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.