When Alpine County Chamber of Commerce closes the roads around Markleeville on one Saturday in July each year, it is with good reason. Some 2,700 cyclists will be hitting town and spending the day out climbing some of the most picturesque passes in the Sierras.

Only in California could a bicycling event be called the "Death Ride" and attract more riders than any other similar activity in the State. It takes a certain perversity of spirit to get out on to the road at dawn knowing that more than 12 hours of physiological struggle lie in wait in some of the toughest terrain California can offer. This day is as much a spectacle as a test of personal ruggedness. And maybe the course is harder alone.

Leaving Turtle Rock Park just outside Markleeville at the onset of day, the earliest allowed time, does not put you out in front. Many riders are already out on the course. It's a brisk descent through Markleeville towards the road to Monitor Pass. The road is thick with cyclists. Everywhere dense. It's a continual game of pass-and-be-passed as riders alternately break rank and drop back. The grade is gradual, the challenge to the physique minimal, merely the first climb of the day. It's typical Alpine scenery, mountainous vistas visible all around. The views are open and expansive; trees far away; a winding progressive road; clear crisp air.

At Monitor Summit, triumphant ascendants bag the first trophy of the day: a brightly coloured sticker flung onto the rider-bib. But the food under the awnings is more appealing. The sun is out and beats down out of a vast blue sky. Descending the other side of Monitor is an invigorating total-body experience. On the road in front of me are the up-turned faces of hordes of cyclists ascending the second climb of the day. The furrowed brows and strained grimaces tell a different story from the one I am experiencing as I clamp my hands to the brakes. It takes little more than 20 minutes to do the 10 mile drop. The High Desert Floor lies in wait for us and Hwy-395, points east beyond, cuts a defining line ahead.

At the feeding station below, we are awarded another sticky - it is assumed that by making it all the way down, we will make it back up. There is more calorific intake and an opportunity to savour the surroundings in the growing heat of the day.

Joining the throngs of climbers tackling Monitor for the second time, I get into a good pace. It's not too steep and even. My thoughts are of recent failure in Sonoma County; the withering climbs of Skaggs Springs and Fort Ross in the heat of the afternoon. I am determined to redeem myself. At the halfway water station up Monitor I am forced to shed a layer and improvise a shower with jugs of water to wash the sweat out of my eyes. It is a strenuous but beautiful climb which harbours no inkling of the storm ahead.

At the summit once again, I spy a "Terrible Two" jersey; he was a finisher this year. There are crowds of cyclists still, but the numbers are swelled by the later-starting 3- and 4-pass riders. On the descent back down Monitor, the road seems relatively empty. A straggle of climbers ahead of me but the main body of the descenders has come and gone. I enjoy the controlled downwards-momentum even more and become oblivious to the passage of time.

It is now on to Ebbets. Even as the day unfolds, the skies fill with clouds. I am with a steady stream of climbers as the road enters thick forest and begins to twist uncertainly. We gain altitude gradually before being surprised by a feeding station. Carefree, I stop to take on more food and water. It is reportedly a mere 8 miles to Ebbets Summit. The interruption has caused me to lose rhythm and it is a while before I am accustomed once again to the synchronised motion of the bicycle. There are riders all around and, one by one, the early-bird descenders hurtle by, slowing for no-one. The road is not as well graded as Monitor and the climb breaks down into a series of steps. We cannot be far from the Summit when murmurings of thunder are heard; and the tell-tale drip-splash of rain. It is not worth donning rain-shell; I do not want to lose rhythm again. The climb seems interminable; it's already more than 8 miles by my oft-deceitful odometer. Without the luxury of a view of the scenery around, it is hard to judge the progress of the road.

When the summit feeding station comes into sight and a third sticker is vigorously slapped onto my chest, it is raining steadily. They are already closing the road to would-be descenders. I make a case and force my way through; the day is nearly undone by my ungainly negotiation of a cattle-grid. But, once on the other side of the pass, I can relax and put on extra layers before bracing for the new descent. The line of riders toiling up in front of me is now a familiar sight, but the addition of the rain-storm has removed all cheeriness from the crowd. Now I must watch the road; it is rutted and slippery. I am concerned not to lose my balance. Brakes are tested to the limit.

It is less than 6 miles to the open-space feeding station and the application of sticker number 4. People are standing around in clumps making forced movements to keep warm. It is now raining steadily and the thunder can be heard rumbling in the distance. There is talk of similar conditions on Carson Pass, 5th climb of the day.

