I just couldn’t understand why I was so exhausted after only 47 miles of riding. Yes, I’d just climbed from my house in Vegas, up past Red Rock Overlook, out to the 160, up and over Mt. Potosi, and almost all the way into Lovell Canyon Road, but my mind was on 100 miles. I’d never survive the rest of the miles if I was this wiped out at mile 47. Maybe I just needed a rest. I stopped in the shade of a juniper tree and downed my last electrolyte fluid and my last water. No big deal; there would be a little camper resort one more mile in at the end of Lovell Canyon Road, and I’d be able to buy whatever I needed. This idea was in my mind because I had a vague memory of coming back here some 20 years ago. Surely it would be even nicer now.
When I had come down the west side of Mt. Potosi, I still had not had a clear plan of what my ride would be. It was already late May, and I hadn’t completed a century ride, yet this year. By May the year before, I had already done four centuries. The spring weather just wouldn’t cooperate this year. I had tried for some long rides repeatedly, only to be defeated by wind, snow, cold, heat and more wind. It’s not that I need things to be perfect to ride, but a little cooperation from the weather would be nice. The weather forecast for this day was as good as I could expect: very little wind and a high of 85 degrees. This could be my last chance until fall to get a century near Vegas. I just can’t ride in 100+ degree heat.
I had set out at 6:30 a.m. to see what I could do. Would I head for Pahrump, that little farm town over the mountains to the east of Vegas, or would something else present itself? I had ridden to Pahrump the previous year and tried to find a northern route back to Vegas when I had to call it quits after 108 miles, too much head wind, and far too many miles to go. Now, dropping down the back side of Mt. Potosi and approaching the Lovell Canyon turn-off, I had made my choice. I would go explore Lovell Canyon.
On the way in, I had known I was climbing a bit. I had wanted it to be a climb, rather than a descent, because I’d rather pay in advance than amass a debt I’d regret having to pay back. A descent would have meant I would be climbing back out. So, I was happy the road kept going up. That all changed when I got half way in and discovered a very steep drop. I had stood at the top, looking down toward the bottom, deciding whether or not I wanted to commit to climbing back up this horribly steep road. I heard gun shots coming from below, and I hoped people were firing at targets on the side of the mountain instead of toward the road. If I had gotten hit, I wouldn’t have heard it coming. Cars and trucks, some with ATVs in tow, passed me every few minutes. One guy in a truck asked if I was okay. “Yes, thanks.” I gave him the thumbs up and decided to fly down this rough, bumpy road and hope it would not go down any more than what I could see already. At the bottom, it did continue upward.
After finishing my rest stop just one mile from the end of the road, I pushed on, feeling a little better, looking forward to replenishing my supplies. I passed a woman jogging in the opposite direction. That was a good sign. But the next sign wasn’t so good: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. Really? This was the end of the pavement. I stared at the sign in disbelief. I could see a few dozen yards in: a wooden ranch-style entryway with a chain across it. No sign of civilization. Where had the jogger come from? A car pulled into the dirt behind me. An old guy got out, and I heard someone in the car tell him, “Make sure you don’t go past the no-trespassing sign.” I thought of asking them for water, but decided against it.
I turned around and headed back. That’s when I discovered why I had been so tired. I peddled a few times, switched to my highest gear, and wove my way among the potholes without needing to peddle much at all. Wow. That had been more than just a gradual incline. Next, I turned my thoughts to getting back up that steep gradient I’d descended on my way in. I approached it going faster than 25 mph.
When I hit the climb and lowered my gear, I slowed to 8 mph almost immediately. Using my Polar computer ride date, I later figured this one-mile incline was approximately a 7 to 8% average gradient, but there were certainly sections steeper than that. I didn’t want to blow myself up, so I stopped to rest when my heart rate got too high. I rested again at the top, standing where I had stood when I made the choice to deal with this climb. I turned and looked to the south-east, toward Potosi. I heard there was a bar and grill up there, but had never seen it. This became my next goal. Out of water and not wanting to eat any sweet carbohydrate syrup without water, I decided I would just make a run for the grill, 5 or 6 miles downhill and 3 miles back up Potosi. That would do it, and I would be able to re-charge and rest before heading back home.
Lovell Canyon Road is very scenic, a mix of high desert plants and juniper trees amidst rolling hills and surrounding mountains makes this a very rewarding ride, especially on a relatively cool day. The road itself is very rough and has many bumps and potholes. The ascent is around 1,500 feet total, with a 300 foot drop in the middle. I was very glad to have mounted a set of new tires to my Trek the night before. My old tires would not have survived.
Going back up Potosi, all I could think of was getting to the grill at the top. I could feel the heat for the first time and had to remind myself to have patience. That’s the key to long rides, especially long solo rides. Just keep a reasonable pace, and don’t push too hard. That three miles back up Potosi seemed very long as I grew more and more tired. Finally, I reached the turn-off to the saloon and grill. I didn’t know what to expect, but the way I felt, I was ready to deal with anything, even cigarette smoke. I knew there were likely to be lots of bikers there, but not the kind of bikers I call kin.
