Tour de Steamboat Debut Raises $15,000 With 685 Riders

Steamboat Springs —The gravel under the tires hums, a low-frequency vibration that travels up through the frame and into the rider’s hands. It’s a sound distinct to this valley, a texture that defines the landscape more than the pine-scented air or the jagged peaks looming overhead. On August 22, that sound carried a new weight, a new distance, as the Tour de Steamboat rolled out of Olympian’s Hall with a debut that stretched the definition of a charity ride.

For twenty years, the event was defined by a single, unbroken thread: Kristin Lindquist. Born in Minnesota, she resurrected the race in 2005, transforming a competitive sprint into a communal effort where almost every penny was returned to the community. But this year, Lindquist woke up without the burden of event planning. Her thoughts were, as she described them, “pretty routine.” She got up and went for a bike ride. Her husband, Kent Eriksen, who originally launched the tour in 1975 and built the titanium bikes that still define the local cycling identity, asked the standard questions: what time, where, what’s happening. Lindquist’s answer was a quiet reclamation of her life: “I don’t run the show.”

That show is now run by Garett Mariano, a Steamboat resident since 2001 who launched the Outlaw Gravel series this summer. Under his leadership, the tour introduced a 112-mile Lynx Pass route, a grueling loop that pushed the boundaries of the local gravel scene. About 685 cyclists, ranging in age from eight to eighty-four, took to the roads, splitting between the new long-distance options and the familiar loops. The weather cooperated, the riding was fast, and the feedback was overwhelmingly positive. More than $15,000 was raised for local charities, reflecting the enduring spirit of the event.

Bryce Hagemeier, celebrating his 64th birthday on the day of the ride, found himself on the inaugural 112-mile loop. He spoke of the joy in the novelty, the “roads rarely traveled,” and the sheer pleasure of the course. His wife was a little upset he was riding on their anniversary, a small domestic friction against the backdrop of a massive community effort.

As the sun began to dip behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the Yampa Valley, the riders peeled off in small groups, their faces streaked with dust and sweat. The noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of gravel and the distant call of a hawk circling above the pines. There was a warmth to the evening, a sense of completion that lingered in the air, a quiet acknowledgment that the community had come together, not just to ride, but to remember who they are.