Category Thirteen: The Random, Wayward Musings of an Unsigned Writer

I’ve never been to Colorado before. Technically, I’ve flown in to Denver International Airport two or three times but that doesn’t really count. Jenni and I are finally taking a sorely-needed vacation. Call it our one-year anniversary—slash—belated honeymoon. We decided to stay in Fort Collins. None of the trip is planned out yet; we’ve only got the vaguest idea of what we’d like to do while we’re there. I’ve always wanted to ride in the mountains, so after packing two suitcases with clothes, we throw our trunk-mounted rack on the back of my 2002 Nissan Maxima and load up our bikes. We also pack a cooler full of sodas on ice and bring a bag full of snacks: granola bars, dried fruit, potato chips, Fig Newtons and a few (always-popular) Oatmeal Creme Pies. The drive will take between seven and eight hours.

I’m a Nebraska native but I've never been further west within state borders than Lincoln—which is to say—not very far at all. I’ve only heard rumors of the vast expanse of wasteland that accounts for the other ninety percent of the state, an expansive nothingness that extends past the horizon on either side of Interstate 80. Today, I am finally going to live it, first hand, an experience I’m honestly dreading having never ridden in a car longer than five hours for any given stretch of time. Even then, five hours nearly felt as if it'd be the death of me. The problem is that I get extremely antsy. For longer trips, I’ve always flown to wherever I’m going.

***

The idea came to me as spur of the moment and “ah ha!-like” as ideas get. After visiting Estes Park (which is perhaps just a little too “touristy” for my liking) on our second day in Colorado and driving up the mountain road through Rocky Mountain National Park, I instantly knew it would be the first mountain I’d ever climb by bike—my epiphany. The scenery is simply breathtaking. The road weaves in and out of trees and rocks, serpentine-like, snaking its way up the side of the mountain. Elk and big horn sheep lazily graze by the roadside while traffic slows, children stare with inquisitive wonderment and onlookers snap innumerable photos. The ascending road is a living postcard. It captures the scenic panorama of my imagination as if it were placed there for my own discovery. It is, in my humble opinion, perfect.

Jenni drives me to the base of the mountain, just past the entrance where we’ve paid for a seven day pass. As I fasten the ratcheting clips on my cycling shoes and retrieve my bike from the trunk-mounted rack, I start doing a little math in my head. Omaha sits just at 1,060 feet above sea level. Even the steepest hills back home are only two to three hundred feet, at most. I’m starting my ride today at roughly 7,000 feet, ascending to 12,090 feet. My guess is that I will be pedaling for two or three hours—20.5 miles, uphill.

The air, even at the base of the mountain, feels noticeably thinner, becoming even more prominent the higher you climb. Signs are posted, warning visitors of the symptoms and dangers of altitude sickness: fatigue, dizziness, headache, nausea; typically occurring above 8,000 feet—be sure to drink plenty of fluids. Colorado is also nearly a mile closer to the sun, so a liberal application of SPF 35 sunscreen is compulsory—Coppertone Sport, nothing too fancy. After all, sunburn tends to put a damper on vacations very quickly.

I tightly fasten my helmet's nylon chin strap and clip into my matte-black, carbon fiber pedals, beginning my ascent toward the clouds. On this particular road, there is no room for a warm up; the grade begins rising immediately. My legs feel heavy and stale in the cool mountain air—my blood taking its time to circulate from my heart to my extremities. Higher altitudes force human beings to produce more red blood cells in order to better diffuse oxygen throughout their bodies. I hope the last two days at 7,000 feet have helped the acclimatization process. The going, however, is slow from the outset.

For the first twenty or thirty minutes of riding, my body stubbornly rejects the process—legs burning from lactic acid buildup, lungs desperately seeking more oxygen, each breath more labored than the last. I begin feeling a little dizzy and light-headed, similar to the first hour of an Ambien haze. I remember the altitude sickness signs and keep drinking, replacing lost electrolytes. I filled my two bottles with Gatorade to speed up the rehydration process. With legs on fire, I think of Lance Armstrong and the pedaling cadence he uses in the mountains of the Tour de France: easier gear, faster pedaling.

A faster cadence with lowered resistance forces the body to rely more on the cardiovascular system rather than the leg muscles, which fatigue much faster. If I’m going to make it to the top—without stopping—I’m going to need to keep my legs as fresh as possible. However, at least right now, neither my legs nor my lungs feel fresh whatsoever.

Yet after the initial twenty to thirty minutes, my blood vessels begin to open and my lungs don’t burn quite so much. My body is adapting to the mountain even as I ride. One pedal stroke then another; the gradient increases to more than ten percent, fifteen percent, yet I’m able to ride more comfortably than I had been before. My only goal is simple: do not stop. I keep pedaling because I don’t know any better. The terrain changes from thick, wooded pine forest, to sheer, rocky precipice and back again. Riding only becomes precarious when motorists—perhaps not coincidentally, those unused to mountain driving—pass on my left, unnervingly close; the sole buffer I have from a sheer fifty-foot drop to my right is a thinly-painted white line. Guard rails materialize ahead only when the road twists sharply to the left or the right.

