A Century in the Springs: One Crew, One Day, One Hell of a Ride
Some rides you plan.
Some rides you feel.
This one was both.
It started like most good ideas do—in fragments. Early-season slogs on the Front Range. Chatting between efforts. Big talk during bigger climbs. One of us floated the idea: what if we linked all our favorite Colorado Springs trails into one massive ride? Then someone else upped the ante: make it a full century. No fluff.
And just like that, we had a plan. Or at least a direction.
Why We Did It
We weren’t chasing a segment or proving a point. This was about doing something hard—together. Testing our legs, our friendship, and our limits on terrain we knew well, but had never seen strung together like this.
The Springs has a wild mix of punchy tech, flow trails, big climbs, and desert heat. It’s the kind of place that rewards knowing every line, and still humbles you halfway through. We wanted all of it, in one go.
Prep, or Something Like That
There wasn’t one training plan. But there were a lot of 5–7 hour MTB rides, strength work in the gym, and early mornings chasing vertical. Yoon was a one-off, with a true off-the-couch effort, arguably the most impressive. When the day finally came, we crashed at a friend’s place in COS the night before—big dinner, gear check, scratchy sleep.
Start time? 4 a.m.
Fuel? Whatever we could shovel down.
Mood? Buzzing, with a side of nerves.
We rolled into the trailhead under a dark sky, did one last scan of bikes and snacks, snapped a blurry photo, and pointed our wheels up the biggest climb of the day.
Highs, Lows, and Everything Between
This wasn’t a clean ride. It was messy in the best way. Somewhere past mile 60, the heat started to eat at us. Jack P. let out a creek-bound scream—half in pain, half in desperation. Yoon was right behind him, cooking from the inside out. Devlin hit the wall and went radio silent, clinging to the hope that ice cream might save his soul.
But there were magic moments too. Ripping down Jones with the full crew in tow—every berm hit clean, every roller popped just right. All of us on top-10 pace and no one saying a word because we were too deep in the flow.
That’s the ride we’ll talk about for years.
The Final Miles
We started stoked and ended shelled. By the time the sun started to dip, we were scattered across the last few miles—quiet, cracked, and counting pedal strokes. Jack S. disappeared off the front at one point, chasing a personal ghost, and somehow beat the rest of us to the finish by several minutes without a word.
And then, just like that, it was done.
One hundred miles. Full dirt. Legs ruined. Spirits full.
One for the Books
There’s something about suffering with people you trust. No race tape. No feed zones. Just a crew, a route, and the quiet agreement to keep going no matter what.
We’ll do it again next year. Maybe not the same loop. But something equally dumb. Equally perfect.
Because the ride always teaches. And when you share it, it sticks.