I thought I was home free

Georgetown to Golden,Colorado, Sunday, July 14, 2024

The day started out so nicely. A 12 mile swoop downhill to meet Lynne Seaborg, Eric‘s older sister, for brunch in yet another outdoor café, this time in Idaho Springs. Lynne is a retired pediatric clinical psychologist who trained at Harvard and Purdue, and practiced for many years in western Colorado in southern Utah. Her late husband was an infectious disease specialist, the only one between Denver and Salt Lake City. Like her father and brother she is an active hiker, and we’ve shared many adventures together in the southwest, as well as our time in Cambridge and growing up in DC. So much to talk about, so many reminiscences.

We talked for hours and could have for many more, but we both had a long way to go today. I knew I had one more hump to get over, only 700 feet but steeper (13% grade) than anything I had yet done. At least it was going to be on a bike path.

But the bike path was closed. The Clear Creek canyon was very narrow here, so there was no alternative but I-70. Unlike in Montana and Wyoming, parts of the Colorado interstates are closed to bicyclists, and that was the case here. But there was no alternative, I rehearsed to myself in case I was stopped by a state trooper. The shoulder was narrow and full of debris, but a rumble strip protected me from the heavy traffic and things were OK for a while, until I hit construction. I tried to stick to the asphalt as I threaded my way through the barrels and Jersey barriers, but ultimately had to go down a steep bank and push my way up that 13% grade in the dirt. Construction vehicles were parked everywhere, but thankfully it was a Sunday, and nobody was there to stop me. As if on queue, a thunderstorm hit and turned the dirt to mud. It wasn’t fun, pushing along, filthy as never before, anxious there might be some impassible barrier ahead. I couldn’t imagine having to backtrack through all that.

Serves me right, I thought. You get cocky, you think you’re home free, and the Rockies have one more card up their sleeve, one more twist before they let you go. But just at the depths of my dismay, the phone rang.

Luckily, I had my noise-canceling AirPods in, or I never would’ve heard it through all that traffic. Steve and Karen Moore, the first of three friends I would be visiting in Denver in the next week, had been tracking my location on the Find My Friends app, and drove 40 miles to offer a port in the storm. They were surprised to see me pushing along on the other side of that Jersey barrier, but pulled off at the next exit and were waiting with food and a warm car.

Hard to imagine how grateful I felt. This kind of kindness is typical of Karen, who, for many years would meet us on our Boston to Cape Cod bike rides and provide snacks and comfort. These blog pages are full of trail angels and Easter eggs, but this one took the cake. To top it off, they had a cooler with root beer and Snickers bars. Steve and Karen are the epitome of healthy eaters, Steve often teases me about my dietary choices, but in this case they indulged me. I was touched beyond words. I had been looking forward to seeing them for so long, and here they were, a little taste of heaven ahead of time. Wow.

In the warmth of their car, we waited out the rain, my grubby body in their pristine vehicle. They knew enough not to insist on giving me a ride, knew I wouldn’t want to break the chain, the continuous bike ride from the Pacific. Thus fortified, and with only a couple of more humps to go over, I finally gazed upon the promised land. All of Denver spread out before me, 2,500 feet below.

Just 6/10 of a mile beyond the crest, I had to stop and take a couple of silly pictures.

This was the spot where I had turned around three years ago, the highwater mark of my Vermont to Denver trip, as chronicled in my Death by a Thousand Cuts post. https://scottluria.org/2021/08/21/death-by-a-thousand-cuts/ My Apple Watch had recorded my track then, so I knew the exact spot. If I didn’t go an inch further, I had now bicycled from the Atlantic to the Pacific, if not continuously (in 2020, I rode from my home to the Atlantic, those blog posts are still pending). I haven’t done any new highpoints, didn’t make it up Mt. Hood, didn’t even make it to every parking lot I wanted, but at least I’ve done this. Why that matters so much to me is another story, that I will address on the train ride home.

Now, suddenly, I was covering familiar ground. Once again, I was roaring down those twists on Highway 40, viewing them not through the bittersweet disappointment of three years ago, but the thrill of coming into Denver and seeing so many dear friends. My motel was right at the point where I agonized over my decision in 2021, and teed up the reservations, allowing me to turn around. How eerie, how Twilight Zone. How wonderful.

Distance 34 miles, 3,071 total. Time 9 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,742 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria