It is a thin line that divides impulsiveness from obstinacy and a thinner line that divides cussed obstinacy from sheer downright craziness. That is the only explanation I have for my brother’s bombshell announcement: “I have decided to ride the Rockies.”

It seems to have started innocently enough. On one of his business trips to the US, an American colleague mentioned to my brother that he had participated in a bike ride called Ride the Rockies. Intrigued, my brother asked for details about it and found out that it was an arduous bicycle trip across the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. The distance covered is usually around 400 miles; distances in the past have ranged from 305 miles to 489. However, one starts at elevations of around 6000 feet above Mean Sea Level and reaches heights of 12,000 feet during the ride where the oxygen is pretty thin. The bike ride is sponsored by the Denver Post newspaper and has now run since 1986. The ride lasts from 6 to 7 days. My brother was given the URL to the website (www.ridetherockies.com) and was wished well.

After poring through the website, my brother decided to ride the Rockies. He bought himself a road bike in the US, shipped it across to India, and embarked on a training program in March. The website is quite helpful in that it tells you how much training one requires to be able to successfully participate in the event. It must be emphasized that the event is not a race. It is a simple test of man against nature and against his own physical limitations. So long as you complete the distance, you get bragging rights.

The Prelude

Back home in India, my brother gets up at 3:30 am every day to ride the bike. The traffic starts building up after 5:30 am so he has about 2 hours in which he can practice. The first problem is that the roads are pretty bad in Chennai, being full of potholes and speed bumps. Unfortunately, there is no closed private track where he can practice riding the bike. The bikes have no springs whatsoever that can cushion shocks; all road bikes in the US are sold with a minimum of creature comforts to minimize weight. Cycling magazines rave about the 348 gram carbon fiber handlebars or the 190 gram stems. The way they price the bikes though, one would think gold would be cheaper. After 7.5 miles the first day, my brother returns home with a sore bottom.

But he doesn’t give up. He keeps up with the training schedule, gradually increasing the distance and speed until he comfortable, does about 14 mph on the average, 28 miles a day and about 140 miles a week. Around end of April, he is confident he can do longer distances and rides the East Coast Road, a toll road that has a better surface than the city streets, for distances of even 40 miles or more a day.

He starts calling for hotel reservations along the route. In March, nobody is taking reservation for an event in June. In smaller towns along the route, there are not enough hotel rooms for all the 2000+ participants. Nevertheless, he succeeds in getting hotel reservations along the entire route after a couple of weeks. The event itself attracts more applicants than it can accommodate. About 2,000 persons are allowed to participate officially in the event and about twice that number apply. The lucky participants are chosen by lottery. My brother is chosen as is his son who has been talked into joining the bike ride. The die is now cast.

My brother, sister-in-law and a niece arrive in Denver in the first week of June. The idea is to drive down to the little town of Cortez in the southwest corner of Colorado where the event is set to begin, train for a few days at higher elevations and climbing the hills so that one would be fit for the event when it starts on June 15. I fly down to Denver to meet my brother since I had agreed to be a driver and provide any needed support along the way. The Immigration counter at the Denver Airport grills all incoming foreigners and it takes over 2 hours before everybody gets out, making our niece’s first ever trip to the US a miserable one.

We load all the gear into a rented minivan and set out from Denver. After about 3 hours of driving we reach the small town of Buena Vista that is on the bike route this year. We get a couple of rooms and crash for the night. The next morning, my brother takes the bike to a local bike shop to get it serviced and prepped for the long ride. The folks at the bike shop carefully tighten the brakes, oil all the joints, etc., all the while making small talk with my brother. At the end of 45 minutes of work on the bike, they wish my brother success and refuse to accept payment for work, explaining that they have themselves participated in the event in the past and are happy to see someone come all the way from India to do the same. We buy some hats and books from the shop in order that they make at least some money from us.

The rest of the day is spent driving down to Cortez. Cortez is a small town in the middle of nowhere, rather close to Four Corners, which is the only point in the US common to four states. As you drive west into the town, one can see in the distance the Sleeping Ute Mountain. This mountain is in the shape of a native Indian lying down, with his hands folded across his chest. The Ute Indians believe that this giant came to help them fight their enemies a long, long time ago and when he lay down to rest he turned into a mountain. They believe that in future too, when the Utes need his help, he will get up and fight on their side though this faith proved to be somewhat misplaced when the White settlers came and the US Government pushed them into reservations.

