Smoke, Tears, and Joy: Alex Kowalski on the Colorado Trail Race

Smoke, Tears, and Joy: Alex Kowalski on the Colorado Trail Race

Words by Alex Kowalski

Photos by Josh Hicks and Alex Kowalski

Editor's Note: In this latest addition to the Buffet single speed hero Alex Kowalski shares what it took at this year's rendition of the CTR. If you have an epic ride report or story you'd like to share on The Buffet reach out to zach.scsw@gmail.com. Let's go!

Getting to Durango

The chaos of a point-to-point race starts long before the actual "racing" part. It's a logistical puzzle where the first challenge is figuring out how to make your car magically appear 500 miles away at the finish line—the classic "cars at the wrong end" conundrum. Luckily, the trail gods smiled on us: a friend-of-a-friend of Natalie from Salida named Maddy offered to drive me, Nate, and Natalie all the way from Denver to Durango. Huge win. No shuttling, no juggling, just good vibes.

This miraculous intervention totally eliminated the need for a multi-day car shuttle, and we were eternally grateful. The road trip down was golden: shared meals, a couple doobs, plenty of laughs, and the type of stress-free roll into Durango that felt almost too good to be true. Starting the CTR already relaxed? That was new territory. Shoutout to Maddy—the real MVP before the race even began!

Pre-Race in Durango

The three Arkansas amigos (Natalie, Nate, and yours truly) posted up in a perfect little Airbnb along the Animas River Trail. Honestly, I think we spent 80% of our time in the backyard either shooting the shit or nervously faffing with our bikes. It was bike-nerd paradise.

Then, things got even better. We had a visitor! None other than Alexandera Houchin—a total icon and a huge reason I even ride a singlespeed. She's a multi-time finisher of the CTR and a legend of the sport. She's basically bikepacking royalty. Last year she even lent Natalie one of her old race rigs, so they were especially stoked to finally meet in person.

Alexandera rolled over, and we proceeded to chat the night away. Before we knew it, we were whipping up dinner and offering her a place to crash. Just like that, our pre-race chill hang evolved into an absolute three-day hootenanny with a singlespeed legend.

Picking her brain about the route was invaluable (I think this was her 8th or 9th time lining up?!). We scarfed down delicious meals, went on mellow shake-out rides, and had late-night heart-to-hearts that make you grateful bikes exist in the first place. Alexandera is a gem, and her presence was the best possible calming energy before the storm.

All too quickly, our five days of Durango bliss vanished. It was time to get serious.

Race director (and godfather of the CTR) Jefe Branham held a small pre-race gathering for tracker pickup and jitter swapping. It was a mix of handshakes with familiar faces and finally meeting the people I'd only known as avatars on the internet. Pro tip: some folks are exactly how you imagined; others are wildly different. Either way, characters left and right.

We wrapped up with a final quiet evening at the Airbnb, aiming for "early to bed." With a 4 a.m. start, sleep was a pipe dream, but hey—you always try.

It's Go Time, Baby — Race Day 1

Race morning. I shot out of bed hootin' and hollerin' at Nate and Natalie like a cowboy at sunrise. For me, this moment was nearly a year in the making. My last attempt at the CTR (an ITT in August 2024) ended in a 100-mile flop somewhere between the Stagestop Saloon and Kenosha Pass. Was it mental burnout from the Tour Divide? The weird solo format? The rafting bachelor party I attended the weekend before? Who knows. Probably all three.

But now, a year of obsession and training was culminating in this moment. I was buzzing during the short spin to the start. A local coffee shop opened early for us—a chance to get caffeinated and use the last proper bathroom for a long time. I crossed the street and lit a little doob while the normies sipped their coffee. My own pre-race ritual: a couple of puffs and I was fully at ease, ready for the adventure of a lifetime.

At 4 a.m. sharp, we were fucking in it. The "neutral" rollout out of Durango lasted about three minutes before the geared hotshots launched. I knew my place. I wasn't about to try and outspin a wolf pack of geared riders on my 30x21 gearing. As we hit Junction Creek Trailhead and the singletrack loomed, I naturally found my posse—a group of fellow singlespeeders. It was perfect.

Max Keegan (friendliest dude from Oregon) was right in front of me, with another legend of the sport, Justin Dubois, leading our little goat herd. The first massive ascent to Taylor Lake began, and so did the hike-a-bike. We settled into a perfect, chatty pace: Max, Justin, Jefe Branham, Josh Hicks, Justin Bell, and me. It felt less like a race and more like a ridiculously awesome singlespeed group ride through the backcountry. We leapfrogged, shot the shit, and pushed our bikes like the billy goats we are.

Taylor Lake was a nostalgia bomb. The last time I'd been there was three years ago during my first-ever bikepacking event, the New Colo. Back then, I don't think I fully appreciated the absurd beauty of Indian Trail Ridge. Holy shit, did I ever appreciate it this time. I was completely blown away.

After filtering water at Taylor Lake, Josh Hicks (on a matching Black Sheep Speedster—instant good dude vibes from this one), Jefe Branham (my singlespeed hero), and I rode together. The dream team.

As the day rolled on, we caught glimpses of the Stoner Mesa wildfire. It blotted out half the sky. We were in race mode, so it was hard to process how gnarly it was. Distractions came in the form of an absolutely fearless marmot at the top of Blackhawk Pass. Josh and I gave him a full-on photo shoot, which was just the weird, positive energy we needed before descending into the haze.

Soon, we were riding through falling ash. A passing thru-hiker asked if it was going to rain. "Uh, no. That's a smoke cloud," we replied. Shit was getting real! CTR vibes.

We pushed on, smoke in the rearview. A new mission emerged: get to Silverton before the new deli closed at 10 p.m.! The rest of the day flew by in a blur of stunning San Juan trail riding with Jefe. Before we knew it, we were wrapping up the final bit of singletrack near the Molas Lake campgrounds as the sun set. We bombed the pavement descent grinning like idiots, hitting town by 9 p.m.—deli still open, baby! Monumental win. Over sandwiches and baked potatoes, we linked up with Justin Bell and Josh, who rolled in looking wrecked. Sea Cow (Sean Cowie) was ready to keep moving, so I tagged along with him and Jefe, aiming for a partial climb up Stony Pass before bivvying.

It wasn't long before the temps started to warm up, and I found a decent spot to crash. After 20 hours of high-altitude riding, my body was ready for some rest. I found a "flat" spot on a slope, set up my kit, and tried to sleep. My adrenaline had other ideas. Heart rate wouldn't drop. To make matters worse, I started coughing up this horrifying, chunky, hardened phlegm—nothing like I'd ever seen before. As a weed smoker, I'm used to coughing up some crap, but this was next-level alien stuff. Still, I convinced myself rest would help. Four-ish hours of shut-eye was better than nothing.

Smoke Damage — Race Day 2

Woke up around 3 a.m. hacking up more chunky space goo from my lungs. Awesome. Packed up and started the brutal hike-a-bike up Stony Pass: 10 miles, 3,500 feet, topping out at 12,400 feet. The flickering lights of other racers twinkled below me in the dark. At least it was quiet—no Jeeps or side-by-sides yet.

By sunrise, I had the summit to myself and dropped into some of the gnarliest, most beautiful singletrack I've ever ridden. Jagged San Juan terrain, sheer drop-offs, high-stakes exposure—terrifying on paper, but I weirdly felt at peace.

As I stopped to de-layer, Karin Pocock caught me. She's one of the only people in biking who calls me by my last name, "Kowalski," and it always cracks me up. She's the best. She mentioned she felt crappy and wasn't eating, but I knew her experience outweighed mine by a mile, so I just kept her company in spirit as we leapfrogged.

I kept thinking I could catch Jefe or Justin. I caught a glimpse of Justin as he was summitting the high point. I got stoked and thought for a moment that I might actually catch up to them. And then they'd vanish. After a grueling descent to Spring Creek Pass, the paved climb up Slumgullion Pass felt like a welcome break. The long descent to Cathedral Ranch Cabins was a blur of bliss. Endless dirt roads really let the mind wander.

Cathedral Ranch Cabins is a magical oasis. I'd visited years ago on tour. I thanked the owners for everything they do for us bikepackers, and I reminded Annette of when I'd come through years prior with numb hands. She remembered me! How nice is that?! I resupplied, coughed up a lung the entire time (Annette was concerned), and shared some pizza with Justin Bell, who arrived not long after me. It was a lovely, dangerous respite. I knew if I stayed much longer, I'd fully convert this race into a tour.

