Trail Sages & Blood Moons: A Colorado Trail Race (CTR) Adventure

Trail Sages & Blood Moons:

A Colorado Trail Race (CTR) Adventure

The Why:

My happiest moments on the bike are always with friends, finding ourselves in this absurdly beautiful (or f*cked up) moment, lying in a field watching the stars twinkle, or seeing a moose drink from a pond- riding singletrack on an exposed ridge-line, watching the sun go down, hoping you still have battery in your bike light to keep riding. Seeing the morning haze steam up between Aspen trees while your headphones play Khruangbin to a full moon … this is the life of luxury. I could never have imagined having the freedom or the ability to find myself in such a remote place, experiencing such things.

I’d been a casual bike-packer for about 10 years, which entailed going 2-3 times a year on long weekend trips with friends across the Rocky Mountains. The longest bike-packing trail I had done was riding the Kokopelli Trail for my 30th birthday with a support vehicle driven by one of my mom’s friends. That was luxury, rolling up to camp with all the creature comforts of home, my dog smiling and licking my face as she jumped out of the truck. A fresh cooler of food was waiting for us each night. That was nothing like what I was about to experience on the CTR.

The Gear:

As bike-packing season approached, I knew it was time to retire my clunky hand-me-down gear and invest in a lighter setup. When I heard that Alexandera was loaning out her bikes through a mentorship program aimed at bringing more diversity into ultra-racing, I applied on a whim. Honestly, I didn’t think I had a shot in hell. Why would she pick a crusty, 30-something downhill racer trying to re-live her glory days under the guise of bike-packing? But she did.

When her DM popped up on Instagram and we spoke on the phone, I nearly cried from sheer joy. I’d be riding her Titanium Esker Japhy, fully decked out with cheetah-print bags. There was just one catch: I had to sign up for a bikepacking race. After finding out I would get the bike from her in May, I signed up for the Colorado Trail Race. Partially to experience this funny little subculture of America - and to push myself further than I ever had on a bike. Plus, I lived in Golden, Colorado, so it was a race close to home.

I first heard about Alexandera Houchin six years ago from a fellow bikepacking friend, Arly Landry. She spoke in almost hushed tones about this mythical woman who rode the Colorado Trail in leather high-top shoes and jean shorts, on a single-speed and absolutely demolishing ultra-races. Naturally, I had to know more. Alexandera was elusive, had no social media presence, there was hardly a trace of her online. She felt more like a legend than a real person. Eventually, I stumbled across an episode of the Bikes or Death podcast, and that’s where the myth became real. Not only was she a certified badass, but her voice came through the speakers, kind, articulate, and disarmingly down-to-earth, the most inviting voice I’d ever heard.

The Training Regimen:

My Colorado Trail training was pretty simple: lift weights two to three times a week and squeeze in as many overnight rides as possible to test all my new gear and build up mileage. Those solo overnighters quickly became my favorite part of training. Riding alone meant I could find my own rhythm; no pressure, no pace to match - and really open it up on the descents. In the months leading up to the race, I basically lived on my bike, logging every mile I could.

The Race Attempt:

Day 1: Durango to Blackhawk Pass

The race blasted off from Durango at 4 a.m. on Sunday, August 10th. With only eight days to make it back to Denver, the countdown had officially begun. The first three hours were pure chaos; a rat race of riders clattering up dark, steep switchbacks. By 7 am, I’d already climbed 3,000 feet. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and I started to settle into the rhythm of what would be a very long day.

Right after a much-needed water refill, the San Juans served up a reality check. The trail morphed into a full-blown hike-a-bike, less “rolling hills,” more “mountain obstacle course.” At the top, I was greeted by an endless rocky ridgeline and my first bear sighting of the race. Thankfully, the bear was far enough away to make it feel more like a nature documentary than a crisis, lumbering casually across the scree field below me before disappearing into treeline. I kept things slow and steady, eventually catching up to Holly - a fellow racer who became my trail companion for the next two days.

The wildfire outside of Rico was putting on a full pyrotechnic show, with plumes of smoke curling into the sky—and right into our lungs. Within minutes, we were coughing like we’d taken up chain-smoking as a side hobby. My throat and nose burned like I’d inhaled an entire campfire. Not long after teaming up with Holly, we spotted Alex sitting on the side of the trail. The wildfire smoke, combined with being sick, was making it hard for her to breathe. On the other hand, I was elated to see her, to meet my hero for the first time while bike-packing the race she won many times; it was a complete fan girl moment. I was in utter disbelief when she rode and camped with us the rest of the day; she was SO COOL. So down to earth, so real.

Day 2: Blackhawk Pass to Silverton

Sleep was elusive the first night. After climbing 11,000 feet, I figured I could pass out on a pile of rocks - but showing up late to camp meant the prime flat spots were long gone. I ended up on a tilted patch of dirt, slowly sliding off my sleeping pad like a sad burrito.

The rest of the day was a blur. The sheer scale of the trail was sinking in - I’d essentially been climbing uphill for a day and a half, and at that point, my only mission was to make it to the Silverton grocery store in one piece. Somewhere along the way, I went three hours without water, fueled by delirious fantasies of cottage cheese and Doritos. By the time I rolled into town around 3 pm, I was severely dehydrated and could only stomach blue Gatorade and pickles, a surprisingly elite combo when you’re running on fumes.

I staggered up and down Main St, searching for anything my body might accept. I even bought a burger and fries at ‘Handlebars’, but there was no desire to eat, just the dreaded “sour stomach” racers warned me about. I ran into Natalie, Alexandera, and her boyfriend Johnny (aka Johnny-no-shoes) at the grocery store, the unofficial watering hole where racers stocked up. They were perched on the picnic tables outside, and I felt like a lost puppy wandering through a blur of bonk. Alexandera quickly became my saving grace: she handed me her leftover Tailwind electrolyte packets and donated her water filter, mine was barely functioning, clogged to the point of pumping my forearms every use. Sure, this was technically against race rules, but at that point, winning wasn’t the goal. Heck, I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it to the finish line.

I ran into Holly and David (fellow racers from the UK) and sat at the restaurant watching them successfully eat multiple grilled cheeses. Meanwhile, my body screamed for calories, desperate to refuel, yet my stomach was waging a war against me. Only electrolyte liquids slid past the barricade, a cruel lifeline I couldn’t ignore. That night, Holly and I shared a hotel room. The shower was pure bliss, washing away layers of sweat, grime, and exhaustion; the bed felt like sinking into a cloud after two days of little sleep and 17,000 feet of climbing.

Day 3: Silverton to Spring Creek

The alarm pierced the silence at 4 am. Most of my gear was already packed from the night before, so I quietly strapped everything down and switched on the helmet light Holly had lent me. My own headlamp was useless without the tiny screw that attached it to my helmet; somewhere along the way, it had vanished. Thankfully, Holly had a spare and saved me from starting the day in total darkness. I rolled my bike out into the cool, crisp night, the beam cutting through the quiet. Holly stayed behind to rest a little longer and take stock of how the wildfire smoke had ravaged her lungs.

Another day, another relentless climb. The steep gravel road up Stony Pass felt surprisingly peaceful in the cool pre-dawn darkness. My legs fell into a steady rhythm, the crunch of tires echoing through the still air. As I reached the saddle, 4,000 feet of climbing behind me, the sun crested the horizon, spilling golden light across my face. It was the perfect welcome to what many call the most breathtaking stretch of the Colorado Trail.

It genuinely felt like I’d pedaled straight into Middle-earth. The landscape was wild and pristine; pure, untouched wilderness that brought tears to my eyes. Perfect weather made it feel otherworldly back here. Along the way, I passed a few hikers and a casual bikepacker, all of us tiny specks in this vast alpine expanse. When I finally reached the highest point of the Colorado Trail (13,271 feet), I realized I had cell service. I called my husband, crying tears of joy as I tried to describe the magic around me and ask him where the other girls were compared to me— Valentina was 2 miles behind me.