My brother spends about 3 hours each morning riding the bike and we have the rest of the day free to explore the surrounding area. My brother visits the local bike shop to adjust the derailleur because he has difficulty in shifting the gears. The bike shop owner checks out the bike and we buy needed supplies such as extra tubes, a tire, leg warmers, etc, for the ride.

The first couple of days are spent visiting Mesa Verde National Park which is about 10 miles from Cortez. Mesa Verde contains dwellings built into the sheer walls of the mesas, a mesa being a flat-topped mountain. This Spanish word actually has given the Tamil language the word ‘mesai’ meaning ‘table’! Anasazi Indians used to live in these cliff dwellings. It is a mystery why they chose to live on the cliff faces below the top of the mountains because older dwellings on the flat terrain on top have been unearthed. There is no easy access to these dwellings from the top though it is theorized that the Anasazi might have used ropes to climb down from the top. There are footholds and toeholds on the cliff walls that enables the cliff dwellers to climb the walls from the canyons between the mesas, and the guide said that these holds are “coded” in that if you didn’t start out with the correct foot and hand at the bottom, at some point you would be unable to climb any further because of the positions of these footholds, this being an attempt to prevent enemies from pursuing the cliff dwellers. The ledges in which these dwellings were built are quite narrow and it is difficult to imagine little children living at such precarious heights. The ranger/tour guide explains that ‘Anasazi’ means ‘Ancient Ones’ or ‘Ancient Enemies’ and that the Pueblo Indians living on the plains in New Mexico are thought to be descended from these cliff-dwellers. In order to be politically correct, she says that the Anasazi are now being referred to as Ancient Puebloans though she doubts that the Anasazi Motor Lodge in Cortez would change its name. Who knows, Pakistanis might start calling Indians ‘Harappan Descendants’ as opposed to ‘Hindu Dushman’ if the political climate changes!

We then decide to visit the Four Corners National Monument. The exact point where the four states meet is within the Navajo Indian reservation. The Navajos charge $2 for each vehicle entering the area. There is a large circular plaque set into the ground with lines marked on it indicating the boundaries of Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Arizona. All of us stand on the plaque for a dignified picture but then dignity is to be thrown to the winds when visiting Four Corners. The standard procedure is to plant one’s two feet in two states, plant one’s palms in two other states, look up and grin, and get a photo taken in this position. We all take turns doing it along with Americans of all ages who are of course utterly uninhibited; you see four-year-old children as well as eighty-year-old grandmas doing it. The place is surrounded by about fifty shacks selling Indian goods such as amethyst-and-silver necklaces and rings, pottery, sand paintings, and of course the ubiquitous T-shirts. There is even a pin showing footprints and palm prints in the four states proving that this idea of being in four states at the same time is a long-standing tradition of visitors to this part of the country. One Navajo looks at me quizzically and asks where I am from. I tell him from India, and that Columbus was looking for me rather than him. He grins at my answer.

We drive further along the road toward Monument Valley. Monument Valley is where most of the Westerns used to be filmed with spectacular views of the valley floor punctuated by a few mesas rising majestically. The difference between these mesas and the mesas one sees in other places is that these mesas are eroded on all sides whereas most mesas have one side sloping gently over several tens of miles to the plains. The main road skirts these mesas but lies a good distance away from them so one doesn’t get the same close-up view as in the movies. The mesas are normally used in Jeep and SUV commercials, implying those vehicles actually climbed those mesas whereas the truth is that they were taken there by helicopter just for the commercials. We stop outside the town of Mexican Hat at a rock formation aptly named Mexican Hat, for it resembles a sombrero. The area is rather arid with the exception of a few creeks; all human settlements and cultivated fields lie along these creeks and it is just raw red earth a mile away from the creek banks. It is an unbelievably beautiful sight, though: brilliant blue sky against green fields and the red earth. The colors must be seen to be believed. It is nightfall by the time we return to Cortez.

The training schedule calls for relaxation for the last few days for the body to recover and so we have even more time on our hands. One day, we take a trip to Arches National Park in Utah where the sandstone hills have been eroded by wind, much like the mesas in Monument Valley, but this time into arches. The ideal time to visit Arches would be early morning or late evening because the red rays from the sun low in the horizon would enhance the red sandstone, making for beautiful photos. There are several hundred arches in this park but only a handful is actually within easy hiking distance from the main road through the park. We stop Balanced Rock where a large boulder is seemingly balanced on a slender column and visit the Double Arch where the opening scene of one of the Indiana Jones movies was shot.

