This Is America’s Scariest Road — And We Raced Up It

Unedited race run is played in its entirety later in the article

It was 5:37am when it hit me. High above the clouds — the rest of Colorado sleeping under a thick blanket of darkness — I saw the light. Quite literally, but also figuratively. Up until then, competing in the 93rd running of the Pikes Peak International Hill Climb was a fun experience, but at this precise moment, it had become almost sacred (and I’m not a religious person). It happened that quickly.

I’d known for sometime I would be competing in what has become one of the world’s most famed races. But then I’ve competed in many storied events, like the Indianapolis 500 and on the lavish streets of Monaco, so I didn’t expect that a 12.42-mile, 156 spaghetti-like turned stretch of tarmac that begins at 9,390 ft. above sea level and ends at a lung-clenching 14,110 ft. could grip me so profoundly — especially when the car I would be climbing it in flirted with the speed of a well-trained cyclist.

At sea level my B-spec Honda Fit boasts 130 horsepower. Oxygen starved, that number diminishes to about 75 horsepower, and when you add the average 7.2-percent gradient, you quickly grasp the troubles I was dealing with. Only these weren’t troubles; they were, in fact, blessings.

The road up Pikes Peak is one of the scariest slivers of tarmac imaginable. There are no run-offs, no barriers. On the upper section of the climb, the slightest mistake results in a 1,000 ft. drop to near-certain death. And a few have tested that “near-certain” part over the years.

Back in July 2011, the road to the summit of Pikes Peak still retained sections of unpaved dirt. This madness is what made the race famous, but a lawsuit forced the city of Colorado Springs to pave the entire course; a month later, the whole dimension of the race had changed.

Many thought this taming would spell disaster for the event’s popularity, when in fact it had the opposite affect. The number of competitors ballooned from 46 in 2011 to over 170 in 2012. And yet the road actually became narrower after it was paved, and speeds soared to record heights; thus, when accidents did occur, the force in which they happened was unfathomable. I was told by Pikes Peak legend Jeff Zwart that the race is far sketchier today than it ever has been: “The speeds are just so much higher,” Zwart said, “and the risks go up to match.”

Last year a competitor on a motorbike perished. Sadly, the same fate befell another rider this year.

And yet in my Fit it didn’t feel particularly risky — 75 horsepower going uphill seldom does. I have a distinct fear of heights, but glancing over the edge of the cliff while racing above the clouds didn’t cause me to convulse or throw up even once. Other rookie racers spent the entire week nervous. They were withdrawn and openly terrified; it’s impossible to truly know all 156 corners before race day, and the dangers of forgetting which turn is which weighs upon a driver. I, on the hand, mostly smiled. If I forgot that a flat out right-hander was actually a hairpin, I just dabbed the brakes, threw in some steering lock, and then hit the gas again. Simply put, I could to enjoy the experience rather than fearing the worst.

I wasn’t racing to win. I was competing to show the world that a Honda Fit race car is awesome, and cheap, and that you don’t need big power to have fun. Honda even ran an all-electric Fit up the hill as well, and an old NSX race car, a crazy electric CR-Z, many more four-wheeled goodies, an abundance of motorbikes and even some maniacal quads. It was a hugely impressive turnout, and beyond our own in-house competitors, Honda’s generators even provided the power source upon the hill. The diverseness of the Japanese manufacturer remains staggering.

Prior to race day, we spent a whole week practicing; only you never run the entire course at once (that’s saved for the main event). Instead, three sections split the climb, each run a handful of times (if you’re lucky). Each day, by 8:30am, the hill opens to the public. So, to get practice in, you must be ready to run the moment the sun peeks from beneath the blackness — often around 4:50am. To get the cars unpacked and up to your specified starting point you must be in line when the hill’s gates unlock by 3am. Hence you must leave your hotel at 2:15am, meaning your alarm will be set for 1:30am.

This is your life for four straight days.

When my alarm went off on day one, I had yet to fall asleep. It was to be my first experience above 7,000 ft. (our parking lot for section two was around 11,500 ft.). I emerged dizzy, sick, and generally miserable; my greatest fear coming into the race was contracting debilitating altitude sickness. As it happened, by day two, I had thankfully acclimatized nicely and my troubles were mostly eradicated (a decent night’s sleep helped, too). However many drivers still struggle, some even resorting to carrying oxygen tanks.

You try to sleep around 6pm every afternoon, although most attempts are futile. By Friday, the last day of testing, everyone is drained due to the grueling schedule, desperate for Saturday where a well-deserved rest day is granted. The problem is you inevitably sleep all day on Saturday, and come Sunday — race day — your 12:50am alarm hits you with a culture shock as substantial as being dropped off for brunch in North Korea.

My mighty Fit was no match for Rhys Millen’s 1,368 horsepower all-electric missile (the eventual winner of the race). This ensured I’d be one of the latest starters of the day, perhaps not taking the green until 4:30pm. Being trapped on a hill for more than 12 hours leaves you with little to do. I passed the time by re-watching my on-board GoPro footage from testing, trying to remember where the hell each of the 156 corners went.

