Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde que escribí sobre el Campeonato Nacional de Bicimensajería de Colombia, y aún más desde que enfrenté el desafiante Alto del Sifón. Así que, en este artículo, quiero hacer un resumen de todo lo que ha sucedido en los últimos meses, una travesía llena de retos, momentos intensos y recuerdos que perduran.
Todo comenzó con un desafío que, aunque realizado anualmente, nunca deja de sorprenderme: el Reto Bogofija. Este reto consiste en conquistar, con bicicletas de piñón fijo, una serie de 18 puertos de montaña dentro de mi estado y, como si fuera poco, ¡también los 4 míticos puertos de Colombia! Pero mi bicicleta, la TD4 configurada para Tracklocross, abrió nuevas posibilidades. Así que decidí hacer algo aún más atrevido: realizar el reto, pero no solo por carreteras asfaltadas, sino también por trocha.
La primera montaña a conquistar fue Romeral, conocido como el Muro del Sur. Su fama no es casualidad: rampas con inclinaciones que superan el 11%, alcanzando un máximo aterrador del 18%. Subirlo es como estar al borde de la extenuación, sintiendo cómo tus pulsaciones suben a límites insospechados. Pero lo que realmente hace que este puerto se quede grabado en tu memoria no es solo la subida, sino también la bajada. Bajando con una bicicleta de piñón fijo, debes mantener el control en todo momento, ya que, sin frenos, cualquier movimiento puede llevarte al límite. Una vez, en el segmento más empinado, la cadena se salió de su lugar, y si no sabes lo que esto significa en una bici de piñón fijo, imagina que en una bicicleta normal te quedas sin frenos mientras intentas frenar en una curva cerrada. Sientes un corrientazo recorrer tu cuerpo en milisegundos. Mi consejo: mantener la calma, desencalar lo más rápido posible, y hacer todo lo posible por controlar el movimiento con los pies. ¡Todo un reto para mantener la mente fría!
Luego, me enfrenté al Alto de Canicas, por la vertiente del Tornillo. En mi país, los nombres de las rutas reflejan la creatividad local, y cuando llegué a las 4 curvas de herradura con rampas por encima del 25%, comprendí por qué se llama “El Tornillo”. Aquellas rampas de más de 25% me hicieron sentir como si estuviera subiendo unas escaleras de caracol, luchando con cada pedalada. Pero una vez superado ese reto, el resto de la subida fue un paseo hasta la cima.
Los siguientes puertos de la ruta, La Vega, Mesitas y Tequendama, no presentaron mayores complicaciones. Sin embargo, lo que sí es inconfundible en estos puertos es el cambio radical de temperatura, ya que están por debajo de Bogotá, a 2640 metros sobre el nivel del mar.
Pero uno de los momentos más emocionantes y personales fue la subida al Alto del Águila, que tiene el sello personal de Egan Bernal, el joven campeón. Esta es la ruta que Egan entrena para sus victorias en el Tour de Francia y el Giro de Italia, y para mí, la idea de hacerlo tanto por pavimentada como por trocha era una oportunidad de oro. La subida comenzó atravesando campos de papa Antenas de telecomunicación y llegó a un segmento conocido como “La Castigadora”. Un nombre que hace honor a su naturaleza: al final de esa subida, mis piernas temblaban como gelatina. Pero no todo era sufrimiento; el descenso me llevó a un respiro, y después de esa experiencia, mi mente se preparó para lo que vendría: los 22.2 kilómetros de subida pavimentada, que me llevarían de 1851 metros a 3245 metros de altura.
Esa subida fue mi preparación para la Brevet de 300 km, un reto que, aunque no terminé como esperaba, me enseñó mucho sobre cómo enfrentar los fracasos sobre la bici, algo que compartiré en mi próximo blog.
Mi siguiente aventura no fue planeada. Mi idea inicial era subir Yerbabuena por la vía pavimentada y regresar por una ruta sencilla. Sin embargo, después de enfrentar rampas del 19% en Yerbabuena, decidí tachar otra subida de la lista: La Cuchilla, un puerto donde el aire puro y el nacimiento de agua dan la bienvenida. A 3.365 metros sobre el nivel del mar, en medio de los frailejones, me encontré con la esencia de la montaña colombiana. Aunque no pasé más de 5 minutos en la cima debido al frío y la lluvia, la bajada fue pura adrenalina, deslizándome con mi trasera derrapando de manera controlada. ¡Una experiencia que no querría haberme perdido!
Pero la aventura no terminó allí. Al buscar un camino alternativo por gravel hacia Sopó, cometí un error dejándome guiar por Komoot por el Cerro del Pionono, un tramo tan técnico que, al final, me convertí en la primera persona en subirlo en piñón fijo. Eso me llevó a perderme el almuerzo familiar, pero, a la vez, me regaló una victoria personal inigualable.
