Cameron Widoff: “Just so long as you keep the momentum going, it’s fine.”
The true story of three champions and the dude who had the chance to roll with them back in the ’90s.
Back in the Clinton Era, on a cloudless, dead-cold day, four riders pedaled into the snow, towards the illegal “Canal Trail” north of Boulder. A mountain biker, a triathlete, a roadie and a journalist: four points on the compass rose of professional cycling. The quartet rolled over snowpacked city streets, then powdery dirt roads and finally to a locked gate with a sign promising “Death, Injury and Prosecution”—or some combination of the three.
Now that the statute of limitations has expired, I can tell our story. Dismounting in line, the first rider climbed over and each followed, handing over his bike, then hopping the fence, turning, taking the next bike until all four stood on untracked snow, six inches deep. Ahead snaked a frigid ribbon of earth, over which to float during a training ride while the others were lounging at home, or worse, watching bike porn while spinning on the stationary trainer.
Our crew exhibited an obvious symmetry—the four of us excelled in our individual disciplines and together we made a unit even more ready to hop that fence. Road cycling was, naturally, the pinnacle, zero and 360 degrees simultaneously, where all things two-wheeled begin and end: And we had Chris Wherry, a national champion, the hometown hero. Mountain biking was the funky offshoot, its own sub-culture: Enter Travis Brown, Durango-born wunderkind, Olympian and top-ten finisher at worlds. Next came triathlon, that incomprehensible discipline populated by the obsessed, possessed, the over-the-top and driven: Meet Cameron Widoff, Midwestern boy, collegiate swimmer and then-Nike model, dreadlocked Ironman top-five finisher. And finally, the voyeur, the wanna-be cyclist, with few victories to his name, but stories to trade for cash: me.
We were also just four guys riding the Canal Trail to the town of Lyons. Beside the trail, the canal—murky water oozing along, every mile or so an unnavigable tunnel, which would spell certain death or perhaps guaranteed disfigurement should a hapless watergoer attempt a through-swim. The signs repeated that simple mantra: Death, Injury, Prosecution.
Why risk it? The Canal offers a car-free spin, a valuable commodity on a snowy day. We were willing to ignore the warning because the competition would surely stay at home, missing a day of training. Suffer through the ride and we’d be 24 hours ahead of the rest of them. That’s a lead even a guy like me could keep.
The training would pay off, too: Widoff finished top-five in Kona that fall, Travis went to the Olympics, Wherry stood on the podium at the Tour of Malaysia… and me? I got skinny and won a couple races in the spring.
It was always a privilege to pedal with the champions. We rode along in formation, Brown and Widoff ahead, Wherry and me behind. I usually hid in the back the first hour when training with pros, so I wouldn’t melt down later and become a special-needs rider on the way home. Three of us rode mountain bikes, but Widoff, ever the iconoclast, piloted an Ibis ‘cross bike.
“How them tires goin’ for ya, Cam?” Wherry asked from behind.
Cameron stopped mid-sentence, turned and smiled, “Aw man, no sweat, dude, no sweat, just ridin’ along, you gotta let it float, just don’t steer too much, it’ll be fine, man, awesome, awesome, but look at this day, dude!”
Cameron was born mid-sentence, lives mid-sentence, will die mid-sentence, and if he’s not mid-sentence, then he’s just catching his breath. He wakes up in the morning, begins speaking and it goes until bedtime. He talks through six-hour bike rides, two-hour trail runs, burrito dinners, massages, you name it. I’ve never swum laps with him, but I can imagine the muffled commentary as he flip-turns, crawls and kicks in his quest to find the podium in Hawaii.
I’ve only heard Cam go silent twice. The first time on a six-hour deathmarch to Horsetooth Reservoir… and the second time, well that was on this very bike ride.
We pedaled the Canal Trail, warm only when moving and getting ahead.
Along the trail we came to a wide, shallow creek. Ice had formed on both banks, leaving a 12-foot-wide strip of flowing water down the middle. Total distance, perhaps 30 feet of river to be crossed—ten or so feet of ice, flowing water, then another ten or so feet of ice and the far bank. Shin-deep at its center, the creek didn’t pose much threat of Death, Injury and Prosecution, but it did pose a hazard on a 15-degree day. We halted to consider our options.
“Whaddya think?” Wherry asked.
“Well, the ice looks solid,” Brown said, smiling.
Widoff was already inching forward, “No worries, man! You can just roll it, no worries, you see, just roll right through, just so long as you keep the momentum going, it’s fine. Just roll through it. No worries. You see?”
If only the video-phone had been developed in the ‘90s. So many images we could’ve captured over a decade of racing and training. The parties, the races, the day Cam Widoff tried to ride his Ibis across ice, then water, then ice and up snow-covered dirt.
“No worries man, I got it,” Cam announced… and pushed off.
Cam pedaled and neared the perilous drop from ice to water. It seemed, for a few, bluebird moments that Cam might make it. Over six feet tall, his blond dreads bristling downward and out of a stocking cap, I still see him at that last moment—cycling weightlessly, a muscular snapshot, heroic.
