My path to the Great Divide

Fourteen years ago, I tried something that changed my life

Rolling toward the Mexican border on July 6, 2009

I don’t remember where I first learned about the Great Divide Race and its outlandish concept — to ride a bicycle as fast as one was physically and mentally capable for 2,500 miles along the spine of the Rocky Mountains. In September 2005, I moved from Idaho to Alaska and life changed so rapidly that I couldn’t process the details. But perhaps the most impactful change was finding my way into an online community of Alaska cyclists and the nutty things they all seemed to do. 350 miles across frozen lakes and tundra in the subzero grip of winter. Why not? Within a matter of weeks, I morphed from a casual bicycle touring enthusiast to an ultra-cycling fanatic.

I was so excited to be given a lucky number — 111 — at the 24 Hours of Kincaid.

Although I don’t know when it entered the radar, the Divide took over my imagination during the summer of 2006. By then, I had a couple of solid endurance races behind me — 100 miles of snow biking in the Susitna 100, and a first-place solo woman standing after 169 miles of rugged, rooty singletrack during the 24 Hours of Kincaid in Anchorage, Alaska. The person staged next to me during the 24-hour race was none other than local bike hero and dreamboat Pete Basinger, who had no crew and won the overall title with a lot more laps than I rode. I admit to taking my schoolgirl crush (I was in a happy relationship at the time, don’t laugh) to the Google machine and learning more about the background of the Great Divide Race, of which I had only spotty knowledge as the 2006 race was happening that month.

Amid the various race reports and magazine articles I devoured was the simple “Day in the Life” page on the race’s official Web site:

“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.”

Walking my bike at the 24 Hours of Kincaid, because I still very much had no idea what I was doing.

On July 6, 2006 — almost presciently, three years to the day before I rolled into Antelope Wells, I wrote a blog post titled, “I think I’m going crazy,” a dialogue with the devil on my shoulder as it chided me for being clueless and unrealistic:

And then I begin to wonder what I could do in three more years,
And then you'll be 30.

Given the time to train, research, purchase, prepare,
Why don't you get a haircut and get a real job?

Given more endurance events that will allow me to understand my limits,
And who didn’t sign up for the Fireweed 200 because they thought it would be too far to drive?

And with every chainring stab and bloody knee, whittle away at my fragility.
Doesn't matter; you’re still a ‘fraidy cat.

Then maybe,
Not a chance.

Just maybe,
Remember, you're the kid who never climbed the rope in gym.

I could ride the Great Divide.
Geez, you do one 24-hour race, and suddenly you think you're Trish Stevenson.

It's such a long shot.
But these dreams have a way of setting themselves in motion.

The start of the 2008 Great Divide Race. Photo by Geoff Roes

It only took two years for my boyfriend at the time, Geoff, to latch on to this dream and run with it. That was the way he approached everything in life — if he wanted something, he went for it. He didn’t worry about training or nutrition or mulling over every possible catastrophic scenario the way his neurotic girlfriend did. He was a talented athlete — as I would realize when he burst onto the national ultrarunning scene, he was an elite athlete — who effortlessly succeeded at every active endeavor he tried. He also was a part-time chef with a lot of side gigs and almost complete freedom in his schedule, while I was a full-time newspaper editor who often worked upwards of 60 hours a week. My resentment burned when he left for two months to pursue my dream while I stayed at home with an awful 21-year-old male roommate and four cats. (We were in Juneau, Alaska, at the time and trying to save money with an affordable but untenable living situation.)

That devil on my shoulder hates me and doesn’t want me to be happy.

Geoff did not finish the race. He claimed he was there to have fun and didn’t care about the outcome while keeping a neck-and-neck position with a dedicated veteran who boldly claimed he was there to break the record, John Nobile.

Geoff wrote: “I ended up averaging 150 miles per day through Steamboat Springs. This was much faster than I had anticipated riding. I'm not exactly sure how I ended up riding at this pace. It just kind of happened and then it seemed like there was nothing I could do to make it stop … until finally my body just couldn’t go anymore. And once my body shut down my mind shut down.”

Out for a ride in Juneau in July 2008.

And that was that. If Geoff couldn’t finish the Great Divide Race, I certainly couldn’t finish the Great Divide Race. There was no disputing the devil on my shoulder about that one. We went about our winter plans as the dream simmered. As spring approached, I had become deeply dissatisfied with my job, just as Geoff was becoming more unhappy about long-term residency in one of the most isolated and rain-soaked cities in the United States. I wanted to quit, and he wanted to move, so I thought with my 29-year-old innocence — “No reason to just jump into a new life right away. Why not take some time off and squeeze in a big adventure?”

Geoff was already more interested in pursuing an ultrarunning career than ever riding the Divide again, so we cooked up a plan to rent a friend’s tiny cabin in Teasdale, Utah, and spend the summer training for races — his target was the Western States 100. Mine naturally turned to the Divide. We set a departure date of April 22. I tried to quit my job but was offered a three-month “furlough” and a raise upon return that I found difficult to refuse. Geoff was still adamant he did not want to live in Juneau, but I thought we’d cross that bridge when we got there. Then I got frostbite during an endurance race on the Iditarod Trail in February. I nearly lost several toes on my right foot. Recovery was long and painful. Proper training took a backseat to healing. And then, just two days before our departure date — with our stuff already in storage and my car packed up — Geoff broke up with me.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

Near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, during the 2009 Tour Divide

Without rehashing the whole mess that I already overshared in my book, I still convinced Geoff to get on that ferry with me, and I never convinced him to get back together with me. We finally went our separate ways in May and I moved back in with my parents. I was an emotional shell, hollowed out until the only pebble of passion left rattling around inside of me was the Divide — and I did not like this realization. I was 29 years old for crying out loud. I had to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. Why was I still dawdling along on this bicycle?

