Divide By Two Wheels: Racing a Mountain Bike Unsupported, 2,700 Miles from Canada to Mexico On the Continental Divide

By Michael J. Devitt

Spanning 2,700 miles from Banff, Alberta, to Antelope Wells, New Mexico, the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route annually serves as the host for the Tour Divide Bikepacking race. With no awards or prize money for the winners and no entry fee, the Tour Divide is the ultimate athletic test of endurance and self-sufficiency in a battle against nature, the elements, breakdowns (both mechanical and mental), and fatigue, set against the beautiful backdrop of the Continental Divide. Divide by Two Wheels is the story of one man’s experience in racing the 2016 Tour Divide, overcoming the adversities of the route and the challenges of equipment failure while making friends and experiencing the kindness of strangers along the way. This story of an epic adventure will have you dreaming of your own Tour Divide experience, learning what you are truly capable of with new challenges around every corner and over every summit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483464015

Book preview

DIVIDE

by

TWO WHEELS

RACING A MOUNTAIN BIKE UNSUPPORTED, 2,700 MILES FROM CANADA TO MEXICO ON THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

MICHAEL J. DEVITT

Copyright © 2017 Michael J. Devitt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6402-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6401-5 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Interior Graphics/Art Credit: Michael J. Devitt

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 01/20/2017

Contents

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For my family, Angie, Isabelle and Ewan.

Without your patience and support, none of this would have been possible.

And my father, ValGene Devitt,

who inspired me in ways that I am still discovering.

Prologue

"T hat is the dumbest thing I have ever heard of. Why in the world, would anyone in their right mind ever do something like that? "

I was talking with my friend, Andy, who had just competed in the Smoke ‘n Fire 400 mile bikepacking race, in Boise, Idaho. He was telling me that short races like the Smoke ‘n Fire were just training rides for the ultimate goal of racing the Tour Divide (TD), a 2,700 mile, self-supported, bikepacking race that follows the Continental Divide from Banff, Alberta, to the Mexican border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico.

As Andy explained the race to me, my mind was filled with visions of racers pushing, dragging or lifting pack-laden bikes over the knife-edge, rocky ridges that define the Continental Divide through the Rocky Mountains. This seemed to me to be the ultimate in silliness. That is, until I was perusing Amazon a few days later and stumbled on a little documentary called, Ride the Divide.

Watching this film, I began to understand the appeal of the Tour Divide, and why racers like Andy could be so captivated by such a seemingly insane event. I watched the film, then watched it again, and again; three times in 24 hours. A couple days later, I made my wife, Angie, watch it. Every viewing built upon a longing inside of me that I never even knew I had. I had ridden mountain bikes since 1988, and even did a little racing in the 1990s, but this was something completely different, and new.

I was intrigued, captivated, and although I didn’t realize it, my life was about to be completely taken over by an obsession with bike packing.

The ten months before the 2016 TD race were consumed with researching and purchasing the many bits and bobs that are required for a successful race. I compared reviews of everything from sleeping pads to tires, bike bags to eyewear, purchasing only what had the blessing of people like Neil Beltchenko, Josh Kato, Mike Hall and a handful of other successful bikepacking racers. I even competed in the 2015 edition of the Smoke ’n Fire 400, you know, just to get my feet wet in the sport.

I conducted my own product tests, sleeping in our backyard three to four nights each month, even throughout the winter, to arrive at the best combination of function and weight, trying to keep my kit as light as possible without significant sacrifice of performance.

I rode my bike, fully loaded, over the steepest and roughest terrain in the Boise foothills, making sure my setup was solid enough for the Tour Divide. I was obsessed, but it is just that level of commitment that is required to even have the chance of completing a successful TD race.

When he was forty-six years old, my father rode his touring bike from Punta Gorda, Florida to Portland, Oregon, solo. He was between hospital administration jobs and realized that this was the perfect time to fulfill his dream of riding a bike across the United States. With only modest training, and an mid-level bicycle, he completed the 3,200 mile adventure in just over 30 days. At the time, I had no idea just how amazing this feat actually was. Solo bike touring, for all of its rewards, is difficult, tedious, and lonely.

Growing up, one of my most memorable times spent with my dad was on a bicycle when I was in the 8th grade. I was a mediocre BMX racer, but another type of cycling was starting to get my attention: bike touring. The idea of loading a bike with food, clothing, sleeping gear and heading out onto the open road connected with me at some deep-down level. A friend later described bike touring as the adult version of running away from home, and I think that describes the energy, the optimism and the uncertainty of bikepacking as well.