He stopped pedaling when his front wheel abruptly turned perpendicular to his path of travel. With just ice beneath the rubber of his tires, the bike did not deviate from its trajectory, as it normally would have. He simply slid along, suspended in space. And though he still moved over the earth, in a sense he was motionless—the bike oozed across the ice while Cam had gone still, awaiting his fate.
“Oh no!” Wherry cried, in delight and anticipation.
The wheel left the ice and dropped nearly a foot into the rushing, icy waters. Hands on the brake hoods, Cam lurched gently forward when the wheel lodged in rocks on the bottom of the river. The weightless-slide portion of his tragedy had ended and now came the violent flop-over into the torrent.
He stayed suspended for a moment. Then he fell onto his side, feet still clipped into the bike. Of course, he lay with his head downstream—the worst possible scenario for him; perfection for us—feet attached to his pedals, right leg beneath his bike and the creek flowing up and over his torso, threatening to suffocate him in 40-degree water.
“Oh oh, no worries, baby! No worries!” I sang into the blue sky.
Wherry howled. Travis smiled.
Cam began gasping and arched his body to keep his head above water. He thrashed out of the pedals. Feet liberated, he planted his hands on rocks and lifted himself out of the water. Silver tendrils drained from his body.
“Oh dude, oh no man!” he shouted.
He stood rapidly and righted himself. Ankle-deep, mid-river, Cam straddled his frigid Ibis and began running the bike towards the far shore. The wheels bounced over rocks and the bicycle bucked beneath him, up the far bank.
The cold had shocked him into a speechless, smiling pose. He looked down, feet in sodden booties, water snaking down his wiry, lean legs. Cameron Widoff was speechless for a long moment… and no more.
“Yeah, bro,” Cam replied. “Dude, I had it, man, but the front wheel just got a little sideways, and then you know when I dropped into the water, man, there was no way, and that frickin’ water, man, that water, it was coming up my chin and shit!”
We laughed harder.
“I mean,” he continued, “these gloves are soaked and shit, man, the water went right in ‘em, I’m lucky I stood up, I could it feel it coming up under my jacket. Fuckin’-A man.”
Cam kept us abreast of his every sensation. We laughed. After a while of this, we realized the three of us would need to cross if we were to continue our training ride, while Cam would need to come back if he was to return home. Stalemated momentarily, we surveyed the creek up and down.
Wherry looked at us, “Well, I’m goin’ for it.”
Instead of riding, though, Wherry dismounted, ran the bike over the ice, then rock-hopped across the creek, leapt onto the ice and kept going. In less than seven seconds he was standing next to Cam, inspecting his feet and bike.
“Well,” was all Travis said as he repeated Wherry’s maneuver. I could do nothing but follow.
I smacked Cam on the back happily. “How was that for ya?!”
“Oh man, I had it, man, you know. I had it, but that front wheel, just that front wheel got frickin’ sideways and man, I nearly kept it up…”
We silenced Cam temporarily with more laughter. When we wanted to know, “You going home, or what?”
“Nah, man, I can make it, no fuckin’ way I’m going home, man. Those guys can stay at home, man, we’re ridin’ man, just a little wet, I’ll be fine when I get moving.”
And just like that he was back in the saddle. The sub-nine-hour Ironman competitor, popsicle dreads on his head riding an ice-glazed Ibis—he was already pedaling. We three mounted and caught up, making tracks on the trail, snickering at Cam’s long legs, jerking the pedals in circles with his frozen feet, the commentary unending.
“Fucking derailleur’s frozen, man, I think, shit, can’t feel my hands,” he said, looking down. He turned towards Travis. “Man, look at my derailleur, is it shifting? I can’t feel my hands, so I don’t know if I’m shifting it or not, you know? Is that thing moving… now … how about now … you know, I almost had that, but the front wheel just went…” his head turned back to us, “…man, is that thing shifting, man, Robbie, man, you see that, is that thing shifting, bro, I can’t tell, that water and shit, it was coming up my chin, I’m lucky I got up…”
Less than two hours prior, we four riders had pedaled out of town and hopped the fence onto the Canal Trail, where one is guaranteed Death, Injury and Prosecution, or some combination of the three. We nearly lost a man while crossing a creek, a real champion, out training in the cold when the others were home, safe and sound on the couch, muscles atrophying, willpower dissolving, racers riding up the road, leaving them behind.
Wherry and I shook our heads behind the triathlete and the mountain biker. We spun towards Lyons, under bluebird skies, the four of us points on the compass rose of professional cycling. Three champions … and me.
Elevation Outdoors’ contributing editor Rob Coppolillo raced road bikes for a decade, from 1991 until 1999, before starting the online mag, bike.com. His manuscript In the Gutter: Stories Too True to Tell, chronicles his time racing and writing about cycling. His book, Holy Spokes: a Biking Bible for Everyone, is due out in January.
Rob Coppolillo will be talking about his days at bike.com (and promises to swear and maybe get naked) at 7 p.m. at the Boulder REI on October 26 as part of the Elevation Outdoors Presents slideshow series. Be there. rei.com
