There was fire in the air on the last day of July. The morning felt thick with haze from the three  Front Range blazes as I rolled my bike outside. Colorado has been lucky the last few years, but there’s always the chance that fire season will mar my otherwise favorite time to live here. At least the air doesn’t smell like smoke yet, I thought as I swung a leg over and pushed off. The day would be long and the air thin enough where I was headed: from my home in Boulder all the way up to the 14,000+ foot perch of Mount Blue Sky. 

The road above Echo Lake, June 2022; photo: Anton Krupicka

I’m not generally a fan of paving roads to the tops of mountains—the summit of Blue Sky (formerly known as Mt Evans) boasts the highest paved road in the US. But, cyclists (this one included) undoubtedly benefit from such paved infrastructure. Whether you’re riding a road, gravel, or mountain bike, mountain passes are often the closest you can get on two wheels to any actual summits. When a road like the one up Blue Sky does exist, it presents an almost irresistible challenge in the opportunity to ride to such a high point. There’s even an annual bike race on the notorious high-altitude tarmac to Blue Sky’s summit. The race starts from nearby Idaho Springs and the point-to-point course clocks a whopping 6,700 feet of elevation gain in only 27 miles.

My first time riding up Blue Sky; August 2020. Cruising the Peak to Peak Highway (left), learning the meaning of the word bonk (right). 

Although I’ve never done the race, I’d tagged Blue Sky twice before, as mega from-the-doorstep rides. I’ve not quite managed to make it an annual tradition, but both previous rides have been rewarding experiences, days I remember those summers by. Plus, I knew that Blue Sky would be off the table for 2025 due to (much needed) repaving operations above Echo Lake, so I felt a little extra incentive to tick it off once more. Third time’s the charm, though, as I set out, I wasn’t quite sure what for in this case. 

Blue Sky summit, June 2022; photo: Aaron LaVanchy

Not exactly an alpine start, I left home just before 7 a.m. I tried not to think about the day’s AQI as I rolled through the familiar warm-up miles, past Boulder’s red-bricked university district—nearly deserted in summer—to reach downtown, and then onto the crushed-gravel bike path at the mouth of Boulder Canyon. The canyon’s gentle opening gradient marked the start of the nearly continuous climbing that lay between me and Blue Sky’s far-off summit. Shortly after the bike path’s end, the warm-up also came to an abrupt close as I turned off onto Magnolia Road.

Of the many climbs that carve through the foothills to the west of town, Magnolia is the one I visit least. The name may sound sweet but it’s steep—not many have lung capacity to spare to do any flower-smelling here. Gaining 2,000 vertical feet in the initial four miles, Magnolia doesn’t beat around the bush, and you know pretty immediately if your legs are up for the task or waging early protest. Fortunately I rode through Magnolia’s rudest pitches without giving them much thought (a welcome indicator) and soon found myself at the false top-out, where pavement turns to dirt. See, after its initial burn, Magnolia continues to sting: a series of undulating rollers punctuate the dirt stretch. They’re just steep enough to remind you that the climbing isn’t over and to lament any precious elevation lost when you roll over their tops. 

Cresting the top of the pavement on Magnolia Road, June 2022; photo: Aaron LaVanchy

Riding out the momentum of one such roller—and moving from open meadow to tree cover—I entered a sharp, ascending S-turn. Just as the road began to climb again, I saw a long and low silhouette moving up ahead. In the split second that it took my heart to jump into my throat, I realized it was a mountain lion. My foot went down as I stopped to watch. The mountain lion was, perhaps, thirty feet from where I stood. In the nearly eight years that I have lived in Colorado, this was the first time I’d seen one. To call it a “cat”—as people do colloquially—is to undersell its presence. This creature was a lion and embodied all the predatory potential that name implies. 

I was sure that the animal knew I was there, though (mercifully) it never turned its head in my direction. I considered fumbling for my phone, but then thought better of missing the moment. For just a few seconds, I was graced with the vision of its nonchalant swagger as it padded across the road before ducking under a guardrail and disappearing into the trees, just like that. I could hear a vehicle approaching and I waited until an F-150 barrelled by obliviously, hoping that its mechanical roar would nix any second thoughts that the lion might have been having about coming back to check me out. Once the truck was gone, I pedaled on. 

