They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Then there is Colorado. I’ve seen a side of America on this journey, where my concept of beauty evolved deeper I went into the relationship with a place. The subtle details, uniqueness, and a moment when there is something special about how you feel that gives a place its beauty you wouldn’t have seen otherwise. But then there are places that have this undeniable external attractiveness that draws you in the minute you come across with it. You’re not immersed in it because you are mesmerized with it. You become distracted by its majestic beauty that subtleties are not relevant to your relationship. It is safe to say I was mesmerized by Colorado as soon as Colorado and I became.

Although, I had crossed into Colorado a couple of days earlier, first spending a night in Eads closed to the state line with Kansas, then in Pueblo where I would join up with Greg, for me Colorado with its majestic beauty did not begin until I was west of Pueblo. It was great to have Greg on this ride, and we would spend the evening catching up, reviewing the next two days between Pueblo and Salida, while enjoying this smallish city on the great plains before setting out for the Rockies. Coming into Pueblo, I was 9 days and 900 miles into my 11 day 1000-mile stretch, with two more days of cycling remaining before my much-needed break prior to going deep into the Rockies.

One of the benefits of having Greg in a car around for the next couple of days was that I would not be carrying all my gear on the bike, giving some relief to my tired legs. When we first discussed him coming out to join me on the road, I had made a comment about not wanting to change anything about my experience. He responded with a laconic disagreement “you will have a perfectly good car with a trunk meeting you at your next stop.” That was end of that discussion. Initially, I had struggled with this idea, convincing myself I would be cheating the journey by changing the commitment I had given to it. Being self-supported was a big part of that commitment, and having Greg there was part of my internal conflict I had resolved. But this wouldn’t have been the first time Greg had to carry my weight.

Greg and his wife, Jen, were my primary support during a very dark period in my life. Around 6 months after Brynn had passed away, and with the pandemic driven shut down in full force, I was losing my battle against the depression that had its grip tightly around my neck. I had been slowly suffocating that was leaving me with lifeless mind and body. And it was this time I was given the “danger to himself” label by my therapist who was trying to help me with my struggles with grief. With nowhere to go with me, given my refusal of anti-depressants, she had to make a call to Greg and Jen who were now my emergency contacts. I would end up living with them up in their Sonoma home for the next two months, where they became instrumental, along with some other close friends and Brynn’s family – particularly her mom – in rehabilitating me back to a state where I was able to deal with the day-to-day mental health and emotional struggles. They had already carried much heavier weight than the bags I had on the bike. And I will always be thankful for that. Before all of this, the lines between friendship and family were already blurry between us. After, those lines were no longer existent.

That Friday morning, I would slowly start making my way outside of Pueblo, heading west towards the day’s stop, Westcliff. And immediately, the landscape started changing. Hills along with boulders started appearing in front of me with the pasture becoming greener with each mile. The initial rolling hills would slowly become longer up hills, gradually gaining elevation from the 4800 feet I had started from. And at mile 16 of the day’s ride, I would have my first glimpse of the Rockies at a distance. I felt eager to get more intimate with the mountains, as deep down inside, there was a part of me that was craving mountain living. The air, quietness, and natural beauty of mountains always provided me with a sense of calm and peacefulness that I was desiring after the rocky relationship I had with Illinois, Missouri, and sporadic moments with Kansas. There is a sense of acceptance that brings you peace when you look up a mountain as you climb, and you know exactly where you are and what the experience will be. You know it will be tough, but well worth it.

As I made my way up to higher and higher altitude, the exposed rocks with scattered bushes would slowly give its way to a dense forest of dark green pine trees. Crossing the 7800 feet mark on my way up to 9100 feet the first day in the Rockies, the views and the elevation would leave me breathless.

Although, I was struggling with shortness of breath at this altitude, my time in Kansas was some way acclimating, gaining around 1000 feet of elevation each day, slowly getting my body and lungs ready for biking at these altitudes I had never done before. This is what salmon do when they are going upstream, they acclimate from salt water to fresh water on their way to laying eggs to bring new life into this world. This climb; the scenery; having Greg here, and to be able to bike with a bit of enjoyment was breathing new life into me. Around mile 30 of the shorter 55-mile day, Greg would pull alongside to see if I needed anything, before heading to the next town we would be spending the night in.

I arrived in Westcliffe, a small but very charming mountain town that was built simply as a railroad stop. The town had become essentially a tourist stop now, and they certainly made us feel welcome. The 3-4 blocks on Main Street had coffee shops, restaurants, and small gift shops. I would roll into a fun pub Greg was siting at and would have a pint of beer and appetizers waiting for me. This would be the experience that Greg would provide throughout. I would have the biking days to myself, experience the road without much change to my relationship with it, but the end of the biking part of the day would be enhanced with his presence.