On the way to Arches, we stop at a home blasted into a hillside by a homesteader. It is difficult to imagine this but in 1920, a Danish family moved to Utah and homesteaded 80 acres along a creek when the area was finally opened to homesteaders. Under the Homestead Act, one could farm up to 160 acres of public land and so long as one stayed on the land for 5 years farming it, the land was deeded over to the homesteader. The house was built by the Danish family. This place is about 12 miles from Moab, which is the nearest town and gateway to Arches. Moab makes its living now from rafting, jeep tours, mountain bike riders, etc. For a non-descript way-stop in the middle of the desert, Moab boasts of the usual bunch of American motels and franchised restaurants.

The motels in Cortez are slowly filling up with people who are participating in Ride the Rockies. We make friends with several riders and their families. I run into a couple in the lobby one morning; they are wearing biker clothes. Just to make small talk, I say, “So, you guys are planning to ride the Rockies?” The woman sasses me by replying, “No, we wanted to ride the beaches but there are only mountains here” and laughs. I restrain myself from pointing out that the area was under the oceans several million years back and there indeed was a beach then at that time (information gathered from the ranger at Mesa Verde) except that she has now acknowledged that she is chronically late and has indeed set the world’s record for being late. Meredith and Ken are there from Colorado along with her cousin and his family from New Orleans and I get introduced all around. Ken asks me if I am from Pakistan. I tell him from India and ask him why he picked Pakistan considering there are seven Indians for each Pakistani. He has no good answer. I am to meet Meredith and Ken later along the route.

Having done most of the National Parks, we decide to do something we thought might be even more fun. We drive up to the town of Durango and take a rafting trip on the Animas river. The water is ice-cold but the water level is quite low and the trip on the whole is rather tame, despite the guide’s effort to get us wet once in a while. I have had more exciting trips on the Arkansas river in Colorado and the American river in California.

It is the day before the event. We are all getting bored and anxious about the bike ride. Some of the folks go shopping at a fair/flea market for knick-knacks. Around 11 am, my nephew and his colleague Bruce who plan to ride the Rockies show up, having driven all night. I ask them to catch some rest in my room while I go to the local library for some web surfing. I hit paydirt; the library has older books on sale for a dollar a pound and I find a book titled “The Mind Game: Witch Doctors and Psychiatrists” written by E. Fuller Torrey, M.D., a psychiatrist who got his M.D. at McGill and did his psychiatry residency at Stanford. The book talks about how psychiatrists are no better than witch doctors in treating mental problems and I grab the book for it confirms my personal opinion about psychiatry. I buy a few more books, lob a few interacts at Chowk and return to the motel.

An Aside About Psychiatry

Dr. Torrey has quite a few things to say about psychiatry; the book runs to about 270 pages including 35 pages of notes and a 28-page bibliography. So the book is not an outburst by a disillusioned psychiatrist but a considered judgment on his chosen profession. His conclusion is that one of the major differences between the practice of psychiatry and witch doctoring is simply one of world-view. “A psychiatrist who tells an illiterate African that his phobia is related to a fear of failure or a witch doctor who tells an American tourist that his phobia is related to possession by an ancestral spirit will be met by equally blank stares. And as therapists they will be equally irrelevant and ineffective.” A world-view common to both the therapist and the patient is necessary for therapy to be successful.

An interesting corollary to this is that all persons of non-Occidental background have to dump their personal backgrounds if they are to become effective counselors in the West. I remembered an Indian woman who had complained to me that she was forced to advice her American patients to get a divorce if they have irreconcilable differences with their spouses whereas she fervently believed in the sanctity of marriage and had been brought up to believe in it.

The second thing required of an effective psychotherapist is certain personal qualities: accurate empathy, non-possessive warmth and genuineness. Dr. Torrey then contrasts the selection process between Western-style psychiatrists and witch doctors. Psychotherapists in the West are chosen primarily through self-selection and academic achievement; academic achievement is necessary to survive four years of medical school, a year of internship and a three-year psychiatry residency; self-selection in that right during high school, the future psychiatrist has to consciously choose medicine as his future subject of study and prepare for it and then choose psychiatry among the various specialties offered.

According to Dr. Torrey, “Unfortunately, there is evidence that being a good student has nothing to do with being a good therapist. One study showed even a negative correlation between the grades of therapists-in-training and their ratings on empathy.”

Among witch doctors, the common methods of selection seem to be through heredity, supernatural designation and self-designation. However, even witch doctors sometimes feel the same pressure as Western children forced by their parents to become doctors. One conversation between a Yoruk Indian girl whose mother and grandmother were shamans, as related by her, went like this:

“My mother say, ‘You be doctor.’
I say, ‘No.’
She say, “You have much money, beautiful clothes; if not doctor, will have nothing.’”

