Six hours, 41 minutes and 39 seconds. That’s how long it took me to finish the least predictable Leadville Trail 100 MTB in the race’s 32-year history, on a course that, 10 days earlier, didn’t officially exist.
Leadville has been the most predictable race on the calendar for the Life Time Grand Prix, which made its debut in 2022. The race starts at elevation, 10,152 feet above sea level in Leadville, Colorado, and collects more than 10,000 feet of climbing across an out-and-back 100-plus-mile route.
Riders obsess over the same details every year: when to arrive at altitude, how hard to ride the mid-point climb to Columbine Mine, which tires to run, and how to survive the Powerline climb (gradients reaching 26%) at mile 80 on the return.
This year, almost none of that was certain. The Willow Fire threatened the course and the race itself in early July. The wildfire was even more threatening to local businesses and homes, with evacuations made last month with more than 6,000 acres burned.
Going in it was the Leadville nobody knew. If we did race, we’d still climb Columbine, above the treeline to 12,500 feet, at least once.
10 days of guessing
With no official course, we became amateur course designers, studying fire maps, pouring over trail maps, regular maps, and building our own routes. My favorite, courtesy of Cecily Decker, who went on to finish the 2026 race as runner-up, was aptly named ‘Pretendville’.
I also rode sections of the Colorado Trail with 2024 winner Melisa Rollins (now two-time winner), chasing rumors about what Life Time might add for enough elevation gain and distance. Or would the three-day Leadville Stage Race course become the ‘new’ 100-mile course?
The Leadville Stage Race (July 24-26) became our best substitute for reconnaissance. I wasn’t officially entered, but I rode it anyway, one hour before the field, with former US marathon mountain bike champion Alexis Skarda.
The climbing was steep, loose, and unfamiliar enough that four miles into Stage 1, only Alexis and one other rider could clear the first steep section without putting a foot down. Cecily won the official elite women’s race, finishing second overall, and set the all-time QOM up the Columbine climb.
Then on August 6, the Leadville 100 course was finally released. After weeks of guessing, we finally had a race to prepare for, at 102 miles and just under 10,000 feet of climbing, with the usual one ascent, and descent, of Columbine.
And Powerline was gone.
Tyres. Pressure. Gearing. Dropper or no dropper? For the first time, we could stop speculating and start dialing in the details.
Race day
The course stopped being theoretical as 6:10 a.m. MST arrived on August 15.
Above 10,000 feet, Leadville feels less tactical and like more of a fitness contest. No real strategy. You can’t fake it at the ‘Race Across the Sky’.
There’s no hole shot at Leadville (think cyclo-cross). The field is relatively small, the first five miles are a fast road descent, and nobody wants to blow any matches with 10,000 feet of climbing still ahead. That lasted about five miles.
The first muddy dirt section hit, and the race immediately started to blow apart. Riders went down in the first corner, followed by a bigger pileup that took out several Life Time Grand Prix athletes, including the eventual women’s winner Rollins.
Then came St. Kevin’s, where the field split for good. With a 25% grade and groups forming all around me, being in the right group suddenly mattered more than almost anything else.
From there, we hit a major road descent and a long, flatter stretch toward Pipeline. There was an unexpected sense of camaraderie among the women I was riding with. We took equal turns on the front. At a race this grueling, nobody was attacking. The camaraderie amongst the women was a breath of oxygen-rich fresh air.
Then we hit Columbine. I’d saved a few matches for the climb and started moving up several spots. Every switchback felt like the last one.
Near the top, I saw Cecily coming down in first place. I cheered, sparing the little oxygen I had. It was worth it. I knew how hard she’d work for this race.
After Columbine, the course turned into a race against the clock. With so much pavement and relatively little climbing left, the pace never let up.
Goodbye Powerline
I wouldn’t have predicted missing Powerline. I crossed the line in 6:41:39, more than an hour faster than my previous best at Leadville. And finishing an hour faster, with smiles instead of the usual blank stares, felt like it was missing the gut punch the race is supposed to have. I’ll take the smiles. I’ll still miss the collective trauma.
An hour faster is a number that won’t hold up in cycling court, however. With roughly 2,000 fewer feet of climbing and no Powerline, it wasn’t the same race. But 6:41 still felt pretty damn good.
The handlebar debate in action
This wasn’t a personal equipment choice. It was a rule change being put to the test on a newly-designed course where, for the first time, there was a strong argument that drop bars would have been faster.
After last year’s race, Life Time banned drop bars on mountain bikes to standardise equipment. The reasoning made sense. Flat bars and drop bars handle differently, especially on narrow descents with high-speed, two-way traffic.
Fast forward to this year. With the ultra-long paved sections, smoother ‘hero’ dirt, after a week of rain, and fewer rough Leadville features, the course was almost begging for drop bars. Even I had to admit it.
For years, I insisted that a mountain bike should be a mountain bike: flat bars, suspension, dropper post, the whole package. Now, after racing Leadville enough times, I’ve realised it races more like a gravel race with a few rougher sections and fast descents.
From a pure speed perspective, this was the Leadville course for drop bars.
Pro aid stations
Elite riders had four opportunities to see their crews: Pipeline at mile 26.1 outbound and 74.2 inbound, and Lost Canyon at mile 42.5 outbound and 58.7 inbound.
The course naturally split the field into smaller groups, and with the separation of amateur and elite feed zones, the race felt less chaotic, and more organised.
The biggest benefit was having to do less facial recognition; it becomes challenging, once race-brain takes over. Having designated aid stations meant fewer chances to fly past your people because you didn’t see them.
Getting smarter about altitude
Leadville still asked something of the town, and the town still gave it.
The Leadville Trail 100 running race, started by Ken and Merilee Chlouber in 1983 following the closure of the Climax Mine, which cost roughly 3,250 people their jobs. The race was created to bring visitors and money into a community that had suddenly lost its economic backbone.
Lots of towns don’t want cyclists taking over their roads. Leadville welcomes us with open arms.
Going from sea level to 5,200 feet, compared to going from 5,200 to above 10,000 feet, is an entirely different game. Oxygen loss is exponential.
I’ve tried different strategies to acclimate. Last year, I spent three weeks in Leadville, which, in my opinion, did more harm than good. This year, after 10 days above 10,000 feet, I returned to Boulder and felt like I’d dropped down to sea level. My power surged while my heart rate slowed.
Maybe three weeks in Leadville isn’t necessary. Maybe maximising my fitness at 5,200 feet and arriving closer to race day is smarter.
What I actually learned
For weeks, I tried to eliminate uncertainty: maps, wildfire updates, hypothetical courses, revised nutrition plans. On race day, the most useful thing I’d prepared was being OK with not knowing.
I still haven’t found the perfect way to race Leadville. The course, bikes, and feed zones might change, and the altitude can humble you, no matter how much time you spend in Leadville.
One thing will always stay constant, Columbine. Eventually, you find yourself above the treeline again, climbing towards 12,500 feet, wondering if you’ve got one more switchback in you.
There are printed signs placed at nearly every switchback on upper Columbine, above the treeline. Some of them read “Dig deep” and “You paid for this”. At the sign that read, “You can dig deeper than you think you can”, I asked in reply, “Are you sure, sign?”
Columbine didn’t change. It never does.