Ghosts of the Death Ride, 2020

Published Cycle California, July 2021

Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat
They’re riding hard to catch that herd, but they ain't caught 'em yet
'Cause they've got to ride forever on that range up in the sky
On horses snorting fire as they ride on, hear their cry
Yippie yi aay, Yippie yi ohh
Ghost riders in the sky

— Remembered as a version recorded by Johnny Cash 1969

As I neared the Woodfords former Pony Express Remount Station at 3 p.m., my goal seemed assured. I had already done both sides of Monitor Pass and the front of Ebbetts Pass, now headed toward the Carson Pass summit some 20 miles ahead.

This was Saturday, July 18, 2020, one week after the now cancelled official Death Ride 2020 date. Nick Peterson and myself had registered for the ride early in the year. We had planned a very earnest training schedule before the world closed in due to the coronavirus. The ride stayed scheduled until early April before calling it quits, postponing until the same weekend in 2021.

My last Death Ride had been in 2014, at age 64, my 12th since my first in 1991. As such, I knew the course inside out. Nick, a year younger than me and for two years a mountain biker, had egged me on to do what would be my 13th Death Ride and my first at age 70. Meanwhile, he had been looking forward to biking at least both sides of Monitor Pass. We had in fact planned on a mid-June practice tour of all the passes over several days. That fell by the Covid-19 wayside but then it occurred to me: Why not do the route that I knew so well anyway?

To do so, we would need our own private SAG (“support and gear”), which meant two cars due to Covid-19 restrictions. Fortunately, our wives were available and willing to assist. Kristen, my wife, was a Death Ride veteran, both in biking it partway twice and meeting me atop Carson Pass other times. Kristine, Nick’s wife, knew nothing of Alpine County, much less the Death Ride, but was game, as was Nick’s grown son, Nicholas, riding shotgun.

We found our intended Hope Valley hotel booked for the former official ride date of July 11—obviously we were not alone wanting to do a private Death Rid. The rustic resort-style hotel also had a new name, Wylder, as Sorensen’s, in the family since 1926, had been just purchased. Two cabins on July 18 were available and we took them.

Unable to carpool to various rides around the Bay Area, we were limited to riding locally, meeting up from our homes in Palo Alto. We both got to know every curve of the usual roads that go up and down Skyline Boulevard to the San Mateo County coast.

We both arrived at Wylder on the Wednesday before our planned Saturday ride. Our SAG team was very pleased with our chosen accommodations, now being spruced up by the new owners. The next day in our two cars, we visited the Alpine Chamber of Commerce, sponsor of the Death Ride, where we learned that the organizers had applied the name Ghost Ride to any private ride done over the route during July and early August.

We then drove the course in our separate cars, meeting heavy rain and thick hail as we drove up and over 8,730-foot Ebbetts Pass, weather not unprecedented for the high Sierra but even so, I considered in a freak outlier storm, better now than Saturday.

On Friday, we drove Luther Pass, once the fourth Death Ride pass, just to see it, cresting just 2 ½ miles from the Carson Pass Highway. The right-side white line was at road’s edge, both up and down, leaving no pavement shoulder for riding. Traffic to and from South Lake Tahoe was somewhat heavy. Keeping all that in mind, that night after dinner, I loaded two ice chests into the car along with my two bike bags, getting all that out of the way, leaving just my bike to have tires pumped and loaded on the car’s rack in the dark and cold morning. Nick also loaded his car in similar fashion.

Venus was shining brightly at 4:30 a.m. as we both drove the 12 miles to Markleeville and then a couple more miles to the bright parking lot light at the Carson River Resort, where our wives dropped us off. We headed out 2 ½ miles to the Monitor Pass turn, just enough distance for a warm up, just as skies were beginning to lighten. Death Ride veterans will catch that we had jumped ahead 5 miles from the official Turtle Rock Park start, avoiding a dark and cold descent to and through Markleeville.