The climb up Los Pinos Pass was beautiful, but my lungs were screaming. I had a heart-to-heart with my ego and let go of my sub-5-day goal. My health was more important. My lungs weren't right, and pretending otherwise was just dumb. Weirdly, the moment I released that pressure, a flaming shooting star blazed across the sky (a meteor?!). A literal sign. I laughed.

That night, I found a perfect stand of pine trees near the Cochetopa Hills, blocked from the wind and the world. I slept a glorious, uninterrupted five hours. It was exactly what I needed.

Slow Goings — Race Day 3

Refreshed, I rolled into the Cochetopa Hills, which led me straight toward the dreaded Sargents Mesa section. My only memory of this area from my tour in 2021 was dragging my bike downhill through boulder gardens while dirt bikes tried to pass. Absolute chaos.

This time started mellow—dark, remote, eerie cattle country. I skipped refilling water at the cow-poop soup known as Cochetopa Creek, choosing instead to sip Coke I'd hauled from Cathedral Ranch. A tiny indulgence that somehow reset my brain.

But the stretch from Lujan Creek to Marshall Pass broke me down. Thirty-five miles of endless hike-a-bike, stingy water sources, and descents so short they felt fake. I kept imagining I'd catch Jefe or Justin any minute, but nope. Just me, solo, trudging through hell.

Finally reaching Marshall Pass felt like hugging an old friend. I'd been there during countless tours and the Tour Divide, and seeing something familiar in the middle of the CTR feels like cheating death. Onward. After a quick, friendly chat with some hikers about water sources (gotta represent the bikepacking community well!), I began one of the route's most taxing descents: Fooses Creek.

Fooses Creek descent was steep, chunky, and pure chaos. I laughed the whole way down while also nearly dying. Near the bottom of the descent, I got spooked briefly by a fellow cyclist. It was Cade! I'd heard he scratched in Silverton from the severe smoke. Turns out, it was a broken cleat that sent him back to town. Since the morning of Day 2, he'd been on an absolute mission to make up time. We chatted for a second, and then he vanished into the trees. I later found out he shot from nearly last place to second overall. An absolute machine. Mad respect.

Crossing Highway 50 felt like a milestone. Alexandera had said things get easier after this. I, perhaps foolishly, took her literally. I soon realized that my snacks were running low. I knew I wouldn't make it to the general store at Mt. Princeton Hot Springs by 8 p.m. Rats. My next genius idea: I called the restaurant at Mt. Princeton and ordered burgers to be waiting for me. Relief!

Then I hit the Chalk Creek section. My brain had conveniently forgotten how utterly fucked and boulder-filled this section is. I pedal-struck about 25 times and nearly launched myself off the mountain. I had to constantly tell myself to "ride like a grandpa" to avoid a full-on race-ending wreck.

At the end of the trail, filtering water, I saw another light. It was Mark "Race Pillow" Johnson. He'd had to scratch after receiving support—he encountered a friend on the trail and used their shock pump after accidentally releasing all the air from his rear suspension. Being a stand-up dude, he was fully transparent about it but wanted to continue riding the route. His integrity was seriously admirable. I had raced the Grand Loop earlier this year with his wife, Nicolette Jones (she won and set a new FKT!). Such a rad couple! We chatted until the lights of Mt. Princeton, where I said goodbye—I had beefy boys with my name on them waiting.

I walked into the lobby and the temptation hit me. A shower. A real bed. My lungs were begging for mercy. I asked about a room, and they offered me a deal for $250. It seemed like a fortune and a bargain all at once. I justified it as a medical necessity for my alarming respiratory situation. A shower and a real bed? It was a no-brainer. Day 3 was done. Onward.

Recharged and Reckless — Race Day 4

I woke up after five hours of hotel-room bliss, half a burger, and a pile of fries feeling like a new man. A refueled Alex. I was still coughing up what looked like a discarded prop from a sci-fi movie, but a new, strange energy was coursing through me. I wanted to catch up.

The average age of the singlespeed podium at that moment was, like, 49. I couldn't let a bunch of old guys beat me! (No disrespect to the wise and powerful old men of the sport—you are my heroes, but I had to try.)