One imagines that when you crest half way and emerge from the pine trees that’s when Pikes Peak becomes its most intimidating. Indeed, from that point onwards the drops are intense. At times, all you can see is sky off the edge of the road, as if you’re traveling on a direct path to the Gods. In my case, heading into Bottomless Pit — a rare downhill section that cumulates in a fast right hand bend, the compression so immense you feel your organs shift within your body before careening back up the hill again — the little Fit would hit 90 mph; to the right, a drop so severe it’s like peering off the edge of a New York skyscraper.

However the top half is mostly easy to learn. There are lots of switchbacks and only a few blind corners where exercising extreme caution is advisable — at least in my race car, that is. The bottom section remains where most of the trouble lurks. The trees and boulders ensure every corner appears alike, and indeed many corners are of similar — but not identical — radiuses. Other corners will tighten, badly, and if you forget which ones they are, no matter how slow your car is, you will go off — and a mere 50 ft. drop lined with tree trunks and rocks the size of elephants remains an unpleasant obstacle to face.

In practice we’d done the lower section — which equates to roughly 40 percent of the entire hill — twice. That was on the Thursday, meaning what little knowledge I had amassed was rather fuzzy when Sunday rolled around.

For me, the challenge was, “Is it flat out or not?” If you lift, you lose momentum and therefore speed — especially in a car as underpowered as mine. Holding it flat will result in a considerably faster time: But is it really flat? Many corners were indeed pedal to the floor, but committing to a bend you can’t see the end of is a lesson in grit, determination, and bulldog-sized cojones — no matter what machine you’re in. As I was reminded multiple times, sliding off a 1,000 ft. cliff at 30 mph or 130 mph matters little beyond the length of time you free-fall prior to hitting the rock face and rolling to certain death.

Ditch-hooking during one of the many tight switchbacks…

A couple of hours before my run, clouds rolled into Pikes Peak — terrifying, angry cumulonimbi that appeared plucked from the hands of Zeus and thrust upon us to create maximum chaos. It delivered, unleashing marble-sized hail, flooding and — at the 14,110 ft. summit — inches of snow.

The race was halted while a plow — in June(!) — did its best to clear the road, partly to allow competitors like me to finish, but also to free those that had already raced from being stuck on the summit during such a violent storm (there is no way down once the track is hot). Race control, rather predictably given the mess, informed us soon after that the remaining drivers would only be permitted to run to Glen Cove, basically half way — just before the trees part and the cliff faces beckon.

It was a crushing — but understandable — blow. All week we’d prepared by testing every inch of the course, from the top to the bottom. We’d psyched ourselves up, studied the route — noting minor camber changes and the location of the nastiest bumps. We were here to “race to the clouds” and yet we’d be stopping well beneath. It’s like training for a marathon only to find out on race day that the course has been shortened to 13.1 miles.

You can’t really call it a marathon, then, can you?

Perhaps more worrying was that I had no wet tires. My racing slicks would be catastrophic in deep water, so the only option I had was to grab my production Fit Honda had loaned me, throw it on the jacks and remove its all-season tires. I figured I was slow enough anyway; how much slower would I really be?

My Fit race car featured a stripped out interior (it still, however, retained the dash with its functioning infotainment system and air conditioning) and the addition of a roll cage. Beyond some racing suspension — featuring a 20 percent increase in stiffness over the production car — the rest was stock. Stock engine, stock CVT gearbox — which is actually faster than a manual transmission, given its ability to hold the revs in the optimum rev-range. (Just bring earplugs.)

By this point, Zeus had left and the road was drying. A nice man lent us a tool so we could slice a few grooves into my slicks, preventing me from becoming a hillbilly laughingstock (the series mandated we run some form of grooves, despite the rapidly drying surface). Moments later I threw on my helmet, belted up, and was at the start line.

In the bewildering melee that is getting up at 12:50am, I left my microphone in the hotel room, hence the raw footage of my run below has such atrocious audio. You’ll also notice a few stray tools crashing around a fixed toolbox: After all, this particular Fit is a rally car, and has all-but won the Rally America B-spec championship — as well as being a regular podium finisher in the 2WD class.

So, apologies in advance:

The Fit was magnificent, engaging, a real treat and challenge to drive quickly — even if the average speed was akin to a meandering snail. As you can see in the video, remembering where you are is near-impossible, and even after a solid run, there’s plenty left on the table caused simply by not knowing precisely where you are.

In truth, crossing the finish line was a letdown. You expect this rush of adrenaline having successfully completed such a historic event, but all we really did was run the same section I had tested a few days earlier. I’d been hoping to try and break 14 minutes — which in a 130 horsepower Fit seemed pretty damn good. My split times during practice suggested it was possible — but by 5 minutes 50 seconds, my race was over.

Other rookies felt similarly shortchanged, but Mother Nature can be a bitch. People have since asked me, what does it matter? You drove every corner of the hill during practice, you raced to the checkered flag on Sunday — you did it.

That’s true, but then they weren’t there at 5:37am the Friday before the race. When the sun was rising for us — and only us — perched 12,500 ft. above sea level, higher even than the clouds. At this altitude, the seatbelt sign would be off, lukewarm soda served, and terrible Wi-Fi barely functioning. And yet here, it remained deathly silent, the noise only shattered occasionally by the inimitable sound of race cars as varied as the scenery surrounding us. It was magical; so profoundly awe-inspiring it remains impossible to truly elucidate. That’s Pikes Peak for you. I came, I raced — but I can’t help feel that I didn’t truly conquer.