For the next few miles, I buzzed with adrenaline from the encounter. The speed of bike travel seems to lend itself to witnessing this kind of trivial beauty, moments of life just happening. Sometimes these moments are what stick with me most: a black bear bobbing in the waters of the South Platte River; the music of a back-yard wedding party; the daybreak smell of someone’s breakfast drifting out an open window; the way that dusk falls in the desert, cool and velvet. By bike, you can cover a lot of ground efficiently, while still moving at a pace that lets you really see. It takes you out of yourself, while also offering complete immersion.  

Central City, almost to Idaho Springs; July 2024

I was thoroughly enjoying the day when, with 40 miles and 6300’ in the legs, I reached the old mining town of Idaho Springs in time for an early lunch at the combo Subway and Starbucks. I’ve ridden to Idaho Springs plenty, including twice during the North South Colorado bikepacking race, and once with my partner in March during a frosty credit-card overnighter to the wholly underwhelming Indian Hot Springs Resort (where the basement tubs made me feel like I was walking into the plot of a horror movie). Despite this familiarity, I find the town pretty depressing with its visible vestiges of bygone mining operations, the commercial clustering along the I-70 corridor, and the tourist trappings that line the old downtown drag. It feels like the past carved out Idaho Springs and the town has never found anything new to fill the void. No matter, I wouldn’t be stopping long enough for my mood to be brought down. 

A six-inch sandwich, bag of chips, slice of pound cake and an iced coffee later and I felt heroic. Leaving town, I decided on a whim to point my wheels towards the dirt climb up Little Bear Creek Rd, instead of the more direct and paved climb up State Hwy 103. I’ve ridden both in the past and, although Little Bear would add an extra four miles and ~600’ of climbing, I was craving the quiet of its forested turns. I didn’t question the feeling. 

Starting up the climb, I watched the breeze flutter a front-yard flag in the favorable direction: tailwind. I took that as a good sign and proceeded to crank up the climb with renewed appreciation. It was on Little Bear that I realized how badly I’d needed this ride. With the recent shake-up in the Democratic presidential ticket, and the election looming, the news had become almost unbearably frenzied.

On top of that, my work situation also seemed uncertain at best. As a freelance writer in the cycling industry, the line between work and life had been feeling increasingly muddled for the past couple years. Events and trips seemed to always have a work tie-in, and I was starting to realize that the work side was becoming a crutch, sometimes allowing me to avoid the question of what I might have otherwise been motivated to do if I simply “clocked out” and could choose anything. Add in the post-pandemic gut punch to the cycling industry, and the fact that I was barely making a living wage, and I was beginning to question what I was actually gaining versus giving up by taking the freelance route. Blah blah blah I was tired of hearing myself think about it all. Days like these were a reminder that time can’t always be money; sometimes it’s just time that you need to spend freely. Tacking on the “extra” climb up Little Bear felt liberating because it was entirely elective. I didn’t need to ride it to reach the summit of Blue Sky, I just wanted to. 

A chilly day on Little Bear Creek Road, March 2022; photo: Anton Krupicka

Memories of past rides flashed through my mind as I climbed under the eyes of the aspens; riding Little Bear felt like hearing a favorite story retold. At the top, I rejoined the pavement, a brief highway in the sky that wheels between 10,000 and 11,000’ past one of the smallest still-operating ski hills in the state. Ahead, I caught a fresh glimpse of the day’s objective: Blue Sky was living up to its name under an azure banner. A band of motorcycles throttled past me on the brief downhill from Juniper Pass; the chance to coast for even a precious few minutes made the extra climbing effort feel worthwhile.

The Echo Lake turnoff marks the last chapter in the Blue Sky climb: 14.5 miles and 3,550’ remain to reach the top. Here, my mind shifted from the dreamy daze of feeling present in the day to the firmer focus I knew would be required not to crack on this last leg. I queued up some hard-hitting music and put my head down. Here, it’s easy to succumb to the tedium of mile-counting as this last part can feel interminable even as, or especially because, the end is close enough to imagine. 

Above treeline, July 2024

As the road climbed above treeline, the haze-thickened air below became more apparent. All day, I’d been getting text updates about the fires’ containment and evacuation orders for parts of the Front Range. It seemed that another fire had started in the hills southwest of Boulder since I’d left. That made four fires in 48 hours. The thought crossed my mind that, depending on how the afternoon’s wind played out, my return route home might be blocked off by teams fighting this new blaze. 