I packed up my leftover burger and fries—true gourmet trail cuisine—and hit the road. The climb out of Mt. Princeton was a sunrise special. I'd just talked to my beautiful, hippie mom, who insisted I practice some sun gazing. She's big on grounding—walking barefoot, touching the earth, staring at the early morning sun. I took her sage advice, stopped, took my glasses off, and just soaked it in. I felt a wave of gratitude.

I have to pinch myself sometimes. I'm lucky to have discovered bikepacking. Out there, I feel alive and dead at the same time. Cliché, yeah, but true. Like nothing else matters.

With the sun gazing ceremony complete and my burger stash secured, I was ready to charge. On the way toward Cottonwood Creek and County Road 306, I caught Race Pillow again. We chatted for a bit, then split for resupply. He needed electronics after leaving stuff at Cathedral Ranch; I was dead set on a quick resupply operation in Buena Vista. My gamble: an unfamiliar gas station right on route. And holy hell—jackpot.

The two women behind the counter greeted me with the kind of friendliness that makes you forget you smell like a rotting animal. Alongside the fountain machine were giant pitchers of tea—hibiscus mint caught my eye. I mixed it with lemonade, filled two bottles with Arnie Palmies, and kept grinning like a maniac. Strawberry Wiley Wallaby licorice? Into the bag. Gooey sourdough cinnamon rolls? Double bag. My mouth watered just imagining them melting in the afternoon heat.

I gave the ladies a rundown of the race, reorganized my stash outside, and checked the tracker. Justin and Jefe weren't far past Buena Vista. With a long dirt/pavement detour ahead, I could close the gap. I skedaddled out of BV.

I felt at home on the dirt roads outside of town, just cruising. I even called my buddy Tom for a Facetime tour of the scenery. Then, I smelled it. Ganja. And around a rock, a cyclist appeared. It was Justin! I hung up the phone and caught him.

We rode together for a few minutes, but I felt like he needed his space. Plus, I'd been chasing this fast bastard for 2.5 days—since he vanished at the high point—and I wasn't about to just soft-pedal now. I stepped on it. In 18 miles of dirt and pavement, I opened a gap big enough to stop for a shmoke and a pancake.

Of course, as soon as I got back on the bike, I saw Justin charging up the hike-a-bike past Clear Creek Reservoir like a demon. Fuck. Dude can hike! I realized I had to motor to keep my lead. I pushed harder.

My goal was clear: get over the Lost Canyon burn area and into Twin Lakes non-stop. I did it, rolling in as the heat of the day started to kick the shit out of me. Yippee! I found some shade and annihilated one of those god-tier cinnamon rolls.

I knew Jefe's shoes were on their last legs—he'd shown me in Silverton how the sole was barely attached. After all that hiking, I figured they were toast. The climb out of Twin Lakes was a scorching slog. Then, as I'm hiking and singing badly to my tunes, I see a cyclist under a tree. Oh shit. It's Jefe.

I'd finally caught both the singlespeed legends I'd been chasing for days. The hotel sleep? The burger? The sun gazing? The hibiscus tea? Who knows, but I was FIRED UP. I felt back in the game.

I didn't want to blow past him, especially since he was clearly having a safety meeting of his own. I paused for a smoke. We chatted, and I immediately asked about the shoes. He'd used a whole bottle of Gorilla Glue, and the desert heat had baked it on. I asked if he'd stop in Leadville for new ones. "Nah," he said. And he was right—new shoes halfway through a race is a blister-filled nightmare.

We sat, smoked, shot the shit. Suddenly I wasn't just chasing ghosts—I was riding with them. By Leadville, I was already chalking the race up as a success.

In Leadville, Jefe and I stopped for a mega-resupply at a gas station just off route. Knowing nothing would be open at Copper Mountain, we packed for a 200-mile final push. Yeehaw! I housed a Hunt Brothers pizza (shout-out to Vin and PW), an ice cream, a soda, and loaded my bike with a disgusting array of gas station "nutrition." I still had my extra Mt. Princeton burger and a cinnamon roll. I was sittin' pretty.