Nick and I stayed together until the West Monitor climb began in earnest. Having done the ride so often surrounded by other bikers, it felt unusually serene to be biking alone, both up and down. We were rejoined at bottom of East Monitor as our SAG drivers appeared, each with a carload of our private rest stop provisions. Our wives would wait and frog leap us rather than follow slowly behind. Our only anxiety with was the inability to communicate due to no cell service on these remote roads but thankfully no problems arose. The sky meanwhile was perfectly blue and the temperature about 60, allowing for spectacular views as usual, including peaks still dotted with snow.

After descending West Monitor, I began the 13-mile 3,100-foot climb to Ebbetts Pass. A cool breeze helped me get to the summit with clouds increasing overhead. Kristen soon appeared with snacks as I put on my windbreaker.

Because of Covid-19, Nick and I couldn’t ride in the same car on Thursday so that I could point what the course landmarks meant in terms of distance remaining. Trailing and feeling light-headed, he sent his wife ahead to find out how much more uphill was left. Reaching us on top, she turned her car back down for her husband some three miles below. As a light drizzle began, I left the summit and passed Nick’s car coming uphill with him inside.

During the early morning, I had considered making Luther Pass our fourth pass, as it had been in 1991-93 when I first did the Death Ride. I never did like the Hermit Valley down and up on the backside of Ebbetts Pass that I first biked in 1999. It had only replaced Luther Pass when both Monitor Pass and Ebbetts Pass highways were allowed to be closed. As we weren’t going to get official 5-pass stickers or pins anyway, I decided to stick with the older route.

The 18-mile downhill return to Markleeville started with gliding out from under the cool drizzle, then twisting down and through the Carson River Canyon, with the road gloriously all to myself. Briefly resting on the county courthouse lawn in Markleeville , I was soon joined by Kristen plus Kristine’s carload with her Nick and Nicholas inside. Though disappointed, Nick had accomplished both Monitors—his original goal—and had taken a huge bite out of Ebbetts, all with only a few months of serious road biking.

The climb out of Markleeville was not the typical hot grind and I enjoyed the breezy descent to Woodfords and the highway turn westward. The sky was now overcast, providing a light wind, perfect for biking. Slow and steady, I felt the hardest part was behind me and had rarely felt so energized during a Death Ride. Usually at this point in the ride, you join the single file throng of riders trudging their way uphill on the narrow shoulders of the forested canyon. Today though the cool air felt electric and, weary but not worn, I had only a couple hours to go. Based on my other 12 completed Death Rides and superstitions aside, I felt totally confident of finishing number 13 by once more topping Carson Pass. But I couldn’t help but notice a big black cloud creeping over the left side of the high ridge.

I met Kristen once more at a side road where a single-lane bridge crossed the West Fork of the Carson. As I drank a cold Gatorade, silver dollar-size drops began to splatter the windshield. Leaving my bike out, I ducked inside the car as the cloud unleashed, while Luther and Carson Passes remained a combined 17 miles and 3,000 feet ahead.

After waiting some twenty minutes, we decided to drive the two miles ahead to Wylder and wait out the downpour in our cottage instead. Just loading my bike onto the car’s rear bike rack got me soaked and chilled. As we parked at Wylder, what went into my mind was the rain, a busy highway, headlights and windshield wipers, narrow road shoulders, and the fading light when I would be slogging the last long climb, even if the rain let up allowing me to resume.

Thanks to Nick and his interest in road biking, and in the Death Ride specifically, I was able to re-engage what I had once cherished. So far I’d had a wonderful 80-mile, 11,000-foot day doing Monitor-Monitor-Ebbetts to Woodfords with blue skies overhead and road essentially absent of traffic, all aided devoutly by my wife in support. As wet as she was, after we had showered at Wylder, she would have gotten back in the car to still SAG if I had rejoined the route. During a weather break to the car, I ventued back to the car for my bike bags. Looking westward, I saw Carson Pass far ahead still in a gray haze. Sure enough another rain soon arrived.

All that I really wanted to do during the Spring was get to where I could do the Death Ride once more, even upon turning 70. Nick had gotten me there by suggesting we sign up for the Death Ride and being my training companion even when the official ride was cancelled, often pushing for an extra loop. As Sean Connery once said to Harrison Ford in the Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade movie, “Indiana, let it go.” I let that last ride up Carson Pass go to the ghosts of Death Rides past.