stache) needed a spa day, and got a new cassette, chain, front chainring and new brake pads. Turns out riding your bike a couple thousand miles will do that… 

Sarah and I hung out in Helena the rest of the afternoon while we waited for the bike and had a nice dinner downtown while listening to some live music. Afterwards we drove back to where I’d pulled off the trail and camped nearby so I could pick up where I left off in the morning. 

Since I only got about 40 miles in before the drivetrain gave out, I was a little behind schedule and needed to have a big day on the 6th. I noticed on the map there was a famous stop called “The Llama Ranch” about 70 miles away, so that’s where we decided to meet that night. I took off after a big breakfast in the van and Sarah went out in search of Trout on the Missouri River that day. The riding around Lava Mountain turned out to be significantly more challenging that day, and felt much more like New Mexico than the Montana I’d experienced so far. The hills were very steep and punchy, the roads were rough, and over 70 miles I climbed about 7500ft (I’d only had one other day in the Gila with that much climbing). It was quite the day, but again, much easier to deal with knowing Sarah was waiting for me at the other end.

I was super excited about the prospect of staying at the Llama Ranch because I’ve been sort of obsessed with the idea of getting some Llamas on our farm and using them as pack animals for hunting (it’s a thing, look it up). They’re also supposed to be great guard animals for the rest of the flock, so I was hoping Sarah would fall in love and we’d be getting some Llamas soon. Well, it turns out the Llama Ranch has a brand identity problem, and they actually don’t have any Llamas. Just 3 Alpacas… Which actually was pretty poetic given Sarah and I live next door to about 40 Alpacas in Santa Fe.

The real beauty of the Llama Ranch, though, wasn’t the Alpacas or Horses, but the people. I pulled in to the ranch to find around 30 cyclists milling around, and Sarah sharing a glass of wine on the porch of a cabin with 5 other cyclists. They all cheered for me as I pulled up, and after Sarah made me yet another dinner we sat and talked with them till nearly midnight. One of them was a gal from Boulder named Chelsea, who’d ridden with Mitch for several days after we parted ways in Kremmling (Mitch had texted me about her and some other folks, and hoped we’d all meet up at some point). Chelsea rode from her house in Boulder and is heading to Anchorage by bike after finishing the Divide. Tom and Becca are from northern England and nearing the end of a 2-year cycling trip around the world—they’ve ridden their bikes so many places, including Georgia, Kyrgyzstan, Australia, New Zealand, Mexico, and many more countries. The other couple was from New Zealand and also on a multi-year cycling tour around the world—there was no shortage of stories and plenty of entertainment (and tea, courtesy of Tom).

The Llama Ranch itself is run by Barbara and John, and is really a story in it’s own right. Barbara has lived in the area for 35 years (since before the GDMBR was a thing), and one day noticed a lot of cyclists riding by her place. She decided to open up her land for camping, and since then it’s developed into a paradise for cyclists. John rode through one day, met Barbara, and came back a year later to help out and never left. They have several cabins fully stocked with food and drinks that folks can stay in, or you’re welcome to pitch your tent (or park your van) anywhere you’d like. They make sure everyone leaves with a sandwich, and don’t accept any money to stay on the property, asking only that you “pay it forward” down the line. Barbara made 5000 sandwiches last year, and they’re planning to host around 900 cyclists this year alone—their biggest year yet. Talk about trail angels! 

Yesterday, the 7th, I rode with Chelsea, Tom and Becca from the Llama Ranch to Ovando. We had a great ride and it was an absolute delight to pedal with new friends for a day. We made it to Ovando around 6, and found Sarah waiting for us at the Community Center—the basement of a local church that’s open to cyclists. Sarah, of course, had already made friends with several other cyclists while she waited for me to get there (she’d even driven two different cyclists into Helena and Lincoln. She’s definitely “Paying it forward” out here!). The community center has a full kitchen and bathroom, and is an incredible respite for cyclists after a hot day on the bike. 

I’m off for Holland Lake or beyond today, and excited to continue making progress. I’m sure Sarah will chime in with a post of her own shortly.

June 29–July 2nd: Dreamy Tetons, pedal explosions and more rain

My zero day at Colter Bay in GTNP on the 29th was absolutely glorious. I slept in, had coffee and breakfast at camp, and finally dragged myself out of my tent and over to Colter Bay around noon for lunch. Zero days for me are all about moving as little and eating as much as possible—so I had a large chicken Cesar salad, a pizza and, of course, a lemonade for lunch. I caught up on the news and scrolled Instagram for a while (both terrible ideas), and then grabbed another lemonade to go and headed towards the swim beach on Jackson Lake.

I laid there on the rocky shore in the sun and swam in the very chilly, crystal clear water the rest of the afternoon. I’ve been to a lot of pretty places and stared at a lot of mountains, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anywhere as gorgeous as the Tetons—I felt that way when I first saw them 15 years ago with my dear friend Tyler West, and it’s nice to see they haven’t changed.

I had another big dinner that night and crashed early in preparation for a big day on the bike. The only downside to my visit was the curse of visiting any national park in the Summertime—you have to share it with tons of other people. There was a parade of monstrous RVs checking in to $129 campsites, folks going on short day hikes with more stuff in their backpacks than I have on my bike, and all the other funny things you see in our national parks. I also found it amusing and sad to listen to all the couples arguing, and parents yelling at or complaining about their screaming children, while the kids complained about not wanting to be there. It was a bit of an abrupt, though thankfully brief, re-entry into everyday American life, and left me thinking that everyone there seemed like they could use a bikepacking trip.

I left Colter Bay on June 30th. I ran into two NOBO riders that morning, Alex, who I’d met back in Steamboat, and a guy named Will. We all ate breakfast sandwiches, lamented about how terrible the wind in Basin had been, and went our separate ways (at this point, everyone’s sort of doing their own thing out here, and on their own schedule. Alex told me he’s planning on detouring and making his own route North, just to get to Banff as soon as possible. Can’t say I blame him!).

The ride out of GTNP was mostly uneventful, save for having to ride very defensively on the roads since most of the folks driving the aforementioned massive RVs were more concerned with spotting a moose or bear than a cyclist.

I made it about 70 miles to Warm River campground around 4pm (one of the places I’d considered stopping for the day). I found the campground host and asked her if I could refill my water somewhere, and she immediately lit up when she saw I was on a bike. She started telling me about all the Divide riders she and her family had met this year, and insisted on making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to take with me. Not only that, but she gave me a coconut water and a kombucha, plus a bag of almonds and dried mangos. Talk about some trail magic!

Freshly stocked, I decided to ride another 25 miles to the village of Island Park, where my map said there was a restaurant open late. It was actually a pretty easy 25 miles along an old railroad grade next to a gorgeous river. Idaho and Montana have a number of these beautiful rail trails open only to hikers and cyclists, and not having to worry about cars or ATVs is an absolute joy.

I was cruising along on a gravel road about 8 miles from Island Park when I began hearing a strange noise from the bike. It sounded like it was coming from my pedals or bottom bracket, but I couldn’t see anything wrong—until my left foot abruptly popped off the bike and I looked down to see just my pedal spindle sticking off the crank arm, with the pedal itself still clipped into my shoe. Shit.

For non-bikers, my pedal had just completely broken, which was not something I was prepared to fix in the field, unfortunately. I looked at it for a while and tried to understand what had broken and whether I could MacGyver something, but it seemed like it was going to require a bike shop. Unfortunately, the next shop on the route was 294 miles away.

The only thing I could do to continue pedaling was leave the pedal clipped into my shoe, slide it back onto the spindle, and sort of hold it in place with my foot as I pedaled mainly with my right leg. It was enough to get me to island park, but certainly wouldn’t doable for 294 more miles. I made it to Island Park and the restaurant was still open, thankfully, so I decided to get some food before trying to sort out the pedal situation. If I’ve learned one thing on this trip it’s always eat something (and usually sleep, too) before making any decisions.

I sat at the bar and ordered a beer plus my usual mountain of food. I started texting Sarah and the support crew in Santa Fe about the situation. Thankfully, my good buddy Aaron Gulley knew exactly what had happened (of course) and dug up a YouTube video showing the parts I’d need and how to fix the pedal. He offered to overnight everything to me if I needed it. I also knew Sarah would be in Montana in a few days, and could bring me a whole new set of pedals, plus my buddy Mitch (aka Sprite) lives in Bozeman and offered to bring me anything I needed—I have a great friends.

The situation felt like it called for a second beer, so I ordered another and kept eating while mulling over the plan. At that point, I overheard the bartender asking the guy next to me if he’d seen any bears that day, which caught my attention. Bill, it turns out, out was a wildlife photographer who specialized in photographing Grizzly bears, and he’d been in an area called Brooks Lake for the last week shooting several sows and their cubs. I’d ridden right by Brooks Lake (and Bill’s camper) just two days prior—so I was particularly interested in hearing about all these mamma grizzlies he’d seen there. He showed me some of the amazing photos he’d taken (turns out he regularly gets within 40 yards of the bears) and I peppered him with questions about camera gear, and more importantly, staying safe around bears. Like I’ve heard so many times before, he told me the best defense you have is your head: don’t do anything stupid, like cook near your tent or leave food in your tent, and don’t run (or ride) away from a bear. Carry bear spray, and make noise in the woods.

The whole conversation was both very reassuring, and also terrifying. I don’t consider myself particularly afraid of bears, but I do have a healthy respect for them and certainly don’t want to see one up close—especially while I’m asleep. Bear attacks are very, very rare, and, like shark attacks, tend to get a lot of media attention when they do happen, so bears become this sort of evil monster out of a horror film in a lot of people’s minds. The truth is they want absolutely nothing to do with humans, and most encounters that go wrong involve food or surprising a mom with cubs.


That said, a woman riding the divide was killed by a bear a few years ago—she was cooking in her tent and kept her food there. A bear came in the middle of the night, and the group she was with scared it away, and then all went back to bed. Unfortunately, the bear came back…

One particularly poignant part of my conversation with Jim that sticks out was when he (rightfully) was making the case for NOT carrying a gun to defend against bears, and told me that Doug Peacock, a famous environmentalist, writer, and grizzly advocate, used to say he carries bear spray and a 44 magnum with one bullet—and the bullet wasn’t for the bear.

While we chatted all things grizz, another, particularly tired looking divide rider came in and sat down next to me. His name was Everett, he was from Saskatoon, Canada, and he was racing the Tour Divide going northbound (and currently in second place). There’s a small group of around 10 or so riders who started from Antelope Wells the same day as the Grand Depart in Banff (June 14th) and were effectively having their own little race. We chatted for a while, and when he asked me how things were going I showed him the picture of my broken pedal. He paused, looked at it and said “oh, you ride Crank Brothers pedals too! I think I have the part you need to fix that in my kit.”

I stared at him dumbfounded, and said “no fucking way.” He laughed and told me he works in a bike shop, and had a bunch of spare parts for the pedals as they’re sort of known for blowing up like that, but also for being relatively easy to fix if they do.

We finished our meals and he went about trying to fix my pedal under the outside lights of the restaurant. We couldn’t quite get it to work and determined that my pedals were older and perhaps the part was slightly different than the model he had, but it was enough to get me pedaling again. We shared a campsite nearby and chatted a little more, and it was nearly midnight by the time we went to bed. When I woke up in the morning, he was already gone (those racers and their early mornings…), but I looked over the pedal again with a fresh set of eyes and realized the new bearing he gave me was actually a perfect fit, we just hadn’t fully removed all the pieces of the old, exploded one from inside the pedal. Once I did that, everything was good as new and I was able to roll out. God bless those Canadians.

Disaster averted, I rolled out of camp late and headed towards Red Rock pass and then Lima, Montana. Things were going smoothly until it started thundering in the distance around 3pm, and then started raining. It quit after about an hour, and at 4 I reached Red Rock Lake State Park. That was only about 45 miles in for the day, and I was hoping to make it further, so I (foolishly) pressed on.

The rain and wind started again an hour later, and turned into a full on driving rainstorm. In New Mexico we get afternoon storms (monsoons) that come in hot and heavy and last from 20 minutes to an hour at most. Things are different here, and I rode in the rain and thunder until 9:30 when I made camp on the side of the road.

Everything was absolutely soaked, and my hands were so cold at one point that I resorted to using two grocery bags as outer gloves to try and add a bit of protection from the wind. I was getting pretty desperate and VERY over being cold and wet, and kept hoping a truck would drive by and I could bum a ride to Lima, but I didn’t see a vehicle or another soul for 5 hours. I was so miserable I even thought about knocking on a rancher’s door at one point and asking if I could sleep on their porch or something, but i finally made it to an “informal campground.” I was 70 miles in for the day and just 35 miles from Lima and a motel room, but the roads were a complete muddy mess at that point and between them and the headwind I figured it would take me another 6 hours to get there.

So, I very begrudgingly started setting up camp in the rain. At the beginning of this trip, having to outrun a storm or camp in the rain was a novel adventure for me, but a month in I’m about ready to pull the plug on the whole thing when I have to set up in the rain. Ok, not really, but it’s my least favorite thing to do out here—all of your stuff is already soaking wet, and you have to be extremely careful to make sure your down sleeping bag and sleep clothes somehow don’t get wet, because if they do, you’re screwed. Add to that the fact that I’m in Grizzly country now, and I have to be diligent about not cooking near my tent and storing my food, which becomes a lot tricker and more miserable when it’s pouring rain and there’s not a tree in sight to hang food from.

By some miracle, it stopped raining just long enough for me to set up the tent and keep my sleeping bag dry. I stashed my food in a dry bag and left it tied to a fence post several hundred yards from the tent, and went to sleep. In case you’re wondering, I did dream about grizzly bears all night, but thankfully was not visited by an actual one.

It’s 10:30am on July 2nd as I write this (racers would be aghast that I’m not pedaling yet)—I’ve been hanging out in camp all morning waiting for my gear and the roads to dry out before hitting the road for Lima. I used a barbed wire fence as a clothes line, so hopefully I won’t have to put anything away too terribly wet, and I can clean up my bike in town this afternoon.

Have I mentioned I’m excited for Sarah to get here with the campervan?

June 24th-29th: Wind, Wind and more Wind

June 27th update

Whew, what a few days it’s been. Last time I checked in I was eating sushi in Rawlins, about to head into the Great Basin.

I had some intel from my buddy Mitch that the Basin was tough, and he told me to bring all the water I could and leave as early as possible. He’d left at 6 and said he wished he’d left earlier. I set my alarm for 4, thinking I’d be able to get up and leave the hotel as quickly as possible—but, the comfort of the hotel bed screwed me over and I hit the snooze button one too many times. I also somehow misread Mitch’s message and thought he left at 7, and by the time I left it was nearly 5:30am. Oops.

The first 40 miles of the day were on pavement, and the next 30 were easy gravel riding that flew by. I spotted two groups of wild horses, countless pronghorn, a fox and several sage grouse that morning, and was generally excited about riding in the Basin—it’s a gorgeous, almost otherworldly high desert zone full of Sage and huge desert views. I’d made 75 miles by 11, and was feeling pretty good about myself, thinking the Basin would be a breeze. Boy, was that a poor choice of words.

Right around 11 the wind started to pick up, and within an hour it turned into a relentless, 25mph headwind. It just wouldn’t let up. All day. Not only does a headwind make riding considerably more difficult, it also dries you out much quicker. Add that to the fact that it was 93 degrees, and I came to truly appreciate Mitch’s warning to bring as much water as possible. I carried 8 liters of water, plus another liter of Gatorade and a Sprite (of course) with me leaving Rawlins, and I drank all of it, and even topped off my bottles from the lone creek I crossed during the day. It was a very stark contrast to the cool temps and plentiful water of Colorado the last several days.

At one point, while eating a snack and refilling my bottles next to the one creek that was flowing, a gust came out of nowhere and blasted me with sand and water from the creek, nearly knocking me over—and I was sitting down.

The only thing to do was put my head down and keep pedaling. I listened to more podcasts that day than I had on any day of the trip thus far, and finally resorted to loud grunge rock. It was not fun.

Around 6:00, a Subaru pulled up next to me. I was in the zone with headphones in and Eddie Vedder wailing in my ears, and it took me a minute to realize the driver was my buddy Craig from Taos. Craig and a friend were headed up to climb somewhere nearby for the week, and he’d messaged me asking where I’d be that day. I sent him the link to my tracker and lo and behold, he tracked me down to say hi and give me some elk jerky and fresh veggies. What a guy!

After chatting with Craig and his friend for a while, I kept riding towards my second water source of the day, something called Diagnus Well (which I had read incorrectly and been calling Dingus Well all day). Naturally, it took longer than expected to reach Ol’ Dingus, and I didn’t get there till around 9:30pm. Turns out it’s a little wetlands restoration project in the middle of the desert for birds. There’s a pipe coming out of the ground with some of the coldest water I’ve ever felt—it was heaven.

I set up camp and as I was eating dinner, a southbound Tour Divide rider named Scott rolled in. We chatted for a bit and offered each other advice about what lay ahead on the trail (that’s the nice thing about passing riders going in the opposite direction). Just as we were about to go to bed, he asked if I wanted his bear spray. I’d planned to buy some in Pinedale, but had heard that SOBO riders will often hand theirs off to a NOBO rider around here, as you get into Grizzly country around Pinedale. I graciously accepted the bear spray, and thankfully was too tired to think too much about the implications of it that night.