I would get on the road very early the next morning to a drastically different weather pattern. The fall biking clothes I had been carrying but had not seen since the start of the journey finally made their first appearance. It was a cold and drizzly morning, with a thunderstorm rolling in the night before. I was now playing above 8000 feet, so the day’s ride did not include any significant passes I would have to go over. However, the excitement and boost of energy I felt in yesterday’s ride had quickly dissipated, and the tired body that wanted a break was now really screaming for that break it desperately needed by this point. The 50 miles towards Salida would be a bit of a blur, as I became single track minded with a sole goal of getting off the bike in one piece and as fast as I could. I would go along the busy Highway 50 for a considerable stretch that would include some moments of stress of biking alongside fast-moving traffic with little room to feel safe.

I arrived in Salida shortly before lunch time, and Greg would end up meeting me at a bike shop where I would get new tires, brake pads and a chain installed for the remainder of the trip. All three were worn out considerably after 2300 hard miles they had endured. Afterwards we would walk around in the farmer’s market; alongside the creek that flowed through it, and then have lunch while waiting for our luxurious Airbnb accommodations to become available.

The next day, my official rest day was all about being restful. I woke up around 7am - usual start time on most days – to the smell of freshly cooked eggs, bacon and pancakes emanating up the high ceiling where my room was located on the second floor of our unit. What a treat it was to have a proper breakfast. We would spend the morning listening to Pink Floyd, me writing a bit and then watching our beloved 49ers play their abysmal opening day game against the Chicago Bears. It was the type of day I needed as I was physically very tired, and Greg understood my state very well. He had been along my journey for a long time, and that familiarity made it all the difference, allowing me to simply recharge.

The remaining day would include a hike up the foothill that overlooked the town. And on our way back to our accommodation, my good friends Jim and Mallory would surprise us as they were passing Salida on their way home from Denver. They would come back into the story in Utah.

After my rest day, the fun and games were now over, now facing one of my biggest challenges, a straight 4000 feet climb up to Monarch’s Pass at 11,312 feet above sea level that also happened to be at the center of continental divide. Any river west of this point would flow into the Pacific, while any east of it would into the Atlantic. And I was ready for the Pacific. This would also be the point Greg and I would say our goodbyes for now, as our time together would come to an end. The climb up was simply hard. I don’t have any clever way to describe it. It was 10 miles of 7-10% grade without any breaks. I would just slowly inch my way up to the top.

Once there, Greg and I would hug one another, and with my bike loaded up, we would go our separate ways for the time as I drop in a long descent into my day’s stop in Gunnison. The stark contrast west of Monach’s Pass was immediate. The mountain landscape of the first few days along with beautiful green forest sections were now replaced by gray rounded hills with a touch of rust color markings on its fractured surface. Trees became sparser the more west I went on this stretch, and it had a more desert feel to it. The stretch between Gunnison and Montrose would provide even more variety as the land opened up further, with a river running along Highway 50. I would be surrounded by rock formation with dark and light gray veins providing the contrast to the dark red and brown colored sediments that were exposed under the low water levels of the river. As I became closer to my climb of the day past Sapinero and the Blue Mesa, I would be accompanied by the Dillon Pinnacles that the environmental elements caused erosion of this soft volcanic rock to form cone like shapes. The quickness of changes in landscape so far in Colorado was stunning, and just a few miles up the hill, I would be treated to another change, as now yellow fields hosting different pine species would surround rust colored exposed and sharply eroded rocks.

Coming into Montrose, I had met a fellow cyclist going the same direction for the first time since I begin the journey. His path was taking him from Chicago down to San Diego, and eventually into Mexico. He was visiting from Australia and would be riding as he would put it “as long as time and money allows me to for the next few months.” He would tell me about this hot spring he was going to be stopping for the night shortly after Montrose. I became intrigued about taking a break here, too, for a soak on my way up to Telluride. This would not be one of my finer decisions.

The hot spring, called Orvis Hot Springs, was in Ridgway that was 40 miles and 4500 feet of total climbing away from Telluride. Once I arrived, going slightly off my route, I would find out it was a clothing optional establishment. Of course, once I got in, it appeared no one was taking the option. So, I joined in for an hour, enjoying the natural spring water soaking up my body. At this point, I was experiencing the spring water while fully submerged under the rain that had taken over the day. After an hour, my muscles started becoming a bit too relaxed, and this was a problem I should’ve foreseen. I was not sure what I was thinking going into a hot spring in the middle of an arduous ride, but the damaged had been done. I quickly dried off with a sense of urgency; got my cycling clothes back on and loaded up the water bottles to begin my climb up to Telluride with very relaxed muscles that were disagreeing with me on their current use. But this was all my doing and I had to pay for it. I had another rest day in Telluride to look forward to and that became the focus I needed to ignore what my body was communicating to me.

