August 2, 2024 ~ Jacob Penick

Ultra Road

An ill-advised, reckless jaunt
through the Colorado high country

My attention has been fixed squarely on Strava’s heatmap function lately. When the family reached out to let me know they’d secured a camp spot in Ridgway, at the base of the San Juan mountains in western Colorado, to the heatmaps I went.

In case you haven’t seen it, Strava’s heatmap shows the frequency with which cyclists travel over a certain portion of road or trail. Routes with frequent travel show up in heavy blue, while routes with less frequent travel are light and thin. Scanning the maps, a few heavy blues really stood out. A connection or two from Ridgway to Telluride were obvious. A route down to Ouray looked easy. But, with all these options, there weren’t any obvious loops. And I’m not one for backtracking.

Looking closer, a very faint little light blue worm materialized, connecting Telluride to Ouray. The implication being that this route is rarely traveled by cyclists.

Truth be told, as soon as I noticed the worm, I knew what it was. It was a legend, a fable, something visiting Texans ask their Jeep rental agents about in Ouray town, to which said rental agents likely reply, “try something easier.” It’s a road (barely), by which gold miners at the turn of the 20th century would access Tomboy, a ghost town nowadays, and Camp Bird gold mine. The road is called Imogene Pass.

I decided I’d like to try to ride this old road.

Come day one of Ridgway camp I was all set to go. Alarms set for 3:45am, B-plans and C-plans in my back pocket alongside my gels, and a whole box of tri-color rotini in my belly. The A-plan was as follows: ride through Ridgway center and up Dallas Divide via CO-62. Find the beginning of Last Dollar Road, a gravel road leading to Telluride through high-alpine aspen stands that eventually tops out above 10,500ft. Descend from that saddle down to Telluride for breakfast and a leg assessment. Legs ok, brain ok, lungs ok, go for Imogene Pass. If not, call for a bail-out.

And so I was off, riding along a highway before the day’s first light. As I moved through Ridgway, I spotted a red/orange glow down the valley. A little detour and I could see a small wildfire.

On the west side of Ridgway my climb up Dallas Divide began. Daylight was shooting over the hills on the horizon facing my back. The pavement rolled, gently up and gently down, while the ridgeline to the south began to show itself. It was a good view.

The highway pitched upward steeply. My route called for somewhere in the neighborhood of 10,000ft of total elevation gain – on Dallas Divide, it really began to accumulate. Traffic was picking up alongside me. Luckily, those who laid this asphalt laid a passing lane, giving me a cozy buffer from the traffic. I felt slow. I don’t know why. Maybe something to do with the deceptively steep grade, the sharpness of the angle between the hands on the clock, who knows. Regardless, I was relieved to find the beginning of Last Dollar Road just beyond the Dallas Divide summit at 9,000ft above sea level. I hurried my butt to the other side of the highway and on to the first gravel of the day. A speed limit sign gently suggested that I: SLOW DOWN (25) SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN. I was happy to.

As the gravel worked its way up and up, I was surprised to be in ranchlands rather than wilderness. I let go of my concern for bears and moose for a while as the land stretched open before me. It was like the sunrise had been delayed. Soft dawn light elevated my mood and settled on the hills like thick fog. And the road wound on.

A junction and a left pointed me in the direction of higher elevations. After my turn, all of a sudden, the road was rutted and bare. No longer gravel per se, more hardpack with large stones. The forests rapidly closed in on either side as the grade became quite steep. My fear of bears was back. I felt vulnerable moving as slow as I was, with plenty of places for wildlife to hide on all sides.

To take control of my fear, I began talking aloud to myself. This was effective to two ends; one, it warned bears of my passing, so that no mothers need be surprised by my presence (this is a genuine bear safety practice), and two, it reminded me that I am my own friend. I had a long day ahead. I’d have to cheer myself along and be my own voice of reason. So I spoke aloud.

Which was embarrassing when I suddenly came upon a group of campers beginning to wake for their day. Sorry campers. Just a dumb cyclist.

The appearance of campers did let me know that I was getting somewhere though. I was nearing the summit of Last Dollar Pass. My computer was counting down the feet I had left to climb to the saddle, which I found entertaining. Before this year, I hadn’t ever ridden with a cycling computer, the absence of which has its merits, but on a day like this one, I was so glad to have it. I made it to the highest point on Last Dollar Pass and marveled at what lay ahead.

I collapsed into my drops, clawed my brake levers, and got moving. Got moving way too fast. The descent was steep and rough. Concerned about burning up my brakes, I stopped occasionally and took a photo or just a breath. I won’t hide from you the fact that I’m an anxious wreck a lot of the time. Especially out doing something as ill-informed as this. So I took extra precautions and stayed safe.

I didn’t know what I was looking at at the time, but ahead of me was Wilson Peak – the actual mountain in the Coors logo. It was 8am or so, but had I known…

The bottom of the descent brought relief. The road leveled out gradually to a point where I wasn’t nervously riding my brakes, thank goodness. In and out of valleys I rode, drawing closer to Telluride. The sun came up and illuminated a gentle smoky haze that gave depth to the scenery.

