THE BIG RIDE
When Marcus Leach tackled the Bob Cook Memorial Mount Evans Hill Climb he discovered new levels of suffering
The organisers of the Bob Cook Memorial Mount Evans Hill Climb took the highest road (4308m) in the whole of America and said: “Let’s race up it!” We threw Marcus Leach’s hat into the ring...
I have always taken pleasure from suffering, seeking out bigger and harder climbs
High in the Rocky Mountains in northern Colorado, a ribbon of tarmac coils upwards in a series of twists and turns that rise ever higher until eventually the road seemingly disappears into the sky, heading for the heavens.
It’s here, on the slopes of Mount Evans, that I find myself being sucked deeper into my own personal hell, every laboured breath leaving me feeling as if my lungs are being forcibly crushed. Every metre climbed is another test of my mental strength to somehow keep pedalling.
I’ve never experienced anything like this before, but then again I’ve never ridden my bike at 4000m altitude before.
Taking on the Goliath
The Bob Cook Memorial Mount Evans Hill Climb is up there with the most masochistic of races. At ‘only’ 28 miles long you’d be forgiven for wondering why it has such a fearsome reputation, that is until you examine the finer details of a race that has been running for over 50 years and has started attracting several leading professional riders in recent editions. EF Education First’s Lachlan Morton, who’s been following an ‘alternative’ race calendar in 2019, finished fifth this year, and won it in 2015.
It begins on the outskirts of Idaho Springs at an altitude only a handful of Europe’s most iconic passes reach at their summits and it includes over 2000 metres of ascent and finishes at a height that many mountaineers seldom reach. Unlike its European counterparts, North America’s highest paved road at 4308m is not a pass but rather a dead end.
Built in the 1920s, its sole purpose was to give tourists access to the high mountains that Colorado is famed for, but it has since become a playground for cyclists, particularly those with a penchant for suffering, which goes a long way in explaining why I opted to take a day out of a family holiday to test myself against this Goliath of a mountain. I have always taken a great deal of pleasure from the suffering that can be found on the slopes of mountains, constantly seeking out bigger and harder climbs. Something told me, even before I arrived in Colorado, that there would be no shortage of suffering, and the more I read about the race the more I began to wonder if I had finally found my nemesis.
A daunting prospect
The morning is still young as I arrive at the start line. A slight chill hangs in the air as the world around me awaits the warm embrace of the morning sun. Pockets of riders joke and laugh as they reminisce about previous years on the mountain. I catch snippets of their conversations, calming my pre-race nerves with the thought
that it can’t be that bad if so many people are willing to come back year after year.
A sense of worry washes over me upon hearing a voice say, “Do you remember that time it snowed, that was pretty gnarly.” I know that it will be colder towards the summit, but I’ve not factored in the possibility of snow, not in July, and I now feel somewhat under prepared with just arm warmers and a lightweight waterproof jacket as additional clothing. There’s little time to worry though as a two-minute warning is issued. With it, the chatter dies down as riders jockey for position, each trying to be as close to the front as possible. I’m gradually pushed forward so that by the time a shrill blast of a whistle signals the start of proceedings I’m perilously close to the front, where my sprinter’s build looks out of place next to a group of wiry riders with a combined body fat of about eight per cent.
I resist the urge to follow them as they begin to pull away in the first few hundred metres, reminding myself that any excess effort now will come back to haunt me higher up the mountain. Mercifully, the opening few miles are on fairly gradual gradients, albeit still climbing, as the road makes its way through the outskirts of town and into a dense forest of pine trees, allowing time for my mind to try to imagine what it will be like riding at over 4000 metres.
The last time I had been at such a height was during an expedition to climb Mont Blanc, and I distinctly remember every step at such altitudes requiring great effort. With this in mind, and conscious of the fact I am already at 2350m, I settle for a steady start to allow my muscles and lungs a chance to warm to the task.
It’s a strange feeling knowing that you’re going to be climbing for around three and a half hours, assuming all goes to plan, and that there will be no respite from the continual effort demanded by such a climb. It’s as much about staying mentally strong as it is being physically capable of managing such an effort.