Early one morning in August of 1981, my dad and I set out from our home outside of Portland, bikes lightly loaded for a long day of cycling to the Oregon coast. Although I had the energy of youth on my side, I allowed my father to pull me most of the way through the string of small towns that adorned the road over the coast range and into the beach town of Lincoln City.

Throughout the day, I struggled to climb over a seemingly endless sequence of hills, trying at times just to keep my father in sight as he steadily and smoothly flowed up and down with the undulating surface. Occasionally, I would see him waiting alongside the shoulder of the road ahead of me holding out an energy bar, somehow knowing that I was digging deep into my reserves just to keep moving.

The elation I felt when we finally approached the edge of the town was like nothing I had experienced up to that point in my life. We had ridden one hundred and eight miles, more than I had ever dreamed I could ride in one day, and we had survived, more or less intact. As we pulled into the parking lot where we had arranged to meet my mom and officially end our epic day, I was spent. I tried to walk, but my wobbly legs threatened to betray me and buckled with every step. I leaned heavily on my handlebars and saddle as I moved towards the car to place my bike on the rack. My dad, on the other hand, strode steady on solid legs looking no worse for the wear after one hundred grueling miles. I could not imagine how he could be so apparently un-phased by the effort that had nearly done me in.

In 2012, my dad died following his fifth heart-attack. While he did not continue to live an active lifestyle in the latter years of his life, he was very supportive of me, my mom and my sister in ours. Every year since 1995, our family and a group of friends have run/hiked the Grand Canyon from rim to rim. His health prevented my dad from ever venturing into the Canyon itself, but every year he faithfully drove a van from one side to the other, patiently waiting for, and cheering, each of us as we exited the Canyon on the opposite side from our departure.

In the fall of 2013, my mom along with Angie and I hiked down into the Grand Canyon and deposited some of my father’s ashes within its cavernous walls (we obtained the proper permits to do this, don’t worry). We also tearfully spread some of his remains near where he used to wait for us to come out of the Canyon every year, after driving a van from the other side while we hiked/ran.

Engaging in any form of epic adventure still causes me to think of my dad and his amazing ride across our country, but his very real presence—at least his ashes—in the Grand Canyon, ensures that our annual trek always has a bit of extra significance to me and my family.

Road touring, and the inherent dangers of attempting to share the asphalt with cars and trucks, ultimately had limited appeal to me, but bikepacking stirred my imagination and afforded a platform upon which to honor my father’s memory in a way he would appreciate.

Arriving in Banff with my family in June of 2016, was a special feeling. I would be ditching them, for possibly an entire month, and so the opportunity for Angie and the kids to experience the energy and fanfare of the start was important to me. Maybe it would make them feel more a part of what I was doing, so far away from them.

Sitting on the sidewalk in Banff, waiting for ‘Crazy’ Larry, the unofficial Banff race host, to call us inside a local eatery for the racer’s meeting the night before the race start, I assessed the gathering crowd of riders. They all looked more fit than me, and as hard as I tried, it was tough to not compare myself to them, even though all I knew about any of them was what I could see. Once in the restaurant, I introduced myself to a couple of racers who kindly shared their table with us. They seemed perfectly nice and normal, and just about as insecure of their place in this race as I was.

The next morning, as I rode to the start from our hotel, Angie walked along beside me and we shared the last face to face conversation we would have for the next few weeks. In the chaos of the start area, we ran into Mike Dion, the director of Ride the Divide. I had gotten to know Mike a bit over the past year and a half, and I introduced him to my wife while we were standing in front of the Banff YWCA.

I hope you realize that all of these racers are here because of you, I told him. Thanks for ruining my life, I added, smiling, "But, in a good way."

Mike returned the smile and nodded. I suspect he had heard this before.

Soon after, ‘Crazy’ Larry began to holler his call to gather for the official group photo, after which, the race would begin. As the group gathered, I found a place beside Hal Russell, a three-time TD finisher, who at age 67, was lining up for attempt number four. I introduced myself to him, and he placed a hand on my shoulder, smiled broadly, not unlike my father, and said, This is gonna be the best experience of your life. Enjoy it.

1

T he surprise was in their absence.

The absence of the butterflies the size of B-52 aircraft that most authors, bloggers and general Tour Divide (TD) racers report as they cross the narrow entrance to the Spray River Trail that marks the beginning of, ‘The world’s toughest bike race,’ as the 2,700 mile, self-supported mountain bike race from Banff, Alberta to the U.S. border with Mexico at Antelope Wells, has been labeled.

