La Tierra de Santa Fe

I had the pleasure of spending part of a weekend in Santa Fe recently and was originally going to do two separate posts, but as I sit down to write this, I think one would be better as it would better highlight the contrast between the two places in which I had time to ride.
Taking the advice of a friend, I'd decided on riding in one place: La Tierra trails northwest of the city. His suggestion for figuring out where to ride in an unfamiliar region was to "ride where the races are". Makes sense to me, especially in retrospect. Just next weekend, the 2012 La Tierra Torture takes place and I had the good fortue of giving some of the trails a pre-ride. I didn't inspect the actual course map or try to follow the beginner's or pro's course in any way -- I just went out and did it.

Someone had told me that I would love Santa Fe trails because they weren't dirt and rock, but more like the crusher-fines you find in people's driveways. That was certainly the case, and I couldn't ask for a better surface. The terrain was much like the surrounding neighborhoods -- low to medium sized hills with some evergreenish vegetation (somewhere between a tree and a bush) along with the occasional cactus. But the trails! It was like one long, continuous twisty-curvy roller-coaster ride. I kept it slow, worrying about an imminent washout or some other hazard, but it never did materialize. Other than the lingering sun occasionally getting in my eyes or the couple of oncoming riders I had to keep and eye out for, it was like the dessert cart at a buffet: nothing but sweets!

I didn't take my camera with me on the ride itself, so the cell-phone pics will have to do. As far as racing there goes: well, that could be interesting depending on the course. The single track is very single, but there are sections that open up and allow for two or even three riders to ride abreast. Choosing when and where to pass could be dictated mostly by where one is able to pass. Make the wrong decision and blow a lung while climbing a steep hill and the rider behind d you may not be very happy with your decision... I'll have to remember to read the race reports.
Moving on then, to the second of my rides: the Chamisa Trail in the Santa Fe National Forest. Again with an element of randomness, I struck out east and hoped to find a place to ride. I found this trail just before Hyde State Park of NM 475. The trail offered easy access with plenty of parking and a couple of smiling, happy mountain bikers loading up their gear after a ride. I didn't see easy again while out on the trail. Apparently 'easy' decided to hang at the car while I went out and learned my lesson.
Here is a picture of me, the intrepid explorer, and the innocuous map-o-doom shown behind me, but in a close-up.

One of the returning riders pointed me in the direction of the trailhead. It looked more like what I liked to ride on, so I ignored the wide gravel path also leading away from the parking lot that people walking their dogs seemed to prefer. There were some rocks at the start, but nothing someone from southern New Mexico would even stop to sneeze at, so I plowed on up the hill. I eventually began to question the wisdom of my decision as the trail just seemd to climb forever. And it was narrow. And it was on a 45-degree slope. The voices in my head won and told me life would be much better on the gravel path. After all, I couldn't actually see any mountain-bike tracks on this trail. Surely I misunderstood the guy at the trailhead. Mountain bikes were obviously meant for the improved gravel path, to be shared with dogs, people walking their dogs and old ladies with walkers. I reversed direction and made my way back down.
Now back in my comfort zone, apparently (whether I was willing to admit it or not), I headed up the path and figured I would at least see some nice scenery and not end up becoming a training exercise for the local search-and-rescue group. The trail I was on though didn't really seem to behave either. Soon, it turned to single track rolling dirt and I was bouncing between my best granny gear and maybe one or two above that as I climbed. And climbed. And climbed.
Soon the trail began to get really difficult and I began to listen to the little voices in my head telling me about the string cheese waiting in the cooler back at the car. I ignored them. I hadn't really gone but a mile. Ok, maybe a half-mile. I wasn't done yet. So while waiting for a couple of hikers to slip and slide their way down the trail ahead of me, I told myself that this section was probably not representative of what lie ahead. Shouldering my bike, I made my way up and saw the trail did indeed look sort-of rideable. I kept on till the next series of tree roots and washout ruts in the trail that made me hop off and push my bike for a hundred yards or so.
Making light conversation with a woman and her husky, and trying to appear as if I weren't dying, I learned that the pass that led down to the next valley was indeed not too far ahead, and that it would be worth it to continue on. The dog had nothing to say to me at all. I learned that from the lady, who also assured me that she'd seen several mountain-bikers out that day. I wonder where she got ahold of my disbelief? Surely nothing I said...
Just up the path, under the guise of stopping to take a picture, I rested a bit more. Really, was this all that bad? That was probably the precursors of HACE talking. By the way, did I mention all this was happening in between 8000 and 9000 feet of elevation? Thought I'd throw that in.

I stopped at the top just ahead and found a contour map on a sign and tried to calculate how many feet I'd climbed in the last mile and a quarter. I finally narrowed it down to somewhere between 400 and a million. I decided against any descent other than back to the car. I couldn't fathom continuing on, down the other side of the hill, knowing I'd eventually have to make my way back. However, the original trail I'd set out on did meet up at this point also, so I took that option and made my way back, brakes imploring me all the way, "why are you making us do all the work!". Shut up brakes. Do your job and we all get string cheese and the privilege of living another day.
So, to wrap this up, what can I say? Is it all about my lameness and inability come to haunt me? Of course not. I would never draw such conclusions on scant data. Obviously, there is but one thing to assume: Santa Fe mountain bikers are all completely insane, steroid-humping masochists. It was pretty though. One last photo to show, hopefully, that I wasn't suffering from oxygen deprivation when enjoying the view. Now please excuse me, I need to see about revising my training plan...