It was one of those rare, unforgettable days on the bike: grueling, yes, but absolutely marvelous. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon, though, and the mountains don’t wait. I said my goodbyes and pushed on, knowing I needed to descend in elevation before the weather caught up to me and widen the gap between me and Valentina.

I rolled into the Spring Creek rec area just outside of Lake City as the sun was about to set, scanning the trees for a decent campsite. My friend Chris Besnia had tipped me off that this was a reliable water source with plenty of flat spots to crash for the night. By 7pm, my tent was pitched and I’d tucked myself in, grateful for a quiet place to rest. About an hour later, the unmistakable whir of a bike hub echoed through the dark. Valentina. I knew instantly she’d caught up and slipped past me through the night.

Day 4: Spring Creek to Tank 7

I rolled out of my tent around 7 am, groggy from an unplanned 12-hour sleep. Not exactly the strategy of a serious racer, but at that point, I was running on fumes and Haribo gummy frogs. My diet had whittled down to nothing but candy and Tailwind packets, a fact that honestly terrified me. The morning began with a long, pavement climb to the top of Slumgullion Pass to a sweeping, buttery-smooth gravel descent to Cathedral Cabins. As I cruised down, I couldn’t help but kick myself for not pushing just one more hour the night before, I could have had a hot meal, a warm cabin, and a shower.

I rolled up to the cabins at 9:30am, it felt like stumbling upon a mirage in the desert. Annette, the owner and resident guardian angel of this little bikepacking haven, welcomed me with such genuine warmth that all I wanted was to curl up in a corner and never leave. As I coasted in, Eric the Fox was just heading out. He mentioned that Valentina had left about 45 minutes earlier, and a flicker of competitiveness stirred inside me. I couldn’t help but wish I’d pushed on the night before. This is where knowing the trail and setting smart daily splits really comes into play. I had a lot to learn about the CT.

I devoured a gluten-free pizza like it was a five-star meal; easily the most I’d eaten since the race began. With my gummy stash replenished and spirits lifted, I rolled back onto the trail, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead. The next few hours were a blur, but I had calories and was ready to f*cking go. I passed two different trail magic sages, which quite literally saved me from bonking both times. One guy had cold watermelon and grapes - not to mention extra ibuprofen. By around 6 pm, just before the dreaded Sergeant’s Mesa segment, I caught up with Eric. We made a pact to tackle the section together through the night, becoming each other’s hype squad as we plunged into what felt like a haunted corridor.

The full Buck Moon hung heavy in the smoky sky, glowing blood red as it rose through the aspen trees. The scene was eerie, like we’d pedaled straight into a horror film. At that point, I couldn’t decide what seemed worse: being eaten by wolves or collapsing from sheer exhaustion. I was too wrecked to care either way. At one point, Eric swore he saw snakes on the trail, his headlamp catching shadows that slithered across the loose, maddening hike-a-bike terrain. We kicked rocks, cursed, and kept moving, two exhausted shells on a death march through the night.

We reached Tank 7 around 1am, after 20 straight hours of riding; 99 miles and 14,000 feet of climbing in a single day. It’s wild to rehash that moment. I was closer to my breaking point than I’d ever been. As I unpacked my sleeping set-up, my body began to shake violently, convulsing with a force I couldn’t control. It wasn’t just fatigue; it was as if every system inside me had sounded the alarm at once: cold, hunger, exhaustion all converging into a single, overwhelming surge of exile. For a few hours, I couldn’t fall asleep. I genuinely believed I might not make it through the night. They would find my dead body here a few days later; this was it.

Bike packing sounds super fun, right?! Just kidding …. It’s not that bad, but I really did feel like I was going to die. But I didn’t, and you won’t if you do this race. It just really takes a toll on your body, mind, and spirit.