Dozens of Hogs and choppers crowded the parking lot as my pansy-ass looking lycra-clad self wheeled into the group of beer-bellied black leather-wearing rebel wannabees. They refused to look at me, and I tried to pretend they weren’t there. I was very pleased to find that the grill was separate from the saloon as I carried my bike up the hill to the outdoor order window. I was also surprised to find just the right fuel to order: a chicken lettuce wrap. I couldn’t imagine one of those bikers ordering a lettuce wrap, so I guessed that more bikers of the lycra type frequent this grill. I even got a choice between a tomato basil shell and one made of spinach. I chose the tomato and sat down under a tree in a very comfortable indoor chair that did not seem out of place outside in the dirt. With my half-century cyclist aroma, I certainly didn’t belong inside, anyway. I think that even the leather bikers would have been offended.
That chicken was exactly what I needed, and after finishing most of it along with some Doritos, I set out to receive my reward for having climbed Mt. Potosi earlier: a fast 45 mph descent. My next goal was the gas station at the bottom where I would stock up on fluids for the final 25 mile push home.
Thus far this year, I had been the unhappy recipient of far-too-many flat tires. I had been the victim of every variation of tube destruction: glass slices, rock rips, thorn punctures, wire needle holes, ripped sidewalls leading to tube ruptures, and my most common favorite, the pinch flat. Pinch flats, I have discovered, possess a unique set of interesting physics. A pinch flat usually happens when a tire hits a rock the right (or wrong) way and the tube gets pinched between the rock and the rim, causing two vampire-style holes. Rocks that are not a threat at bike speeds of 15 mph become vicious destroyers at speeds three times faster. The higher the bike speed, the smaller the rock needs to be to cause a problem. In addition, rocks that cause pinch flats are almost always invisible. I give lots of attention to navigating around rocks in my path. I avoid every one except the invisible ones. And when I hit the invisible ones, I can tell how large they are. So, to avoid the upsetting, time-killing (and costly) set-backs of flat tires, I decided to abandon my nicked, cracked and worn tires for a set of super mondo puncture resistant, pinch flat defiant, expensive Bongrager tires. They not only have double protection, they have TRIPLE protection! How could I go wrong? They come with a 100% guarantee that there is no guarantee of their performance. Even so, I was confident that I was done with flats for the season.
As I rocketed down Potosi, with a tasty Gatoraide in my thoughts, I felt the invisible little rock thump under my rear tire. No problem. I had the awesome new tires to protect me. That hisssss sound must have been the air whistling past my ear. No, the ride wasn’t getting rougher. It must have been my imagination—until reality returned. There’s nothing more fun than standing in the dirt along the 160 with noisy, hot traffic swishing past and changing a flat tube. My flat-free streak lasted 6 hours.
The final bit of real effort I needed to finish my little 100 mile jaunt came as I rode from 160 back toward the Red Rock Overlook. No matter what direction the wind is blowing anywhere else in town, it is always a headwind in whatever direction you travel on the 159 in Red Rock. It wasn’t much, but it was there enough to remind me that this day of little wind was a gift from the weather gods and could be taken back at any time. Tired and just patiently pushing along, I forced myself to remember how much I love Red Rock. Those mountains are amazing. I snapped a picture of my scruffy face with the glorious mountains behind, just to commemorate my suffering amidst such beauty. I knew there was some irony in this, but I was too tired to sort it out. I reached the overlook and dizzily sat on one of the aluminum benches in the shade. Nothing but downhill after this.
A guy on a red Trek built without a seat tube rolls up and sits next to me. “I’ve got to get used to these hills,” he says to me. “I’m from New Jersey. The steepest hills we have there are bridges.” Hills. Yes, had had my fill of hills, except for the last downhill to home. I realized I still had to solve my problem of reaching 100 miles. My farthest turn-around point was at 48 miles. That would leave me 4 miles short of a century unless I took a turn-off to get more miles. I reached the place where fast (not me) cyclists ride in a crit on Tuesday nights in the summer. I decided to go around this 1.6 mile loop three times to get what I needed. I passed the cart lady who seems to live outside in this area with her smelly blankets and lawn chair. She had been there the first time I did a century, which was 67 laps around this loop. She hadn’t noticed me then, and certainly didn’t care now.
I coasted the last two miles home, quite tired of feeling my butt contact those mere inches of bike seat for more than eight hours. I wondered, as I always do, why I had done this to myself. 100.3 miles with 7,000 feet of climbing. Why does anyone do this? It’s absolutely stupid. The suffering? The beauty? I could have been sitting on the couch all day, watching movies. I decided that I would lie down when I got home and never do this again . . . until the next time.
Comments are closed.