A typical day will see each GDR racer roll out of their sleeping bag in the pre-dawn gloom, shivering and stumbling as we search bleary-eyed for wet shoes, stinky socks, and clammy chamois to get suited up for the day. Stash the sleeping bag, pack up the tent or bivy sack, lube the chain, brush teeth, wipe yesterday's sweat, dust, and spooge off your glasses, then click in to the pedals and start spinning the cranks. A few hours later, miles from anything or anyone, we'll get our first highlight of the day: sunrise. Buoyed by the rise in spirits that comes with the light show, we'll click off another dozen or so miles before breakfast. At which point we'll keep right on riding while eating anything we can get our hands on. Twinkies, licorice, Little Debbie snack cakes, a can of Coke, a bottle of Gatorade, some beef jerky or summer sausage, Pop Tarts--basically the "food" you'll find at the average convenience store. Because the route only passes through about one town every day, and because many of these towns are small and off the beaten path, when you do encounter one you don't have much in the way of food choices. If you don't want to eat the box of stale Ritz crackers that's been on the shelf for 6 years, no one's going to make you. But then you may not eat at all.
Back on the trail, we'll climb through scrub desert, sage covered lowlands, old and new cattle ranches, abandoned mining camps, and high alpine wilderness. Come lunchtime we'll have a good 50 or so miles under our belts, depending on how many times we've gotten lost, how many times we've had to stash the rain gear and get it back out, and what condition the trail has been in. Overall, the trail is primarily forest and logging roads, with stretches of gravel road, singletrack, and even pavement (to get into and out of towns along the way) thrown in. In the past few years, hardcore riders unfamiliar with the route have complained that there is (in theory) not enough singletrack and too much pavement. I'm a singletrack slut if ever there was one, but at the end of my 7th straight 100+ mile day on dirt, riding a bike loaded with everything I need to cover those miles in any conditions that might arise, I'll gladly spin a few miles into a one-horse town on some smooth, effortless tarmac. By day 15 we'll all probably be wishing for more road and less dirt. But that's another story.
By mid-afternoon we'll probably have come into a town, and we'll have quickly searched out a cafe or diner to get an oh-so-greasy meal in. Overstuffed (with huevos rancheros or a chicken fried steak) to the point of being uncomfortable, we'll then find the local grocery/hardware/mercantile to fill water containers, stock up on trail food, batteries (for headlamps), and anything else we might need like aspirin, warm gloves, bug dope, and sunscreen. After loading all of the new supplies onto the bike, you hop on and make some more miles disappear.
As the day winds down and the sun drops behind the nearest western ridge, we'll stop to add layers, turn on the lights, recheck the maps, then click in to cover more miles, with the added bonus of some solitary soul searching. Riding in the dark, on an unfamiliar trail, in unfamiliar territory, with an unknown distance to the next town and with some uncertainty as to whether the route info you have is correct, tends to make even the most hardened trail veteran think twice about the noises in the brush, the sturdiness of their steed, and the toughness of their resolve. This happens every minute of every day to every racer, but at night we have no visual distractions to divert our attention. It becomes the front-center, number-one thing on our minds, and we have no choice but to stare it straight in the face and deal with it. The bottom line is that no matter the circumstances facing us, we all just have to ride on through and see what happens.
At some time every night you reach a point where you simply can go no further. If luck and planning have been carefully blended, you'll find yourself in a cool (not cold) forest with big trees for shelter from wind, rain, hail and snow. The forest floor will be covered in four inches of pine needles to cushion your exhausted body while you sleep, and there will be a gurgling spring just a few minutes down the trail when you wake, providing you with refreshment, sustenance, and hope for the new day.
That's the eternal optimist's take on it. Realistically, you'll have trees but high winds, or calm and cold with no spring, or a spring with no flat ground, or all of the above with hordes of mosquitoes that have already finished your jerky and want a little of your salted hide for dessert. In that situation you climb into your bag, cinch the hood down tight, and hope that the bugs have short memories. Then, short hours later after having slept poorly on the rocky ground, it's time to get up and do it again.
But really, there are no typical days in the GDR. Covering as much ground per day as we hope to, the bottom line is that we need to be prepared for anything at any time, because that’s exactly what we’re going to get. At a guess, I'd say most racers will actually be pedaling for 16+ hours a day, with the balance of the time spent sleeping, filtering water, buying food, tending to broken bikes, bodies, and psyches, and deciphering map instructions that seemed clear before the trip but somehow don't make sense anymore.
Every racer has ridden thousands of miles in every imaginable climatic condition over the last several months, trying to harden our bodies and our wills in an effort to ensure a successful (read: complete) race. In the end, what we've been training ourselves for are the hard days. The easy days flow effortlessly by with tailwinds to push us along, a light overcast to keep us cool, constant climbing grades to allow us to find a rhythm, hard trail that allows us to roll quickly, and ample water to keep us from dehydrating. When it all comes together it seems like cheating. You'll roll along at 8 or 9 mph through a stunning aspen glade with shafts of light filtering through and illuminating an alpine wonderland. You can almost hear Julie Andrews belting out "The hills are alive..." as you spin along. Anyone can handle the easy days.
The hard days can be easy until minutes before they end, or they can start bad and get worse. Blustery, gusting headwinds push you off the trail, impede forward progress, and frustrate you to no end because there isn't one thing you can do about the wind. Thunderstorms parked atop ridgelines or squatting in mountain passes are just as bad--they slow or stop your progress and your only option is to sit down in the dirt and watch and wait. All it takes is one little thing to put you in a bad mood. But if a couple things happen back to back--like bad route instructions sending you down a washboard dirt road, followed by a flat tire in a downpour after a bad nights' sleep--you can get demoralized pretty fast and it's all you can do to pick yourself up and keep moving. Physically you might be fine, but once your mind says it’s had enough it’s all over. I try to keep the bad days in perspective by telling myself that the worst day of the GDR beats the hell out of ANY day at work.
Some of us, despite the months of planning, gear testing, training, suffering and sacrifice, won't make it. We'd like to think that the bad things are going to happen to someone else, and that we'll narrowly avoid those mishaps and squeak on through. Nope. In a race of this distance, bad luck is going to happen to everyone. Flat tires, broken chains, broken spokes, bent rims, tendonitis, sunburn, heat stroke, hypothermia, bruised asses, animal encounters, drunk rednecks, depression, and plain old fatigue are just plain old guaranteed.
The enjoyment of the race comes in the solitary sunrises and sunsets, the alpine vistas, seeing new country, meeting new people, racing a herd of pronghorn across the foothills, cresting another steep climb without resorting to walking, and then getting your speed thrills on the way down the other side. There's also a tremendous sense of accomplishment each night as you wiggle into your sleeping bag and pore over the map, amazing yourself with the distance you've come and the obstacles you've negotiated that day. Even more than all that is that we get to relive the childhood thrill of exploring what's around the next corner, truly unaware of what might be there but somehow prepared for it at the same time. As in life, there's a lot of good and a lot of bad in every day on the Divide. You just have to roll with it and see where it takes you.