Day 5: Tank 7 to Salida

My plan of escape and the day I was over it all. That brush with the edge had shaken something loose inside me. Thoughts of my husband Blake, my dog Mesa, my family, all the important stuff in my life bubbled to the surface, and I wanted nothing more than to be off this goddam trail.

I was finally back in terrain I recognized, the trails outside Salida felt like home after riding them dozens of times. The stretch from Marshall Pass to Monarch Pass flew by, and I knew exactly what needed to happen. I rallied down Green’s Creek on my fully loaded Japhy, skipping the proper CT route along Fooses Creek, racing toward anything resembling comfort. I needed food. I needed not to be on a bike. I needed to be done. I rode straight to a Thai restaurant, ordered two full meals and dessert, then stumbled into the cheapest motel I could find and collapsed until the morning. My race was over. Five days, 240 miles, and 42,000 feet of climbing later, I was officially out.

A day later, I knew I could have kept going. That was the maddening part. I managed to pedal over to the King Gizzard concert in Buena Vista after camping there the night before. I spent most of the show sprawled in a hammock and ended up leaving early, but seeing the Australian rock band live was still an incredible experience.

The Quitting:

The will to keep going went south on day 4 - 5. It just wasn’t worth it. To push beyond the numb nerve twinge in my foot, or the shooting pain running down my left shin. I got to a point and remember thinking, “I’m not even going to try and be positive, there’s no point, this is just insane." The hardest part is the sheer mental endurance to keep putting one foot in front of the other, willing yourself to keep going. Just when you think the hike-a-bike section is done, a loose babyhead uphill comes, and you’re walking for another 3 hours, cursing the moto dirt bikers who shifted each rock in my path.

The Reflection:

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the difference between spending money on things versus experiences. Dropping a few thousand dollars on a mountain bike never makes me feel guilty; it’s a tool for adventure. My happiest moments aren’t spent on the balcony of some swanky hotel or at a fancy restaurant. Honestly, those experiences feel strangely hollow to me, tinged with a quiet melancholy.

There’s something sacred about bike-packing races: sitting under a blood moon or bluebird sky with a few random strangers you just met, sharing a bag of Doritos after riding 100 miles and climbing 12,000ft in 18 hours. In that quiet, exhausted haze, you just know how lucky you are. It’s the kind of story that resists being told - too raw, too fleeting to translate into words fully. Over time, I’ve learned to catch myself in these moments, to look back even as they’re unfolding, and think: this is beautiful.

The Crew:

Behind every bikepacker is a powerhouse crew. Friends, mentors, mechanics, and trail sages - pushing, guiding, and keeping the wheels turning. They’re the unseen force that makes these adventure races possible.

Alexandera Houchin - My mentor, idol, and the reason I signed up for this race to begin with! For being my bike-packing fairy godmother out on the CT with extra electrolytes and water filters.

Blake Sommer - Huge shoutout to my husband and bike mechanic - I honestly couldn’t have made it as far as I did without you. Over five grueling days on the CTR, I had zero mechanicals, and that’s entirely thanks to this man-tiger’s magic touch. Thanks for also driving me to the start in Durango, baby toots!

Chris Besnia - Salt Lake friend, CTR finisher, and master bike frame builder. Chris was my secret weapon out there. Whenever I managed to snag a sliver of cell service, I’d call him and bluntly ask, “How far should I ride today?” He’d toss out these outrageous stretch goals that felt impossible in the moment, yet somehow they kept me moving. His trail knowledge filled in the massive gaps in my lack thereof, and his advice on splits was pure gold. Thank you, Chris - couldn’t have made it far without you.

Holly - For loaning me her spare bike light when I lost the screw to attach mine to my helmet. I still need to mail that back to you, and let’s hang if you’re reading this!

Amy & Zoe - For going on outlandish training rides with me. Zoe had just found out she was pregnant and was dry-heaving on the way up Cottonwood Pass during our 3-day overnighter outside of Buena Vista. You’re going to be the coolest mom ever.

Trail Magic People - I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know me. But the Sergeants Mesa day was only possible because of these individuals' support with extra water, Gatorade, and snacks.