The rain was coming down hard. I was fumbling my batteries with cold and unresponsive fingers trying to replace the dead ones in my lights. Mitch was putting on a warm layer. We were separated by the darkness, the horrid weather and our own personal suffering. Hours, or what seemed like lifetimes ago, we had pledged to make Eureka, MT and the motels there for our second night in this race. At 10 o'clock in the early summer twilight it had seemed a reasonable goal. But now, 4 hours later, with an 8 mile descent in cold, dark rain, to an international border crossing and still more miles to town, it seemed like madness.
The day had started somewhat miserably north of Fernie, BC. I woke to rain at 4am and fell back to sleep for an hour or so hoping it would stop. The night before had been glorious after a 100-mile day to start the Tour Divide. I was high on adrenaline yesterday under blue skies and high, vaulting snow-capped peaks. I was riding in the Tour Divide in Canada! It felt unreal. But now this dreary rain to start day two. It was a tough wake-up call. The Bull River road turned to peanut-butter mud and was almost impossible to ride. Other racers were dunking their bikes into the creek alongside the road in hopes it would wash the mud off their drive trains. I tried and only managed to sink into the marshy grass next to the creek, thoroughly soaking both feet. The mud persisted and kept forcing the chain off the front ring. Progress was painfully, and messily, slow. By the time I reached Fernie I was a mud-soaked mess (see picture above). I used a hose outside a 7-Eleven to spray my bike and myself down.
I first ran into Mitch somewhere near Cabin Pass. I think it was there we pledged together to ride to Eureka and escape Canada and the gloomy weather. Why camp in the rain when we could ride through it and bang out the entire 260 miles of the Canadian portion of the route in two days? We flew down off Cabin Pass without another word toward the Wigwam river. At the campground area we ran into a guy from London setting up camp whom I had met in the airport in Calgary and I remember starting to have second thoughts about this mad idea. But I followed Mitch onward. Turned out he was already a Tour Divide finisher and a two-time RAAM (Race Across America) finisher. I was in heady company and didn't know what I was getting into. Darkness found us on Wigwam and we stopped in the dark to filter some water. We had to bushwack to a small tributary. We came to the infamous and simply put 'Wall', a short but wickedly steep and slippery climb up out of the river valley. My feet got soaked again trying to cross a swollen creek. At the top of the 'Wall' I was ready to call it quits. It was probably midnight. Mitch convinced me to carry on and if he was going I was not going to be left behind. The rain started in earnest a few miles before the top of Galton Pass.
After getting my batteries put in we descended off the top and I was surprised to get way out ahead of Mitch. I slowed to let his light catch up. It was like a beacon for me now, without it I was adrift in this dark wilderness. My arms were shaking violently from the cold and I had to continually wipe my clear lenses free of water. We hit pavement at Hwy 93 two miles north of the border. I had done it. I had ridden the 260 mile Canadian section of the Tour Divide in two days. It was small consolation at the moment.
We pedaled onto the paved highway and Mitch, being the roadie he was, quickly left me in his wake and my spirits plummeted. Wait! I thought. He was kind enough to know by now that I needed him badly to stay moving.
The lights of the border station at Roosville were visible from far off through the rain. We slowly wheeled in to a surreal experience. The guards knew we were coming from watching the tracker and they came out to meet us. The shelter from the rain under the huge awnings was nice as the guards asked us for our passports. Neither Mitch nor I could manage the ziplocs with our numb fingers very well but eventually we were through and back to our lonely vigil. It was now approaching 4am. I had been on my bike for 23 hours and was beginning to fall asleep on it. I had read about this happening but never thought it would happen to me. I needed Mitch and his constant chatter to keep me focused. Throughout that endless night he pratted on and on about the White Rim road in Utah, his job at the Naval labs in D.C., his RAAM rides (and sleeping in Post Office lobbies), and so forth. I don't think I would have made it without his background noise.
We finally made it to Eureka. There was a small hotel called the Silverado that Mitch was gunning for. He took off at the next bend, told me to take a left, that I couldn't miss it and that he was going to check in. I swerved in a few minutes later and stumbled inside. The motel clerk's name was Nick and I remember being way too excited about that coincidence. He probably thought I was drunk checking in for a night at 5am. I grabbed two muffins from the breakfast spread (already laid out) on my way up the stairs carrying my bike. It was all I could do to get it up there. The muffins beckoned.
