Does Cycling Have a Drinking Problem?

In 2012, Mia Phillips got the kind of opportunity most people only dream of. For years, Phillips and her husband had visited Crested Butte, Colorado, for mountain bike vacations, getting their fix of alpine views and lung-busting climbs before heading home to a hot and sticky Missouri summer. But that year, in the midst of a career change, she received a scholarship to Western Colorado University, just south of the remote resort town, and her husband, who worked from home, was game to move. The scholarship provided a practical, adult reason for the parents of two, whose girls were also mostly grown, to make the change—the youngest could finish her senior year of high school in Crested Butte. But the real motivation was the ready access to over 700 miles of singletrack, spooling out from a town that claimed to be a birthplace of mountain biking. “We moved,” Phillips says, “because I wanted to ride my bike more.” That’s exactly what she did. The summer she arrived, Phillips got a job at a biology research station nestled in a high alpine valley near the start of the famed Trail 401. If the weather was nice, she could ride her bike to work, then rip the 401 through wildflower meadows and aspen groves before riding home. Now she felt like she was on permanent vacation. Life was vacationlike in other ways too. In Missouri, Phillips had enjoyed the occasional drink or two after a ride, but in Crested Butte this was standard practice, and not just relegated to the parking lot; friends brought beers in their fanny packs to savor on the trail. Even if she rode alone, she could head down afterward to “the Brick,” as the locals affectionately called a popular pizza restaurant, and run into friends who were finishing rides of their own. Unlike in Missouri, where there was always a reason to head home after a beer or two—kids to supervise, work to get up early for—in Crested Butte, everyone seemed to be in permanent vacation mode too. There was always a friend who was game for another round, and home was just a wobbly bike ride away. Phillips was riding more, but she was also drinking more. She gained 20 pounds in spite of all the extra saddle time. Every social event involved bikes, and every bike event involved alcohol, from local dig weekends to the costumed townie tour that raised funds for a local nonprofit. Even on nights she came straight home, she cracked the fridge for a beer, or more. No one, least of all herself, was counting at the time, but over the years she began putting away startling amounts of alcohol. On a weeknight, she could finish a six-pack. At an event like Crested Butte’s legendary chainless downhill race, she and her friends might arrive on Kebler Pass at noon, drink until the race departed at 4:20, and then stop for a beer midway down, totaling eight or 10 beers over the course of the day. This all seemed normal in a town where many locals simultaneously partied and pulled off casual athletic feats, and Phillips got used to waking up with a hangover and riding it off too. But eventually, she noticed, she wasn’t riding it off like she used to. [View in Browser]( [Bicycling]( [SHOP]( [EXCLUSIVE]( [SUBSCRIBE]( [Does Cycling Have a Drinking Problem?]( [Does Cycling Have a Drinking Problem?]( [Does Cycling Have a Drinking Problem?]( In 2012, Mia Phillips got the kind of opportunity most people only dream of. For years, Phillips and her husband had visited Crested Butte, Colorado, for mountain bike vacations, getting their fix of alpine views and lung-busting climbs before heading home to a hot and sticky Missouri summer. But that year, in the midst of a career change, she received a scholarship to Western Colorado University, just south of the remote resort town, and her husband, who worked from home, was game to move. The scholarship provided a practical, adult reason for the parents of two, whose girls were also mostly grown, to make the change—the youngest could finish her senior year of high school in Crested Butte. But the real motivation was the ready access to over 700 miles of singletrack, spooling out from a town that claimed to be a birthplace of mountain biking. “We moved,” Phillips says, “because I wanted to ride my bike more.” That’s exactly what she did. The summer she arrived, Phillips got a job at a biology research station nestled in a high alpine valley near the start of the famed Trail 401. If the weather was nice, she could ride her bike to work, then rip the 401 through wildflower meadows and aspen groves before riding home. Now she felt like she was on permanent vacation. Life was vacationlike in other ways too. In Missouri, Phillips had enjoyed the occasional drink or two after a ride, but in Crested Butte this was standard practice, and not just relegated to the parking lot; friends brought beers in their fanny packs to savor on the trail. Even if she rode alone, she could head down afterward to “the Brick,” as the locals