Meanwhile, the Great Divide Race seemed to be falling apart as well. A year earlier, the race split over differences of opinion between the men responsible for the development of the Great Divide Race and a newer faction who wanted to make changes. Yes, they were all men. I was only following the debate on the periphery so I can’t speak to any of their reasons. But the core seemed to be three things: The northern terminus of the route, the use of cell phones, and satellite tracking.

The newer faction — mainly four-time racer Matthew Lee — wanted to move the start of the race 220 miles farther north to Banff. Adventure Cycling had extended its maps for the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route to this lovely town in the Canadian Rockies several years earlier. Matthew reasoned it was a beautiful piece of the route and a more traveler-friendly place to start. Also, he argued, this was now the official route. The race originator and another who had taken up responsibility for organizing the GDR — Mike Curiak and Pete Basinger, respectively — wanted to keep the route as it was and maintain continuity with John Stamstad’s original 1999 record. Also, they argued, isn’t the race already long enough?

As for cell phones, GDR banned those, reasoning that they could be used to an unfair advantage to procure information and support at any time on the course.

There also seemed to be resistance to satellite tracking, which Matthew Lee wanted to introduce. He reasoned it would help ensure fairness and route adherence by recording racers’ positions. Also, a tracking page would allow fans to follow along at home.

The others told Matthew that if he wanted all of these things, he should just start his own race. So he did. The inaugural Tour Divide launched from Banff one week before the 2008 Great Divide Race.

In July 2008, I wrote: “Like many, I too was originally disappointed when I first learned about the creation of the Tour Divide. I feared a squabbling end to the Great Divide Race and bitter feelings remaining for most involved. But, as it turned out, both races worked out beautifully. Both attracted strong fields and both developed their voices, their own compelling stories, and inspiring efforts as the races progressed. On one hand, it’s strange to divide what is a small, small community. On the other hand, this year proved that there’s not only room for two events in Great Divide racing, there may even be a need. Tour Divide has its passion and sense of community. Great Divide Race has its history and competitive spirit. Together, they coaxed more people to race this crazy route than ever before. I like to think of it as similar to the American League and the National League in baseball — separate but equal.”

However, I declared, my history and my heart was with the Great Divide Race.

I continued: “What I do know is this route has rendered its way into my dreams, stretching over my day-to-day thoughts like the distant horizon of the Great Divide Basin. I should see it because it's my country. I should see it because it's beautiful. I should see it because it's frightening. I should see it because it's humbling. I should see it because it's already a part of me. I should see it because otherwise, it will haunt me. I should see it. Someday.”

My Surly Karate Monkey set up for the 2009 Tour Divide — steel frame, 3x9 gearing, NanoRapter tires, early test models of Revelate Designs bags that had already seen better days, aero bars, a map holder for the ACA maps, and platform pedals to help take the impact off my frostbite feet.

By May 2009, enthusiasm for the Great Divide Race had sputtered to a whisper. The defacto race director, Pete Basinger, had become sick of the drama and planned on vying for the record away from both races in an individual time trial. With its more widespread internet presence, the Tour Divide attracted almost all of the potential competitors. Even my friend Chris Plesko — who also attempted an ITT a year earlier to avoid the drama — announced he was heading to Tour Divide. It was becoming clear that if I showed up at the start of the Great Divide Race, I was likely to be all by myself for three weeks without even a cell phone to call home and cry to my mom. And I admit, my volatile state as an emotionally fragile, lonely hot mess pushed me to switch leagues.

Riding in northern Colorado during the 2009 Tour Divide

I felt guilty about this defection, even though Great Divide Race was the race of my ex, and even though my bike hero (dreamboat Pete Basinger) wasn’t even going to bother with it — could I just walk away from the vessel that so gently held my delicate dream for three years? And did I want to add 220 miles to this already impossible endeavor that I probably shouldn’t even waste a bunch of time doing because I need to move on with my life?

It was with a lot of messy feelings that I boxed up my bike, hopped on a plane to Denver, got into a van with Chris Plesko and his wife, Marni, and headed North to the Future. Let the universe teach me what it will teach me. One of the first lessons was a hard one. I already didn’t have maps or a GPS track for the Canadian section because I’d made my decision to switch races so late. But at the last minute — after having fought so hard to establish a new route and records the previous year — Matt Lee announced he was switching up the course again, tacking on another 50 miles through the remote and grizzly-bear-infested Flathead River valley, and oh, there’s no map, here’s a rudimentary cue sheet to follow.

I was — I admit — so extremely irritated by this development. Why are we all placing all of our faith in these people on the internet forums that only seem to squabble all of the time?

But the Divide had lodged itself in my psyche for three years for a reason, I thought. Perhaps I should go find out what that was.

For the next article in this series, I plan to talk about the book that tells the story of my 2009 Tour Divide adventure. A fourth article will reflect on the progression of the race since then. Thank you for reading!