By Will Staler

Just over a month ago, I pedaled 2,465 miles of the Great Divide Classic 2021! It takes time to mentally process an experience like that, and even more time for your appetite to return to normal. Now that some time has passed and I have remembered what a normal portion of food looks like, I feel ready to put my experience down on paper.

Let’s start off with the event itself. The “Great Divide Classic” was a slight deviation from the “Tour Divide” mountain bike route this year because the Canadian border was closed due to the COVID pandemic. The race is meant to start in Banff, Alberta but with the Canada/US border closed, we started in Roosville, Montana and hence we rode the Great Divide Classic instead of the Tour Divide. The only significant differences in the routes were in the Great Basin section of Wyoming and an unpaved alternative to the Tour Divide’s long paved sections of New Mexico. Otherwise, it seemed like the “Tour Divide” route had a few more miles of technical singletrack, where the Great Divide Classic routed around the singletrack onto gravel or county roads.

I’m new to bikepacking events, though not to bike touring—which I’ve been at for twenty years. I bought my first mountain bike last August, and soon after, entered my first bikepacking race, the Trans Indiana 250. I was hooked and especially enjoyed biking long distances. With the new mountain bike, I began dreaming of long hours in the saddle on the bridle trails and two tracks, with nary a car in sight. I set my sights on the Tour Divide, and even though the 250 miles of Canada was off the table this year, I realized that this opportunity may never come again. I’m a union stagehand (IATSE 618) and the pandemic gifted me with lots of time off and some unemployment money, an opportunity to improve my biking skills and train. Carpe Diem!

I drove from Indiana to Montana with two other midwestern riders, Petr Ineman and Ken Zylstra. We decided to ride together as much as possible. Riding in the company of others can be very reassuring, especially in bear country, which by most accounts lasts from the start line all the way to Pinedale, Wyoming. Riding with others can also be a mixed bag as your physical limits can become the limits of the group. Lucky for me, everybody in my small circle was strong and easy to get along with.

My Bike and Gear Set-Up

I rode a 2017 Salsa Timberjack with Industry-9 450 rims, 27.5 x 2.6” Vittoria Mezcal tires, Origin8 Strongbow handlebars, and the SRAM Eagle 12 speed drivetrain. While some might consider this over-biking, I was thankful for my set up, especially on long, chunky descents, which became an opportunity to relax and send it. I trained hard to be as fast as I could on pavement, and the Strongbow handlebars allowed for different hand positions, including aero. The Mezcals were great until I got a sidewall tear just above the wire bead at about mile 2010. I saw on Facebook that another rider had the same issue on their 2.1 Mezcals and while that might seem fishy, this course is rigorous and mechanicals are to be expected.

My sleeping set up was a bivvy bag made by Kathmandu, a New Zealand company that makes waterproof bivvy. I set out to sleep in a puffy jacket and pants but after shivering and freezing next to Petr and Ken in their tarp tents and sleeping quilts, I decided to compliment my sleeping kit with a sleeping bag liner and was much more comfortable after that. My sleeping gear and anything that I wanted to keep waterproof was packed in my Revelate Sweet Roll handlebar bag. I kept my electronics (2 Anker battery packs, 4 port Anker wall charger, various charging cables, headphones) in one dry bag, and my layers (leg warmers, sun blockers for the arms and knees, warm hat, Showers Pass gloves, and plastic bags for the feet and nitrile gloves for the hands in case the shit hit the fan) in another dry bag, and stuffed those, along with a 3 litre Hydrapak Seekr water bladder, into my Salsa framebag. My Rockgiest Gondola seatpost bag fit my puffy jacket and pants nicely, and still allowed me to use my dropper post. I stuffed snacks in a Revelate Mag Tank 2000, and put my sunscreen, chapstick, and other small bits in a Revelate Jerrycan bag.