En septiembre, una tragedia cambió mi vida y la de muchos. Darwin Beltrán, un amigo y Teammate, falleció mientras hacía lo que más amaba: montar bicicleta. Su energía positiva y su bondad nos dejaron un vacío enorme. Justo antes de su partida, compartimos una ruta, justamente la primera de este reto, en la que él fue quien me ayudó a reparar mi cadena. Para honrar su memoria, decidí enfrentarme al mítico Alto de Letras, pero no de cualquier manera: lo haría desde Bogotá, en una sola etapa y en piñón fijo. Lo llamé “Darwin’s Tribute”.
Antes de comenzar los 280 km de este desafío, sabía que la preparación física era esencial, pero la mental era aún más importante. La fuerza de voluntad sería mi mejor aliada cuando mi cuerpo gritara que no podía más. Como caídos del cielo un grupo de ciclistas partía la noche del viernes 13 de septiembre hacia Mariquita. No pude resistirme a la idea de ir acompañado, aunque eso significaba salir sin descansar después de mi jornada laboral. A las 9:30 pm comenzamos nuestra travesía. ¡Y vaya travesía! Un descenso a toda velocidad, entre curvas y momentos de pura camaradería, hasta que llegamos a Mariquita tras 190 km de esfuerzo, donde me recuperé con un caldo de Costilla de res, unos huevos con arroz, patacón, arepa y 4 vasos de limonada, si tenia bastante sed, por un increíble precio de 3 dólares, un agradecimiento a la señora Naty que me permitió dormir media hora en su local y me cargo el teléfono.
Pero la verdadera prueba comenzó cuando me quedé solo para subir Letras. Los primeros 3 km fueron una prueba brutal, con rampas de más del 10%. El calor comenzó a hacer mella, y mi mente me gritaba que me bajara y descansara en Mariquita. ¡Pero no podía rendirme! Cada vez que pensaba en rendirme, la frase que me motivaba era: “Supera tus límites aquí y ahora. Ese es el único camino”. La subida fue ardua, pero lo logré. La mitad de la subida es marcada por el muro de Padua, un lugar brutal con rampas que superan el 15%, donde la altura ya se siente en los pulmones.
algo que olvidé mencionar es que jamás había subido letras por la vía pavimentada, puesto que en 2021 subí (también en piñón fijo) por una trocha alterna y me parecieron más impresionantes los paisajes por la vía pavimentada. llegado al sector de delgaditas empieza a hacer demasiado frio y aunque contaba con una chaqueta térmica la verdad sentí demasiado frio, tanto que los últimos 10 kms estaba titiritando.
Finalmente, después de 280 km y un esfuerzo titánico, llegué a la cima del Alto de Letras a las 5:10 pm, destrozado físicamente, pero con el alma llena de gratitud. Esta travesía fue por ti mi hermano Darwin.
Si llegaste hasta aquí, te agradezco de corazón por tu tiempo y espero traerte más aventuras este año.
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.
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.
In December I had the most incredible solo ride across Utah’s White Rim Trail, located in Canyonlands National Park. December is not, as far as I know, a particularly popular time to embark on White Rim, probably because the desert’s fickle ability to be quite warm, or utterly freezing, within hours. Thankfully, my trip wasn’t planned, it was entirely impulsive: I looked at the immediate forecast, saw a window with lows in the high 20s F, and highs in the low 50s F, and knew deep down that as long as I was dry, those temperatures would be doable, if not a bit of an unknown to plan for. I’ve ridden White Rim five times, always in a day. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. On this outing I wanted and needed to go alone, to get some think time and rekindle the flame that keeps me excited for the wild, unscripted bicycle lifestyle. The trip was a spectacular success. On the first day I started late and rode to camp in the sunset and utter darkness. Magic. On the second day I woke up to a cold morning that warmed quickly, and had the entire place to myself as I completed the loop. Having done the trip, I had an idea: Why not try to invite others to come and do this same trip with me? So that’s what the White Rim Micro-Invitational is: An incredibly limited space invite for people I know and don’t know to come and do that same trip with me again in late February, 2025.
It’s been a year, hasn’t it? In the middle of one of the most challenging periods of the bike industry in recent memory, I’m proud to say that Rodeo didn’t stand idly by and “wait it out”, we leaned into the headwinds and continued to up our game in terms of the bikes and other products that we’ve brought to life. Our customer service people listened intently as new owners described their dream steeds, then worked with our in-house paint and build departments to turn those dreams into reality. Quite a large percentage of the bikes that ship from HQ go out with black frames and standard decals, and those bikes ride as well as any other bike we build, but the team here takes extra pride in the wild custom creations that we turn out. So, with that in mind, let’s dig into a cross-section of some of our favorite builds of 2024, in no particular order.