Leaving Ridgway into Placerville, then a left turn to start another climb into Telluride would give me multiple scenes of nature’s play. It is hard to drift away into thoughts here, as I was fully engaged with my environment to not miss what it was providing. At this point, I was also fully covered in mud from the wet roads as the climb up to Telluride would start to feel endless. But the stunning beauty of Telluride was becoming too evident. I’ve found it fascinating that such violent volcanic events combined with years of erosion could result in such beauty.

Telluride was a town that I had always wanted to go to, given what I had heard and read about. I missed a few opportunities to ski here over the years, but I was also happy to be seeing it in its naked self before the winter clothing would cover it. So, the next day in a half, I played with it. I had been comfortable staying at forgotten places, highway side motels, or interesting B&Bs throughout this journey, seeing a side of America that I was unfamiliar with - I was always a tourist in them. And in Telluride, I felt at home; I felt myself. This trip was about certain discoveries about myself and my imagination about the future. And being in Telluride served a purpose of how I see my future, and all the considerations that go with it.

About Telluride… I don’t think I have the adequate vocabulary to describe its beauty. Every step I took; every new vantage point towards the same sight inspired a new feeling, a new thought. It is truly striking in so many ways. On my rest day, I took at hike up Bear Creek Trail, initially thinking of doing a relaxing hour or so hike where I can unwind from the past few days of cycling, enjoy the views while having some lunch. Rest days are about recovering my body and allowing me to gather the many thoughts that come about on my rides. As I continued going up the trail, I became more and more enthralled with what I was seeing. I kept on telling myself “5 more minutes,” but I wanted to continue experiencing my surrounding. Not being able to stop myself, I eventually would see waterfalls in the distant, and this became my target. I needed to go see it, and I am glad I did. The sounds of the water cascading down the rock provided the perfect background music to the valley surrounded by mountains that laid in front of me. Go experience it!

Walking back down to town, a certain sadness started filling up inside. I had alternate plans to be in Telluride with Elena, but we had decided to change them as I embarked on this solo journey. We both had things to consider about where we were in our relationship, and we were both hoping the two-month separation would provide some internal clarity we both were seeking. Coming into Telluride I had been slowly understanding where I was at this point in time, realizing life is not a solo journey, and that it is much more amazing going through it with the people I love and care for. But perhaps that was a big part of the journey to understand myself; the solitary life I was romanticizing that included living up in the mountains was not who I was deep down inside. I had gone very internal the past few years, living inside a lonely mind that was trying to make sense of life. But introspection doesn’t need loneliness to thrive. And being on the road for now a month and half gave me more appreciation what I had back home that provided a counter balance to that side of me.

After the day of soaking up the natural beauty, enjoying fine wining and dining, and meeting some delightful folks, it was time to say “goodbye and see you soon” to Telluride. I can see myself back here very soon.

My last day in Colorado would include one more climb up over Lizard Head Pass at 10,222 feet, where I would be treated to the wonderful sights of a beautiful meadow sprawled under Sunshine Mountain during a day there was anything but sunshine. By the time I summitted the final pass in Colorado, I was drenched from the rain, but satisfied being done with the Rockies. Wet and cold I would have 20 miles of downhill that would often send shivers down my spine as I biked along Dolores River with yet another change of scenery that would guide me to my final stop of Dolores. The big mountain ranges now were being replaced by smooth yellow, and orange colored sandstone dunes covered with pine trees. In Dolores, I would be meeting up with my friends Jim and Mallory again to spend the evening at their home in nearby Durango; next day Jim would accompany me camping in this RV for my first two days in Utah.

I loved Colorado, and I loved myself in it. And as I would slowly leave this stunning beauty behind, I realize the beauty I was taking with me were the incredible relationships I had on the journey we call life. Colorado’s beauty was enhanced because of them. Although I was biking by myself on this journey, I was certainly not going through it alone.

- Troy

Ride Stats (as of this post)

Garmin Files
Days on the Road: 43 days (5 days off)
Distance Covered: 2,943 miles
Total Ascent: 145,929 feet
Flats: 2
Mechanical issues: 1 (new chain installed was too short)
Bike Traveler Sightings: 20
Reflections: Too many to count
Nervous breakdowns: 2

Colorado: Life is not a solo journey