The Ride Continues

Jubilee Pass. The name itself becomes a paradoxical obscenity once you've scaled it. At 1,293 feet above sea level, it's not so much the 4 to 5 percent gradient that's problematic. It's the persistent length of the climb, and the absolute lack of any means of rest short of stopping. Strategically placed milk crates filled with gallon jugs of now hot water were the only recourse for those riders who needed to hydrate. The temperature hovered at 104 degrees, and the only shade to be found was cast by an occasional, inadequate mesquite bush. For six miles, at speeds rarely greater than 7 miles per hour, we grappled with the black swath that ridged the mountain. The field had thinned markedly by now; only an occasional, resolute climber dotted the macadam every mile or so, but three such riders, native Californians and veteran ultramarathoners Clay Sharp, Doug Patterson, and Scott Peery were welcome company for Pat and myself. Climbing principally with Scott and Clay, Pat and I ultimately throttled our way past the teasing, blind curves of Jubilee Pass and sat on its shoulders, only to sweep down a short, high-speed rake on the other side, and gear down hard at the foot of Jubilee's larger, and even less tolerant sibling, Salsberry Pass.

Salsberry, although not unlike it's smaller kin in gradient, was 10 miles of consistent torment. There were countless blind curves that promised an end to the torment, but only delivered more of the same. There was even less shade than while climbing Jubilee, and ambient temperatures reached 110 degrees with impunity. Seven miles per hour. Often six. Sometimes, while standing on the cranks to put our body weight into the numbing effort, the best of us might crack 9 miles an hour momentarily. Then we'd be forced to sit again and stare at our front wheels, or at our churning cranksets. We'd look anywhere but up... ahead, toward the pitiless horizon that retreated, scoffing, even as we advanced.

Finally, from around a sheer, vertical outcropping of towering rock, the summit appeared. Standing, and pulling hard on our bars, we rolled to its crest and clipped out. At 3,315 feet of altitude, Pat, Scott, and myself, having reached the summit in a triad, looked back from whence we'd came, scarcely able to fathom how far we'd climbed. Our legs, swollen with lactate, had over 115 miles on them and would now be rewarded with a four-mile high-speed descent into Shoshone, the turnaround point. Sweet, you say. But once in the saddle again, after refuelling at Shoshone, we'd have to climb back to the summit of Salsberry at the outset of our 75-mile journey back to Furnace Creek. Riding in darkness again was a certainty... it was merely a question of how long.

Tom Blumenfeld pauses at
Salsberry's summit before
beginning the 4-mile descent
into Shoshone

We lingered at the lunch stop for roughly a half hour, long enough to refuel and rid ourselves of some accumulated salt and grime with some cool water from a nearby sprinkler. Before we knew it, we were saddled up again, spinning low gears out of the Shoshone township toward the looming climb back to Salsberry Pass. It was during that climb that I began to experience some abductor cramps, and all of us had been battling bouts of nausea since Jubilee. The extreme heat, as well as the struggle to thwart dehydration and heat illness, was wearing on all of us to varying extents, and my cramps proved to be the bane of my existence. I was thrilled, then, to crest the back side of Salsberry; the ensuing 10-mile descent was like a drug. Four of us, alternating between a diamond-shaped and square formation, top tubes pinched between our knees, chins to stem, streaked down the mountain as if straight out of the mouth of hell. Once off Salsberry, we contended with a short, but steep ascent to the summit of Jubilee, and descended for six more miles, dismounting again at Ashford Mill. Daylight was fading, mimicking the inexorable erosion of our bodies' resources. More hot water. More tepid Gu. Then, we clipped in again, and a benevolent tailwind nudged us toward Badwater.

Darkness had fallen now, robbing us again of sensory input, other than from our deadened legs. Even veteran Clay, who was in contention for a Triple Crown with this ride, was not immune to the effects of dehydration and nausea. Pat, also, was beset with a roiling stomach, but managed to avoid the scourge of leg cramps. Enclosed in our tiny core of white light, we banked into Badwater in total darkness, lingering at the small "community" of tired support personnel for only a few moments. At last, though... some cold fluid, and some salty soup for a sodium-depleted body. Then we left Badwater behind. It vanished instantly, as if sucked into a wormhole. We'd begun the 17-mile final approach to Furnace Creek.

We were operating on fumes by now... I was running largely on experience, stubbornness, and no small amount of pride. As weary as we were, some of the speeds on the flats still felt worthy of envy as we flew along the black desert floor, the four of us, a softly hissing chrysalis of light in a universe of blackness. Only the fan of spokes, the reel of grimy transmissions, could be heard. And there was little communication... at least, not the verbal sort. But there was no shortage of the silent, universally understood banter in which skilled cyclists are fluent... the mute, but certain regard that they exchange when they know they're bringing one another safe, and home.

A 200-mile engagement in the desert. A little over 14 hours in the saddle. One more short climb. Pat and Clay were off the front first, tailbeacons flashing... then Scott and myself. We banked left, then right, into the last turns before gravity drew us into the final, straight approach to the tiny "carrier" Furnace Creek. One by one, we sat up into the wind, our "flaps" down, each of us trailing the intangible exhaust of combat fatigue, our machines motley with the grit of road war.

Halogen lanterns. Clipboards. Disengaging cleats. Sparse kudos from unknown crew... unseen smiles... in the darkness.

"Your number, please? And your name?...

Welcome home."