At 5:00 AM, the harsh buzz of my phone alarm shakes me awake. The temptation to hit snooze is real, especially knowing the comfort of 15 more minutes in bed. But I remind myself of the reward: another episode of The Sopranos, my new trainer session companion. I shimmy into my bibs and socks, letting the compression stir some circulation. My spare bike is already set up on the trainer, making it easy to slide on my shoes, swing a leg over, and press play. Last winter, I binged Six Feet Under, diving into its poignant storytelling of a family funeral home swirling in chaos. The characters were so maddeningly flawed that they became magnetic, drawing me into their world episode after episode. This winter, The Sopranos has muscled its way onto my training regimen, using classic Mafia tactics—charm and intimidation. Widely acclaimed as one of the greatest shows ever made, it was simply a show I couldn’t refuse. Tony’s relentless pursuit of control in a chaotic world feels familiar. Each episode is a reminder that life is often a balancing act between ambition and the forces that threaten to unravel it.
In June 2024, Edyn Teitge became, at 15, the youngest solo rider of the Tour Divide. This is his story via his own words, day by day through the ride. Images throughout by Edyn and Eddie Clark Media.
The Tour Divide is one of the world’s longest and most well-known off-road bikepacking races. Stretching nearly 2,700 miles from Banff, Alberta, Canada to the US-Mexico border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico, it closely follows the Great Divide Mountain Bike route along the spine of the continent. The route gains around 150,000 feet of elevation with conditions ranging from unkept narrow single-track sections of the CDT, to smooth gravel and dirt roads, to death mud, and to long stretches of pavement. And somehow I got it in my mind that it would be a “fun” thing to do.
El Campeonato Nacional de Bici-mensajería de Colombia (CNBC) es un evento anual de ciclismo urbano que reúne a los mejores mensajeros en bicicleta y ciclistas del país y el continente. Los participantes compiten en una variedad de eventos que ponen a prueba las habilidades, la resistencia y la determinación de los ciclistas. El punto crucial del evento es la Main-Race, donde se simula la rutina diaria de un mensajero en bicicleta en carreras de clasificación y final durante dos días en un área delimitada por un circuito abierto al público.
This week, we are back in the Lab to consider the new SRAM RED XPLR AXS (so many capital letters!) and its use of the UDH (moar capital letters! moar!). While we jest at the branding, the tech is serious business. The new 1×13 groupset leans into the SRAM Transmission style rear derailleur and brings it to drop bar bikes, with the UDH hanger instead of the previous convention of specific hangers for specific frames. This change is a big deal for Rodeo because the design is at odds with the pre-existing design of the Trail Donkey as the frame is not UDH compatible.
We delve into some of the specifics, but the majority of the conversation is about how these big standard shifts in the bike industry affect small-frame brands. Along the way, we also find a few tangents to discuss some of the nuances of groupsets in this day and age of cycling. In this conversation, Stephen and Logan talk shop at first, before the Intern passes the baton to Drew van Kampen and Cameron “Coco” Lindberg to get into the weeds. Then, it’s back to Stephen and Logan to bring it all around.
Host: Logan Jones-Wilkins
Guests: Stephen Fitzgerald, Drew van Kampen, and Cameron “Coco” Lindberg
We sat down with two Rodeo athletes, Edyn Teitge and Cade Reichenberger, who both completed the 2,700 mile 2024 Tour Divide with class, and both in with their unique style. Cade rode to a 4th place overall finish in 15 days on his Rodeo Labs TD4, an incredible achievement on it’s own, but even more so considering that this was Cade’s first go at Divide as a relative newcomer to the genre. Not to be outdone, Edyn rode to the finish in 20 days, also on his TD4, becoming, at 15 years of age, the youngest solo rider to ever complete the event.
With stories this diverse it’s hard to fit them both into a single episode, but we gave it a good shot with hosts Logan Jones-Wilkins and Steve The Intern tossing in questions from their own cycling perspectives.
Here is a photo breakdown of Cade’s TD4, which featured flat bars, a Tailfin rear rack, and a Fox 32 50mm front suspension fork.
Edyn chose a different built type for his TD4, leaving it in drop bar configuration, and foregoing a suspension fork in favor of Redshift suspension stem and seatpost combo. As a Tailfin supported rider, Edyn enjoyed a particularly cool array of bags built specifically for his bike.
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Edyn’s ride in particular has been well covered in the media at the following links:
Both Cade and Edyn wore our Explorts Expedition bibshorts, which are design with the demands of bikepacking and ultra racing in mind, and each also wore RDO lab jerseys with Edyn chosing our SPF Highlighter jersey, and Cade option for our Merino wool short sleeve jersey.
Music to live to, music to Ride to. Luke Hall, our factory racer, spends a LOT of time on bikes. He’s shared a list of 21 tracks that pair with his rides beautifully.
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