The morning of departure, I arrived into Spearfish at 1:30 am. I had driven 7-and-a-half hours from Colorado Springs and made a quick pit-stop by the bank to pull out some mad money for the ride. I then made a bee-line for my Mother's house where a warm bed was awaiting me. Thanks, mom.
Sleep did not come easy that night. My brain was running wild with ideas of what the next few days would bring.
A few hours of tossing and turning rolled the clock to 7:00 am. I stirred, brushed my teeth, put on my chamois and pedaled down to the local coffee shop in hopes that some caffeine would compensate for my lack of sleep.
The plan was to meet my former co-worker, an avid cyclist and experienced bike-packer, at the bike shop where he still works at 7:30 am. I would be borrowing his seat roll bag (as I have yet to get one for myself) and he would stoke my soul by giving me a few invaluable pieces of advice and perhaps a new pedal mantra before I embarked on this big journey.
Or at least that's how I envisioned it going down.
7:30 came, and I waited at the doors of the bike shop, two coffees in hand, breakfast sandwich in mouth, reviewing all of the things that I still needed to do for my bike: air up my shocks, check tire pressure, lube the chain.
7:45 rolled around and doubt flooded through me: is this where we were supposed to meet? Did I tell him 7:30? Did I even tell him I was leaving today?!
8:00 came and I was truly nervous. I made a desperate phone call to another former co-worker who immediately walked out his front door and came to the bike shop to meet me within 10 minutes.
I spent the remaining 15 minutes fitting a roll bag to my bike for the first time and was picked up to leave by 8:25 am.
This unexpected element to my morning was frustrating at the time, but in retrospect, it was a much needed reality check before entering the realm of the unknown.
One of the beautiful things about bikepacking is that you go out into the world with a rough idea of what you will be doing, but no idea what will happen between the check-points. You have to be able to roll with the punches, accept the challenges, thrive with the nitty gritty and keep rolling. If you let the small deviations from the plan hold you up, you'll end up calling the whole thing off or being miserable the whole time.
True to Ridge Rider tradition, our planned 9:00 am start set us up for a 9:20 roll out. Our last minute preparations included airing up tires to 30 PSI (for all the gravel), adding air pressure to our front and rear suspension to support all the added weight of our gear, rearranging bags and generally building up the stoke required to get through a long day in the saddle.
The course that we had chosen, Black Hills Pay Dirt, began on a fire road climb out of Sturgis, both our start and end point.
The views were stunning. As soon as we got some elevation, we were surrounded by seas of vivid green, bursting from every canyon crack and cranny.
The sun had over-exposed everything in sight and at times it was difficult to see. The heat was oppressive. I could feel my skin boiling in the direct sunlight. We were maybe only 12 miles in when, for the first time on this trip, I doubted my ability to make it back full circle to the finish line.
I pushed the thought out of my mind and lathered a thick layer of sunscreen onto my arms and face whilst pulling up the rear.
My idea behind day one was that it would be the longest day in the saddle: get the majority of the climbing out of the way and enjoy the long stretch home the rest of the weekend. 50 miles of mostly gravel and two-track forest service roads totaling to just under 7,000 feet of climbing.
No big thing, right? WRONG.
My riding partner, Michelle, said it best: riding a fully weighted bike is a lot like being hammered drunk. For the first few miles, you wind up feeling clumbsy and just plain stupid. My internal dialogue kept ringing 'And how is it, exactly, that we got ourselves here?'
Somewhere along a grueling climb, I began to catalog the list of things that I, in my very humble opinion, had done wrong:
- I had only gotten 4 and a half hours of sleep before setting out on this venture. My body was quick to remind me of this fact.
- I had replaced my 32 tooth front chain-ring for a 28 tooth, anticipating the steep technical climbing on a weighted bike. What I didn't anticipate was a fast pace and almost exclusively gravel roads. I was desperate for more power behind my stroke.
- I had limited out my highest two gears, effectively turning my 11-speed into a 9-speed cassette in order to avoid any chain-stay damage that might be caused by chain slap on my fully-weighted bike. Without my high gears, I couldn't keep up with the gang. And this was only on day one.