The next morning was slow going for me. I rolled out of camp late, totally beat down from the day before, and battled the wind again until I got to Atlantic City around 1. There was one restaurant/saloon open in town, and I had an absolutely massive lunch that consisted of a burger and basket of fries, side salad, 4 lemonades and two ice creams for desert. I ate slowly, and watched as the wind continued to blow outside, trying to decide whether to push on or stay put for the day.

That decision ended up making itself, because as I was sitting there watching the wind nearly rip the American flag off the pole outside, Sarah was having an even harder day at home, having to finally say goodbye to our dog Hitch on her own. We both had known it was coming for a long time—he was a 15 and a half year old Labrador—but that didn’t make it any easier. I’d been able to say goodbye to him in person in Salida a week and a half prior, but the thought of not being there with Sarah on his last day was killing me. It was a rough afternoon.

The only solace for me was the thought that it somehow felt right for Hitch, who Sarah adopted when she was still in college, to go out the way he came in: just him and his mom.

I wrote this in an Instagram post a couple days later, but it feels appropriate to write here, too: The day before I left for the Divide, Hitch sat with me in the garage while I packed. Once I got all the bags on the bike, I rode around our driveway for one last shakedown ride. Though he’d retired from biking with me years ago, I looked down and there was Hitch, running alongside me like a much younger dog. He’d have run to Canada with me if I’d asked him to, or at least tried his best. ❤️

I ended up staying at the saloon all day and eating dinner several hours later with Sonia, the woman from Switzerland who I’d met a few times prior, another rider named Bobby, and some other CDT hikers. It was a nice distraction from an otherwise shitty day.

I camped right outside town along a river, and rolled out at 6 the next morning for Pinedale. The wind kept at it, to the point that all of the Southbound riders who zipped past me with a tailwind that morning were literally cheering me on, clapping and yelling “you got this man,” “keep at it,” or simply, “sorry” as they rode by. Thankfully, the views grew more spectacular as the day went on, so at least there was something to look at.

I made it to Pinedale around 3, totally spent. After a quick sandwich at a local market, I found a great little motel in town called the Gannett Peak Lodge. It was cheap, the rooms were very nice and clean, and they even did my laundry for me for $10. I re-supplied in town at a local outdoor store, had some good Mexican food for dinner, and crashed.

The next morning I took my time and rode to a breakfast spot called The Wrangler Cafe, where I enjoyed an amazing veggie skillet and blueberry pancake (I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that “Bryan Eats his way to Canada” is back on track).

Pinedale is an awesome little town at the base of the Winds, and it was hard to leave. I rolled out around noon, and headed towards my next stop: Grand Teton National Park. It rained on me a little bit during the ride, but it was mostly pavement that day so it wasn’t bad. When the road finally turned to dirt in the Bridger Teton National Forest, it became clear that I was officially out of the Great Basin (and the wind).

I started to climb up towards Union Pass through a beautiful valley along the Green River. I passed several Tour Divide riders and got some beta from them about a “warming hut” about 25 miles up the road. I’d been planning to ride past that, but they urged me to stop and camp there because of how nice it was.

At one point, 6 racing side by sides (or whatever the hell the brap brap bros calls them… Polaris Razors or CanAm Mavericks) came whipping around a blind corner on a narrow section of road in thick timber at 50 mph and nearly ran me off the road. None of them slowed down at all, and they dusted the shit out of me, so I channeled my inner old man and shook my fist and screamed profanities at them as they whizzed past. I used to think those things were cool, but once you spend several weeks and over a thousand miles riding your bike on gravel roads across the West, they (and the people driving them) put a pretty bad taste in your mouth. Those things are going to be the death of the backcountry and should be illegal on public land—nobody needs to go that fast on a dirt road. Plus, the folks driving them could stand to ride a bike, or you know, walk, every once in a while… just sayin. Aside from that, it was a lovely ride.

I refilled my water just before the warming hut, and rolled up to it around 6 (pleasantly early). Turns out, it’s a brand new structure called the Strawberry Creek Warming Shelter that was built by two local backcountry snowmobiling groups: the Sweetwater Snowpokes and the Pinedale Snow Explorers. It’s a cute cabin with three picnic tables and a wood burning stove inside that’s open to anyone who needs to get out of the weather. I was pretty stoked to have such a sweet place to camp for the evening (especially considering it was my first night in Grizzly country).

I lit a fire and had a very nice evening next to the wood stove. A woman from New Zealand stopped in for a minute to warm up, but decided to continue on, so I had the place to myself when I went to bed.

As I was falling asleep I wondered if I’d get any other visitors overnight, since often the tour divide racers will ride well into the evening. Turns out the only visitor was a mouse, who scared the shit out of me not long after I’d fallen asleep by crawling on my arm and waking me up.

I flipped on my headlamp and couldn’t see what had been crawling on me, so figured I must have dreamt it. Then I heard what sounded like chewing, and flipped on my light again—nothing. This happened several times, and finally I heard something hitting my bike wheel’s spokes (I’d brought it inside to keep the scent of any food away from bears). I flipped on my light again and finally saw the mouse, and confirmed I hadn’t been dreaming about something crawling on me.

I chased the mouse away, and moved my sleeping pad and bag up onto one of the picnic tables so it wouldn’t wake me up by crawling on me again. Unfortunately, I’m a light sleeper and that little bastard kept coming back and chewing on my frame bag, which at 2am was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. After several attempts to chase off and/or kill the mouse, I finally gave up and put in some ear plugs. This morning when I woke up, the persistent little shit was sitting on my bike. Turns out he had managed to get into one of my bags and eat half a granola bar. Good for him.

I left the warming hut and my mouse friend behind, and headed towards the Tetons. I stopped at a place called Lava Mountain Lodge for lunch, which was very nice except for the waitress’s story about the momma grizzly and two cubs she’d seen on the road on her way into work that morning…

Thankfully, it was a gorgeous, bear-free rest of the ride into the park. I skipped a 3 mile section of gravel some guys had told me about and rode the rest of the way on the highway, and got my first view of the Tetons around 7:00. I made it into the park around 8:00, and had a bit of trouble finding the “cyclist-only campsites” I’d heard about (they jam us in the back of the group site area about as far from anything as you can get), but was beyond grateful there were available campsites on a Summer weekend in a National Park. I got camp set up and biked back onto the main thoroughfare, where I found a bar still serving food at 9pm and had one of the best burgers I’ve enjoyed so far.

I’m taking a zero day today and plan to soak my legs in the cold water of Jackson Lake. Happy Summer, everyone!

June 23rd Update: So long, Colorado!

Today I made it out of Colorado and into Wyoming! 2 states and 3 GDMBR sections down, woo hoo! I’m finally feeling better, and had a proper, 85 mile ride today from Brush Mountain Lodge to Rawlins (followed by a massive dinner at a great Sushi place here in town. It’s so nice to be able to eat again!)

The ride out of Steamboat Springs was absolutely gorgeous. I’d never been, and it definitely won’t be my last time to visit.

I stayed at the famous Brush Mountain Lodge last night, which was yet another amazing divide experience that deserves a blog post of its own—but I’ll get to that later. First, let me back up.

Knowing that it was a fairly short day from Steamboat to Brush Mtn Lodge, I slept in at the KOA on Saturday and left just before 10. I rolled past an ACE Hardware on my way out of town, and stopped in to buy a new leatherman (the mini one I brought doesn’t really do the trick, and I’ve needed a new one for a while anyway).

I thought this would be a completely forgettable experience I wouldn’t mention in this blog, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. I parked my bike at the front door of ACE, hopped off and quickly walked in (bike helmet and everything still on). I stopped by the camping aisle to see if there was anything I needed, and then headed back towards where the lady at the front told me the Leathermans were. I got about 10 feet from them when a store manager came rushing over to me and told me I’d need to leave the store immediately and put my backpack outside. I stared at him dumbfounded for a second, because frankly I didn’t even realize my backpack was still strapped to me (it’d been there for over 1000 miles at that point), and then said “oh, sure… sorry, I’m on my bike.” He just looked at me blankly and said “company policy.”

Now, this guy had no way of knowing I’d ridden to his store from Mexico (and he probably thought I smelled like an unhoused person, despite the expensive bike helmet and gear I was clad in), but I gotta tell you, the last thing you want to do when you’re riding your bike all day is walk all the way back outside to put your backpack down and then walk back in, just so you can spend money there. Side note: if you can’t tell, I also have a bit of a personal gripe about things like dress codes—ask anyone in my family about the time a waiter asked me to remove my hat while having breakfast at a country club one morning—so this guy struck a nerve.

