“Welcome…welcome to my nightmare!” TransRockies course designer Cam Ward uttered those exact words minutes before the gun went off to officially open Stage 1 of the inaugural TransRockies Challenge in Fernie, B.C. Cyclocomputers primed, altimeters set, and armed with a course guidebook thicker than the Toronto White Pages, my teammate Rich Hamilton and I, along with 138 other competitors, prepared to put the hammer down. But what the hell had we gotten ourselves into?

As I recall, it all started innocently enough. A news item in a spring issue of Pedal Magazine described a mountain bike race through the majestic Rocky Mountains. It sounded like an amazing race! Sure, it claimed to be the toughest race in North America, and yeah, OK, it mentioned crossing the Continental Divide three times over a 618-kilometre course of mountains, rivers, mud holes, wilderness trails, fords, and seismic lines, but how tough could it be? And what's a seismic line anyway? In Fernie, we were greeted by an army of volunteers and organizers and presented with a TransRockies T-shirt, a virtually bottomless Adidas duffel bag, and with a GPS handbook thick enough to beat off a bear-it was all good. Half of Fernie was out for the opening ceremonies that featured a full-on pasta dinner with brownies, beer, ice cream, and a live band accompanied by an incredible lightening storm. As the festivities wound down and the torrential downpour faded, we were treated to a spectacular double rainbow over the looming Rockies, a perfect send-off for the 140 riders about to tackle “The Toughest Race in North America.”

Over the next seven days, we experienced some of the most amazing scenery that this planet has to offer. Seven stages between Fernie and Canmore, Alta., introduced us to a half-dozen towns and camps in the middle of nowhere and on the edge of somewhere, and we encountered enough adventure to write a book about by the time we were done.

It All Begins
It appeared that the masochistic message of the TransRockies had spread globally. Not only were there Olympic, National, and Provincial Team champions from both Europe and North America ready to race, but survivors of the TransAlps, Eco Challenge, Iditabike, Ironman, and La Ruta de los Conquistadores also graced the start line. There were tandem, co-ed, women's, and men's teams, all ready for the challenges ahead. If this was truly the toughest race in North America, we definitely had the riders to prove it. Teams had to travel in pairs and remain within two minutes of each other at all times or suffer the consequences of large time penalties, which added a unique dimension to the event. No one rider would take this event. It would take a strong team, both physically and psychologically, to conquer the TransRockies.

Everyone was energized and busting to go, and the race began with a pace we could all settle into comfortably. A lead motorbike and media helicopter guided us from a cheering town of spectators into the mountains surrounding Fernie, but as the warm sounds of cheering faded, so did all civility. Our first climb, of what seemed to be a thousand over the next several days, provided an opportunity for attack. Hearts pounding, muscles screaming, and lungs burning, we and six other teams ambitiously attacked that first climb with a vengeance…on Day One…in the first 15 kilometres…of a 618-kilometre race! Anything wrong with this picture?

Of course, brutal, soul-crushing climbs often have rewards in the form of ripping descents, and, sure enough, the TransRockies dished out a healthy dose of down over its 618 kilometres.

As we raced through the final 80 kilometres of Stage 1 and climbed more than 1,300 metres, we were treated to a smorgasbord of terrain and scenery and tasted the TransRockies for the very first time-it was bittersweet. I ran out of euphemisms to describe the overwhelming beauty of the Rocky Mountain landscape within the first day, and not to soon after ran out of expletives to describe the bite of the climbs. Stage 1 set the theme for the week: survive the day.

In retrospect, Day One was a relatively tame, fuzzy, warm 96-kilometre introduction to the TransRockies. As we crossed the finish line at Crows Nest under clear sunny skies, we noticed a city of tents had been erected in an open field. Larger tents housing massage tables, a mechanics shop, and several sources of food stood at the periphery of the main camp. “Tent City” literally became a site for sore eyes and every other part of our aching bodies at the end of each day. You would have sworn that each stop had its own permanent camp, each identical to the last, but unique in its setting. A mass of organizers and volunteers erected and broke down the entire site daily, and it all appeared completely seamless to those of us competing, an amazing accomplishment that wasn't lost on a crowd who hardly had the energy to remove their own socks at the end of each day.

After each stage, we were treated to a mountain of pasta and pastries, an awards ceremony that honoured the stage victors for the day, and a 20-minute video of that day's adventures.

Stage 2
Stage 2 took us 84 kilometres from Crows Nest to Dutch Creek, more than 1,630 metres of climbing, and introduced us to our first TransRockies breakfast, which consisted of truckloads of fruit, bagels, coffee, juice, and Lucky Charms. And, yes, they were magically delicious! Just before departure, we overheard some TransAlps competitors saying, “After Day One, TransAlps was for pussies.””We were about to test that theory. As it turned out, today was also the day we were introduced to seismic-line climbs, Achilles-killing climbs that give a new definition to the word “steep.” If you can ride it, NASA would like to talk to you. We spent most of the day climbing and winding our way past the impressive Crows Nest Peak, but were rewarded with a huge half-hour descent off an alpine meadow at the end of the stage. A cramp at the end of this descent provided me with a true meaning of pain and a new appreciation for the adage “Hydrate or die!”
      
