Guest Blog—Picture Rock: Scenes from Life in a Colorado Mountain Town

Picture Rock: Installment Three

Spin

By EZ Ryyder

It’s going to be a long, hot day in the saddle.  My water bottles are filled, my tires are pumped up to 120 psi and my chain is freshly lubed.  I’m drinking a mixture of whey protein and tart cherry juice waiting for the group to gather at the market. 

It’s only 9 o’clock but the sun feels warm on my face.  The breeze is light and blowing out of the southwest under a big, blue Colorado sky.  The snow is still heavy on the divide and it captures most of my attention.  I’m looking for cloud plumes coming off the ridge, an indication of wind up high, but don’t see any. The first green shoots are emerging from under winter’s dead grass and before long, the straw colored carpeting will all be green.

I’m pretty content sipping my juice and waiting.  

Jeff comes roaring in from the south pulling a freight train of a peloton. Two by two, the riders peel off the shoulder, into the parking lot and dismount.  A few push their bikes over to the rack and disappear into the market while a few more just stop and lean across their top tubes.  After topping off water bottles and snacking on protein bars, we point our bikes towards the canyon and start pedaling. 

We’re flying along on Main Street as we pass Redstone Coffee.  There are more bikes out front and riders drinking espresso under umbrellas from the sidewalk tables.  We nod as we zing by. 

Six miles into the ride we enter the mouth of the canyon.  The river cascades down from the divide between sandstone cliffs the entire length of the canyon.  But we’re still at the bottom and as we begin the climb, we’re all in our big rings and chatting easily.  Passing Nelson Ranch on the right, we see a small herd of mule deer grazing on the hillside.  I always expect to see a mountain lion crouching in the bushes, stalking the deer but never do. 

As we sweep around a long, arcing, left hand turn the gradient increases and we rise out of our saddles as we power over the top only to drop back onto our saddles as the hill drops away below our skinny tires.  The pavement is buttery smooth and we pick up speed and coast down to where the canyon narrows.  That’s the last downhill.  The next 12 miles are all uphill to 9,200 feet.

Pretty soon Jeff drops the hammer and it’s on.  A gap opens up and we all pick up the cadence so we don’t get dropped.  It’s getting harder to talk and ride so the conversation tails off and is replaced with the whir of the chain and the chunky clunk of shifts from one gear to another.  No squeaky chains in this group. The smell of pine and new growth fills the air and the sound of rushing water fills our ears.

Damn that gap! I’m falling off the wheel so I pedal harder and faster.  My breathing and heart rate quicken and sweat starts to form on my forehead.  I wipe the perspiration with the soft part of my glove and try to will my bike back onto the wheel that is now about 10 feet in front of me.  Alberto Contador seems to dance lightly in his clips when climbing.  I can’t say that’s what I’m doing but I am out of the saddle and stomping on the pedals.  Within a couple of seconds I’m back on the wheel but Pete and Joey fly by me on the left. 

The walls of the canyon are closing in as the incline steepens.  On the left, raging whitewater careens over boulders in foamy chaos.  Ponderosa pine scent mixes with wildflowers growing by the side of the road.  We haven’t been passed by a car going either direction in the past 30 minutes so we are startled to hear the high rev whine of a pack of street bikes coming up quickly behind us.  As they rocket by, the piercing sound of their exhaust bounces off the rock face in the Big Narrows. And then they are gone around the next bend and I hear my own rhythmic breath going in and out.

I’m drifting to the back as we near the top and turn south on the Peak to Peak.  It’s flat for several tenths of a mile but then we hit our first downhill.  I shift into my big ring, tap-tap-tap-tap through my gears and ramp up the cadence anticipating the steep decline.  Ten more pedal strokes and I tighten into a tuck.  My hands are in the drops and I lower my back so it’s so flat that you could set a tray of wine glasses up there.  Except they would blow right off. 

The wind is howling in my ears and tears are forming in my eyes.  I blink them away and steer around Joey to the left and slide into Pete’s draft.  He is pedaling at a good clip and I’m coasting but I’m catching him.  Rather than brake, I sit up a little and that slows me enough that I can follow effortlessly. 