I said something to the effect of “Dude, I’m just trying to buy that Leatherman Wave that’s on the shelf right behind you… do I really have to put my backpack outside? It’s right there.” He guffawed a bit and said “fine, I’ll just have to escort you to the front.”

So he led me over to the Leatherman section, I grabbed the $120 multitool I’d come in to buy, and he then literally escorted me to the checkout counter while holding the Leatherman. En route, he says “nice morning for a bike ride, huh?” I chuckled and said “yep, I’ve had a lot of them recently.” Then he said “I went for a bike ride this morning, too.” Neat!

We get to the check out counter and he hands the multitool over to the cashier, who, looking confused, asks him “is this for you or…?”

He then shakes his head and says “no, it’s his,” while gesturing to my backpack and literally mouthing the word “backpack” as if I can’t see him.

So I pay the gal for the leatherman and ask if she can open it for me and throw away the box. “I’m traveling on my bike,” I tell her. “Oh fun, where are you going?” She says. “I rode here from Mexico and I’m going to Canada,” I say, at which point her demeanor completely changes and she says “WHAT?! WOW that’s incredible blah blah blah.”

I thought about my run-in with the backpack police for a while on the bike that day. As a white male, it’s not often I’m profiled and asked to leave a place (don’t think that’s literally ever happened… except on a golf course). Most people aren’t as lucky as I am. The annoying, funny experience I had could’ve turned into something quite different if I didn’t look the way I do.

I think the reason this insignificant little moment stuck with me is because it was so dramatically different than any other interaction with a human being I’ve had so far on this trip. Everyone I’ve met has been so incredibly kind and helpful—today alone I had two guys in a pickup slow down on the highway and drive right alongside me (which, as a cyclist, is usually bad news) and offer me water, and I had another family stop their car during a thunderstorm and insist I get in the back seat and wait out the rain with them.

So, if you ever feel the need to restore your faith in humans—and there’s an important difference between “in humans” and “in humanity,” (see ACE Hardware’s company policy)—go on bike tour, or through-hike, or some other kind of big, solo adventure. You’ll be amazed at the kindness you’re shown, and how incredible people can be.

June 20/21 update: Moosen! And racers

Greetings from the “Rat King,” as my wife has taken to calling me. I’m still a little unclear as to whether it’s a compliment, and think I prefer “Lemonade,” personally. But what do I know.

I started feeling a little better the morning of the 20th, so I took my sweet time and checked out of the hotel in Kremmling. The front desk staff literally knocked on my door at 10:45 to give me a 15 minute warning—true Rogala style.

Either the meds my amazing father-in-law called in for me (so nice to have a doc in your pocket) started to kick in, or a day and a half of laying in bed and eating saltines + sipping Gatorade did it… but I finally felt ready to pedal again.

Sarah beat me to the punch in her blog post, but to recap: she talked to some friends in the ultra endurance world about nutrition (thanks, Wes!) and my friend Kelty even called in a favor and got me on the phone with a dietician at the Olympic training center in CO Springs… because, you know, (in the words of Andrew Stern) I’m an “ELITE” athlete. The folks in Springs were STOKED to hear from the likes of Bryan “Lemonade” Rogala and in total awe of my slow pedaling abilities. Contracts have been signed!

Jokes aside, the guy I talked to was beyond helpful and so nice to take time out of his day to talk to me about my tummy troubles. Turns out riding your bike all day, every day can do weird things to your digestive system.

I headed over to the grocery store to grab a few things, and then waited out a thunderstorm before leaving Kremmling around 1.

A few miles in, I ran into Sonja, a nice Swiss lady I’d met a few days back who was trying to book a campsite before we lost cell service. She couldn’t get her international SIM card to work, so I booked one for her, and just as we started to ride I noticed two critters running down the hillside next to the road.

It took me a second to figure out what I was seeing, but then I realized it was two moose—a cow and yearling—running down the sage covered hill and across the road. In the middle of the day. So strange, but very cool!

I kept riding and eventually bumped into Mark and Kelly, some other great folks from Michigan I’d met in Platoro with Eric. Mark’s doing this ride for his 50th birthday, and to raise money for TK charity (check out their story here), while Kelly follows along in the truck. As we were chatting, another storm rolled in and they very kindly made room for me in the truck, where the three of us waited out the worst of the storm.

Those three had ridden further than me that day, so they stopped in Radium and I continued on for a little longer. It rained on and off the rest of my ride, unfortunately.

On the flip side, all the rain and moisture must have gotten the swamp donkeys excited, because later in the evening I came around a corner and rode within 60 yards of a bull moose. I said “hello,” as one does, and we stared at each other for a minute while I snapped a few photos (obviously my Sitka rain gear was working, and he couldn’t tell there was a human on the bicycle in front of him).

I made camp in the pouring rain, but managed to keep all the essentials dry and had a good nights sleep. Today I rode the rest of the way into Steamboat, which was a pretty magical, majority downhill ride through some of the prettiest country (and nicest homes/ranches) yet.

On the way into town, I pulled over to say hi to another rider, who turned out to be the Tour Divide race leader Justinas Leveika. The racers started from Banff on Friday last week (yeah, 6/14… 😳), and the leaders (and me) are just passing the halfway mark. Justinas was super nice. We chatted for a minute while he paused for a snack, and when I said I was “just touring” he shook his head and said “that’s the way to do it” and went on to say how impressed he was I was riding a rigid bike. What a guy. I then went all fan boy and asked for a photo, and he graciously obliged before speeding off. I have a lot of respect for the racers doing this route in less than half the time it’ll take me, but it’s also cool to know they seem to have just as much respect for those of us “just touring.”

The plan for tomorrow is another short day to make it to the famous Brush Mountain Lodge.

Greetings from the "Rat Queen"?

Greetings from the wife of the newly dubbed “Rat King.” Let me explain…

There is a new theme in Hollywood that refers to attractive men with sharp facial features, as “Rodent Men,” which you can read about here. Upon arriving in Salida last weekend and seeing Bryan’s gaunt face meter at a 5, my friend and I decided Bryan was the latest adopter of this trend. This somehow turned into us lovingly referring to him as the “Rat King” and even singing the song Ratagan from The Great Mouse Detective as he rolled out of town.

Before you call me a monster, just know that morale support comes in many forms. As Bryan mentioned, rolling out of Salida was not easy for many reasons, and they say laughter is the best medicine.

Unfortunately, his journey did not get easier from there. He has been struggling with his gut for a while now, and it all seemed to be coming to a head this week. Thankfully, our incredible network of support was ready to step in and help. Bryan has been consulting with docs, pro athletes, ultramarathoners, and finally, on Thursday, he was put in touch with an Olympic nutritionist. Now I have to share this text thread because it was the highlight of my week-

I am happy to report that the nutritionist did, in fact, help Bryan’s tum tum, and we learned some valuable information about how your body conserves energy during extreme activities by slowing down your digestive system. We are now pivoting some of his food and snacks, and I hope he will check in soon with funny anecdotes about the children’s applesauce pouches I have waiting for him in Steamboat.

So, in conclusion, the Rat King is doing better! He is on the move again and is taking things slightly easier at my insistence. His tum tum is doing much better, and we are hopefully back on track to getting his calories up and filling in those cheekbones. I take off late next week to pick up a camper van and join him on the trail for the rest of his ride, so I look forward to more updates from the wilderness!

June 17th-19th: Wild nights, New trail names, and bubbly guts

I left Salida on the 15th around 3pm after picking up my bike from the shop. They were able to fix the spoke and do a couple other minor things—I highly recommend Absolute Bikes if you need anything bike-related in Salida. They’re great people.

It was pretty hard leaving Sarah—as big of a mental boost as it is to see her and friends, it also makes getting back on the bike and pedaling away that much tougher. That, combined with the fact that Hitch, our 15.5 year old lab, isn’t doing super well, (I basically have to say goodbye to him every time I see him, just in case) made for a long afternoon.

The climb out of Salida was significantly harder I’d anticipated. My mental game was off, and my stomach was acting up again, so I just slowly grinded my way up and out of the valley. Thank god for the carbohydrate drink mix Sarah got for me—it’s a crazy drink mix that’s 320 calories and very easy on the stomach, and was the only thing I could “eat” all day.

The first part of the ride was gorgeous, at least. I climbed out of Salida and into this really cool, sage-filled valley. There were tons of antelope, including one buck who kept posing for pictures and running alongside me (the 2700 mile big game scouting trip continues).

I’d met up with Montana Mitch earlier that day in Salida, and we’d tentatively made plans to camp together in Hartsell that evening. I noticed a “cafe” on the map that allowed camping in the yard behind the building, and figured it might be a good place to crash. Mitch had headed that way earlier in the day, and my plan was to get there by 7:30 when they stopped taking dinner orders.

It ended up taking me 6 hours to ride 45 miles, and when I realized I wouldn’t make it in time for dinner I sent an inreach message to Sarah to see if she could get a message to Mitch to order me food. Priorities.

I kept pedaling, and the landscape changed from beautiful rolling hills to an eerie, almost post-apocalyptic scene. Suddenly, old, abandoned trailers and campers started to dot the landscape, most with trash and crap strewn about them, some looking like they had partially exploded… what was a pleasant ride quickly turned into a “head down, don’t stare” kind of situation.

I pedaled as hard as I could, trying to make Hartsell before dark, but the road surface became badly washboarded and seemed to just keep going. The sun had set, and I was losing light quickly.

Normally that’s not a big deal, but given the weird zone I was in and how I was already feeling, it just added more anxiety. I finally made it to pavement, and unfortunately had 10 miles to pedal on a shoulder-less highway in the dark to reach the cafe.

When I finally made it to the “cafe,” I saw that it was actually a “cafe/saloon,” and it was hopping inside. I met Mitch around back, where he was setting up his tent and had a cheeseburger waiting for me. It turns out the “campsite” was actually just a small patch of yard near the dumpsters behind the bar, with just enough room to pitch our tents.

Mitch explained that it was a pretty rowdy scene inside, but the bartender was nice and there was water/soda, etc. We went in and had a Sprite and a beer while I ate my meal, and watched from the back corner of the bar as 15 locals got progressively more shitfaced over the course of an hour. It was a Sunday night, and by the time we walked out back to our tents, they were nearly falling off barstools and belting Journey at the top of their lungs, which was a lot for a couple of guys who’d ridden their bikes all day and just wanted to go to bed.

I set up my tent by headlamp, and by the headlights and heckling of said locals as they got in their cars to head home. Apparently a crew of them came back around 2am and started up the remaining cars to go somewhere else, but luckily I slept through that.

The cafe opened at 6am, so the next morning we grabbed breakfast and rolled out. Mitch and I had been sort of passing each other on and off throughout the whole trip, but hadn’t ridden together yet. Turns out we’re on about the same pace, so it was awesome to ride with him and bullshit throughout the day. My new trail name, given by Mitch, is “Lemonade.” I have a tendency to talk about lemonade nonstop, and drink 4 or 5 lemonades when I get to a restaurant. He’s “Sprite.” Turns out both of us crave those drinks out here—must be a bikepacker thing. We’re now on a quest to find handcrafted, artisanal lemonade at every stop (no luck so far).

We rode through Como and up over Boreas Pass, which turned out to be the exact valley Sarah and I spent a Thanksgiving in an off-grid cabin 5 years ago. It turned out to be a pretty gentle grade the whole way, and an awesome ride overall.

We then descended down into Breckenridge. Riding through Breck and Summit County felt like a completely different planet than what we’d experienced the night before—we stopped for Gelato in Breck (lemon flavored, of course), and rode on the incredible bike path system through Frisco, Dillon and finally Silverthorne.

At one point, we waded into Dillon Reservoir to soak our legs in the cold water. We were just standing there looking at the incredible view, and burst out laughing at the thought of sleeping next to a dumpster behind the bar in Hartsell just hours prior. The variety you can get in one day on the GDMBR never ceases to amaze.

We grabbed rooms at a cool hostel/hotel called The Pad in Silverthorne (a recommendation from a guy we bumped into on the bike path who’d raced the Tour Divide a few years ago), and then headed to dinner.

Mitch was craving a steak and found a spot nearby that turned out to be a beautiful mistake. We walked in and got a table before realizing it was one of those “grill your own steak” places—which is not the first thing you want to do after riding 70 miles—but the food was great and it made for a good story.

We also got to grab a beer with Sally and David, my friends from Pie Town whose ride was cut short by Sally’s broken collar bone. They were in town visiting family and had seen our dots, so we met up and swapped stories from when I last saw them, which was helping load their gear into a truck so Sally could get to the hospital.

Mitch and I got a leisurely start yesterday morning and rolled out around 9:30 after breakfast in Silverthorne. We were aiming to get to Radium last night, but unfortunately my stomach issues took a turn and I was barely able to make it 50 miles to Kremmling, where I’m now hunkered down in a hotel and taking another zero day to hopefully let things sort themselves out.

The real bummer is that Mitch (who is awesome, by the way… he’s a firefighter from Bozeman who also drives a Tundra, and just an all around great guy) and I only got a day and a half of riding together—we were the first people each of us had met that were on a similar pace, and had planned to keep riding north together. He pushed out this morning for Steamboat, but who knows, maybe we’ll meet up again in a few days. The Divide seems to look at your plans and itinerary, consider them for a moment, and then light them on fire and throw them in a dumpster behind a bar in Hartsell.

June 16th Update

Well howdy! It’s been a minute since my last post, let me catch you up on the last week.

The last time I checked in Eric had just joined me and we raced a storm into Abiquiu where we rode it out over Green Chile Cheeseburgers at Bode’s. I believe I mentioned we took some cheeseburgers to go to eat the next day…

Well, that may have been a mistake, because ever since eating that I’ve been battling some stomach issues. Nothing terrible, but it hasn’t been easy. Likely a combination of exertion and a weird diet for a couple of weeks.

Unfortunately for Eric, and fortunately for me, the stretch of days he picked to ride with me proved to be the toughest miles so far. It rained on us from Abiquiu through Cumbres Pass (essentially the rest of New Mexico), and started calling ourselves “the Soggy Bottom Boys” while singing “man of constant sorrow” (O Brother Where Art Thou fans will get it).

We also got to experience the joy of NM’s infamous peanut butter mud. While it may sound delicious, it’s anything but. You don’t know you’re in it until it’s too late, your tires are caked with 3 inches of the stuff, and your entire drivetrain is about to explode. You then have to spend the next 30 minutes cleaning enough of the stuff off just to be able to turn the pedals, and then you’ve got to ride with an extra 10 pounds of mud caked to everything until it eventually falls off. Fun.

Thankfully, all of this transpired in my absolute favorite part of New Mex with my best biking buddy, so we persevered. It’s a gorgeous area and couldn’t feel further from the desert landscapes of the southern part of the state. We saw tons of antelope and elk, and even woke up to a herd of elk feeding in a field about 100 yards from our tents one morning.

We crossed into Colorado the morning of the 12th, and made it to Horca for breakfast, where we finally met the elusive Montana Mitch. He was still struggling with his seatpost, unfortunately, and Eric and I rode on ahead hoping he’d catch us later in the day.

We rode along the beautiful Conejos River all day, climbing our way up to 11,900 foot Indiana Pass, which is my route’s high point. It was a long day of slowly spinning along and battling bubbly guts, but Eric’s boundless energy drug me through. We made it past the EPA Superfund site of the Summitville Mine (cheap property near there, if anyone’s looking), over Indiana Pass at Sunset, and halfway down the other side.

On the 13th we rode into Del Norte, CO, for breakfast, and made it about 70 miles before finally meeting up with Sarah again. We’d intended to make it to Salida on the 13th, but the rain and mud just slowed us down too much. I was pretty wiped out by the time we made it to Sarah, so it was actually good timing—my wonderful trail angel had booked us an Airbnb in Salida for my first “zero day” (trail speak for a rest day).

I took the 14th totally off, which was much needed. We hung out in Salida, and I basically moved as little as possible and tried to eat as much real, non-biker food, as possible. Our good friend Madeline Kelty drove up the night of the 14th so that Eric could take her car back to Santa Fe and give me another day with Sarah. We all stayed another ngiht at the Airbnb (2 nights in a real bed!!!), and met up with our friends Aaron Gulley and Jen Judge as well.

Aaron and Jen just so happened to be in Salida this weekend, and Aaron was keen to ride a day with me. I left my bikepacking bags and most of the heavy stuff with Sarah, and Kelty gave Aaron and I a ride to where I’d left off on the trail. He and I then had a great ride over Marshall Pass and into Salida last night—without the weight of the bags, with good weather, and the absolute force of a cyclist Aaron is, we managed 105 miles yesterday—my longest ride of the trip, and my longest ride ever, it turns out.

Unfortunately, I broke a spoke during the ride, which meant I needed to spend the morning in Salida waiting for the bike shop to open today (the 16th). In all honesty, I wasn’t too sad about this because it meant I was able to sleep in and spend more time with Sarah (I’ll take all I can get).

