SlickRock

Great Divide Race June 2005

Day 1

The Start

Midday, June 17th 2005 - Port Rooseville, US Canadian border.

It's raining, hard at times. A southerly wind is driving US raindrops horizontally into Canada. 7 bikes are propped against the wooden wall of a bar out of the rain. 7 riders, one female, make final preparations. I adjust my Endura shorts, zip up my Montane rain jacket and leave a pair of old sandals by the door for someone to find. No one is overly enthusiastic about turning pedals today but everyone is cheerful. Stamstad started his ride at midday and the unwritten protocol states that we do the same.

One by one we roll out onto the road and line up; we have so little gear we look like a bunch of day trippers. There is one spectator who takes the official photographs and 2 minutes after midday by mutual consent we ride south into a headwind that was to blow and blow and blow.

Rider Analysis

I hardly know myself sometimes yet I look at the other racers and try to fathom their being here. I'm not the oldest by a few years but the youngest is maybe 18 years my junior and I have immense respect for that youngster. Pete Basinger soundly beat me to McGrath the previous year and in him I saw determination and character. When I would catch him at a checkpoint resting he would pack up and go knowing I would have to stop for an hour or more to eat and dry clothes, I would see his tiredness but more obvious was his mental strength. Trish Stevenson, tall, athletic, strong, she's here to finish the race that she abandoned through injury the previous year. Brad Kee a kayaker from the East coast, a big guy with not a huge amount of big rides behind him. Matthew Lee, finished the race last year but cruised it, why is he here again? Scott Morris, unassuming, quiet, a wizard with a GPS he rode the route the previous year from south to north mapping the entire route. Last but not least is Kent Peterson. The oldest, shortest and by a wide margin the most eccentric of the line up, he has ridden the 600 miles from his house to the start line. I look at him, I look at his bike. I believe in study, preparation and finding the best tools for the job, my rear hub was worth more than his whole bike and that is the truth. He is riding a steel rigid singlespeed with 26' wheels, he has whittled a pair of aero bars from sticks found in his back yard, attached with string and tape he has various paraphernalia swinging from bike and body. He has flat pedals with powerstraps, he has one of those small mirrors on a thin wire protruding from his helmet, who the hell does he think is going to be creeping up on him in the middle of the desert?

In a 'Tortoise and Hare' way I respected Kent Peterson. Some months earlier he had sent me an email, in this he wrote:


For someone to make such a statement they knew themselves well. Looking at the bike you'd assume impending doom, looking at his list of achievements you'd put good money on success. Kent Peterson was a bit of an enigma. The first days riding, as in any race, was fast. We rode some flat tarmac and six of us on our high tech 29ers predictably dropped Kent and his small wheeled monocog. We cruised alongside rivers and climbed through dense forest. I chatted a bit with Pete and for a while I climbed with Trish, eventually I settled into a rhythm with Scott as we beat our way to Whitefish in the wind, rain and bitter cold.

On a long straight descent I saw my first bear; a black bundle of fur came crashing out onto the trail and straight into the woods on the other side; it was a wake up event to remind us that today and for several days to come we would be in brown and black bear territory. As the group spread out I continued to ride with Scott until the day ended around 2am when we both checked into a Motel with about 150 miles behind us. If there was an opportunity to get a bed for a few hours I would generally try and take it; I imagined Kent out there with his one cog probably bivied down in some swamp with the mosquitoes and bears. Matthew might be ahead or he might be behind. I had visions of Pete riding through the night and a hundred miles ahead by dawn, it was all speculation, I might not see any of the other riders ever again.