Just the previous week, I had met my Indian (not Yoruk, for sure!) friend in Cleveland, whose two children are medical doctors, based on exactly this kind of pressure. I had also heard about a guy who went through medical school and then told his parents now that they were happy with his medical degree, he was going to join GE Medical Systems and become a researcher.

Dr. Torrey then raises the question of whether psychotherapists are themselves mentally ill. While not drawing from conclusions, Dr. Torrey says, “Recent data on suicide rates for professional people show that psychiatrists have an inordinately high rate – double that for other type of doctors. They also are known to have a comparatively high rate of drug addiction.”

The third component for successful psychotherapy is the patient’s expectation that he will get better. Just as the Western man walking into Menninger Clinic is reassured by the massive building and all the paraphernalia associated with a hospital, the Hottentot is reassured by the witch doctor’s famous healing shrine isolated from the village, high up on the hill. Dr. Torrey calls this the Edifice Complex.

The last component for successful psychotherapy is the techniques of therapy. Western psychiatrists claim to have an arsenal of psychotropic drugs that they can use whereas witch doctors have no access to modern medicines. Dr. Torrey demolishes this claim by pointing out that the roots and herbs used by the so-called primitive tribes have historically been the source of several psychotropic agents currently used by psychiatrists. In fact, even electroshock therapy was known to ancient doctors and there are drawings of electrical fish in Egyptian tombs dated at 2750 B.C. “The first clear reference to their application to the head is by Scribonius Largus, a Roman physician and contemporary of Plini who recommended their shock to cure severe headache. Ten centuries later a Muslim physician also recommended them to cure epilepsy”, says Dr. Torrey.

Dr. Torrey concludes by saying that witch doctors have a valid role to play in psychotherapy and suggests their inclusion, where appropriate, in psychotherapy. His last chapter is titled “Genus – Psychotherapist, Species – Witchdoctor and Psychiatrist”.

Riding the Rockies

My nephew and his colleague have brought tents because they plan to camp during the entire trip, this being part of the “total experience”. We drop them off in the afternoon near the local high school so that they can pitch their two tents in the playground. Everyone is registering for the event and picking up his registration material. The bike ride is set to start the next morning at 7 am.

At night there is a discussion about when exactly to start. There is a flag-off ceremony at 7 am after speeches by the local dignitaries and a blessing by the Chief of the local band of Indians. A woman at the motel we met earlier had said that she had done the ride four times so far and the speeches are all boring and that she plans to grab breakfast at the local McDonald’s at 7 am and then start riding off. My brother decides that he will start riding at 6 am and we all agree to leave the motel at 5:30 to transport him to the starting point.

As planned, we all reach the high school at about 6 am. We wake up my nephew to tell him his dad is leaving and he comes out of the tent to wish him luck. My brother flags off a few minutes past 6. We get my nephew and Bruce to pack up their tents and load them into the van and see them off at about 7 am. The moment is captured on film and by video and we return to the motel to pack up and go to Telluride, the first stop along the route. Within a couple of hours, the entire crowd of bikers and their support teams has melted and Cortez returns to its sleepy self.

Telluride is 77 miles away by the shortest route. Ride the Rockies (RTR) requests that private SAG (support and gear) vehicles not attempt to follow the riders. RTR itself provides SAG wagons; SAG wagons are used to transport riders and their bikes in case they are unable and/or unwilling to complete the event. A rider is allowed to use the official SAG wagons only twice. After that, the rider has to make his own travel arrangements. We take a roundabout route to Telluride by way of Durango, Silverton and Ouray. These are mining towns of the 19th century. After the mines were exhausted, most of these towns became nothing but desolate little outposts but recently have prospered due to tourist influx. From Durango, we go through a narrow valley and climb the mountains to reach Silverton. The scenery is spectacular and there are waterfalls in the distance as mountain streams tumble to the valley floor. From Silverton, I drive to Ouray, passing the town of Purgatory and the aptly named Red Mountain. From Ouray, I drive north to Ridgway where I trace the next day’s route in reverse and reach Telluride. The road from Placerville to Telluride is built in a river valley with the river running by the side of the road and it is a steady climb all the way to Telluride. The scenery is breathtaking and we pause frequently to take pictures.