I’m writing this from a little bridge over a creek in Salida, waiting for the bike shop to call and then I’ll be on my way to Hartstell, CO and Sarah will head home to Santa Fe. The riding should get a bit easier now in terms of town stops, etc., and I’ll hit Hartstell, Como, Breckenridge, and Silverthorne over the next few days, then Steamboat before heading into Wyoming.

Sarah will re-join me later this month in Montana, where she’ll be driving a camper van and acting as my sag wagon for the remainder of the ride through Montana into Canada. Cannot wait for that!!

If I had to sum up the last week of riding, it’d be with this: it was the toughest stretch of miles I’ve had so far, both physically and in terms of how I’ve felt, but I am so, so incredibly lucky to have such amazing friends and family. The support they’ve given me throughout this trip, and especially in the last week, has been absolutely amazing, and I couldn’t have done it without them.

Onward!

June 9th—from baking in the desert to soaking in the mountains

As you could tell from Sarah’s post, I have the best wife ever. She prepared an amazing amount of food for me, washed my clothes, fully re-supplied me with everything I’ll need for the next stretch, AND brought my biking buddy out. It was SO good to see her, and gave me a huge morale boost. I love that woman.

Sarah cooked a big breakfast for us in the morning and Eric and I set out around 8:45 or so. The plan for the next few days is to try and average 75-80 per day to make it to Salida on the 13th, where Sarah and an Airbnb (and my first zero day… trail speak for a day off the bike and zero miles) will be waiting.

We made it about 82 miles yesterday (the 9th) with just under 6k feet of climbing. It was a drastic scenery change from what I’ve experienced in the desert so far—high alpine environment with water and creeks everywhere. It was a VERY welcomed change, and it’s amazing how much better everything is when it’s 20 degrees cooler.

We cruised along at a pretty good clip yesterday, and made it up to around 10,500 feet when it started thundering. We decided to risk not putting on the rain gear, and ended up getting poured/hailed on for a bit and were absolutely soaked. It was actually quite pleasant, until we started heading downhill—then the rain suits and puffy jackets came out quickly. It’s so wild to go from baking in the sun at 5000 feet one day to shivering in the rain at 10000 feet the next. Gotta love the Divide.

We passed a Swiss gal named Sonia who’d originally been riding with Brent, my 70-year old Canadian friend from a few days ago, and also bumped into two cyclists heading south on the trail. They raced the Tour Divide last year and made it to the New Mexico line, so were out finishing their ride.

We’d hoped to make it to Bode’s (a classic gem of a gas station/restaurant) in Abiquiu around lunch, but the descent off of Polvadera Mesa turned out to be significantly rougher than we anticipated, and took us 3 hours instead of 1. Still a fun ride, just much more of a technical mountain bike descent than cruising down a well maintained gravel road.

We pulled into Bode’s yesterday right around 4, literally minutes before it started absolutely pouring rain again. We had a big dinner of chicken nuggets, Fritos, green chile cheeseburgers and key lime pie, and once the rain died down a bit we donned our rain gear (full Sitka for me) and rode towards El Rito.

We pushed into the national forest just past el rito, and made camp on the side of the road at the first flat spot we could find. Not the most picturesque spot, but we were spent and it did the trick.

It’s drizzling as I write this from the tent this morning with more rain in the forecast, so it should make for an interesting couple of days.

Thankfully, we have another round of cheeseburgers and nuggets from Bode’s in our packs for lunch today!

Greetings from the air conditioned wife

Hello! I know you would all prefer to hear from Bryan Rogala—the man, the myth, and the legend. Unfortunately, he can’t pick up the phone right now because he is sweating it out in the desert! But I have updates…

Last night, I met up with Bryan outside of Abiquiu to drop off his buddy Eric Ladd and try to fatten him up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

This brings me to my first bit of news—on a scale of 1 to Severus Snape's level of gauntness, Bryan is currently at a 3. It will only get worse from here, so I am doing everything in my power to keep the bones at bay. I arrived at the campsite last night with approximately 50,000 calories in the truck and gave the good Dr. Ladd specific instructions for the week: to keep feeding that man!

In all seriousness, Bryan seems to be doing really well. His spirits are up, his ass is still attached to his body, and he seems to be having a great time. He reports that Grants leaves a lot to be desired, and Cuba isn’t all that exciting either. On the plus side, the NM heat wave seems to have finally broken, and freshwater is in sight for most of the rest of his journey.

After a short ride with Eric last night, the boys met me at the campsite and started snacking. Then I forced Bryan to take a shower (look at the color of that water) and fed him again for dinner. By the time Bryan and Eric were done packing up their gear, it was lights out at 9:00 p.m. What can I say—we party hard!

This morning, I sent the boys on their merry way and started to head home when I ran into two fellow riders. First, I stopped to offer some snacks to David, who is traveling at a much slower pace than Bryan and was excited to meet “Bryan from Santa Fe’s wife” because it meant he was gaining on him. While chatting with him, the elusive Mitch from Boseman arrived. I have been watching Mitch on track leaders because he seems to be covering as much ground as Bryan, and they keep leapfrogging each other. It turns out the poor guy has had a lot of mechanical difficulties and had a great story about exchanging his broken, expensive carbon seat post with one off of an ancient bike a minister offered to him. It is still a few inches too short and doesn’t stay put, so hopefully, he can get it properly fixed in Salida. In the meantime, I gave him some food and my number to connect with his wife when I get to the Montana leg of the journey. He is determined to catch Bryan and Eric at Bodes (a restaurant) to have some company on the trail, so Godspeed, Montana Mitch!

It was great seeing Bryan and getting to pass on some of the wonderful trail magic he has been receiving so far. I don’t think we will hear much from him this week due to his cell signal, but thanks to the satellite device he uses, I am in constant contact with him. It looks like Monsoon Season might have finally arrived in NM, so that should be an interesting development for this week. I will check back in periodically to give you all updates!

It’s not all pies and shit-eating grins out here…

Ok, it mostly is. But also this:

I stopped at a gas station for a Gatorade and an ice cream as I was pulling into Grants the other day. While I was checking out, I looked through the window and noticed a guy walking his dog and checking out my bike. I walked out and said hello, and he proceeded with the usual line of questioning someone has when they see a weird looking bike with all sorts of shit strapped to it: “where ya going?”, “where’d you come from today?”, etc.”

When I told him I was riding to Canada, he just stared at me in disbelief (we were standing at a gas station in Grants, NM, and it was 93 degrees, after all). It took him a minute to say anything, and his first response was “WHAT?”, and then “that’s amazing, holy cow,” and so on and so forth. He was so taken aback at the idea he even asked to pick up my bike so he could feel how much it weighed, which only added to his bafflement. “Holy cow, you’re a beast man! You’re a stud! Wow!”

Riding the GDMBR is a big undertaking, no doubt, but my interaction with that guy made me chuckle because, from my perspective, I’m just out here on a pretty pleasant bike tour. I’m riding 70 miles a day, but know someone who’s raced this route and averaged 180 miles per day. My bike’s heavy, but I’ve met riders whose setups weigh probably double what mine does. Point being: it’s all about perspective.

I’ve had people stare at me in disbelief several times on this trip, and have done a bit of staring myself. One time in particular stands out, not because of a feat someone had accomplished, but a comment they made to me.

One day I caught up to a fellow rider on the trail who I’d camped with the night before. We’d had a nice time hanging out, and I stopped to chat with him for a minute before continuing on. He was a bit of a talker, and somehow the conversation turned to family. He asked if I had any kids. When I said no, his immediate follow up was “plans to?”

Rather than some perfect witty comment that my wife would have ready to go, like, “Pretty heavy for a first date, huh?,” I just smiled and replied “no.” At that point, his eyes widened and he exclaimed “OH, you’re the scourge of the earth!”

Cue the staring in disbelief.

I thought about saying a lot of things, but my midwestern upbringing kicked in and all I could muster was a nervous chuckle.

He must have known he’d stepped in it, because he quickly launched into talking about some movie called “idiocracy,” sort of walking back his comment and trying to give some kind of a backhanded compliment by saying “nice, smart people of a higher socioeconomic class like you should be the ones having kids, not rednecks that breed like rabbits.”

Yikes.

After that pile of coded racist word vomit, he gave me the standard “I think people should do whatever they want” line.

Sure bud, I bet you really believe that (he had two grown children, by the way).

Those midwestern sensibilities and the fact that I was alone in the middle of the woods with this guy meant I just sort of nodded along as he talked, changed the subject when I could and then parted ways as soon as possible.

The heat and hard riding that followed made me forget about that conversation, but eventually that “scourge of the earth” comment kept popping back into my mind as I spun along over the next few days—there’s a lot of time to think out here.