I zoom along like this until I feel guilty and then rise to my feet and blast by Pete as if I were shot out of a cannon.  I’m going just over 50 MPH and I see Jeff up ahead of me but I won’t catch him before the next hill.  And what a hill it is. 

At the base of the last climb, I settle into a steady rhythm and pace myself so I don’t blow up.  If I tried to catch Jeff, I would bonk for sure.  We are now 40 miles into the ride and The Wall is right in front of us.  The Wall is a section of the road that is almost a mile long with a 12% grade.  The fact that you hit it at 9,600 feet above sea level only makes it worse. 

Pete and Joey pass me for the second time and our whole group is getting stretched out and shattered by the climb. Four more riders slip by before we reach the summit.  There are six riders still in pursuit but they won't catch us.

We are just above tree line and 12,000-14,000 foot peaks stand sentry to the west. There is a bit of a Chinook crosswind pushing us from the side but it won’t be there long. 

Our reward is a 16-mile descent back into Picture Rock.  It is literally downhill all the way to the brewery.  The road is smooth, curvy and we are flying, swooping and charging our way back to town. 

I pass the four riders and only Jeff, Joey and Pete remain in front. Tradition dictates that the first one to the brewery eats and drinks for free.  The next two riders get free beer.  The rest pick up the tab. 

Jeff won’t be paying for food and if I can catch either Pete or Joey, that cold one at the end will be that much more satisfying.

© EZ Ryyder 2012

EZ Ryyder spends his time a little bit farther down the road.  Past the city limits.

Guest Blog—Picture Rock: Scenes from Life in a Colorado Mountain Town

Picture Rock, Installment Two

Jam

By EZ Ryyder

Climbing up the worn wooden stairs, we’re surrounded by promo photos of musicians from the days when bands had press kits.  I smile at Katy, and the Prophet just nods as we stroll through the front reception area.  I slip the mandolin case off my shoulder and stash it behind the Elvis statue. The Prophet hangs on to his banjo case.

The restaurant is packed with mountain bikers, kayakers, local families, tourists, climbers and an assortment of people that just can't be classified.  The wait staff is bustling around, explaining the beer selections, taking orders and carrying trays with a mixture of plates and glasses.  There doesn't seem to be an open seat and there is no hint of what's to come. 

We wander into the other room, sort of an upstairs bar with “seat yourself” tables in the center of the room, high tops along the walls and windows that look out on the hills and redstone cliffs.  There is a wrap around porch outside with more tables through the heavy glass door.  There are a couple of seats at the bar and we slide in and stake our claim.  Annie’s blue-green eyes sparkle our way from under her curly brown hair while she fills two pints and talks to an older gentleman with a fishing cap and a scraggly beard, and before you know it, she asks us what we’ll have.  I order a Devious Ale and the Prophet gets a whiskey and a glass of water.

We wait for the other musicians to show, sip our drinks and talk about how quickly the trails are drying out. 

Kasey and Erik host the weekly bluegrass jam at the brewery.  Most of the time, at least one of them is off touring with a band. Tonight, they are both in town and there is a buzz of anticipation as a few more folks carrying instruments walk into the bar and tuck their instrument cases out of the way.  Or try to.  The cases are always in the way. 

Around eight o’clock, the last guests finish their dinner and as soon as they get up, people start clearing the tables and carrying them out to the porch and stack them on the outside tables.  Next, the chairs are dragged across the wooden floor and arranged in a circle.  The instruments come out and banjos, fiddles, mandolins and guitars somehow get spaced out so there aren’t too many in a row. 

Erik kicks off the jam with a John Hartford tune, “Here I Am In Love Again.”  After the first verse, the solos start snaking their way around the circle.  When it gets to me, I do my best to play crisp notes that project across the room and don’t get lost in the volume of the jam. Then it’s back to the next verse and the solos pick up at the spot in the circle where they left off.

Most of the pickers are quite competent.  Some are spectacular. 

After the song finishes, the next person in the circle selects the next song and around it goes.  By now, there are 15 people in the main circle and there is barely room to stand in the bar.  Soon, additional circles begin to split off in other parts of the building and as the evening rolls along, the real pros start to show up. 