We reach Telluride and locate our hotel. We await the arrival of my brother and my nephew. My brother had planned to arrive by 5:30 pm and it is getting way past that time. Finally he arrives at 7:30 pm after 13 hours in the saddle. He is thoroughly beat. The trouble is that it was a 62 mile climb to the top of the pass and when one thinks that is it going to be easy from there, after a 5 mile descent, there is another steep climb that is totally demoralizing. RTR says, “The descent, such as it is, from Lizard Head Pass is a bit of a cruel joke. Though I knew to expect several short climbs along the way, I still found them demoralizing, particularly the two miles beyond Ophir Loop. Don’t let this happen to you.” His trip computer failed and he bought a replacement from one of the bike repair wagons on the road. There were several times when the going was pretty much impossible but my brother somehow completed the first leg and made it into Telluride. He showers, eats a little and crashes for the night. My nephew and Bruce showed up by 5:30 pm and finding very little camping space decided to accept our offer and spend the night in our rooms.

The plan was to leave the next morning at 6 am. My brother gets out of bed and decides he cannot ride a bike at all today; he is aching all over. To make things worse, there will be no workout for the leg muscles during the first 15 miles when it is a steep downhill descent and then one has to start pedaling uphill for 14 miles. He decides to throw in the towel and not ride anymore. My nephew and Bruce work on him pointing out that the first day was much worse than even what Bruce, an experienced long-time biker, expected but that this day’s ride is not really all that bad. He relents and they all leave at 8:30 am. With the sun already high in the sky, it is going to be very hot.

We have a couple of hours to kill before we have to leave so we decide to explore Telluride. Telluride is located in a very narrow valley surrounded by high mountains. In the last century, Telluride was a mining camp; by the 1950s, the town was almost empty; today it is a flourishing ski resort. There is a ropeway that takes you to the top of the mountain. We use that to get a spectacular view of the valley floor. We wander around the town which is full of the usual tourist traps. Around noon, we leave for Montrose, 65 miles away, the next stop along the route.

We drive for nearly 30 miles before we see any bikers. Everyone made excellent time on the initial downgrade and were barely beginning to use their legs when they hit the upgrade. Once they reached Ridgway, it was a nice steady downhill ride to Montrose along the Uncompahgre valley which is drained by the Uncompaghre river. I now see for the first time the full variety of riders and their equipments. Most are riding normal road bikes but some are on recumbent bikes and there are quite a few handicapped persons in wheelchair-bikes/tricycles. I see several pairs riding tandem bikes. Interestingly, bike riding is predominantly a white middle-class sport; there are a handful of blacks and persons with Oriental features who could be Chinese, Japanese or Vietnamese. When we reach Montrose, we find that my brother has already reached the local high school which is the rest point. My nephew and his colleague decide to camp, it being a nice day and promising to be a nice night.

RTR has done a tremendous job of organizing the bike ride. There are buses and large 18-wheeler trucks to transport people and their gear to and from the hotels they are staying at to the starting point. SAG wagons ply the route constantly along with repair trucks to assist riders. Ambulances are strategically positioned at rest stops and are connected by radio so that help can be summoned quickly. Medics and paramedics actually ride along the route to provide immediate emergency first-aid. Aid stations supply water, Gatorade, bananas and oranges free of charge to riders and there are stalls selling food at these stops. There are scores of port-a-potties at each aid station and stores selling needed bike supplies such as tubes, tires, mending kits, etc., to those who have suffered equipment failure. They have also arranged for community breakfasts and dinners as well as music concerts and talks (some of the speakers are participants in Le Tour de France) for every day of the ride. As for security, there are a couple of guards who roam around periodically but the riders just drop their bikes on the lawn and wander around town or go to sleep. Several million dollars worth of equipment is lying around and not one bike gets stolen anywhere.

The next day is a relatively short 32 miles, primarily downhill, to the town of Delta. My brother makes the trip in about two hours. I pick up the tents of my nephew and his colleague and see them off and drive off to Delta to meet my brother. We have only one room in Delta so some of us stay back in Montrose while my brother and I stay in the room in Delta. The following day is a killer: 102 miles with 60 miles of climbing. We didn’t want to lose 30 minutes driving up from Montrose though we find that several riders who want the comforts of a hotel room have no choice but to return to Montrose and take the RTR buses in the morning to Delta.

As my nephew pitches his tent and we get ourselves some refreshments at the stalls, I find a large truck arriving with port-a-potties. Being curious as to how they load and unload them, I saunter over and ask a burly man near the truck how they unloaded the equipment. Saying “Like this”, he just grabs the first john and pulls it and it clatters down to the ground. He then moves it into position and unloads the next. I ask him how they would load it back into the truck and he says that it would take two persons but they don’t use anything like a fork-lift.