Given that I, and likely my fellow competitors, had spent the better part of a year obsessing about every detail of this race, from bike parts to sleep systems, to training, to clothing and transportation logistics, I expected my heart to be pounding in my chest as I stopped to kiss my wife Angie good-bye, after winding through the back streets of Banff in a marshaled start, beginning the miles and trials of the Tour Divide for real.

I’ll see you in a few weeks!, I shouted over my shoulder as I blended into the mass of gears and gear plunging into the Canadian forest.

Secretly, I wondered if it would actually be that long, or even longer. Meaning, Will I make it that far? or, Can I do it in only a few weeks?

Venturing into the unknown inhabited by bears, mountain lions, breakdowns (both physical and mental), and other unknown risks and dangers, could be seen by the reasonable person as foolishly exposing oneself to more uncertainty than could possibly be accounted and prepared for.

I couldn’t agree more, in fact, one of the very reasons that I had sought such a epic ordeal was just that: To challenge myself to do something that I could easily fail at. Additionally, I sought adventure, and to enjoy every moment of the journey. These were my personal marching orders; my raison d’être to participate in the Tour Divide. Any other benefits or gains along the way would merely be gravy. A finish in Antelope Wells was a win in my book, regardless of how long it took.

That is not to imply that I did not have goals, mind you. My heart was really set on a 25-day or less finish, but if everything went perfectly, I felt a 20-day finish was theoretically possible. So, I settled on a 20-25 day estimate when Neil Beltchenko of Bikepackers website emailed each participant asking them for their estimated finish time. Little did I understand the foolishness inherent to even suggesting a time certain over such a long and complicated race.

As the peloton, forever to be remembered as members of TD 2016, pedaled deeper into the woods I was surprised at the pace—fast but relaxed, just like my running coach used to demand from his athletes at the beginning of a race. I had feared that I would get left in the dust of riders, all of whom would be more prepared and more physically fit than I was, and I would have to spend the first day listening to the sound of bear whistles growing ever fainter as the distance between me and the other racers turned to miles instead of meters. But no, the initial pace seemed one of mission, not misery: steady and quick, but accessible to most, if not all, racers.

The first few hours of the Tour Divide route are a fun mix of muddy single track, smooth, wide, dry single track, and even some nice dirt roads thrown in. All of this passed in a blur as I tried to simultaneously figure out how to operate my Garmin GPS and avoid a collision with the riders immediately to the front and the sides of me. Every rider was courteous and skilled, so what could have seemed chaotic, actually felt like the rhythmic flow of a stream over rocky terrain.

I quickly found myself securely in a small group of riders moving efficiently through the winding and slick trail traversing the Alberta forest. Normally, this would be a comfortable position and one that I would seek to maintain, but on this day, I was eager to move up and through my fellow racers. The reason for this wasn’t a desire to increase the pace, nor to gain advantage over lesser competitors, but it was one of personal taste. The small groupetto that I was attached to appeared to be friends and were chatting amicably as we moved through wood and meadow. In fact, they were providing a mutual, if not amusing, running commentary on the race and their fellow competitors; remarking on bikes, riding style and efforts of those they passed and those passing them. Interspersed with this good-natured dialogue were spot-on renditions of lines from an Arnold Schwartzenegger movie they had watched on the eve of the race.

Normally, I would have found this entertaining, but given the circumstances, I found myself more and more annoyed at what was truly witty banter between close friends.

I could not wait to ditch these goofballs and find some peace and quiet where I could focus on the task at hand.

The morning had dawned overcast, but not threatening, with mild temperatures perfectly suitable for a nice little mountain bike ride in the mountains. Even so, experienced TD veterans and savvy rookies knew that Day One of the Tour is always greeted with a little rain, a little hail, maybe even a little snow before the sun sets behind the western ridges. As such, the traditional group photo was a sea of brightly colored Gore-Tex and E-Vent clothing, punctuated by a random plastic garbage bag or two serving as an improvised barrier against the unforeseen, yet inevitable, moisture to come.

My own rain gear had only been tested in a moderate to light rain at home in Idaho, so I was secretly wishing for a significant, if brief, downpour somewhere between Banff and Sparwood, my hoped for day one destination, to test the validity of its manufacturer’s claims. I need not have wished too deeply, however, because at about the 2-hour mark of the race, the skies played host to a good old fashioned Rocky Mountain downpour. The roads, which up until this point had been tacky, but perfectly hospitable turned into a ribbon of muck topped with standing, or running, rivulets of water causing racers to bob and weave from one side of the road to the other looking for