The Grand Depart and Trials in Montana

The grand depart is a real rush for a chatty guy like me. I had the opportunity to get to know a few riders, which is one of the most exciting parts of the race to me. Who are these people, and what makes them want to embark on a grueling 2,465 mile bicycle journey? We all must have had something to prove, if not to others, then to ourselves. Perhaps there’s a darkness that’s avoided by the intense demands of an experience like the Tour Divide, which breaks your daily life down into the basics: find food, find water, and dig deep to find the resolve to do it all over again tomorrow.

I bonked hard the first few days, which surprised me because I took nutrition seriously in training. I’d probably keep a conversation going, though, in lieu of stopping to eat a snack, and I think it caught up with me. I bonked so hard just before Holland Lake that I got dropped mid-conversation by Sam Sipio. She later saw two grizzly bears a bit further up the trail and was worried I’d been eaten after I didn’t reunite with her further on. In fact, I was just starving and lost, trying to figure out how to get to Holland Lake Lodge. By the time I found it, the lodge was out of food for the evening, and the staff was rather condescending about the whole situation. Sam, in a tremendous act of generosity, offered her plate of food to me. I was revived, and we all got out of that over-priced lodge as soon as we could. We were happy to find an awesome campground just up the road. The staff there were so accommodating as to bring us several cans of soup when they found out how hungry we all were.

Montana is a tough state. The terrain is rough, and your body is just getting used to the whooping it’s about to take. I’d never had to deal with saddle sores before, but I had to start dealing with them on day 3. Soon, every pedal stroke became painful, and imagining 2,000 more miles in that sufferable state was making my head spin. I don’t know if my saddle sores actually got better, or if the diaper rash cream I applied at night helped, or if my brain stopped acknowledging the pain, but after about a week and half, the saddle sores began to heal. Soon after the saddle sores appeared, I noticed pain and swelling in my achilles. A fellow rider, Jackson Lester, took note that I was riding flat pedals and advised me to pedal more with my heels, and to drop my seat a few centimetres. I continued to adjust my pedal stroke and seat height depending on how my achilles were feeling throughout the race.

Saved in Wyoming After Drive Train Annihilation

Reaching the Idaho/Montana border was a triumphant moment for me. I whooped, hollered, and took a picture of my bike at the sign. My excitement was cautious, though, and it turns out for good reason. We all had a great time pedalling through Idaho and Wyoming, and enjoyed some truly impressive scenery out there, but as we climbed up Union Pass my bike was feeling exceedingly “pushy”, and even the pavement into Pinedale felt more strenuous than necessary. As we pulled into town to wash our bikes off in front of Geared Up, the local bike shop, a passer-by noticed that my chain was slack. As Petr gave my bike a closer look, it was evident that my rear hub bearings were completely shot. My bike was in no state to tackle the next section of the course, one of the most challenging, desolate, and notorious stretches—the Great Basin. I arranged to meet Andrew Zoomis at the shop the next morning, and, as I was doubtful the shop would have the parts I needed, I told Petr and Ken to continue without me. They left the next morning, just as I headed to Geared Up to meet Andrew at 8:30 am.

Andrew hustled to rebuild my SRAM Eagle, and ended up replacing my entire drive train; rear hub bearings, rear cassette, chain, bottom bracket bearings, and front ring. He had me out the door with confidence by early afternoon. His next customer that day was Bob Lesmerises, who swapped out his gravel bike frame for a full suspension frame. Bob is quite the character, navigating with no GPS navigation device, and instead just used the ACA maps. He also got lost—a lot, and then would ride like a madman to catch the pack. I left Bob at the shop, bought a couple of extra water bottles, and loaded up on snacks for the next 130 miles. I wanted to catch up with the boys. I rode into the wee hours of the night, got within 15 miles of them, and bivvied next to the road in a state of exhaustion. I woke up at 5:30, and the moment the sun appeared, the heat began, and there was no escape from it, no shelter from the sun. I missed the few opportunities for water supply, a big mistake, while trying to power through. I caught up with the boys just as the Basin ended and a pavement stretch into Rawlins began, too dehydrated to eat. The sun felt like poison. I only had ½ a litre of water and I saw a huge climb ahead. I had to eat something, but when I rummaged around my bags I realized the only food I had left was mozzarella wrapped in prosciutto. A delicious snack, to be sure, but the kind of thing you’d want to eat in the shade. I gobbled it down and limped up the hill, sloshing my last sips of water in my mouth for as long as I could before swallowing. Alex Kadlec had joined the gang at this point and dropped a litre of water for me on the shoulder of the road from up ahead. When I saw that plastic water bottle with “Will” written all over in in Sharpie, it was as if golden beams of light were emanating from it. I chugged it down and pulled into Rawlins where we got a hotel for proper sleep.