I took a shower in my room, unpacked and dried all my gear and finally feel asleep around 6 in the morning. I had ridden 160 miles, my longest ever single day ride on a bicycle through some of southern Canada's remote Flathead wilderness area. As a testament to the difficulty of that challenge, I don't have a single picture from the mud-splattered bike north of Fernie until well after Eureka.
The Tour Divide was something I had wanted to do for 10 years. Ever since reading 'The World's Toughest Bike Race is Not in France' by Jon Billman in Outside Magazine in August of '08 about the early run of this race, I was enthralled. I couldn't believe guys were doing this. I had to be one of them. Something about the combination of the freedom of the open road, carrying everything you needed and the challenge of supporting yourself through a wilderness journey with the option to refuel seemed like not only a dream trip, but a way of life.
So many things need to line up to make a successful run on something like the Tour Divide. I think I had most of them except, surprisingly, my state of mind. I think I thought I could squeeze it in. Get it done. Bang it out and get back home. I didn't fully commit. I know that now. I was at a weird point in my life. I had lost my job and with it my group of remote friends and my niche in the world. Maybe I thought the Tour would help, but I went into it sad and full of self-pity and probably depressed.
I went on a training ride my first day in Banff. I had set aside a full day to get ready prior to race day. After unpacking my bike box, rebuilding the bike and suiting up I went for a beautiful ride around town. During the ride Wendy called and told me this horrible story of a car accident she had witnessed of a car with a trailer rolling off the highway. She was one of the first people on the scene and even helped an elderly gentlemen hold a blood soaked t-shirt to a face wound. She still had blood on her hands. The story rattled me and set a shroud over the day. When I returned to the hotel I had a nasty rash all down my left hip. I thought it was due to my new wool bibs. I washed them in the hotel bathtub that night. I felt unlucky and scared for Wendy and what she had seen that night.
I had chosen to the stay at the Bumpers Inn, an establishment well past its prime and on the outskirts of town, but typical for me being the cheapskate I am. Because of that choice there were no other racers around. I think they all stayed in town. I felt somewhat lonely, but told myself it was by design. I didn't want to mingle and get caught up in the group mentality. I wanted to be an outlier, a true lone wolf. I probably could have used some company though.
I was a mess of nerves in the morning. I had packed carefully though and was confident in my gear and prep. I felt nervous and slightly out of place in the crowds the next morning. I just wanted to get underway. Didn't want to hang around and shoot the breeze. But Crazy Larry put on a long monologue and organized everybody for pictures and talked to his camera and on and on.
Eventually it was time to roll and people seemed to go every which way. I followed Spray Avenue to the lower parking area and pulled off to let the fast bunch go through. Then I fell in and started on my 2,750 mile journey! I remember some guy in the pack yelling loudly once we got to the Spray River Trail, 'WE'RE FINALLY RIDING BIKES!'. And I knew just what he meant. We had all been dreaming, planning, scheming, training, doubting this whole enterprise for 6 months in my case. But now, finally, we were just riding our bikes.
By 7pm I had made it to the base of the Koko Claims detour. Koko Claims. A heinous deviation of the route to bypass Sparwood. Apparently, Sparwood had some unsavory meth rings worth bypassing, plus too much pavement. So, Koko Claims. I shudder to think of it. I was right on schedule though, exactly where I wanted to be by evening. The Koko detour starts on a tough forest service road basically made of boulders.
This was an up and over climb to access Bull River on the opposite side of the ridge. We started at 4,400' at the turn off on the highway and topped out at 6,600' in the course of 5 miles. You've seen the pictures of the road bed. Brutal. To make matters worse we hit an avalanche debris path crossing the road and had to cross numerous swollen creeks with no bridges. I had fallen in with a group of 4 other guys and we were working well together to cross the streams. At one we had to hand our loaded bikes across one by one. I remember Josh Flowers from Steamboat, because poor Josh Flowers fell in to one of these shallow creeks and I felt so bad for the guy I wanted to cry for him. It was 930 at night, starting to get dark at the end of an incredible day and he falls into the creek and gets soaked. We couldn't do anything for him except voice encouragement.
I finally called it a day at 1030pm after reaching the end of the detour and the Bull River forest service road. I found a neat camp spot right next to the river, which was gushing along in full spring melt rush. The stars were brilliant and I felt farther from home than I ever had before. I had covered 106 miles on the day. The next day of rain and muck would challenge my hopes.