I keep climbing.

There is nothing here to distract me from the mountain and my singular purpose of climbing it. There is no thesis here. No sickness. No heart attacks. No anxiety or insomnia. No obligations. There is only me, my bike and a mountain road.

The air gets colder as it gets thinner. Clouds begin rolling in and flecks of rain spit erratically against the carbonite lenses of my sunglasses. I soon realize I am not dressed appropriate for the higher altitudes of the mountain. Clad only in Lycra shorts and a short-sleeved racing-fit jersey, goose bumps draw my skin taut across my sinewy tissues. The hair on my arms stands up, follicles squeezed within my pores; erect hairs trap air to create a layer of insulation. In other words, it’s fucking cold.

A sign to the left notifies visitors that they’ve crossed the alpine line. I’m not sure what this means other than it’s now colder than twenty feet ago and the vegetation does not grow as densely. I’m also not sure how long I’ve been pedaling. The cyclo-computer on my bike that registers speed, distance and time stopped working after a battery change. I think it’s been ninety minutes, maybe more.

A car passes me, this time more carefully than those further down the mountain. A woman in the passenger seats yells something incomprehensible at me, adding an enthusiastic thumbs up! She might have said, “Way to go!” or “Finish it!” or “Keep going!” It could have been anything really. She possibly even said, “We think you are a stark, raving lunatic, but we appreciate and applaud your effort, nonetheless!” There is really no way to be sure. The air is too thin and I’m getting too tired to respond. I only summon up enough energy for a simple wave and return my hand to the comfort and security of my padded gel-taped handlebars.

Keep pedaling. Keep spinning.

Further up the road, another sign informs me that I’ve crossed into the tundra zone—a sparse and fragile ecosystem which takes years to revegetate. Visitors are encouraged to tread only on designated paths, not the grass. My only companions for a protracted stretch of this road are white, puffy cumulus clouds; my only reassurance is the pain I can still feel in my legs which are losing some sensation with each pedal stroke. It’s just like walking—one foot in front of the other—left, right, left, right… The rain is still only spitting—any colder and it would be drizzle.

I pedal past a group of sightseers overlooking the valley cast in a blanket of shadow, capricious rays of sunshine streaming to terra firma below. Most of them are bundled up in North Face wind breakers or Columbia fleece vests and, perhaps most crucially, long pants—snapping what I imagine are picturesque photos to show friends and family. Each one of them stares at me like I’ve arrived by spacecraft, their silent incredulity likely stemming from my inadequate choice of cold weather attire. I just nod, smile and keep pedaling. Disinterested in me, they return their attention to the valley below, drinking in the scenery through the lenses of their Canons, Leicas and Nikons.

It could be an illusion precipitated by the lack of direct sunlight in combination with the shade of my tinted lenses, but I’m pretty sure my skin is turning a bluish-purple from the cold. The wind is picking up and I start to wonder if my goal of reaching the summit without stopping will soon be in jeopardy. I start to wonder if I can even make it to the top at all. The spitting rain teeters on the verge of becoming a steady shower. I briefly debate whether it’s worse to be cold and damp or cold and wet.

I’m nearing the summit. Another sign lets me know that I’ve crossed the timber line. I’m now effectively too high up the mountain for trees to grow. The landscape mostly consists of earth, patchy grasses and rocks—boulders, more like. There is a famous climb in the Tour de France called Mount Ventoux, situated in the Provence region of southern France, located some twenty kilometers—12.5 miles—north-east of Carpentras, Vaucluse. While possibly not as high as the climb I currently ascend (if I recall correctly), the aesthetic backdrop is very much similar. Locals refer to the terrain nearing the peak of Ventoux as a huge, rocky “moonscape,” its spartan countenance sharing little in common with the rest of the lush, forested mountain below its timber line.

I've always thought moonscape was a fantastic word. Each pedal stroke propels me further into the atmosphere, a battle with gravity through essentially-barren surroundings, reserved for only the most inhospitable places. There is a purity and beauty in the nakedness of the mountain as there is a purity that comes with experiencing riding on the wheels of a bicycle. The air is thin and my lungs beg for more, not yet satisfied with what the mountain has provided, but something inside me keeps the pedals turning.

Further up the road, a sign indicates that I'm now 12,090 feet from sea level. I promised my cycling coach I'd take a picture of me standing next to my bike at the highest posted elevation on the climb. I'm pretty sure this is it. I coast to a stop and prop my bike up against the sign. Fortunately, a woman snapping photos with her husband offers to take my picture. I'd known on the way up it was getting chilly, but the biting cold didn't really register until I stopped pedaling. She takes two pictures and I tell her that's perfect! I realize it's more important to start pedaling again than agonizing over whether or not the pictures turn out well.