My brother has a different problem today; he has lost most of the feeling in his left hand, the hand used to shift gears. The medics along the route are of not much assistance, saying it might be a pinched nerve. We return to Montrose for medical help. The local doctor expresses his inability to help since his calendar for the day is already overflowing but recommends a chiropractor. I take my brother to the chiropractor whose massages improve the situation slightly. While he is being worked on, we get the bike cleaned and serviced. I wander through the town reading the various plaques and historical markers. It seems that most of the Uncompahgre valley is irrigated by water from the Gunnison river since the Uncompahgre river doesn’t have much water. The Gunnison was diverted in the 1920s through an eleven-mile long tunnel through the mountains to bring water to Montrose and surroundings.

Late in the evening, we return to Delta. We discuss the rigors of the next day’s ride. Official RTR SAG wagons ply the route only till about 4 pm. After that, the riders are pretty much on their own if they do not make the decision to accept a ride. It is rumored that on this day, the SAG wagons may run later than usual. We agree that if someone in our group hasn’t shown up at the finish by 7 pm, I am to go looking for him to see if he needs a ride. My brother gets up 5 in the morning and pedals off at about 5:45. It is going to be a long haul, these 102 miles. Punishing too, for one has to climb from about 4800 feet to 9000 feet. I go to the campsite and wake up my nephew and Bruce and load their gear into the car. The minivan is being driven by my sister-in-law who is staying in Montrose. Bruce and my nephew leave around 6:30.

I leave an hour later and find that the road is pretty bad for the first 11 miles. It is paved but is rough which means that the riders would be sore. I have agreed to meet my brother just before or just after every aid station after the second one. The third aid station is 34 miles from the starting point. The road is jammed as several vehicles get stuck behind an 18-wheeler which finally turns in to a warehouse. The sight of 2,000 riders steadily pedaling their way across the country is awe-inspiring. Every time the riders thin out, I am able to increase my speed but most of us are driving well left of the center-line. I pass my brother a few miles before the third aid station and wait for him there. As he arrives, my niece and sister-in-law enthusiastically welcome him, they having passed me when I had mistakenly detoured for 10 miles. He gets some rest, eats a banana, fills up his water bottles and then pedals off. I await my nephew who arrives about 40 minutes later.

The road has been climbing from aid station 2 with nary a drop and it is another 13 miles to the next aid station. I figure that my brother’s speed would drop down to about 6 mph and so it would take him two hours to get there. I kill time by chatting with people in other private SAG vehicles. After about an hour or so, I leave for the next aid station. As I pass the riders, I can see people struggling hard but still very few people give up and ride the SAG wagons. My brother shows up at aid station 4, eats some food, gets some rest and pushes off. It is 10 more miles and 1000 feet of climbing to the top of the pass. He figures he would be lucky to average 4 mph. I wait for my nephew who is precisely 40 minutes behind. Bruce is nowhere to be seen; he is way ahead of my brother and my nephew.

Two hours later I drive off to the mountain pass and wait for my brother to show up. All bike riders stop at the summit, take some pictures, get some rest and move on. Riders who are by themselves can only take pictures of the scenery and I offer to take their photos, an offer that is gratefully accepted; after all, they want to be in their pictures. I kid them that I forgot my sign saying ‘Your picture, your camera, $1. All proceeds go to buying a bike and a cardiac arrest for me!’

My brother is an hour behind schedule. He had to stop every 15 minutes and rest for 5 minutes before he could proceed; he is envious of those who are whistling as they go by for he cannot understand where they get the extra breath for whistling. He triumphantly hoists his bike over his head as I snap a picture of him against the backdrop of the mountains and then he is off again.

My nephew doesn’t show up 40 minutes later so I assume that he is delayed and drive off. By this time, my brother has passed the next aid station and I don’t catch him even at the next one. But then I see him on the road several miles later. The road is downhill all the way now and he is making good time. I pass a beautiful reservoir and stop at the next aid station, 77 miles from the starting point. I see my brother off and wait for my nephew. From here, it is mostly level ground and it is simply a question of endurance. I see a lot more people using SAG wagons or getting into their vehicles driven by family; for them, the real trial is climbing to the top of the pass, not completing the entire distance. But the diehards don’t give up.