affectionately called a popular pizza restaurant, and run into friends who were finishing rides of their own. Unlike in Missouri, where there was always a reason to head home after a beer or two—kids to supervise, work to get up early for—in Crested Butte, everyone seemed to be in permanent vacation mode too. There was always a friend who was game for another round, and home was just a wobbly bike ride away. Phillips was riding more, but she was also drinking more. She gained 20 pounds in spite of all the extra saddle time. Every social event involved bikes, and every bike event involved alcohol, from local dig weekends to the costumed townie tour that raised funds for a local nonprofit. Even on nights she came straight home, she cracked the fridge for a beer, or more. No one, least of all herself, was counting at the time, but over the years she began putting away startling amounts of alcohol. On a weeknight, she could finish a six-pack. At an event like Crested Butte’s legendary chainless downhill race, she and her friends might arrive on Kebler Pass at noon, drink until the race departed at 4:20, and then stop for a beer midway down, totaling eight or 10 beers over the course of the day. This all seemed normal in a town where many locals simultaneously partied and pulled off casual athletic feats, and Phillips got used to waking up with a hangover and riding it off too. But eventually, she noticed, she wasn’t riding it off like she used to. In 2012, Mia Phillips got the kind of opportunity most people only dream of. For years, Phillips and her husband had visited Crested Butte, Colorado, for mountain bike vacations, getting their fix of alpine views and lung-busting climbs before heading home to a hot and sticky Missouri summer. But that year, in the midst of a career change, she received a scholarship to Western Colorado University, just south of the remote resort town, and her husband, who worked from home, was game to move. The scholarship provided a practical, adult reason for the parents of two, whose girls were also mostly grown, to make the change—the youngest could finish her senior year of high school in Crested Butte. But the real motivation was the ready access to over 700 miles of singletrack, spooling out from a town that claimed to be a birthplace of mountain biking. “We moved,” Phillips says, “because I wanted to ride my bike more.” That’s exactly what she did. The summer she arrived, Phillips got a job at a biology research station nestled in a high alpine valley near the start of the famed Trail 401. If the weather was nice, she could ride her bike to work, then rip the 401 through wildflower meadows and aspen groves before riding home. Now she felt like she was on permanent vacation. Life was vacationlike in other ways too. In Missouri, Phillips had enjoyed the occasional drink or two after a ride, but in Crested Butte this was standard practice, and not just relegated to the parking lot; friends brought beers in their fanny packs to savor on the trail. Even if she rode alone, she could head down afterward to “the Brick,” as the locals affectionately called a popular pizza restaurant, and run into friends who were finishing rides of their own. Unlike in Missouri, where there was always a reason to head home after a beer or two—kids to supervise, work to get up early for—in Crested Butte, everyone seemed to be in permanent vacation mode too. There was always a friend who was game for another round, and home was just a wobbly bike ride away. Phillips was riding more, but she was also drinking more. She gained 20 pounds in spite of all the extra saddle time. Every social event involved bikes, and every bike event involved alcohol, from local dig weekends to the costumed townie tour that raised funds for a local nonprofit. Even on nights she came straight home, she cracked the fridge for a beer, or more. No one, least of all herself, was counting at the time, but over the years she began putting away startling amounts of alcohol. On a weeknight, she could finish a six-pack. At an event like Crested Butte’s legendary chainless downhill race, she and her friends might arrive on Kebler Pass at noon, drink until the race departed at 4:20, and then stop for a beer midway down, totaling eight or 10 beers over the course of the day. This all seemed normal in a town where many locals simultaneously partied and pulled off casual athletic feats, and Phillips got used to waking up with a hangover and riding it off too. But eventually, she noticed, she wasn’t riding it off like she used to. [Read More]( [Read More](   [Gabe’s Bike Shop: Tubeless Tape, and Peter Flax’s New Book and Spicy Tweets]( [Gabe’s Bike Shop: Tubeless Tape, and Peter Flax’s New Book and Spicy Tweets]( We answer questions about seating a tubeless tire. Then we welcome Peter Flax to learn about him, his new book, and ask for more insight from some of his Tweets! 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