By the time I had a chance to take out the video camera and record some of my encounter with Olin on tape, I missed the really good stuff. Well, not totally missed it. I listened pretty well up to that point.
I’ve always been a great listener. Growing up, Mom would download her problems on me. My best friends in high school were really the girls I knew quite well, who would confide in me.
Those listening skills served me well over the years as a journalist. I heard more than just words; I heard a story of a life. My interviews always turned into discussions. Barbara Walters had nothing on me. Weally.
I should have known my ride would be more debacle than adventure, but as usual, obvious details appear to slip my radar these days while I dreamily focus on the big picture from a view in the clouds.
The day began when the girls headed into Santa Fe to get supplies and check out the museums. By the time I decided it was time for a ride, I realized they drove off with my bike jerseys, shorts and bandanas in the back of the truck.
Luckily, I stashed my helmet and cleats under the trailer. I opted for the only white t-shirt in my bag — a VeloNews t-shirt — and white baggy shorts. As long as I have my helmet, I figured I’d be fine. I figured I’ll hit the trail I missed the day before and be out for two hours, max.
Just across the tracks, the climb began. It’s steep and probably close to a mile long. I could hear dogs barking up ahead a switchback or two. When I cleared the corner, I saw their object of interest up ahead.
Another lone cyclist chugged up the climb. I jumped on my pedals and huffed it up to him. He was an older guy. Retired nuclear scientist from Los Alamos. Olin was his name.
We struck up a conversation, mainly because I wanted to find out where in the hell that trailhead was that I rode past somewhere, sometime, the day before.
When I learned Olin worked at Los Alamos, I mentioned Lennard Zinn — the bike tech guru who I worked with at VeloNews. I knew Lennard’s father worked there and, lo and behold, Olin knew Lennard’s father, and he knew Lennard. So I spilled the beans that I try to never bring up while I’m on a bike: I used to be editor of VeloNews.
We had a great conversation. Olin filled me in on many of the details of life in Santa Fe. We turned down a fire road toward the trails he recommends as better than the one I missed — which he confirmed was at the NO TRESPASSING sign — and suddenly we were at the crossroads.
Olin was heading to some new trails, where he would do some loops. I could go with him, he offered, or continue on the fire road. I was itching for a solo experience, so I asked if I’d get lost in the loops if I did them alone. Olin didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
That’s when I pulled out the video camera. From all my years of interviewing, when I’m locked in, I posses a near photographic memory. In the years since, I’ve noticed, that when I’m not locked in, I’m a space cadet.
So it was as Olin downloaded his intimate knowledge of the two possible rides I could take while following the fire roads, and the multitude of tangents possible from the original theorems. He rambled on and on. I caught myself looking at the colorful wildflowers and scrub brush pulsating on the breeze like ocean waves.
He flinched and deadpanned, “I thought I saw something in the meadow.”
That recaptured my attention from the flowing flowers. I scanned the meadow for critters with his commentary nothing more than background noise. Finally he finished, handed me his business card, and disappeared into the brush.
I headed out on the fire road, hoping to double back to the mesa he called something like Fandango Mesa. I only knew that because when he said the real name, I could hear one of my favorite bands, Jack Mack and the Heart Attack, singing, “I lived the life, Fan-dango …” in their cover of the 60s classic.
That song ran on an audio loop in my head for the next hour. I remembered Olin saying there was a turnoff once you get to the top of the first climb, but I was well on my way down that climb before I saw anything with tire ruts that headed to the right. When I found an option, I went for it.
After I got amped up about a nifty looking cliff on a mesa straight ahead and I began to fantasize about exploring it, the path started looping back toward Fandango.
I swear I spotted a Jackalope as I slipped into my fantasy world. It disappeared by the time I got the camera out — which didn’t matter because the battery was now dead, and along with it my record of Olin’s directions.
Undaunted, I headed out on a short Jackalope hunt. This road hadn’t been traveled much. It’s a teeth rattler, especially without my bandana to cushion my helmet.
My helmet bounced down on my sunglasses, annoying the hell out of me. So I cut off my sleeves to make a headband. About an hour or so later, after a cool descent into a Pine forest, I abandoned the Fandango quest/Jackalope hunt and turned around.
The mere fact I was hunting a mythical postcard desert animal that’s half Jackrabbit and half Antelope should have been a warning sign for me that the desert heat worked its magic. But noooo.
When I got back to the main fire road I decided to go for it — that is the long ride Olin talked about. Besides, by now I figured it’s probably close to the same distance either way — at least from what I remember of Olin’s advice.
I just recalled that Olin said eventually you’ll hit another fire road that is well-marked. That’s where you turn, and it takes you back to I-25. Then you just take the Interstate back.
About another hour into the ride, while ascending a serious climb, I noted that it has been more than a month since I’ve done back-to-back rides. I rode for 3.5 hours the day before. I started to feel it.
That’s about the same time that a sound bite clicked in my head. Wait a minute, I thought, Olin didn’t say once you hit I-25 you have a 20-MINUTE road ride back to our camp. Nope. He said 20-MILE! Brutal.
I eventually found I-25. Actually a tunnel under it. The road probably continues to an onramp headed in the wrong direction, so I climbed over the barbed-wire fence, up the embankment, and hit the Interstate just before mile marker 301. Our camp was at 290. That’s not too bad, or so I thought. Better than 20 miles.
The first exit was for Pecos. I needed a Coke or candy bar, or something to deal with low blood sugar. I took the exit. Pecos, unfortunately, is back east rather than west. And it was downhill.
About two miles down, I ran into a Park Ranger and a group of people hanging out on the side of the road. They told me Pecos was another four miles downhill. A four-mile mistake already in my pocket. A hilly four-mile mistake.
I trudged back uphill to the Interstate and rode it in. At 294 I exited and finally got a Coke at the KOA. The final four miles was all up hill to the campground. My two-hour quickie, with no bike shorts, turned into a 4.5-hour marathon.
Since my shorts blew up in the wind, I got sunburned above my farmer’s tan. With my sleeves cut for the headband, I ended up with third-degree burns on the upper arms. Ouch.
I shoulda just got lost on the trails with Olin.
Time to ride.