I am beginning to act more like a message board, conveying riding status between my brother and his son, who shows up this time about 45 minutes behind his dad. His explanation was that it was raining and then a hailstorm hit at aid station 4 so he waited out the storm. The weather in the mountains is so unpredictable; it is alternately sunny, cloudy and rainy. The rain can be ice-cold water, sleet, snow or hail. All that the riders can do is to stop, cover themselves with a waterproof jacket, and either wait or continue to ride.

I drive off to the next aid station and my brother arrives there by 5:45 pm. He has been on the saddle for 12 hours. It is 10 more miles to Gunnison with a mild 3-mile climb at the very end. Despite being tired, he is confident that he would make it to Gunnison by 7 pm. I chat with an older woman who is riding the Rockies with her husband. We chat about the economic issues facing the US, the export of jobs, and a whole host of other things over which we have no control. She asks me who is the tall lanky guy she has seen on the road and I answer that it is my nephew. She recognizes my brother and wishes him success. I flag my brother off and wait for my nephew who shows up 45 minutes later.

Knowing that by the time I reach Gunnison, my brother would have reached the finish, I drive towards Gunnison. The sun is beginning to set but the long twilight means there is plenty of light when I reach Gunnison. I find the entire party at the Gunnison High School grounds. Bruce had arrived by 5 pm and had been whisked off to our cabins 10 miles away at Almont. After my nephew arrives, we retrieve Bruce and go to the local Pizza Hut for dinner.

The next day is a rest day. In all the years Ride the Rockies has been held, there has been a rest day only three times. But last year’s ride at 489 miles was the longest and people had complained that they wanted it to be a fun ride, not just an endurance trial, so this year there is a rest day. Our cabins are at the confluence of the Taylor and East rivers and it is an uncommonly pleasant site. The next cabin is also occupied by riders and we chat with them. One of them is emphatic that he is not going to take the official route the next day; he has checked out the route by driving along it, there are 20 miles of unpaved road and even most of the paved section is rough, he doesn’t have to prove anything to anybody, he is going to take Highway 50 from Gunnison to Buena Vista. To take his mind off RTR, my brother and a few others take a day trip to Gunnison National Park and I while away my time at Almont.

It rains all night; the steady rain would have soaked the dirt road and riding might become impossible if it is muddy. But my brother is adamant that he would take the official route. Thankfully, the sun comes out in the morning and it is a glorious day for biking. I drop the three bikers off at Gunnison High School and see them off and return to the cabins to find the folks next door packing up and leaving. They are still not going to take the official route; the rain would have made the roads worse. I tell my sister-in-law to use Highway 50 to get to Buena Vista while I would ply the official route as a SAG wagon for my brother.

I leave almost two hours behind my brother. I expect that I will see him 23 miles from Almont at the third aid station along the way. The road from Almont is rough with lots of badly patched segments and a few miles of unpaved dirt. The road is narrow and fortunately there is very little vehicular traffic. The road goes through the Taylor River Canyon, with mountains on both sides and the Taylor river to the left. But everyone’s mind is on Cottonwood Pass at an elevation of 12,100 feet, not on the gorgeous scenery. I don’t see my brother at aid station 3. Assuming that he is ahead of me, I push off to the next aid station.

There is a turn-off a couple of miles from aid station 3 and this is the dirt road to Cottonwood Pass. A few minutes later, it starts raining hard. The previous night the low was 32 degrees F and it is cold outside despite the deceptive early morning sunshine. Riders pull off the road to don raingear and the rain turns to hail. It must really be miserable outside as I drive the 9 miles to the next aid station. I park my car there and wait for more than 2 hours. There is no sign of my brother. It is possible that I just missed him and he is on his way to the summit which is only 6 miles away. The road is narrow and it is almost impossible to turn my car around to go back and look for my brother if indeed he is behind me. It has gotten so dark because of the rain clouds and I couldn’t identify anybody on the way up so far. SAG wagons are busy transporting people and their bikes. There isn’t enough space for all those who want to sag and there is a rumor that the big buses will be pressed into service to transport riders. But no driver is crazy enough to risk his bus through this narrow dirt road. I decide to go up to the summit and look for my brother there.

The rain has stopped and it is sunny again. The next 6 miles are described as “steady but gentle climb” but I can see the riders struggling hard in the thin air of the mountains. I reach the summit and find no sign of my brother. The possibility exists that he is ahead of me so I decide to drive to Buena Vista, 20 miles away and 69 miles from the starting point. The road is paved and in good condition and is downhill all the way. I try to drive carefully and limit my speed to 45 mph and I find bikes passing me on the road. Towards the bottom, I see a few bikers riding in the opposite direction! These people have finished the day’s ride by 12 noon and are trying to kill time. I just can’t believe the energy these people have. Later, I find that Bruce has set a personal speed record of 54 mph on the downhill slope and my brother, more cautious, has set a record of 42 mph.