There is a jam circle in the front lobby, two in the main dining room and one on the back porch.  That’s not counting the main jam that got things going.  The place is mobbed.  The Tuesday night ride from the Cyclery has occupied the large, Viking-length table in the back—which seems fitting as this group has been pillaging the most technical terrain above town for the past few hours wearing headlamps. 

Clusters of people fill the open space between the jams.  It’s hard to tell the musicians from the fans or the random folk that stumbled into something real and alive, ebbing and flowing with notes flying through the air and bouncing off the walls.

I wander into the other room to check out another circle and see the Prophet tearing it up with Kasey, Joseph, Topher and some fiddle player that I’ve never met.  Kasey is singing “I’ve Endured” and it strikes me that this is probably one of the most enduring jams anywhere. 

As on most Tuesdays, I feel lucky to be here.


Next: Installment Three, Spin

© EZ Ryyder 2012

EZ Ryyder spends his time a little bit farther down the road.  Past the city limits.

Guest Blog—Picture Rock: Scenes from Life in a Colorado Mountain Town

Picture Rock, Installment One

Melt

By EZ Ryyder

The Estimated Prophet turned the key and the Rover started.  Glancing back to make sure the dog was clear or that a moose wasn’t directly in his path, he backed up and got rolling down the backside of the hill.  I sort of looked back too.  Just to double check.

North Road goes north, as it should.  At the turn, the road drops away and gets pretty muddy.  Most people avoid a stretch like this at this time of year unless they have four-wheel drives.  Even then, it is so narrow and the runoff has cut ruts so deep on the edges that there are two-foot ditches where the plowed up banks used to be.  When it’s dry, it’s still a pretty tight squeeze to let two cars get by.  You’re only going about five miles per hour and you wave or nod as you pass each other.   It’s close.  Now, with the mud, if you move over at the wrong spot you will sink to your axles.  Even with the Rover, you’re in for a poke in the mud. 

It’s sunny and the snow is melting. 

There is a low fog trapped by the redstone walls and even though the sage is barely showing, it smells rich and pungent.  Dripping and trickling, snowmelt water runs down the road in narrow veins and where they merge, the path washes out.  I keep an eye out to be sure the Prophet doesn’t drift away with thoughts somewhere else.  He never does.  But you never know. 

Down past the old horse ranch the road plunges through a little gully and then climbs right back up the other side towards a long ridgeline.  At the top of the hill you could see the divide across the mountain valley if it weren’t for the fog trapped by the hillside.  Where the road crosses the highway it turns to pavement but don’t think you will go much faster.  The dips and holes will shake and buck your shocks and springs until they squeak or your fillings rattle out.   Slow going all around. 

So, you might as well look out to see if there is anything moving where the forest meets the meadow. You could see a flock of wild turkeys or a coyote.  Maybe an elk.  I don’t think you will see the bear.  Definitely call out if you do.  I haven’t seen him in a while. 

Once, he snorted at me from behind a big boulder when I was riding my mountain bike.  Actually he growled at Marley and the dog veered off.  We just kept going.  The next day I went back without the canine patrol and walked around that big rock to the back.   Just to see if there were any signs or tracks.  There was a dug out corner where the bear was digging and some tracks.  That was early last fall.  I know he is still around because he was at Mary Anne’s feeder just last week.  He’s a big old brownish-black male and I’m pretty sure the Prophet was on the hill first but maybe not. 

Rolling down to the river we come to a stop by the “put in” spot.  It’s still early in the season and the runoff hasn’t really even started.  With hardly a word, we pull our waders on over our jeans and lace up our felt bottom boots.  I tie on a Griffith’s Gnat while the Prophet selects a twisted midge.  

Stepping into the water, I can feel the 38-degree water welling around my feet and below my knees.  I’m not getting wet but I’m glad the water is still slow and low.  Before long, this river will rise and come crashing down the canyon like it’s nobody’s business.  For now, I work my way upstream to a quiet hole surrounded by lodgepoles and aspens.  The Prophet heads down stream.  He always walks downstream.   He’ll still be fishing long after I’m done.  I’ll find him a couple of miles down Redstone Creek with the sun shining on his shoulders, his rod dancing above the water.


Next: Installment Two, Jam

© EZ Ryyder 2012

EZ Ryyder spends his time a little bit farther down the road.  Past the city limits.