Biking The Peak Experience. Sign Up For Newsletter. On A Roll The best of both worlds, an unforgettable Cog journey up and a breathtaking ride down.
Road Biking in the Area Discover a number of bike paths and side streets that are ideal for road biking in Colorado Springs, especially in mid-afternoon. The route through Manitou Springs was a breeze, past antique shops and brunching tourists. After a quick mile, I did some middle-school math: 4 percent of the way there, and not a glimmer of donkey work. On the section from the outer fringe of Manitou onto Route 24, the steepest grunt was up an exit ramp.
The trees were pencil-like ponderosas, bushy Engelmanns. The dynamited cliffs were the color of carrots. The air was trending toward scorching, but where we were going would be a lot cooler. I thought, I can roll this way all morning long. In the s, "Pikes Peak or Bust! I practically chanted it as I powered past the tollgate, where the Pikes Peak Highway starts—only 18 miles to go. But there the pavement kicked up shockingly to almost 16 percent. Everyone in my rapidly thinning ranks slowed to a creep, and my heart rate spiked.
Caught off guard, I hadn't shifted properly, and for a few unnerving moments my cadence slowed so dramatically I seemed to hover in space, as if in a trackstand. How steep is Pikes? People have tried to quantify it: An index on climbbybike. Perhaps the easier way to comprehend the ascent is to compare it with the only other paved road in the United States that reaches 14, feet. Mount Evans climbs 6, feet in Pikes ascends 7, feet in There's a video on the race website. I know it well, because I watched it obsessively.
In it, former Olympian and Tour de France rider Norm Alvis, in a voice-over, recounts his experience at the inaugural ride. I can think of a few climbs in the Alps that are as long, but they don't have nearly the average grade that the ride up Pikes Peak does. Another man stands on his pedals, mashing them. Others are walking. Yes, Alvis admits he didn't actually train for the ride—maybe he's a sandbagger like me. But I couldn't shake the words former and Olympian and grueling.
Somewhere around Mile 8, I saw a few riders at a scenic pullout, Camera Point, so I succumbed to a suddenly dire need to take a photograph of Manitou Springs, now 2, feet below and visible through the notch of Ute Pass.
Soon after, Buddha Belly labored by and yelled, "C'mon, Seattle! In all my training for Pikes Peak, I never met a hill I couldn't climb. And for a few months, I climbed a lot of them. Three months before the event, just after I moved from New York City to Seattle, I wiped the interstate gnats off the Mutant and signed up for the Seven Hills of Kirkland, a mile loop with ascents from about to feet.
The first three climbs left me feeling self-satisfied and naturally gifted, but halfway up the fourth, as I ground my molars and squashed my pedals, people started passing me, chatting about their summer plans. My knee ligaments stretched like water-ski ropes. By the sixth hill—a percenter on which the word enjoy was written in chalk—I had to tack back and forth.
Sandbagging requires training, but not so little that you sabotage yourself, and not so much that you can't cling to the possibility of failing. My training log began thus: 1. The ride up 45th to my mom's house killed me—I had to stop and walk.
Bad start. That hill is a paltry 1, feet long. So I started to ride more than ever, sometimes five days a week. All that cycling made me keenly aware of another liability: the Mutant. The bike was too big for me, the gearing was all wrong, and even the nonsandbagger part of my brain knew I wouldn't be able to conquer Pikes Peak on it. I splurged on a new bike, a Trek made of carbon fiber, with a compact chainring, and signed up for a professional bike fit.
The fitter, a lithe yogini, pronounced that I was "quad dominant. After riding a too-big frame for a decade, this new one felt like a clown bike.
I was skeptical until I took it back over the Seven Hills course. The difference was immediate. The crux of my self-styled training program was a plus-mile ride up to 5,foot Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park: 5. I felt steady, but got dropped by dozens of men with paper-thin skin and a few guys with hair whiter than the snow on Mount Deception. The climb brought my inner sandbagger to a sweet spot—slightly underprepared, but not embarrassingly unfit.
On the one hand, Hurricane Ridge bolstered my confidence: I'd just ridden up the biggest, longest hill of my life. On the other, the climb finished a thousand feet below where the Assault would start. Charlie has lost all impetus for conversation and has sweat flooding from his face. We just work our way up, metre by metre. After a few difficult spells we reach Glen Cove, the physical separation between the sub-alpine and the alpine zones.
The park authorities ask all descending cars to stop here to check brake temperatures, as many burn out their brake pads navigating the countless hairpins. The contrast of the snow-capped Rockies in the distance and the vast, flat Colorado plains is like an altitude-induced hallucination. The temperature has dropped, snow is lining the road, and the wind has picked up. Ahead, the jagged, ruthless edge of the mountain challenges us to continue.
The reservoir we passed an hour ago is a faint blue speck below us. Yet the mountain ahead still seems insurmountable — nearly a vertical kilometre above us. From here, the road becomes a maze of switchbacks, overlapping and decorating the exposed mountainside. The cold breeze seems to draw all the warmth from my body, and I scramble for a pair of armwarmers. The dull throb of an altitude headache is encroaching, and my hands and feet have begun to tingle. Only a few days before our trip, Robert Gesink ascended this mountain.
The summit escapes our view as we ascend the upper ridges of the mountain. As we round each corner we pray for the peak to pop into view. No such luck — each crest reveals a set of peaks ahead of it. Despite my lungs working overtime, my legs offer only a limp response, and my heart feels as though it will soon pound itself clean out of my chest.
The gradient offers no relief; nor does the wind, which saps our forward momentum. We roll up to Geoff who is standing next to the car, signaling for us to stop. He points to his chest and explains that he is experiencing some concerning pains, and given a history of heart trouble he can go no further. The rest of this account, then, you will have to take my word for, because there are no photographs of it.
We now have a view of the final climb — a mountain in itself. The middle one, and highest, I believe to be the end of the climb. The driver smiles awkwardly before speeding off. With a strong desire to escape the altitude, I decide to empty the tank and ride flat out. As another crest comes into view ahead, I pray the summit sits beyond it. Of all my experiences in cycling, the final ascent to Pikes Peak is undoubtedly the most surreal.
Hiker Notice. Regulations: All bicycles must meet the state definition of a bicycle, for additional information refer to Colorado Statute C. Use hand signals to indicate what you intend to do; left or right turns, slowing or stopping. Keep at least one hand on the handlebars at all times. Obey all roadblocks and delays; they are for your safety.
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