With all of these negatives at the forefront of my mind, I started to feel physically weak. For the second time that morning, I doubted myself and seriously questioned whether or not I had what it took to finish the intended course.
But oxygenizing the brain usually provides some clarity. I took a deep breath, checked myself, and decided to make this moment a crux point. I didn't want to spend the entirety of this trip on the brink of bailing out, potentially missing all of the beautiful moments of achievement that I could be otherwise having with myself.
I decided I would ride. One small pedal stroke at a time.
In order to keep morale high and sanity present, we had planned a lunch stop in civilization. Once we had pedaled approximately 35 miles and gotten the majority of the climbing out of the way, we would reach the town of Lead and stop for lunch at Lewie's.
This would end up being my saving grace.
Beer never tasted as good as it did that day. I replenished with a full meal. I relaxed fully into the back support of my metal chair and reveled in the precious moments I spent doing nothing but stuffing face without my chamois on.
We payed our dues at the bar and hopped back onto our bikes with roughly 15 miles of riding left. The trail that would connect us to the adjacent town - the rendezvous point where the ride would end for two members of our group - was a section that I hadn't yet been on. The George S. Mickelson Trail , a 109-mile gravel bike path that winds through some of South Dakota's most scenic valleys, aspen tunnels, stream-sides and cliff faces, was like my end-of-meal dessert.
It was truly stunning. And for the first time since we took off that morning, I was starting to feel the exciting and adventurous aspect of our venture.
It was at this point in our journey that the weather began to take an ominous turn. We were expecting rain, but not until later in the evening. Quite suddenly, dark storm clouds began rolling in. Within 40 minutes they were over our heads. The cool wind was a summons to pick up the pace, and thankfully the course was predominantly downhill to the closest town.
Rain began to pour heavily just as we pedaled under the shelter of a wooden patio of the lone bar of a South Dakota ghost town. There were bras hanging from the ceiling and multiple dogs roaming between whichever bar patron would spare the most affection. I toyed with the idea of hanging my sweat-drenched, smelly sports bra from the ceiling.
Ultimately, I decided I would regret that decision.
We waited there for the storm to pass. We waited for the diesel-powered rescue chariot that would carry off two of our six riders. We waited for our clothes to dry. We waited for our energy to come back. And ultimately, amidst all this waiting, time slipped away for me.
We could have been sitting in that bar for 2 hours, 6 days, or a full year. It felt like nothing ever changed here. I felt like I was living in the year 1890. The grungy smell of damp wood and long-haired cats is likely nostalgic to some of the folks who frequent the place.
I was just glad to be out of my chamois.
It was refreshing to not have to do anything for a little while. To sit and listen. To mentally shut out nearly everything and meditate on the beer in front of me.
I had never enjoyed a Blue Moon more.
When the rescue vehicle arrived, it brought cautionary tales. A major hail storm had dumped from the grey clouds we had just barely escaped and had caused major damage not only to the rescue vehicle, but to homes and cars all over the Black Hills. 2.5 inch balls of ice had been reported falling from the sky, and a tornado had struck ground just miles away from us.
The news fell flat on me, hardly bringing any alarm. We were safe. The worst was likely over. I just wanted to set up camp and get some sleep. I couldn't be bothered by the weather. Not while there was a half-full beer in front of me.
We said our goodbyes just as the rain was slowing down. Our 4 remaining riders saddled up and pedaled roughly 5 more miles up a gravel road to where we would make camp for the night: a heavily wooded flat-land just a few miles short of the nearest campground.
I hung my hammock, brushed my teeth, draped my chamois over my bike to dry and crawled into "bed."
I expected sleep to overcome me almost instantaneously, but it didn't. It was 15 degrees colder than I had anticipated and I foolishly hadn't packed a sleeping bag. I tossed and turned, chilled to the bone.
Eventually I forged a bivy out of my hammock and bike and curled up on the ground in order to retain some body heat. I floated in and out of consciousness, always on the brink, hyper-aware of the howling Coyotes that seemed to be growing ever-closer.
A cricket began to chirp inches from my ear, something that normally would have annoyed me, instead lulled me into a calm, relaxed state just as light began to break over the horizon.
A new day had begun.
