This year, it seems like there are more serious bike riders than ever, judging by the proliferation of Lycra on city paths. The Twin Cities have long been the secret capital of cycling: Two of the world’s largest bike-parts wholesalers are headquartered here, some of the best bike frames are built here, and we may soon replace San Francisco as the epicenter of bike style—you know, courier bags, single-speed bikes, vintage wool jerseys, and so on. With the increased bike traffic, there is naturally a collective rise in blood pressure among the belligerent motoring class. While it’s not legal and it’s not nice to harass cyclists, one can indulge in a genteel form of sadism later this month by posing as a fan of bike racing.
On June 13, dozens of professional cyclists will arrive in Stillwater to race what is billed as “the toughest criterium in North America.” The culmination of the Nature Valley Grand Prix is Chilkoot Hill, a heartbreaking climb from the floor of the St. Croix River valley. The road will be reserved from curb to curb for the riders, all of whom will be in a world of pain.
“Chilkoot is primeval,” said David LaPorte, director of the Grand Prix. Cyclists tackle it on the final leg of a stage race that stretches over five days and takes riders to courses throughout the state. Like a miniature Tour de France, the rider who completes all five stages with the lowest cumulative time wins. But things change quickly on that hill. “Chilkoot is so brutal that riders can gain or lose huge amounts of time,” said LaPorte.
For some perspective on how discouraging Chilkoot is, imagine I-35 as it climbs south out of Duluth. That hill has a six percent grade, the maximum allowed on federal highways. Chilkoot has a twenty-four percent grade. It rises one hundred feet over a distance of seven hundred feet. It’s so steep that the city of Stillwater closes it during the winter, because the north-facing parts are too treacherous for driving. Naturally, this improves conditions for other kinds of sport. “I used to slide on it as a child,” said Sara Russell, a veteran cyclist who grew up not far from the hill.
“We created that monster a few years back,” Monty Brine said with a laugh. He is the Stillwater businessman who brought bike racing to Chilkoot in the seventies, mapping a course that included the hill because he knew its cruelty would create some dramatic publicity. That first race attracted a handful of amateur cyclists. They were supposed to attempt three laps on the course, but Brine estimates that eighty percent of the racers dropped out early.
The Grand Prix resurrected the course for professional riders in 2002. This year, racers ride the circuit for seventy minutes, tackling Chilkoot more than twenty times. After only a few climbs up the hill, “Your legs will start to give out because they’re full of lactic acid,” according to Russell. “They’re wasted! They’re trashed!”
In planning the first pro race in 2002, LaPorte made arrangements to install pedestrian barricades along Chilkoot. But when workers arrived to install them, they took one look at the hill and turned around. “They said, ‘You can’t put fencing on that hill. It’s too steep and it’ll slide down,’” said LaPorte. Without fences, the race has a European feel that cycling fans compare to watching Lance Armstrong approach a mountaintop finish in the Pyrenees; spectators stake out the best spots. As the day wears on, the crowd jams the hill, leaving riders only a narrow passageway up. “Spectators scream support just a few feet away with nothing in between,” said LaPorte. “It’s awesome.”
Of course, what goes up must come down. While the struggle up Chilkoot can make for some comedic outbursts, the downward slope is terrifying. Last year, a thunderstorm and high winds made for slick conditions and the race was momentarily halted after a violent crash. The incident struck fear into Russell. “You’re not going to die going up the hill, but you could die going down,” she said. —Christy DeSmith
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