Flatlanders Can (Eventually) Mountain
“Sandy, please promise me you aren’t going to try to ride this next year.”
Garrett delivered these stern words as we sat in a café in Avon, Colorado. It was 2012. I was sipping my coffee while he shivered over a steaming cup of soup. He had just completed his twelfth Triple Bypass bike ride.
We were in our early years of dating. This was our long stretch of life when we commuted between Denver (Garrett) and Omaha (me). I had recently taken up road biking so I could tag along on his weekend rides in Colorado. Although predominantly a flatlander, I could hold my own on the easier Colorado terrain.
Still dressed in his cycling gear, Garrett was wet from a mountain downpour that lasted through the last 20 miles of the ride that day.
His firm lecture continued.
“The Triple Bypass is 120 miles over 10,000 feet of elevation gain. That’s three mountain passes, Sandy. You would need to live in the mountains to properly train.”
It was my second year attending the event with Garrett, and I had gotten the bug to join as a rider. Waiting for Garrett to finish this grueling course, I took in the excitement of the event. The riders’ elation and the crowd’s roars were intoxicating.
Sensing my brewing enthusiasm to join the ‘fun’, Garrett gave me direct feedback on my flatlander abilities. The reality of our dual-residency era meant no hard mountain rides for me.
I continued to enjoy less strenuous biking until becoming a full-time Colorado resident in early 2020. With our move to Durango, Garrett quickly signed up for the Ironhorse Challenge, which is a cherished local event over Memorial Day weekend.
Durango is a biking town, and this 50-mile ride (with 6,000 feet of elevation gain over two mountain passes) is a local classic. It started as an idea by two men who wanted to race their bikes up the mountain against the train (the Iron Horse). Starting in Durango and ending in Silverton, Colorado, the race has become an annual tradition.
Just as I had done with the Triple Bypass, I found myself on Garrett’s support team, leaving our house at 6 am to beat the road closures for the riders. My dog, Zeke, and I would wait in Silverton to cheer our favorite rider on as he raced the train, grinding up the mountainous terrain.
Our Durango summer routine had turned into Garrett training for the Iron Horse on his road bike, while I put in running mileage training for local half-marathons. Although I also enjoyed riding both my road and mountain bikes (and paddleboarding), half-marathon training required logging lots of miles, eating up most of my treasured summer hours outside.
My frequent running companion has been my friend Katie. But in addition to logging in running miles, she was training for the Iron Horse. It was Katie who planted the seed of my joining as a rider. She encouraged me to ride my first Iron Horse, but to start with the less strenuous Quarter Horse ride (only took on half of the classic ride course).
“No, I’m out. This is Garrett’s ride.”
I didn’t want to complicate the day by stepping out of my support role, which required getting a car to the finish line.
But when Garrett expressed interest in switching to the IHC mountain biking event (which would run the day after the road race), the draw of joining the Durango road biking posse up the mountain grew stronger.
So I posed the question to Garrett. Should I join the Iron Horse fun, easing into it with the Quarter Horse? His response was different from his lecture at the cafe 14 years ago. I now had mountain status.
“You should do it, regardless of what day I decide to ride. Sign up!”
In five hot minutes, I was signed up for the Quarter Horse. This entry-level Iron Horse ride climbs 25 miles out of Durango but ends at Purgatory Ski Resort. The full Iron Horse riders see this as their first leg. As I finish at 2,500 feet of climbing, they would have a more difficult 3,500 feet left.
From the running trails to the open highways, I began logging in training rides. Katie and I covered the Quarter Horse course on Mother’s Day (and immediately declared it a new annual group ride tradition.) Aside from a chain malfunction that was fixed with help from another passing rider, I took on the miles and elevation without a problem.
After weeks of logging in ride miles, I would tell Garrett how much more I liked this new summer routine. I didn’t miss the long runs, and I still had time to get on my mountain bike and paddleboard.
As race day approached, the number of other people out on their bikes training with me increased. I couldn’t wait to feel the excitement of being part of the race day pack.
Garrett eventually decided to road-bike on the day of the race, and we both left our house together on our bikes. No car was needed, as we simply added another five miles riding to the Iron Horse's official start line. Following my husband’s lead, we bypassed waiting and just started up the climb to our respective finish lines. I later found that this move cost me the chance to see a friend at the start, with a sign cheering Garrett and me on.
No longer on the sidelines, I was elated by the many spectators lining the road to Purgatory. The first whooping that erupted took me by surprise, sure that I was being yelled at to get off the road. Habit and caution had me wanting to stop at every intersection. Instead, I enjoyed the police stopping traffic and waving us through with a siren send-off.
With a beautiful bluebird morning, I took in every climb and mountain view from the perspective of a lucky local.
The variety of people riding alongside me was amazing. They came in all shapes, sizes, and ages. I saw everything from e-bikes and tandem bikes to an old-fashioned big-wheel model climbing the mountain. From fancy cycling kits to a guy riding in jean cutoffs and sandals, I saw it all.
The train tracks were parallel to our ride route and caught me mid-ride. As it chugged beside us, blowing its train whistle, the riders and I yelled cheers of excitement, knowing of the climbers far ahead of us racing this Iron Horse to the top. At the sound of the whistle, I pedaled faster just so I could say I stayed with the train for a while.
The enthusiasm was contagious as the crowd of cyclists encouraged each other, whether passing or being passed.
“Nice bike.”
“Great outfit!”
“Good job!”
As a group of riders zoomed by, I caught on to a peloton led by what looked like two twelve-year-olds. Reminiscing back to my teenage years on my new ten-speed, I stuck with them for a while. Enjoying the wind on my face in the fresh mountain air, my only thoughts were to pedal closer to the sun.
Grinding up the mountain, it became clear that race success really comes down to the strength of your lungs and legs. Hearing the labored breathing of a woman on a bike inching next to me, I noted my legs starting to feel the strain, but my lungs were great.
My new biking companion noted this, too.
“Are you from here? I am dying. This is my first day above sea level.”
Although I politely shared my local residency and gave encouragement as we kept grinding, I glowed internally at my official non-flatlander status.
Pulling into Purgatory for my Quarter Horse turnoff, I felt a tinge of guilt watching other riders continue on to the next two mountain passes. I was proud of my ride, but in running terms, the Quarter Horse feels like a hard half-marathon while the full Iron Horse borders on mountain ultra-marathon territory.
The finish felt great, and in Durango style, there was a big hoopla at the finish in Purgatory. A flatlander no more, I greedily took in the cheers and attention as my name was called out on the speaker system at the finish.
“And here comes Sandy Lane coming in strong… a local from Durango, Colorado. Nice work, Sandy!”
Later, still on a mountain high from completing my first Iron Horse race, I shared with Garrett my desire to do the full Iron Horse next year.
Garrett’s response wasn’t the full-on encouragement I expected. Instead, it came with disclaimers.
“You know you will have to train a lot harder and put in more miles and harder climbs. That will take you away from the other summer sports you like.”
My husband knows me well. I am a leisure athlete. But I can also get serious about my sports when I want to.
That is the question: Do I want to?
Hmmm… we shall see. 2027 is a long way away.
For now, on to my next summer adventure.