Whether or not someone has or wants to have children has always struck me as a pretty bold topic of conversation to strike up with anybody, let alone a total stranger on the trail. It’s a pretty damn personal thing, yet for some reason people seem to love to ask about it and pry—it often strikes me as some folks who have children can’t even fathom another perspective or situation existing.

The classic, seemingly harmless example, which Sarah and I get all the time and I’ve also gotten several times on this trip alone, is “do you guys have kids yet?”

That may very well be a well-intentioned question based in curiosity, aiming to understand a little more about a person… but damn if it isn’t a loaded question.

If you think about it from a slightly different perspective, that one word—“yet”—implies a hell of a lot: “why haven’t you had children yet?” “What’s wrong with you” “surely you’re going to have kids?” “Are you some kind of monster who hates children?” “Oh, you’re young, you’ll see.”

I’m acutely aware of the fact that Sarah and I are in a tiny minority of folks who don’t have kids—we’re ok with that, and get this sort of thing all the time. But, can you imagine if someone told me (or any other member of the “scourge of the earth” club that I wasn’t aware I belonged) they were pregnant, and my response was “yikes! Hope that works out.” Or if they said they had 4 kids and I responded with “wow, that’s a lot. Why’d you do that?”

Clearly, the more I thought about this, the angrier I got (too much solo time on a bike will do that for ya). But I grew angrier mainly because I couldn’t stop thinking that it’s one thing for me as a man to be asked these sorts of questions (after all, in reality men pretty much get a pass in society if they don’t have kids. That burden, like so many other things in life, falls primarily on women). Can you imagine what it must be like for a woman to be asked if/when/why she doesn’t have kids?

The point here isn’t to lambast that guy (though I’m not sad I have a faster pace than he does and likely won’t see him again), or anyone, for that matter, parent or not. It’s just to serve as a friendly reminder that questions about why someone has or doesn’t have children are just questions that shouldn’t be asked (at least not to someone you aren’t dearly close with).

A lot of my friends have young kids. Some tried for a while and had them. Some tried for years and couldn’t, or had heartbreaking experiences before they did. Some didn’t want them. It’s an intensely personal, complicated choice wrought with heavy emotions and all sorts of baggage—to ask someone to distill that down to a simple answer is just heartless.

Perspective is a funny thing. To some, riding a bicycle from Mexico to Canada is an insane feat of athleticism (or just plain insane). To others, it’s something you can do when you turn 70. Having kids is no different—there are lots of perspectives, and they’re all fine, so long as you remember other ones exist.

Alright, onward to Canada!

P.S., The next time you ask someone about whether they have kids, maybe just leave out the “yet.”

June 7th Update: Glorious desert dirt

My alarm went off at 3:30 in Grants this morning. Aside from the fact that I could’ve used about 6 more hours of it, I slept wonderfully and was rolling out of town by 4:30 after coffee and oatmeal.

Grants leaves a bit to be desired from a town stop perspective. My ride out in the dark this morning was peppered with lovely things like a homeless woman yelling at me, some guy smoking something outside a gas station, and a scenic cruise past the state prison at 5am (those “don’t pick up hitchhikers” signs hit harder when you’re on a bike in the dark.

Once I got out of town, though, things changed for the better. The ride started with a big but gradual climb on pavement, from which I got to watch the sunrise. It switched to dirt and I climbed up and over Mt Taylor, and then had an amazing descent off the backside.

The alpine environment of Mt Taylor gave way to incredible rimrock desert country. There were desert spires in the distance, and views straight out of a western movie.

There wasn’t a ton of elevation gain after that, so the riding was pretty quick. And, all of the water tanks and springs marked on the map were actually full!!! That’s the first time that’s happened yet this trip, which makes for a much less stressful day.

I had a visitor around lunch time—a guy named Alex, who I once sold a pair of skis to in Santa Fe and have since stayed in touch with on Instagram (he’s also a bike guy and raises goats)—rode by me on his new dual sport motorcycle. Turns out he’d taken the train to grants, where he bought the bike earlier today, and then knew I was out here so took the scenic route home. Always nice to see a familiar face! And man, was I jealous of the 700cc’s and 320 miles of range his bike had… mine doesn’t have that many CCs.

After that, I passed another group of NOBO riders, two Kiwis and a guy named Larry from Butte. They’d all flown into Tucson and ridden over to the start of the divide via the connector. It sounded like they were headed to the same campsite as me, but I rolled in around 3:30 and never saw them. I got my tent set up just in time for a little rain, and took a nice siesta after second lunch. Hopefully Larry and the Kiwis didn’t get stuck in the mud—these roads were riding become completely impassible when they’re wet.

Thats all for now—on to Cuba and into the Jemez Mountains to meet Sarah and Eric tomorrow!

1st Section Complete!

I’m currently in Grants, NM, which means I’m about 390 miles into the ride, and Section 6 (or 1, in my case as a Northbounder) of the GDMBR is officially behind me. I’m writing this update from my bed in a hotel room, which is absolutely glorious.

Yesterday I made it to Pie Town around lunchtime (I’d intended to get there for breakfast, but I screwed up my mileage the night before and actually had 30 more miles to pie town instead of 15… math is hard. In general, but especially when you’re wiped out from bikepacking).

En route, I stopped for water at this amazing spot called The Davila Ranch, which is basically a little off grid outpost for hikers and cyclists consisting of a bathroom, two showers, a stocked camp kitchen, wifi and more. Super cool.

My math goof worked out perfectly, though, because I rolled into The Gathering Place, the best food spot in Pie Town, just after three other cyclists—David and Sally from Tucson, and Brent from Vancouver Island. Turns out they’d camped just about a half mile up the road from me the previous night.

The Gathering Place (and Pie Town, in general) is somewhat of a Divide hub, both for cyclists and hikers on the CDT. Star, the owner/waitress at the restaurant, took great care of us as we all ate as much food as we could stomach (I had a pulled pork sandwich, fries, side salad, 3 lemonades and a piece of pear ginger pie, for those wondering. No key lime, unfortunately). They finished up before me and headed out, but suggested I check out “The Toaster House” before I leave Pie Town. So, I took notes from my new friends and ordered a burrito to go (for dinner later) and was about to leave when a motorcyclist walked up and offered me the remainder of his blackberry pie—he said he couldn’t pack it on his bike, and I assured him I’d find a way to get it on mine.

I cruised over to the aptly named Toaster House and found Sally, David and Brent hanging out with two other guys—Ken, and “Oldtimer” (that’s his trail name, as he just turned 70). Turns out there are like 4 Bryan’s riding northbound right now, so people have started calling me Santa Fe Bryan (was hoping for a more creative trail name, but we’ll see).

Toaster House is another hiker/cyclist oasis. It was owned by a trail angel who passed away last year, and her kids donated it to the CDT Trail Coalition. It’s stocked with all sorts of snacks, food, soda, beer, plus things like mini soaps and shampoos, etc, and it’s all free, they just ask for a donation. I took a shower and did a load of laundry, and hung out with everyone until about 5:30 when we decided it was getting cool enough to roll out to the next camp spot 15 miles away.

They all left a little before me, and we were all feeling pretty good because we’d been told the road out of town had just been graded. As soon as I got onto it, though, I began to wonder whether it had actually been graded or if someone was talking about a different road. The washboard wasn’t terrible, but there were pockets of deep sand hidden underneath loose stuff on top that was tricky to ride through. I was very thankful for my wide tires.

I got about 10 miles down the road, and all of the sudden saw Brent waving me down from the side of the road, where Sally and David were sitting. Turns out Sally had crashed in some deep sand and broken her collarbone. They’d already pushed the SOS button on her InReach and a truck from the fire department was on its way.

There wasn’t much to be done at that point, but Brent and I waited and helped them load their bikes in the truck and made sure they got on their way. I heard from them today and it sounds like they spent the night in Socorro after visiting the ER (her collarbone was indeed broken), and are already headed home to Tucson. Such a bummer! But, I have to say, I’ve never seen two people in such good spirits and with such positive attitudes, even as their tour was ending. Total pros, those two.

Brent (who’s also riding solo) and I took it a little easier after that and continued on to camp at TLC ranch, which is another incredible little spot. A family allows hikers and cyclists to camp on the front half of their property for free, and puts out water and fruit for everyone. They even built an outhouse specifically for campers! So much trail magic yesterday!

Brent and I chatted and ate our burritos under the porch of the old homestead on their ranch. Turns out Brent is also doing this tour as a birthday ride—both he and Oldtimer turned 70 in April. They both are absolute rock stars, and definitely something to aspire to. Oldtimer’s piece of advice if you want to be able to ride the GDMBR at 70? Don’t drink, don’t smoke or do (too many) drugs, and stay off the couch.