Rolling toward Tennessee Pass, I pulled over for a digestive smoke. Back on the road, I suddenly realized Jefe was completely out of sight and I was a mile off route—first wrong turn of the whole race. My computer had been beeping constantly all week, so I'd gone totally numb to its warnings. Classic.

Back on track, I found myself behind a beast of a trail runner who was motoring uphill—a humbling experience for a humblebragging hike-a-biker like myself. I finally got around him and enjoyed a long downhill. Caught back up to Jefe filtering water, and he roasted me about my noisy computer. We laughed, then headed for the base of the climb up to Kokomo Pass and Searle Pass.

It was a hefty climb. I knew I had to fuel up. I didn't want to drop Jefe, but I also didn't want to lose the good pace I'd had all day. I cranked my secret energy stash and went for it. Night fell and I found myself alone. It was grueling. A playlist from an Italian mountain goat of a cyclist, Emma, got me in the right mindset to go hard. At the top, a nagging pain shot through my left leg. I've torn both ACLs, and I could feel a hint of ligament injury in my future. I knew the feeling. I convinced myself I could manage it without permanent damage. I charged on. The descent into Copper on Guller Creek was a gnarly way to end a long day. I rolled into the Copper Mountain area around midnight. A fox ran alongside me for a half mile through what seemed like a ghost town. Pretty rad.

My plan for the night: start climbing the Ten Mile Range out of Copper to get out of the cold valley air. I found a perfect flat spot a mile up, covered in pine needles. I inflated my pad, got in my bag, and chowed down on my last, glorious cold burger and fries. HOLY SHIT THAT WAS GOOD. Took a two-hour nap. It was time for a quick mental reset before the final push.

Good Ol' Cry — Race Day 5

Two hours later, 3 a.m., I was back at it. The morning started with a delirious and half-awake search for water. I washed most of mine down after smashing burg and before my trail cat nap. Found a trickle and wasn't sure if the next creek was running, so I took some time to fill up on muddy water. Believe it or not, the next creek was raging with clear water. Can't get upset about that. Just happens sometimes! The morning had me cautious.

The Tenmile hike-a-bike is steep, cruel, endless. Halfway up, my phone buzzed. A video of me and Jack—my best friend, gone three years now.

I broke. Tears, guilt, all of it. Why didn't I do more? Losing him is the worst thing that's ever happened to me. But in that mountain air, I forgave myself. Let the sobs roll through me. Felt him with me. Trauma and tears: one hell of a drug.

At sunrise, I crested the ridge. Lake Dillon glowing in the early morning light, Breckenridge lights fading, wind biting. Pure magic. That moment—carrying Jack with me—is one I'll never forget.

The descent was a ripper. Ten miles, 3,600 feet of gravity, and just one mile-long kicker climb to keep me honest. I stopped at Tiger Run RV for snacks, only to find a trail angel cooler a half mile later. Classic doi moment. But the Coke I slammed there kept me buzzing all morning.

Georgia Pass was next. The terrain was no longer as brutal as the San Juans, but still proper trail riding. But by then, my GPS had fully nuked itself. No basemaps, just gridlines. Restarted it. Same shit. I panicked at first, then laughed. It's the Colorado Trail—just follow the damn dirt.

I made a plan to hit the Stagestop Saloon later to use their Wi-Fi. But as I rode, I had to remind myself that the trail was well-marked. Onward! I still wanted that Saloon grub. My last stop was a mandatory, heavenly pit toilet break at Kenosha Pass. A true gift in the form of a stinky and overused shit sauna.

Then I passed it. The exact tree I'd sat under and cried at last year when I scratched. The fear I felt then was gone. Once I'd conquered my lung issues, all that was left was the dirt under my tires and the junk on my bike.

The goal was Stagestop Saloon. Legend says they close whenever they feel like it, but when I got there—miracle—open. Pepperoni pizza, basket of fries, Coke, phone charging. Scott K limped in with a nosebleed; I shared a few slices with him. I asked for Wi-Fi to fix the base maps on my GPS, but the bartender said, "We have Wi-Fi, but it ain't public." Cool. Fuck it. I'd made it this far blind, I'd make it to the end.

Tipped big, packed leftover pizza, and rolled out at dusk. Later, I learned Jefe showed up an hour after me—closed. That place is chaos.