I’d never been to Telluride before, and if you haven’t either, it’s good fun to arrive by bike (though the bike path into town is awfully rough!). 45 miles behind me and it was time for brekkie! I’d figured I’d pay too much for food, and I did, but a ham & cheese croissant and a coffee hit the spot. Ate it too fast to enjoy it, to be fair.

As I sat and rested, a local rolled up on a neat old restored Motobecane. “Neat,” I said to him. He thanked me and asked what my ride plans were. I told him what I had done so far and what I was probably about to attempt. Imogene Pass. He said something to the effect of, “you been up there before?” and I lied to him. I said I’d been up there in a Jeep. I hadn’t. He said, “well at least you know what you’re getting into.”

I asked my legs if they were willing to do something stupid. Asked my lungs if they had the capacity. Asked my brain if I was tough enough. Everyone said yes, or yeah probably, or maybe. Regardless, I’d come this far, I was at least going to try. I could bail back to Telluride and make a call at any point. So I started up Imogene Pass.

The road up the pass begins in downtown Telluride. I pointed myself up it. Beep beep, and my computer revealed to me that I had 4,200ft to climb in just over 6 miles. It showed a cross section of the grade clear to the top of Imogene. It looked heinous.

Immediately, the road was a consistent 10%+ grade and as rough as the roughest moments on Last Dollar Pass. I passed folks walking up from town. One, a British kid my age, was screaming into his cellphone about something that frustrated him. I gave him space and he gave me space. I felt grateful that I didn’t have anything to scream about.

Rougher and steeper. Rougher and steeper. Until I was on my feet most of the time, pushing my bike. Layers of rock shot past me as I gained elevation on the steepest road I’d ever seen. I came to a short tunnel, which I found impressive.

After the tunnel, I rounded a corner and the road shocked me by flattening out to a level grade. Above me, all of a sudden, lay what’s called Savage Basin, the amphitheater inside which Imogene Pass climbs through the old Tomboy town and eventually to its summit at 13,114ft. Something happened here. The level grade, the heavy music in my ear, the desperately pretty view, they all ripped into my adrenal gland, which hemorrhaged dopamine. I felt so, so good. And I was no longer unsure. In a matter of time, I knew where I’d be. At the top of the pass. I was fully committed. I took a photo at this moment. I remember exactly how I felt when I took this photo.

It wasn’t long before the level grade gave way to even steeper pitches than before. In the neighborhood of a consistent 20%. And these were rough, too. Around this point, the people in Jeeps and UTVs passing me stopped giving a polite wave and started commenting. Saying, with a smile and genuine intentions, that I was out of my mind. Or that I had a tough road in front of me. Or offering me water. These interactions built my energy.

One lady offered me a shot of whiskey, which normally, I’d be excited to accept. Realistically, I was at 12,000 ft. and beginning to be overworked and dehydrated. Respectfully, I thanked this lady and refused the shot, saying it “would f**k me up beyond belief,” which was a short way of saying that I was already feeling the altitude and alcohol would likely send me off a cliff, literally and figuratively. I told her we’d have a shot in Ouray.

The last mile took an hour. I averaged 1 mph for a full hour. I was truly suffering. The altitude had given me a headache and the exertion felt like it would never end. I was surrounded by scenery describable only in cliche and hyperbole, constantly being checked on by passing motorists, self-motivating harder than ever before, and still I was barely making it. This sounds dramatic because it was dramatic. Finally, I rounded the final switchback.

I crested the saddle. It took so much out of me to get there. This pass had meant nothing to me until this day, when it meant everything.

After a few conversations with motorists at the top, I felt anxious to start descending. I was desperate for better air. My body needed proper oxygen. Setting off, I resumed my music and tenderly descended to the first switchback, where I was away from motorists. And I started sobbing. Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills & Nash had started playing and it sent me over the edge. I hadn’t cried like that in I don’t know how long. And I still don’t know why I did. Some combination of altitude, exertion, relief, accomplishment. They weren’t even purely happy tears. They were something else entirely.

The descent took forever but was a blur. It was physically brutal. Technical and steep. Rougher than the way up. It was all I could do to keep moving forward and not lay down on the ground and close my eyes. At one point, I found a snowdrift, took a handful, and shoved it down the back of my shirt. I dunked my head in a creek. I had enough in me to get to Ouray, but not clear back to Ridgway. I called my partner Rachel for a pickup in Ouray. When I finally, finally reached smooth gravel above Ouray, I felt insane. The descent had been much harder and slower than expected. All I had to do was coast into Ouray, but I still had to keep stopping to take breaks so as to not overload my exhausted brain. Seeing Rachel and being in her arms was an utter relief.

It has been a privilege to share this experience with you. I still don’t quite understand what this ride means to me, or maybe I kinda do but just can’t put it into words. My heart feels happy. Thank you for reading.\

- Jacob