Race Day 3 - 260 miles covered
June 10, 2018
I slept really poorly in the Silverado motel and woke up at 11ish feeling terrible. I knew then I had put too much into yesterday's effort. I still had 2,500 miles to go, what had I been thinking? I checked out, crossed the street and went to the Four Corners casino for a huge breakfast. I cleared out of Eureka and spun down Tobacco Road, a bucolic country lane with big views east toward the Whitefish Range. The mountains were shrouded in heavy clouds and I realized despairingly that I had to cross them. I passed beautiful houses on the way to Whitefish Divide, then Grave Creek Campground and finally left civilization behind once again. As I neared the pass I entered gray clouds and dipping-dot snow began to fall. I pedaled hard for the divide and found tracks in front of me. I wanted off the pass and down below the clouds again. I turned south on the Polebridge road and while dodging sharp rocks embedded in the hard clay surface of the road I gazed at fairy tale views of the high peaks of Glacier National Park peeking in and out of the clouds. Gorgeous cabins surrounding by brilliant green grass on the banks of the mighty Flathead River beckoned me with their blissful peace and serenity. I wanted to stop and be happy in one place. The river felt familiar now as I had followed it earlier in the route in Canada near Butts Cabin.
At the turn to Red Meadow Lakes and yet another climb up and over the divide I run into Matej from the Czech Republic. He's the second Czech rider I've run into. We fall in with each other and begin the climb. We wonder about snow up high and soon enough find it.
We push on into the gathering darkness and reach the top shortly before dark. We fire up the lights and once again I find myself way ahead on the descent. I wait for Matej and we scout a place to camp. We end up at Upper Whitefish Lake campground. There is no one there and it is cold, cold, cold. Matej has to wipe his tent down with a towel since it is soaked from his previous nights camp in the Flathead. I feel a bit soft having stayed in the Silverado. I eat a gas station burger, cold. I am shivering violently while trying to eat. I stash my bike next to a tree away from camp and that is when I see the lake. I didn't know it was there and it's beautiful in the low light and flitting clouds. But it is too cold to gaze. I rush back to my tent and climb inside. I then realize I left my bear spray with the bike. I call over to Matej if he has any. When he says no, I grudgingly climb out and run to the bike and retrieve the can of bear spray from its mount under my saddle. I then snuggle down as far as I can in my sleeping bag and cinch the top closed. I sleep fitfully wondering about Grizzlies and trying to keep my toes warm.
Race Day 4 - 330 miles covered
June 11, 2018
I set out early, before Matej. But it doesn't matter, he catches me later in the day. I am freezing cold and want to get down off these heights into Whitefish, MT.
Entering civilization again in Whitefish is fun. It's one of the quirks of this style of racing. You plunge into deep, vast and remote wilderness, but then suddenly are back in towns and cities. I want to visit the bike shop in town to get brake pads which I inexcusably forgot to pack, but it is too early and they don't open for an hour. I have an amazing veggie and egg skillet at Loula's Cafe and charge my phone. The bike shop is still closed and I make the mistake of not waiting for them to open. I rush out of town not realizing the damage all that mud in Canada has done to my front brake pad.
Whitefish to Columbia Falls, Montana is a long section of 90-degree rights and lefts on farm roads. I have to look constantly at the GPS. Near Columbia Falls I hear scratching from the front brake and stop to find that the pad is all but worn down to nothing and the metal clip has tweaked enough to be rubbing the calipers. I can't use the pad for fear of damaging my rotor. Just like that I am down to only my rear brake with no bike shop along the route for another 100 miles, at least. My constant urgency has cost me dearly. I ride with a guy for a bit and we talk about the race. He then turns off for his house and I envy him his 'normal' life.
The day drags on until I hit the long, interminable climb up Swan Valley to the Mission Mountains. A few guys with flowers painted on their helmets pass me and their enthusiasm annoys me. I've sunken into a funk and have slowed way down. I am entering some of the heaviest Grizzly terrain on the planet. This gnaws at the back of my mind and my legs have no power in them.