Scott took off on the paved detour ahead of me. I knew I couldn't catch a geared rider on a slight downhill, so I took my time, called my brother, and got some new playlists for the final night shift. I had the energy. The only option was to empty the tank and ride all the way to the finish.

The night grew dark on the climby dirt roads—my absolute jam. Up a mile, down a mile, over and over in perfect temps. I caught Scott on a descent, bombing past him with a "Let's get it!" I soon passed him for good. The house music in my headphones lit a fire under me. I felt unstoppable.

By Wellington Lake, the sleep deprivation monster was hitting hard. I'd been up for over 48 hours on two hours of sleep. Inspired by my good buddy and coach, Mr. Nate, I allowed myself a 23-minute "Jordan nap." I found a little three-walled shelter, took some caffeine pills, set an alarm, and conked out. I woke up feeling reborn. It's wild what a micro-snooze can do.

The next 35 miles of singletrack felt like they took a lifetime. I was delirious. I had to break it into tiny, digestible sections. The Buffalo Creek Fire Station felt eerie. I sat on a chair and drank water emotionlessly, a lone astronaut on a strange mission. But my quest was nearly complete.

Then came the dreaded kitty litter. The section between Buff Creek and the South Platte broke my brain. It was a two-inch layer of loose gravel on trails just steep enough to be unrideable. I was fed up. I actually started trying to kick the tiny rocks off the trail with my feet, muttering like a madman. I sent deranged texts and videos to friends about my disdain. It was, and I will die on this hill, the worst section of the entire 540-mile route.

All of a sudden, I started to hear a click at the top of every pedal rotation. Uh-oh, what's this? Was it time to finally tension my chain? At this point, I had made it over 500 miles without any mechanicals whatsoever. I think I applied chain lube once at Cathedral (around mile 150) and that was it. Wacky, right? So I accepted the fact that I had to tension my chain. Got my multi-tool out and got to it. Quick fix, no problem. Barely any time lost. Threw my leg over and started pedaling again, only to realize that the chain wasn't the problem in the first place. My crank and chainring had come loose off of the bottom bracket—no good! Luckily, I recently upgraded to the new 8-bolt system of the Cane Creek eeWings (thanks Jenna!), so I was able to tighten it with the 8mm on my allen key. I would have been in big trouble if I was still using their 3-bolt interface. Phew! Crisis averted.

The descent to the South Platte was sketchy and loose, but the river brought relief. The final hike-a-bike was familiar, and I welcomed it as a way to warm up at dawn. I took a final break, ate my last gross food, and savored the moment. It was almost over, and part of me wanted it to last forever.

The final bench-cut trail was spectacular redemption for the kitty litter debacle. On a switchback, I startled a foreign thru-hiker who immediately asked for water. Dude was like 10 miles in! I gave him my water and some friendly advice about not depending on strangers. I hope he's having a blast out there.

Then, the Waterton Canyon dirt road. Six miles of coasting to the finish. The first bit is steep and fun, but the last four are a brutal 1-2% grade where you just spin out. I accepted my fate. Knowing my mom was at the finish, I decided to clean up. I brushed my teeth. Then I thought, why not? I broke out the wipes and gave myself a full spa treatment, getting hilarious looks from the 9 a.m. crowd. It was incredibly refreshing.

Friggin' Donezo — Race Over

No geared riders passed me! My lovely mom was there, as was a cheering squad for another racer, Rocky, who I'd apparently passed in the night. I dragged my bike to my car and hammered an entire watermelon.

My new friend Max Keegan rolled into the parking lot in his big red van, and we bonded over the shared fuckery of the route. The people in this sport are the best.

My one goal was an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet. Do not sleep on Himchuli in Denver—it is a gem.

I convinced my mom to drive back to the finish to see Jefe come in. He was stoked and even said he had fun riding with me (tear!). It was special to debrief with Alexandera and Johnny, and to chat about how this route has changed their lives. I knew it was about to change mine.

Fuck, this route is so cool. The people who love it are so fucking cool. I feel so goddamn lucky to be a part of this weird, growing, evolving sport.

I'm going to work my ass off to feel strong carrying my bike up massive peaks at Colorado elevation.

Yee-fuckin'-haw! CTR for life. Class of 2025.