Last night’s training spin quickly morphed into an epic saga of man versus nature. Dive into the map of my route to see just how the adventure unfolded. Not long after leaving the comfort of town, my rear wheel began its own rebellion, threatening to end the journey before it truly began. Yet, against the whispering of common sense, I pressed on, a decision that would later haunt me as night fell.
Do take a moment to check out my ordeal in technicolor in the Picasa Web Albums, especially the “March 4th, 2008 – The Hell Ride” album.
Riding through Blue Mountain was like willingly diving into a cold, wet embrace. The idea of cutting the ride short danced in my thoughts, especially after a downhill section left me shivering and my bike beginning to resemble an ice sculpture. Despite having the perfect opportunity to call it quits at the Mullan Road intersection, I stubbornly decided to soldier on towards Frenchtown. It wasn’t long before my heart rate monitor and cycle-computer gave up the ghost.
In an adventurous (or perhaps foolish) spirit, I took a detour down Deschamps Lane, a path I’d always been curious about, leading to Roller Coaster and eventually, home. This decision, however, did little to stave off the cold.
By the time I was making my way back to Missoula, the cold had seeped into my very bones. Attempts to eat for warmth were futile; my face was too frozen to chew. My bike and I became one with the ice.
Upon finally arriving home, I stripped off my icy armor and sought refuge in a hot bath, which quickly turned into a chilly soak thanks to my subzero body temperature. I was a human popsicle. But the night pressed on—warming up, bike maintenance, laundry, and then, finally, bed. The paltry 4.5 hours of sleep I managed to snag should be hitting me any moment now, hence the brevity of this blog. Do check out the photos; they’re quite the frozen spectacle.
— Spectator at Togwotee Classic 2018
Boneshakerbike 
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