The forest service roads here in Montana are very different than Colorado. They have no recreational purpose to them, purely fire suppression. There are no trailheads, no parking areas, no camping - established or dispersed. They merely wind through these thick, forested regions. I can see no deeper than 10 feet into the forest and this unnerves me as I know I can startle a Grizzly so easily - the number one way cyclists have bear encounters. I ding my bell over and over. Nothing seems to change and I begin to loathe the Mission mountains.
I want to make it to the Holland Lake Lodge so badly. I want out of this forest and its menacing vibes (purely of my own doing). But the Lodge is still forever away and I know I will have to camp in here somewhere. I pass a big gravel quarry and consider camping next to the machinery but it is too early to stop. I make a long detour out to the highway and a campground but it's full. I pull into a Forest Service work center. A bunch of college aged guys are playing frisbee and I ask them about camping. They point out dispersed camping on the other side of the highway and I realize I'm being a fool. So I turn around and ride back to the route after wasting an hour of forward progress.
At 10 o'clock I have had enough and resign myself to the fact that I did not make it to the Holland Lake Lodge. I set up my tent in the only place I can find, a pull-off on the road. I haven't seen a single car all day, so I don't worry about car traffic. I do worry about bears. I put a light on the outer peak of my tent in case of cars. As I am leaning my bike and bag against a tree a few yards away from the tent I hear a deep throated grunt in the forest. I freeze and my heart rate spikes. What the hell was that? I hear it again, but farther away this time. I climb into my tent, bear spray in hand and don't sleep for a long time. I hear a bike whoosh by in the night.
Race Day 5 - 450 miles covered
June 12, 2018
In the morning I pass a guy who had an even worse camp than me. Terrible, actually. And its the first Czech guy I met, Martin. He had laid his bivy under a forest service sign on a lumpy hill and can't have slept well. I mutter a groggy morning greeting and pass him by. He catches up and we spin into the Holland Lake Lodge together. This Lodge is a beauty and the setting is impossibly beautiful and pristine. It seems to be deserted and we wander around the great room before someone shows up. We sit down and order huge breakfasts. Martin actually orders a second. I decide then and there that I will stay the night, even though it is only 10 in the morning. My knees and achilles are swollen and hurt with every pedal stroke. I tell the waiter about the grunt in the forest and he says if I was down low it was probably a bear, if I was higher in elevation probably a moose. I was down low.
I bid Martin good bye and go to my room. There is a huge bed filling most of it. I shower and lay down and sleep instantly. When I wake there is a lot of commotion. Many riders have shown up and some are unabashedly checking in to their own rooms. I had been ashamed to do so. I sit at the bar with some of the guys I had crossed all those streams with together back on the first day. I feel a bit soft, again, to tell them I am staying here for the day. I take another nap in the afternoon and sit out near the lake in an Adirondack chair and chat with Wendy. It feels nice to just sit and chat. I spend the afternoon cleaning my bike and my gear and repacking for the next stage ahead. Richmond Peak looms in my mind. It is an infamous section of road, always snow covered and tilted at a precipitous angle. And there are lots of bears.
Later, I have a ridiculous white tablecloth dinner of steak, local pan-fried morels, and ice cream and cake. I chat with a couple on their honeymoon and it feels awkward and out of place to be eating this fancy dinner in this fancy lodge with young honeymooners in my dirty cycling garb. The food is fabulous though and I go to bed stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Race Day 6 - 460 miles covered
June 13, 2018
In the morning I feel this strange melancholy and urgency that has dogged me on this trip. I keep feeling like I just need to get it done. But I have weeks left. There is a group of Brits who checked in last night and I see them in the morning. They are on a vacation of a lifetime, doing the Tour together, all four of them. I am envious of their commitment and 100% devotion to being on the Divide - nothing else seems to exist for them now. Why do I feel like I need to go, go, go and get to Mexico? I begin to feel like it's not going to happen. It's going to take too long. Probably 20 more days at my pace. My family is at home. Wendy is on her summer break. I will be gone for all of it. Why? What am I doing out here, exactly? I can't answer that question satisfactorily enough for myself and the doubts flood in to the crack that opens. I should have let myself fall in with some riders. Should have let myself become more a part of this race, instead of being so insistent on doing it 'on my own' - which to me means alone. But I don't have to be alone out here. There are riders all over. Again, I'm unsure of myself and my choices as I have been for as long as I've had free will. My own worst enemy. The Tour and its difficulty is not what I am up against out here. It's myself...as always.