There is nothing to stick around for; back on the road, the 4th climb, back up Ebbets, is a miserable experience. It is cold; trees obscure the view of the Sierras; the rain is relentless. I hear what I think are cow-bells in a valley below and to the right; it is a sound which is not out of place but not believable. Better to concentrate on the climb. It is steep but mercifully even. It takes close to a full hour to reach the summit feeding station. I had been forced to miss it on the way over and now I decide to skip it again. It is cold and I want to descend without any further delay to the lunch-stop where I had stopped before.

Now the 11 miles off Ebbets is far worse than any other point of the day. I occasionally wonder what happened to the burning sunshine of Monitor Pass, but those are useless thoughts. The reality is driving rain and cold alpine air with a steeply descending road which switch-backs through the pine-forest. Brakes are put through their ultimate trials on sharp curves. Occasional cyclists huddle together under boughs for shelter. Standing still can be not much warmer than my motion, I justify to myself. My speed is sufficiently controlled that the passage of the air does not chill my body unduly.

After what seems an age, with cramp encroaching up my arms, the lunch-stop reappears. The rain persists but is no longer a concern. It is cold but not oppressively. The view of several hundred bedraggled cyclists is a rare one in California but all seem well-prepared.

There is plenty of time remaining to tackle the last climb of the day, Carson Pass, but it is a long way away. I press on to Markleeville as soon as I can. Before long the rain has stopped and the flatter roads are a welcome relief from straight ascent or descent. In the town itself, locals have camped out by the road and cheer us on.

Past turtle Rock Park, I revisit my car; despite the supposedly tempting psychology of quitting the ride now, I press on. The sharp descent out of Turtle Rock is certainly worrying - I wonder how I will feel about it on the return later on. At Woodfords, I run out of energy and cram down a granola bar. The main road up to Carson is forbidding. Swiftly descending traffic wages war with brake systems and assaults my nasal passages with burning rubber. The heavy traffic struggling up the pass belches black fumes. Gone is the sense of one-ness with the mountains, the crystalline air and the silence. But, on we go. I stop one further time for food before the Picketts' Junction feeding station. I am here over an hour before the official cut-off. The field of riders has thinned considerably. Solo riders are descending from Carson; it looks to be an enthralling route. That feeling is a little more than 9 miles away for me.

The remainder of the climb is postponed whilst some flat-riding intervenes. I calculate that the remaining 1,200 ft. of ascent must occur over 4 miles. Not really a deterrent. The traffic volume has thankfully diminished. The road is open and the Pass looms up ahead. The silence is punctuated by the flutter of loose-garments rippled by the wind as other riders fly past on the downward journey. I stop twice on the road to take in calories; I do not fear failure but I am growing weary. I know this will be the last ride in the season for me; I know also that I must succeed. As we near the certainty of the summit, descending riders shout words of encouragement to us, the last remaining climbers.

Cruelly, the Summit rest-station is a full quarter-mile the other side of the actual pass. The area is crowded with riders savouring five-pass satisfaction. It's mainly all downhill from here. A little before 6pm, I feel on schedule. Food stocks are low though and there's little that's appetising. I have the 5 coloured stickers on my bib and that's all that matters. I do not sit around for long as I begin to feel myself stiffen up.

The quarter-mile back up to the summit seems painful to me and irritating. But the descent from Carson has the value of many rewards. The road is straight as an arrow in long stretches and encourages reckless technique. I let myself go and fall through the early evening air. I exceed 40mph routinely. Sooner than I want to face, the interim flat portion is upon me. I still have enough energy to take it in my stride. There is another rider sticking close with me - on a mountain bike. Bulk properties are to his advantage.

Past Picketts Junction, the feeding station has closed down, the descent begins again in earnest. I fly and savour every minute. Woodfords comes all too soon, a mere 30 minutes after leaving Carson summit. I am pleased with myself. Just a few miles back to the car. It is a toil back up to Turtle Rock Park but I do not mind now. I am back at my car at a couple of minutes after 7pm. I have taken the full 13 hours that is given over to the 128-mile ride by the course architects. But I experienced three very different Alpine terrains and, more than anything else, for me this is redemption; much more than the 5 passes. There is no qualifying time, but there is cuedos. The clock is not active, as in Sonoma County, but I have climbed more. I have exceeded my previous maximum elevation gain including the "Terrible Two" at the point where I bailed. But more importantly, I completed the course.

Richard Bone

August 3rd, 1996