My trek by bike marks my third trip up the mountain in as many days. Thus, I'm nearly positive the Visitor's Center is just a switchback or two further up the road from where I'd just stopped. The clouds are darker now, thicker. The intermittent spritzing is becoming steadier and steadier. The descent into the Visitor's Center parking lot is fast. Pedaling my largest gear, I eclipse forty miles per hour with ease, approaching fifty. The wind whips at my face and tears—forced from their ducts by the velocity of the wind—begin streaming from the corners of my eyes, across my cheeks. I start losing my nerve amidst the wind and high speed and begin to squeeze the brakes, alternating evenly between front and back. At thirty miles per hour, I take my right hand off the handlebars to signal a right-turn and glide into the parking lot, coasting to the curb. I dismount my bike and slip the rear wheel into a bike rack just outside the Visitor's Center door.

A boy and his father walk past me on the way to their car.

“Aren't you cold?” the boy asks me, a perplexed look on his face.

“I wasn't,” I say. “But I am now.”

I retrieve my phone from my rear jersey pocket to check the time. The trip up the mountain took two hours and thirty two minutes with only one stop.

The only question remaining is how to get back down the mountain in the cold and rain while being dressed more appropriately for a ride in Arizona.

I decide no conclusion will be arrived at without coffee, so I venture into the Visitor's Center Gift Shop, clicking across the floor in my carbon fiber-soled shoes. I'm immediately greeted by a sign advertising “authentic Native American jewelry: made in the U.S.A.” It would have never occurred to me that authentic Native American jewelry would be made anywhere else before contemplating this sign's declaration.

On my way to finding a hot beverage, I make a quick detour to the Gift Shop's apparel section. I walk directly over to a hooded sweatshirt I'd been contemplating the day before and purchase it right away. I figure it can help warm me up now and keep me warm(ish?) on the fast, rainy descent.

People inside the Visitor's Center give me the same quizzical and amused glances as the onlookers on the road.

“How long'd it take you?” the coffee barista asks.

“I'm not too sure,” I say. “As near as I can guess, about two-and-a-half hours.”

“Not bad.”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Grande light roast, please.”

“Room for cream or sugar?”

“Nope, I need all the coffee I can get.”

I pay for my coffee and toss my change in the tip jar. As the feeling returns to my legs, I scan the cafe, searching for an empty table. Just as I sit down, a pair of couples approaches me.

“Tell me you got a ride up here and are getting ready to go down,” a woman says.

“No,” I say. “I'm not that smart. Rode up from Estes Park”

“Geez,” she says. I'm always telling my husband,” pointing at the man to her right, “that he's crazy for doing things like this—races, triathlons, mountain pass rides.”

“Sometimes she thinks I'm the only nut who does things like this,” her husband says.

“Yeah, my wife thinks I'm crazy too,” I say. “She was smart enough to go explore the mountain today in the car.”

I joke with the couples for a few more minutes. They wish me good luck on my ride back down. I thank them and finish my coffee. I munch on a chocolate chip granola bar I brought in my jersey pocket as well, taking my time before venturing back out into the elements again. Just as I finish my meager snack, I see a familiar face bobbing in and out of the crowds of shoppers.

“I kept wondering if I was going to see you on the way up,” Jenni says.

“Here I am,” I say, more than a little glad to see her.

“I started to get worried,” she says, smiling and relieved.

“No worries! I'm just that fast.”

“You want a ride back down?”

“Actually, yes. I don't think this hoodie was going to cut it,” I say, holding out the sweatshirt for her to see.

“Did you freeze?”

“Not until I stopped.”

Jenni decides to shop a little while I walk to the car to retrieve a change of clothes from the trunk. I wheel my bike over to the car and take the front wheel off and slide it into the back seat. I take my change of clothes to the public restroom—curiously located outside of the Visitor's Center—and get dressed. It's also nice to put on a comfy pair of sneakers rather than continuing to wear the restrictive, tight-fitting cycling shoes.

Jenni meets me at the car.

“You want to drive?” she says.

“Sure.”

I get in and move the seat back to accommodate my longer legs. I put the key in the ignition and crank the heat, just sitting with my frozen hands underneath me. The rain gently patters against the windshield. The old wiper blades leave streaks each time they sweep across the glass, making visibility barely better than if they were switched off.

It's hard to explain how I'm feeling right now.

It's likely thousands of people on bikes have climbed this exact mountain road. There's nothing particularly special about this particular route as far as cycling through mountains goes. However, like a first kiss, this was my first mountain and for that reason alone, I know it will always be memorable.

“I'm kind of proud of myself.”

That's all I say.

“I'm proud of your too, babe.”

I put the car in drive and pull through the parking space. I was really looking forward to the ride down but I'm glad the time I spent on the bike was on the way up.

There's always tomorrow.