Stage 3
Stage 3, from Dutch Creek (the middle of nowhere) to Etherington Creek (just next to the middle of nowhere), was a 96-kilometre jaunt with a mere 1,433 metres of climbing for the day. It was a tough day for us as my leg was not actually moving the way a leg should, and I almost had to drop out due to the pain. I wouldn't have been the first, and I certainly wasn't the only rider suffering. A number of riders had already succumbed to health issues, including a severe asthma attack and some brutal cramping. Today was really taking its toll on the riders. Although the scenery and the weather was more than paradise could offer, the four seismic climbs we tackled were straight out of Hell's mouth.
      
Stage 4
Stage 4 appeared to be a rest stage, a mere 62-kilometre trudge through some of the toughest weather extremes, mountain passes, and trail crap, the stuff that nightmares are made of. This day, we managed to spot a very giant Giant owl, to cause and to get stuck in the middle of a cattle stampede down a narrow road, and to submerge ourselves in several glacially warmed rivers. Later, after 1,075 metres of climbing, we entered 10 kilometres of the trail from Hell. On a good day, this would have been a ripping single-track sanctuary, but thanks to cattle and horse no no's, rain, clay, and grit, the trail was a soupy mud, thick enough to build a house with. It was a death march, and we saw a few exhausted riders just give up and flop down beside their mud-encrusted bikes. Attrition was the first order of the day, and hypothermia was a close second. The race was now taking its toll, and the first-place team dropped out. An open-fire-warmed roundhouse brought the blood back into our limbs as we slowly came back to life. An amazing team of mechanics worked on every single bike until about 3:00 a.m. that morning so that we had something to ride the next day, and the support crew ensured that there were showers and hot tea for everyone. We slept hard that night.
      
Stage 5
The next day, we awoke to an amazingly bright rainbow over the Sandy McNabb camp. This was Stage 5, and it was the biggie. By day's end, we covered 112.71 kilometres, three mountain passes, and 2,301 metres of climbing, even with a last-minute detour in the final 30 kilometres of the race. We encountered weather extremes, pea soup fog, high altitude, and gale-force winds with a healthy mix of rain, sleet, and snow. Today's stage claimed a few unprepared riders, out due to dehydration, hunger, and hypothermic temperatures on some of the higher mountain passes, and two riders actually got lost for a few hours. Feed stations now featured hot tea and cookies, along with the familiar Flash 5 bars and drinks, just to keep us functional. It was a long, tough stage with harsh weather, oxygen-depriving climbs, and bitter-cold descents. It couldn't have been a better day to finish in the welcoming arms of Bragg Creek.
      
Stage 6
Stage 6 brought us to the lodge at Kananaskis, one of the most spectacular stops on the TransRockies. Due to snow, the stage was shortened to a mere 75 kilometres, but it turned out to be the most memorable stage of the race. Riders prepared for today's stage with MacGyver-like ingenuity. Surgical gloves under race gloves, rubber gloves from the local stores, and plastic bags of every description were duct-taped to various body parts in preparation for the cold ride ahead. The sun was out, the snow was deep, and the signs of giddiness were showing on the start line. As we sliced our way through the aptly named Tom Snow Trail with streams of powder rising up behind our wheels, all the aches and pains from the previous five stages seemed to ebb away. Today was just pure fun, and by the end of it, you needed to use a Brillo pad to scrub the mud and the smiles from everyone's faces. Damn, we were tired, but what a day!

We couldn't have asked for a better night. An incredible spread for dinner in the warmth of the Kananaskis lodge and the comfort of a warm bed re-energized all of us.
      
Stage 7 Finale
Stage 7, 75 kilometres and 700 metres of climbing from Kananaskis to Canmore, was the last stage of the race. The sun was shining, and everyone was pumped. Even riders who had dropped out of the race earlier in the week were back to experience the thrill of the final stage into Canmore. Most of the stage was diverted to road due to political red tape, but a nasty headwind had a way of making 30 kilometres seem like an eternity. Our last 40 kilometres made it all worthwhile, surrounded by the stunning peaks of the Rockies that followed the Trans Canada Trail into the heart of the Canmore Nordic Centre. Zipping around the World Cup course like kids on sugar highs, we could feel the finish line approaching. The crowds along the finish chute were incredible. Thousands lined the finish screaming words of encouragement and applauding the efforts of those who had survived this epic adventure. That morning as we crossed the line to conclude our grueling adventure, knowing that this was the final stage, we all had huge smiles on our faces as tears filled our eyes.
      
This was, by far, the toughest race I have ever done, and if follow-up phone calls are any indication, ditto for everyone else in the field. The mechanics stated that the average wear on the bikes and equipment after each stage was equal to what they'd seen on most bikes in a year. I'm continuously asked if it was any fun at all and if I would do it again. Although it has been two months since the race, I find myself thinking of the race more often than not, the amazing scenery, the remarkable people, and all the wonderful little stories that took place. I can't help but feel an inexplicable bond with everyone who faced this unknown task with such enthusiasm. Maybe I just need a swift slap across the head, but I can't wait until next year. Sign me up!

Note: The upsolutMV organization, Transrockies Inc., along with Travel Alberta, and every town at every stage, did an amazing job. Don Boynton of Travel Alberta made all of the daily web reports to pedalmag.com a possibility, picking me up after each stage and delivering me to the nearest Internet connection, sometimes an hour out of camp. I can't say enough about the hundreds of volunteers and support crew, except thank you for an amazing adventure!