I rolled out a little earlier than Brent this morning and took the Tour Divide/El Malpais alternate into Grants. Got here around noon, and stopped at Walmart to resupply before heading out again. I grabbed a meal, and thought I’d ride a few more miles but decided to get a hotel instead and rest up a bit. I plan to leave super early in the morning to get a bunch of miles in before it gets hot (it was 93 here today).

I’m still on schedule despite two shorter mileage days, and am getting very excited because I’m about to get into the Jemez mountains (a little higher elevation and close to Santa Fe) AND, more importantly, I get to see my wife and best friend in two days—Sarah’s bringing Eric out to ride for about 5 days with me on the 8th. Can’t wait!

Bikes, Plane Crashes, and heat

After a monster brunch in Silver City with my fellow NOBO (northbound) riders Jared (from Virginia) and Jonathan (from Austria), I set out for Pinos Altos around 3pm. Once I got into the Gila National Forest, I opted to take one of the alternate routes to avoid more pavement and hopped on the actual CDT (continental divide trail) for about 11 miles. It’s some of the only singletrack on the route, so I had to. It ended up being a fun ride with some epic views—albeit very adventurous on a fully loaded bike with no suspension—but it took me longer than anticipated and I rolled into camp at Sapillo campground around 7:30. I goofed on my water planning and was running very low, and there wasn’t any water at the campground… Thankfully, I was able to get some from a family who was up there fishing at a nearby lake (that was too far for me to get to).

Then, while looking for a campsite I saw another Divide rider camped nearby. His name was Kevin, and we started chatting immediately—there’s a very fun sense of community when you randomly bump into someone doing the ride out here. He’s from Hawaii, and couldn’t seem to get over the fact that I was there after 2 days (it had taken him 6). That’s not a brag, but to highlight that everyone’s out here doing their own ride, their own way. Some folks have lightweight bikepacking setups, some are running full touring kits with panniers, and some are on mountain bikes built in 1992. There’s no wrong way to do it.

We ended up eating dinner together and chatting till around 10:30, which was later than I’d planned on staying up. My favorite part of the evening was when he walked over to my camp with something in his hands, and told me he’d just found a cantaloupe on the ground. I sort of looked at him puzzled, and he said a camper must have left it, but he’d cut it open and it was perfectly good. He offered me half, and for a split second I thought “no, I do not want your dirty melon you found in the middle of the woods,” but then my desire for fresh food took over and I proceeded to devour that thing like a wild animal. It was the best cantaloupe I’ve ever had.

The next day Kevin took off a few minutes before me, but I caught him at a junction. We chatted some more, and he insisted I make a short appearance in his YouTube channel, ha. After that I rode solo for a while and passed three other riders before stopping for lunch. There were LOTS of hot dry climbs on this stretch… I dipped my shirt in several creeks to stay cool, which worked well. At one point I even came across a little waterfall and swimming hole just after Geronimo guest ranch. The sign said no trespassing/no fishing, but I couldn’t help myself so I stripped down and cooled off. It was absolutely glorious, except I did slip on some algae and fell on my ass.

I think the heat is the biggest challenge for me so far—I have to force myself to eat, and it just sort of saps me. And it’s only been a high of 80-85 or so! Up until yesterday I hadn’t listened to music or anything, but finally put some in, which helped a lot (TPD, of course).

I rolled into the Beaverhead Work Station (a camp of sorts in the middle of the Gila where they base firefighters and forest service folks) around dinner time last night and was pretty spent. I refilled on water there, and was SO excited about the soda vending machine they have—Aaron Gulley and I passed this spot on another trip a few weeks ago, and I’d remembered to bring change for it. I fed the machine my $1.25 in quarters, pushed the button for a Sprite… and… nothing. The damn thing was broken and ate my change!!! I’d even looked into it and had it on good authority that it worked, despite the age and odd location… so you can imagine my disappointment. Little things like that have a way of turning into MAJOR defeats on a bikepacking trip like this. I proceeded to rock the machine, push all the buttons, etc… but no dice.

I thought I was SOL until a truck drove past me, and I noticed he was part of a group camped at the center, so I flagged him down to ask about the machine (I really wanted that Sprite). He said it hadn’t worked in 10 years, and it turns out he was leading a group of archeology students from IU. I I must have looked desperate, because he very kindly took me over to where they were staying and gave me a Sprite from their cooler. Salvation!

I kept pedaling and made it 71 miles for the day (and 7k feet of gain) but I ended up pedaling till about 9:50pm, so 12 hours of riding. I’m going to start getting up earlier (4:30 or 5 vs 6:30 this morning) to avoid riding so much in the heat of the day and riding at dark. Haven’t gotten quite enough sleep the last two nights, which needs to change. On the bright side, riding in the late evening did allow me to see probably 10 different groups of elk, including one cow who literally ran alongside me on the side of the road for a bit. Such a cool experience.

Today (Tuesday, June 4th) I plan to take it a bit easier—although I’m only 80 miles from Pie Town, about 20 of which are on pavement so there’s a chance I can make it there.

June 4th evening update:

Well, I didn’t end up making it to Pie Town tonight for a couple of reasons… the first being that about 15 miles into my day, I stumbled upon a crashed plane! I turned a corner, and in the middle of a field was a downed Cessna. At first I thought it was some sort of roadside attraction thing, and thought “that looks like a plane.”

As I got closer, I realized it was indeed a plane, and that the plane must have crashed recently—there was even fuel leaking onto the ground. I looked around for the pilot or anyone on board but there was no sign of anyone, or any signs of injury inside… just a pair of aviator sunglasses and a case of water in the back. I looked around for signs of someone walking from the crash site but couldn’t find anything, so I sent Sarah a message from my inreach and gave her the coordinates and all the info I had, and told her to contact our buddy Chris, who’s a pilot in the Airforce (he actually flys C-130s on search and rescue missions. Helps to know a pilot!).

Chris reported the crash to the FAA, and now there’s apparently an FAA team down here investigating. No sign of the pilot so far, and truly a wild start to my day. Of all the things I expected to see out here, a crashed plane was NOT on the list.

I ended up putting in a little over 50 miles today. The heat and lack of water continues to be a challenge—it’s SO much dryer here than it was just a few weeks ago when I was in this area. I rolled into where I thought I’d camp tonight and it turned out the spring marked on the map was dry… so I had to backtrack a mile to a dirt tank that had some water in it.

In the process of filtering enough water for the evening and my ride to Pie Town in the morning, my inreach (the satellite communication device I carry so folks can track me and I can text when I’m out of cell service) somehow slipped off my backpack. I brought all the water to my campsite and then went into a panic when I realized what had happened, having no idea whether I’d dropped it at the water tank or 20 miles back.

Thankfully, I had cell service and my beautiful wife was able to pinpoint the device’s location at the tank. Man, technology is nice!

Ok, hopefully some pie for breakfast!

Day 1 + Silver City: Hot and Fast

All in all it’s been a pretty amazing start to the ride so far! The initial section from Antelope Wells to Separ was 72 miles of mostly flat pavement.

It flew by and I hit my mileage goal by lunch, where I ran into 4 other tour divide riders who started yesterday. They were from Austria, Bentonville, DC and Virginia, and all on different timelines/programs (the Bentonville guy’s wife was towing a Black Series trailer and following him every day while he rode 30 miles unloaded, for instance. He was having cocktails when I rolled in 😂). It’s so cool that everyone has their own way of doing things and experiencing the same ride.

It was crazy hot (I think the high was 96 yesterday), so I spent a little extra time drinking as many cold liquids as possible and helping one of the guys with his tires (tubeless in NM is a must).

I rode another 30ish miles after “lunch” in the heat, and found that it wasn’t totally unbearable as long as I rode fast enough to create a breeze (built in swamp cooler). Then I made a nice little camp in the middle of the desert. It’s beautiful out here, and I saw no less than 15 Antelope, tons of quail, jack rabbits, one snake and one horned lizard. I’d be lying if I said that part of my reasoning for doing this ride wasn’t scouting new hunting spots (I’m basically treating it as a 2700 mile elk scout. I even brought binoculars).

I bumped into one of my fellow northbound riders again this morning and we rode into Silver City together and had brunch at a great little New Mexican spot with “generous” portions. Yes, I finished this:

Heading out now for a climb into the Gila, and very excited to start getting back into the mountains (and some cooler temps). Next stop: Pie Town, where I’m very hopeful I’ll find a few slices of Key Lime Pie waiting for me.

And so it begins…

Well, today’s the day. I’m not sure I fully believe this is actually happening.

Sarah and I are currently driving south towards the border. We’ll camp an hour or so from Antelope Wells, and she’ll drop me off tomorrow morning. I hope to start riding between 6 and 7 to avoid some of the heat down south, but it’ll be a hot day on the bike.