The Rain Started in Colorado, and Didn’t Stop

Arriving at the Brush Mountain Lodge felt like crossing the Montana border—really good! My throat, however, was not at all feeling good. All of us in our small group had developed a trail cough, and mine was beginning to cause me serious concern. Kirstin has quite the station set up for cyclists who pass through, and I helped myself to a few of her Sudafed and left feeling like a million bucks. Colorado, while beautiful, was not going to be a walk in the park. The weather took a turn from a heat wave in Montana (103 degree highs) to an Rocky Mountain rainstorms that persisted until the finish line. Rainy weather proved to be dangerous on mountain passes, as a run of the mill rain squall could morph into treacherous conditions once you went over the summit. Marshall Pass was the scariest, as a mild spritz turned into full on winter conditions on the other side of the pass. Halfway down a 20 mile descent I stopped to evaluate my situation—my saddle had frozen over and the temperatures and conditions were getting painful, maybe even dangerous. Ken and I noticed a single RV with a generator going, and we knocked on their door and were invited in by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses who were happy to let us dry off and warm up inside for a while. Eventually, Petr found us, and once we were full of hot coffee and our clothes were dry, we were on our way.

There are no easy days on the Tour Divide. Every day is a big day, there are a lot of miles before your next resupply, or there’s a daunting mountain pass, or there’s the Basin to contend with—it’s really what makes the course so challenging—long, hard days stacked on hard, long days. I felt as though my body acquiesced and accepted the challenge as I reached New Mexico. By the time I crossed the border, I had fallen into my personal rhythm of waking up early, starting off slow, and letting my energy increase as the day wore on. I began to start off a little earlier than Petr and Ken, who would catch up to me later in the day, and we’d pedal together until nightfall. Meeting up with those two, and whoever else we had picked up on the way, at the summit of a mountain, or at a gas station, were the moments that I looked forward to every day. The night we all rolled into Abiquiu was particularly sublime, as everyone was in great spirits, and the sunset was overwhelming. We ended up at River’s Retreat, where Goldie set us up in a tepee for the night.

The next day started in the same fashion, I got up a bit earlier than the rest of the gang, and as Ken and Petr packed the last of their honey buns, frozen burritos, and granola bars into their bags, I started my way up the first climb. I made it to the first summit, took lunch and a nap, and while I was a bit surprised the boys hadn’t caught up yet, I didn’t think much of it and pressed on. It wasn’t until I got to Cuba and got cell phone reception that I checked in with them and found out that they never left Abiquiu as Ken’s cranks had broken! This could easily have been the end of his race, but Ken found a set of cranks to buy at the nearest bike shop in Santa Fe, and through his own good graces, personal charm, and apparent stock of good karma, found a kindhearted family to drive him the 100 miles there and back. Everything had worked out swimmingly, but at this point I was 100 miles ahead, and so, with their blessing, decided to head out on my own for the final stretch. I rode on the pavement towards Grants on my second night ride of the race. Every time I glanced over my shoulder to check for traffic, it was like peering into the abyss—no foreground, to horizon, no up, no down. I pulled off to bivvy on the side of the road and counted six shooting stars as I fell asleep.

Flying Solo with Failing Sidwalls

I awoke the next morning to finish the 100 miles of pavement to Grants. It was very much like the Great Basin—unrelenting in its heat and desolation. I stopped for water, ice cream, and shade at the Chaco Trade Center, and was 15 miles outside of town when I noticed that my front tire was slowly deflating. Since I was riding such large tires, I kept the PSI pretty high, and as I put my ear up to that floppy tire I heard air seeping out of a sidewall tear just above the wire bead. I’m not too confident in my mechanical skills, so I filled up my tire as best I could and crossed my fingers that the sealant would keep me running. My tubeless setup stopped holding air at noon the next day, so I got out a spare tube, booted the tire with a small patch, and only pumped to 20 PSI in hopes that it would last the rest of the race.

The monsoon season had come early to New Mexico with rain every afternoon. After I put the tube in my tire, I rode directly into a storm on the dirt roads up to Pie Town. It wasn’t long up that washboard road that a couple in a pickup truck stopped to offer me some Twizzlers and some advice: the road ahead was going to get greasy. So slippery that cars were having trouble staying on the road. I’d seen the peanut butter mud in the movies, but nothing prepared me for that shit. You can’t ride it, you can’t push your bike through it, and you certainly can’t pick your bike and carry it. I just kept at it, though, and eventually reached Pie Town.

This is another decisive point in the race. After Pie Town, it’s 180 miles before dependable resupply in Silver City. There really isn’t much in Pie Town, and the shops are all closed at 4 pm. I arrived at 7 pm at the Toaster House and raided their free hiker/biker cupboard of goodies to find enough calories for the next push. I was elbow deep in macaroni and cheese and a frozen pizza when I hear a familiar voice shout, “Will! I made it man! I followed your tracks through the mud!” It’s none other than Bob Lesmerises (no GPS guy), who has just made a 200 mile overnight push to catch me. We decided we’d make this next push together the next morning, and after coffee, we set off.

To the Finish, with Bob

The last passes of the race might look small on the elevation charts, but those miles through the Gila are brutal—all climbing without any satisfying descent. They are also desolate, and your nutrition plan needs to be thought out. I carried more calories than necessary because I knew that if I were to come up against any more peanut butter mud, I might have to sit it out and wait for conditions to dry out. We tackled the last 180 miles in a single push, which took about 30 hours. We left Silver City at about 4 pm, just as a thunderstorm lurked over the last 50 miles of dirt on the course. We put on our rain jackets, and after waffling about whether or not we should stop and wait out the weather, hit the dirt smack in the middle of a thunderstorm. Time to cash in whatever luck I had left. Luckily there was still some in the tank because Bob and I skimmed over that dirt in the rain like it was nothing. We made quick time to Separ, and rode through the puddles in the portage road to our final stretch.

We limped our way to the finish. Bob’s new frame had broken at the seat stay back at Lake Roberts, and his gorilla tape/hose clamp fixed had been compromised by all the rain. I had foolishly put more air in my tires for this last pavement section in hopes of getting some speed back, but this proved a poor decision as I sprung a slow leak and had to stop and pump my tire six times on that home stretch. None of that really mattered, though, because we were almost done with the Tour Divide. The sun rose with 10 miles to go, and we spooked a herd of 50 buffalo off the road and watched them leap over a fence to get back to their mountains. It was amazing. I’d spent 2,400 miles wondering why anyone in their right mind would want to do this race again, but in those last 100 miles I began to daydream about what my next attempt might look like. After we arrived at the finish at the border at Antelope Wells, Jeff Sharp from the Bike Ranch picked us up and set us up for the night. He took care of us and it was a relief.

I don’t know if I could have made it without the excellent conversations I had with my fellow riders, the support and enthusiasm of trail angels and businesses along the way, the playlist my wife made me, or without a sweet puff of Mary Jane from time to time. Honestly, the love and support I had from my friends and family was the bedrock of the whole experience. If your life ain’t right when you leave home, it’s going to make your ride that much harder, so take care of yourself and your life leading up to the depart. The Tour Divide is the ultimate test of rig and rider, and a strong finish made me feel as though anything in this world is possible.

Thanks to Dave and Matteo at Gravelstoke for the opportunity to reflect on the experience. I hope it gives you the motivation to give the Tour Divide a shot. 2022 is going to be an amazing year for the race, the whole course will be available, and all the international riders will be able to take a crack at it, which should make it even more interesting out there on the trail. Might as well start planning and training now!