Richmond Hill has a nasty reputation for dispensing with riders in all sorts of way. Terrible weather, deep snow, precipitous slopes, grizzlies. You name it. The road cuts across a steep north facing slope and holds snow late into the year. Cutting steps while holding your bike and looking downhill toward a long snowy fall into the tree-choked ravine is not uncommon. I didn't have it as bad this year, but it was still a little treacherous. The endless downhill on the other side toward Seeley Lake however was much worse for me with no front brake.
I caught up to Wendy from Australia who said she had just seen a bear on the road. Big and brown. I was kind of sorry to have missed it. She took off ahead and disappeared around a corner. I couldn't afford to haul ass down this descent.
Finally, Ovando, Montana! One of the most beloved towns on the whole Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. I (and every other TD racer) had been looking forward to this town. Now, with my brake pad issues, even more so. It is a lovely small town in the middle of pastoral, big sky country. True Montana. There were lots of riders at the Black Angler and the Stray Bullet Cafe. I bee-lined it into the Black Angler and sifted through Kathy's selection. Slowly, it settled in that she had every other brand of brake pad except the one I needed. Damn! I told her so and she said she would tell her son - who must help her with the cycling side of things - to stock the ones I needed.
The British gang was there tucking greedily into huge burgers and I had a short chat with them. One of them said he would give me a spare set of pads and I profusely refused thinking I was breaching the self-supported ethos. But he wouldn't have it. As a compromise he put a set on a table and went back to his seat. I picked them up and nodded in his direction for saving my skin.
I got a table on my own, typical, and had a club sandwich and several large glasses of fountain coke. So good. I restocked at the Ovando Inn and like that was on my way. As I was pulling out I remember a guy riding in saying how great it was to see other riders. He had been on his own since the start. I remember thinking that that's just how I like it. Kind of.
The ride from Ovando to Lincoln is a bit of a blur. In Lincoln I seek out my British friends because I have a loose bottom bracket that I can't tighten down. One of the four helped me earlier and told me about his bike wrenching job back home. I find them in yet another restaurant scarfing down yet more huge burgers and he comes out and puts a hex key in the nut and jumps up and down on it. Sufficiently tight now, eh!
Feeling in the game I decide to refuel at a gas station and carry on into the night. At 8pm I peel out of town heading for Stemple Pass and more wilderness. The clouds are boiling in the sky as I pedal up and up and up. I want to camp now but there is no where. For the second time in this race I end up camping on the side of the road. Why can't I find good camping spots?
It rains throughout the night.
Race Day 7 - 560 miles covered
June 13, 2018
I wake in a foul mood. Sick of wet gear and my sore achilles and my painful knees. Angry at the weather and the terrain and the general course of things. I hastily stow all my gear - and for reasons still somewhat hazy to me now - I turn and ride the 12 miles back downhill to Lincoln. The wrong way.
Passing lots of riders, having now become part of the 'mid-pack', shows me how well I was doing in this race. It sickens me to lose all this ground, but that doesn't stop my retreat. My British friends, to their credit, ask me what's up? and seemed genuinely confused and concerned. I feel miserable and tell them I'm fine.
Back in Lincoln, in pouring rain now, I get a hotel room for the day. For the second time, I laze around wasting a day elevating swollen knees and achilles. I don't know what my plan is except to wait out the rain and get a fresh start from this town. I don't remember how much time I spend in town but once the weather clears there is no more legitimate reason for me to stay. I gear up and leave Lincoln for the second time. I have to climb the 12 miles again to my camping spot. I pass it by wearily. At the turn off to Stemple Pass, I hesitate.
I know that I am seriously considering being done with this race now. The first inklings came at Holland Lake and they came again last night. And now, they are still with me. I remember a fellow rider in the Colorado Trail Race saying if you feel like quitting than do three things first, 1: take a break, 2: eat some food, 3: sleep. If, after each one, you still want to quit, than so be it. I feel I have nurtured this thought for a while and have not acted rashly. I have given it my all, there is no denying that whatsoever. Just look at day 2. But it still fucking hurts.
Going back to Lincoln is not an option, that is for sure. At this moment Kevin H rides up. He takes off his black arm warmers as we are chatting and his arms look no different, they are covered in tattoos. We ride together up the steep climb to Stemple Pass and I tell him my thoughts, thinking it might help. He understands completely, which helps and doesn't help. I leave him behind on the climb and as I reach the pass I know I am done.