Cars passed as I slowly traced the final stack of seven switchbacks up to the summit. The cars were annoying me, for no better reason than they were there, distracting, taking me out of the present effort. Crank up the music, turn the pedals, don’t think about the top, breathe. Down to my right, I saw a family of mountain goats lounging on the tundra hillside, their ragged white coats acting as camouflage among sun-whitened rock. The mountain goats you see in Colorado are not native to the state; they were introduced in the 1940s to entice big game hunters, but they look like they belong. 

Mountain goats on the way up Blue Sky; July 2024

Unsurprisingly, I found plenty of people on the summit, though I was the only one I could see who’d arrived by bike. Groups of two’s and three’s milled about in flip flops, lining up to take selfies in front of the summit sign. I waited my turn, positioned my bike, then dutifully took a photo of my bike in front of the sign. Alone amidst the other visitors, I didn’t feel like taking a selfie. The fires, which I’d largely been riding away from all day, were bumming me out. Looking north, I could see the way I’d ridden up and, further, the foothills that guard the Continental Divide’s eastern flank. The hanging haze of smoke made the mid-afternoon light seem especially harsh. 

Regardless, I took a few moments to enjoy the summit. Only 75 miles from home, I’d gained a total of almost 14k’ in elevation to arrive. I was glad to have made it, but as I looked out at the smog-filtered air, mixed with my feeling of personal satisfaction was the sinking realization of the power of the forces beyond me. Riding a bike is an infinitesimally small act in the face of climate change, and that wasn’t the point of my ride anyway. My vote in the upcoming election felt only marginally more impactful. Wanting to see the first woman elected president in the United States and believing that can happen, in this moment, are not the same thing. 

Blue Sky summit; July 2024

The afternoon was getting late and, despite the huge net downhill, there were (unbelievably) still plenty of hills separating me from home. Donning jacket and gloves, I kicked off. As I left the summit, I saw in one corner of the parking lot, a female mountain goat and her kid staring dumbly into the eyes of passersby, like beggars on a street corner. The sight brought a heaviness to my chest and I wanted to shoo them away. 

The cold rush of the descent made quick work of drying the tears that had inexplicably clouded my vision. The dueling feelings of gratitude and longing, trying and fatigue washed over me. Sometimes you have to push against something as immovable as a mountain to feel the weight of life so completely. 

Starting the descent, July 2024

Repassing Echo Lake, I felt more at ease and began to enjoy the rewards of the descent back to Idaho Springs. Picnickers lined the banks and the day seemed promising again. Dropping the 27 miles from the summit to town in an effortless hour suddenly made the return home feel more manageable.

A quick gas station stop—ice cream sandwich, barbeque Fritos—plug in a podcast and keep rolling. I told myself that the two major climbs remaining to return the way I’d come were relatively easy, in the totality of the day: 2000’ back up the gravel switchbacks of Oh My God Rd to Central City, and then the steady 1500’ pavement grind of the Peak to Peak highway back to Magnolia. The ride would, eventually, be “all downhill from here,” but not yet.

Oh My God Road, the second time; July 2024

I wanted to regain the quiet, gravel rollers of Magnolia before dark fell. I almost did, but watching the sun dip like a sinking comet below the Divide from the high point of the Peak to Peak was worth getting benighted prematurely. Darkness in the trees on Magnolia and the slosh of gravel under tires. I hoped the lion was done prowling for the day. Breezing through an open meadow, I could see the sprinkle of lights from Boulder and, closer, the dim glow of the teams working on the latest fire just south of me. 

“All downhill from here” finally came once I crested onto the paved portion of Magnolia, the beam of my headlight guiding me through the steep corners. The air was warm and the miles swift as the canyon deposited me back into downtown. Chocolate milk to go from the corner bodega; a burrito was waiting at home. 

I didn’t want the day to be over as I cruised back through town. It was the best day on the bike I’d had in recent memory and my legs still had the rare readiness of wanting to ride forever. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go and dinner, a shower and bed were sounding pretty good, too. In the driveway, I took off my helmet, clicked off my lights and shouldered my bike to take inside. My lungs felt tired, but my mind was quiet, content. I was back where I started, but I felt renewed, more full for having emptied myself, ready again to try in all the ways that life demands. 

RWGPS ride file embed link: