Colorado Smorgasbord: Nine Days on The New Colo

Words and photos by Bill Talley, additional photos by Keith Jordan and Ri Ganey

“Will that be all for today?” The shopkeeper at the Turkey Springs Trading Post cracked a smile and raised his eyebrow at me. I had already bought five blue Gatorades, a brisket sandwich, two bags of gummy worms, and several candy bars. Now, I was back for an apple fritter the size of my face, a pint of milk to wash it down, and a couple more gatorades.

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It was the ninth and final day of my 2023 New Colo Race, a nearly 1,000-mile loop starting and ending in Durango, Colorado. Dry banter with country storekeepers had constituted the bulk of my social interaction for several days. I didn’t know the route’s creator, Casey, very well before the start, but from the beginning, he struck me as someone with a healthy appetite. Now, after eight days spent traversing the New Mexico and Colorado borderlands, any doubts had long since faded from memory.

Casey’s appetite was not just for “Christmas style” Enchiladas at Mi Tia’s outside Questa, New Mexico. Nor did it stop at two-for-here-plus-two-for-the-framebag breakfast burritos at Elda’s Mexican Brunch in Cedar Hill, New Mexico. Just as much, Casey hankered for long days in the saddle—and next to it, hiking the bike.

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I was hungry for that too.
Nine days of smorgasbord.
Mountains, desert, mountains, desert.
Chase down horizon, rinse, repeat.

At long last, I was satiated and starting to smell the barn. I’d spent the previous night way, way back in the Piedra, hiking my bike through the dappled moonlight on Devil Mountain, feeling like cat food, hoping against hope that the 170-pound felines I imagined behind every shadow were truly imaginary. If “way back in the Piedra” hadn’t meant anything to me before, it sure did now. If I’d been too cool or too cheap for a timber bell before, I’d never be again.

We were five strong early Saturday morning when we rolled out from Durango Cyclery and began the 6,000-foot climb up to Kennebec Pass. Henry Deitrich from Taos; Keith Jordan from Little Rock; Creigh Godson and progenitor Casey Rhea, both Durangotangs. Dr. Tracy Berman of Ann Arbor, Michigan, had ITT’d the route a month or so prior (singlespeed, bless her heart).

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By day four, it was just Henry, on his Kona Sutra, and me, on my Canyon Exceed. We pacelined gravel along the San Juan River all day. In Dulce, New Mexico, Scoops served up tamales, pie a la mode, and frappes, not to mention a few square feet of precious shade. In Chama, New Mexico, I zip-locked a grocery store cheesecake, tried to explain to the Subway employee why people ride bikes up such big hills (“I can’t speak for anyone else, but it helps me bury my emotions…”) and we headed up Cumbres Pass to join the Continental Divide Trail. The heat of the desert had taken its toll on us, and we were ready to get up high again.

Turning right onto singletrack, we knew what lay ahead, and we cursed it nonetheless. We were in Henry’s backyard now, and he explained to me that there are “about four” people who do trailwork in Kit Carson National Forest. Like many sections of the CDT, this one is rarely traveled by bicycle. Downed trees numbered in the hundreds. Thousands of thru-hikers had passed this way, hardly batting an eye at the same trunks that had us doing yoga poses with our rigs. Many crossings were team efforts, and we were lucky to have each other’s support.

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Then we spent a freeeezing night up on the divide. Henry didn’t have a sleeping bag. We both know we would run out of food the next day. Things had been pretty civil so far. Now we were getting our money’s worth. Henry had been losing steam. His rigid drop-bar bike was hard work on the CDT, especially after a crash bruised his hand, and the tractor beam of his nearby home in Taos proved too strong.

I, on the other hand, was as far from my home in Durango as I’d ever been under my own power. That distance made me feel unfettered, and that brought out a stronger bikepacker in me. My identity was distilled into the task of moving through the landscape. I bumbled along the CDT all day, hoping I’d make it to Ojo Caliente before everything closed, knowing full well I wouldn’t. But I felt the rhythm, and pressed on late into the hungry moonlit desert night.

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The rest, as they say, is history. Life was simple, my purpose was clear, and every pedal stroke for the remaining five days brought me closer to home. Henry, Keith, and Casey all came out to offer emotional support; each delivered on their promise to appear when I least expected it, and incidentally, when I was most in need of a boost.

At times, my mood was primal; I imagined myself as the lone warrior returning from battle, like that scene from Gladiator. Not a fair comparison—war is hell, and this is just bikepacking—but I let that feeling hang around for the energy that came with it. At other times, I reminded myself I was on vacation. In the immortal words of Jay Petervay, “I’d rather do it and feel good, than do it and feel like a turd.” A few generous sleep-ins and leisurely cafe stops had me feeling less like a turd every hour.

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At long last, I rolled up to Durango Cyclery, where a small greeting party hosed me down with champagne and proffered barbecue. By the numbers, it was 927 miles, 65,618 feet of elevation, and no less than 10 crossings of the Colorado/New Mexico border. Large parts of my map that had previously been marked “here be dragons” were now richly colored in. I had sought an off-the-beaten-path experience, and by-god, I found one.

Finish-line feelings can vary so widely. Anyone who’s done a bikepacking race knows how desperately you want to be done; anyone who’s done a leisurely tour knows the feeling of not wanting it to end. On the New Colo, I got equal parts race and tour, and when it was over, I just felt peace.

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The Route

The New Colo is a 951-mile loop that starts and ends in Durango, Colorado and racks up over 66,000 feet of climbing as it traverses the region around the Colorado and New Mexico border.

Further Reading

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