Down the other side of Stemple Pass I see some signs for a cabin on Marsh Creek Road. There are GDR signs on it and welcome messages. I pull in and ride down to it. It is set aside a good distance from a house. As I am inside inspecting this amazing little cabin the owner, John, comes down and introduces himself. He explains that he and his wife operate the cabin for GDR riders (those touring the Great Divide route and/or Tour Dividers) at no cost and merely ask for users to 'pay it forward'. He tells me to settle in and then come up for dinner. Before I can politely decline his offer - which seems far too intimate for me - he hurries off. So I unpack my things on one of the beds inside and head up to the house.
When I get to the house John introduces me to his wife Barbara. She asks me if I want a sandwich and what I would like to drink. She brings over a delicious sandwich full of crunchy lettuce, a cold can of Sprite and a box of cookies. They both sit down with me as I eat and we talk. It is very awkward and surreal at first, this forced intimacy, sitting at the kitchen table eating properly with others. I feel I shouldn't be here, that these people are being too nice to me and that I'll never repay their kindness. But they are genuinely interested in me and how I came to be here. John professes independent wealth, which makes me chuckle. His wife still commutes into some job in Helena. And I know that is where my ride will end. I don't even tell them that I am pulling out of the race and that this will be my last night. It seems pretty unfair. To get all this kindness and support when I am leaving the next day. But I decide it doesn't matter. This is the beauty of trips such as these. Having these chance encounters and living on the kindness and generosity of others. It is so encouraging and rewarding. It is just nice to know there are people out there who will take care of you. That experience and people like John and Barbara make me want to be more kind and more helpful toward others. I hope in that way I have paid forward my bounty that John and his wife reaped upon me.
I thank them profusely and John walks me back down to his cabin. He wishes me luck on my trip and heads back to his house. I settle in on the cabin porch and think about this ride. The ups and downs, both literal and figurative. The mud in Canada. The rain on Galton Pass. The border guards offering to help open our ziploc bags. My British friend giving me some of his precious spare parts. The bear grunt in the night in the Mission mountains. The chat with the young honeymooners at Holland Lake and their inability to make sense of what I was doing. Mitch and Matej and Martin (seems I rode with the M names). What a ride.
One of John's Llama's visits me later before I climb in to bed.
Another rider comes in later and disturbs my peaceful meditation. But it's ok. We chat a bit and I tell him I am all done. We both marvel at the uniqueness of this little cabin and our lucky chance to stay in it for a night.
Race Day 8 - 600 miles covered
June 14, 2018
I stand at the junction of Marsh Creek Road and Little Prickley Pear Road, straddling my bike. If I look right, I see the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route continuing on towards another Continental Divide crossing. If I look left I see my escape route to Helena and the end of the Tour Divide for me. I don't stand there too long, but I do wonder. My knees are in bad shape as I pedal away from my dream ride. I know in my heart that just showing up in Banff was a win for me, let alone riding almost 700 miles of the route over 8 days. But still, there seems to be a string connecting me to the route as I get to Highway 279. It tugs at me from behind and then snaps. My Tour Divide is over.
If asked for a reason, I would say I pulled out of the race because of my knees and my left achilles tendon. Those are easier reasons to provide than stating any mental problems. I never seemed to find any freedom of thought out there. The mental aspect of such an endeavor is as important as the physical. I was in too much of a rush and too cognizant of my uncertain future after losing my job. I had young children at home that needed me and a wife who was shouldering the burden of my being gone. I felt guilty and a bit indulgent.
The drive home from Helena in a rental car was torture. I couldn't stay awake, yet I'd run out of money for hotels. I tried sleeping in the car somewhere near Ennis, MT on the side of the highway. It was miserable.
Driving through Yellowstone and past Jackson Lake was fun. But getting to Denver and meeting my family at the gas station near the airport was wonderful. It felt so good to see them. I felt as if I was finally done with the Tour Divide and a great weight was lifted off my shoulders. I realized there was a fair amount of dread around the Divide, as if I had forced myself to do it and never wanted to do it in the first place. All very strange and conflicting emotions given the Divide was a decade long dream of mine. It left me very confused about what I had set out to accomplish. I'd like to think I will give it another try sometime, but the truth is that perhaps it's more a state of mind I am seeking than a long endless bike ride.
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