The early optimism that fills my mind is momentarily dashed as two riders on full suspension mountain bikes come past at double my speed. My head drops slightly and I begin to think it’s going to be a much longer day than I anticipated, until I realise that they are on e-bikes and not actually part of the race.
Look towards the summit
Mount Evans is a climb of two halves with the opening 14 miles little more than a prelude to the far more challenging riding that comes once you pass Echo Lake, its shimmering waters a mirror
I settle for a steady start to allow my muscles and lungs a chance to warm to the task
for the mountains that stand above it, and turn right onto the summit road. It’s here, at an already dizzying altitude of 3224 metres, that the landscape begins to change and the air temperature noticeably drops. Given that I am now into uncharted territory as far as cycling at altitude goes, I’m feeling surprisingly good as I approach Echo Lake, maintaining a steady tempo and enjoying the landscape around me. A little voice in my head reminds me that this feeling won’t last, it can’t last.
Thick forests of pine and spruce that have lined the road until this point begin to fade. In their place the knotted and gnarled trunks of Rocky Mountain bristlecone pines. With the thinning of trees comes a clearer view of the road ahead. Whereas it had snaked its way up the first 16 miles, every switchback offering me a mini-goal to focus on so as not to be overwhelmed by what lay ahead, rather dishearteningly, I can now see it stretching far up the mountain with riders little more than specks in the distance, then disappearing from view.
That joyous feeling I enjoyed a few miles before is gradually being replaced with the realisation that the remainder of the ride is going to hurt. The pain comes without warning and it is unlike anything I have experienced before. Every breath becomes a battle in itself. I’m no longer riding at a steady tempo, my cadence fluctuates wildly, my heart beating furiously in a bid to extract what little oxygen there is in the air.
Only moments before I had felt relatively comfortable, grateful for the week of acclimatisation I’d had prior to arriving in Idaho Springs. Now it feels as if I am breathing through a straw. I glance down at my Garmin and instantly regret doing so, my heart sinks as I read the only numbers that matter to me at this stage: 3803m. I’m not even close to the summit.
I feel myself growing weaker. I need to eat but I have no appetite or desire to start chewing on an energy bar. I settle for a mouthful of sports drink and then gasp for air, the missed breath almost bringing me to a standstill. If it’s not the oxygen-scarce air that threatens to leave me breathless it’s the postcard-perfect views of snow-capped mountains that take my breath away.
In a state of suffering it’s easy to forget to appreciate the surroundings and it takes the emergence of the misleadingly named Summit Lake to remind me to look around and savour the unique environment I am riding through. Vast mountains fill the horizon in every direction, offering a momentary distraction from the fact there are still five miles to the summit. By this stage, riders who have already finished are on their way back down.
The road begins to coil around the peak of the mountain, picking its way through a barren landscape where very little thrives, except an unexpected family of hardy looking mountain goats. They have obviously grown used to cyclists because they make no effort to move from the
My heart is beating furiously in a bid to extract what little oxygen there is
road, forcing me to pick my way through them to avoid an unwanted collision.
Another glance at my Garmin: 4187m. The gradient pitches up slightly, it’s only six per cent but at 4000 metres it feels more like 16. I look at the riders around me, each suffering as much as the next, faces filled with pain, eyes vacant, the only sound is that of heavy breathing.
As I pass the ‘1 Mile’ sign something strange happens. I suddenly feel strong, or at least stronger than I have for the past hour. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m into the last mile. Maybe I’m imagining it in my oxygen-deprived state, or maybe the acclimatisation work is finally paying off. Whatever it is I feel a surge of power, I push harder on the pedals and begin to pass riders in front of me in one last effort to reach the summit.
I cross the finish line in a state of utter exhaustion, slumped over my handlebars as my vision becomes blurred. The next moment I am on the floor. It’s not so much a crash as a controlled lying down. I close my eyes and everything goes quiet.
It takes a moment before I find myself back on my feet, ambling around in a state of drunken euphoria, a smile replacing the grimace that had been on my face for so long. I join the queue for the obligatory summit sign photo and as I do, I am left thinking that somewhere in the world there must be climbs that surpass Mount Evans. However, I’m happy to admit, I’m in no hurry to go looking for them.