Not finding my brother in Buena Vista, I retrace my path and find him about a mile away from the summit, still climbing. It is snowing again with a fierce wind and I can imagine how terribly cold the riders must feel. It takes him another 20 minutes to reach the top and I snap pictures of him against the backdrop of the mountains standing in the snow that blankets the mountaintop. He says I passed him before aid station 3 and he has been soaked in the rain. After he pushes off, I await my nephew giving up on him an hour later and return to Buena Vista. I find everybody waiting for me; my nephew has sagged from aid station 3 because he was soaked to his toes and “he was too attached to his toes to lose them to frostbite.”

I take the bike to the bike store for cleaning. The folks there recognize me from our visit of 2 weeks ago and after cleaning and adjusting the bike, refuse payment again. The hospitality of small-town Coloradoans is incredible; as before I buy a few books from the store. While the bike is being cleaned, we strike up a conversation with another rider who is getting his cracked front wheel replaced. He has ridden down from the summit with a cracked wheel rather than accept a ride on the SAG wagon! His bike has a placard saying “Powered by a 1928 Harley.” He says many people along the ride asked him what it meant; he is the 1928 Harley, his name is Harley and he is 75 years old. But he is not the oldest rider; the oldest rider is an 83-year-old man from Pennsylvania and the youngest is a 9-year-old boy from Colorado.

We are staying 20 miles away near Salida. The night’s discussion is on how to complete the last 59 miles to Copper Mountain. My brother has a flight to catch at Denver, 2 hours away from Copper Mountain, at 5:45 pm. He needs to leave Copper Mountain by 1 pm to be able to catch his flight. Everyone advises him to stop riding the bike at 12 noon wherever he might be on the route and take the minivan to the airport. He refuses and plans to leave at 5:15 am from Buena Vista. Adding driving time from Salida, we need to leave at 4:45 in the morning. This being the last day, we need to pack our possessions and this takes us close to midnight. We all think it is crazy and that my brother doesn’t have to prove anything to anybody, having climbed Cottonwood Pass under his own power but he just won’t give up. He asks me to get an American flag. He tapes that down along with an Indian flag on his helmet for the last day’s ride.

We are a little bit late leaving the next morning and my brother sets off from Buena Vista at 5:50 am. It is a beautiful sunny day, one of the best for being outdoors. I am conscious that I cannot miss him along the route today like I did yesterday and tag along behind him, alternately lagging and leading by 30 minutes. Somehow I miss him at aid station 2 and catch up with him on the way to Leadville, a historic mining town where aid station 3 is located. Leadville has a rags-to-riches-to-rags story to tell: Horace Tabor became rich by investing in a silver mine, divorced his wife Augusta to marry 18-year-old Baby Doe, became a U.S. Senator from Colorado, and a few years later blew all his money through an extravagant lifestyle and died a poor man. His widow, once the hostess with the mostes’ in Leadville, lived a poverty-stricken life, dependent on the kindness of neighbors for sustenance during her last days, and froze to death in her unheated cabin during a blizzard in 1935. Leadville was also home to the Unsinkable Molly Brown, a rich miner’s wife who was shunned by local society but became a celebrity when, traveling on the Titanic, she saved countless lives by directing them to lifeboats without regard to her personal safety. I spend almost 2 hours walking around the historic town after my brother leaves and am able to catch my nephew there.

It is a steeper climb for the next 12 miles to the summit of Fremont Pass at 11,300 feet than the previous 35 miles and as I reach the summit, my calculations are correct and my brother has just reached the top. We all congratulate him and take pictures and video and he, conscious of his schedule, pushes off toward Copper Mountain. It is 12 miles to the finish line.

I drive up to the finish line to await my brother. As I stand there, a rider recognizes me and asks how my brother is doing. I reply that I expect him in another 10 minutes. Isn’t it fun, he asks, and doesn’t it make you want to ride the Rockies too?

Less than 5 minutes later my brother is at the finish line followed by Bruce and then my nephew. He gets his certificate and a pin and it is time for him to change and start driving toward Denver airport. He says that all of us should ride the Rockies next year and that if we agree to do so, we could get the bikes in Singapore.

I outwardly share his enthusiasm but inwardly hope that impulsiveness, cussed obstinacy and sheer downright craziness are not catching. But then I had already bought a pair of biker shorts and a jersey a week earlier!