sometimes when I leave my house on my bike I know exactly where I'm going.
and sometimes I don't.
I equivocate: this would be good, but so would that, and this way will get me there, but this other way might be better, hmmm, what do I feel like doing, where do I want to go?
so, at times, I find myself approaching an intersection without a defined sense of which way my path leads.
I usually decide right before it's too late to change my mind, and find myself suddenly freed.
until the next intersection.
this usually happens on recovery days (because there is no good path) or questionable weather days (when I try to out-guess the clouds).
and the result is, almost always, a perfectly perfect ride that I never could have predicted.
now how much of this is just plain old good luck and how much is a result of intuition, I can't really say. my guess would be it's more the latter than the former, but then I tend to be that kind of a person.
how many times have you started one way, then changed your mind or flowed with some other guidance and suddenly found yourself doing something quite different that your original intent? and how often does this experience tend to have a bit of serendipity within?
last sunday's foxes, for example. when I left my house I had absolutely no intention of biking on that particular stretch of road where the kits were playing. and had I not twisted here and turned there, I never would have seen them.
I have turned left instead of right and avoided rain, seen rainbows, been startled by wildlife, met friends, discovered new vistas, found money . . . (okay, not the last one, well, yet, that is).
there is much to be said for flowing with this underlying intuitive process that none of us completely understand.
the lyrics to the song have been running through my head ever since I've thought about writing about this topic, and I think I'm going to let them stay there. I'm learning to believe there's something quite wonderful about approaching aspects of life with your destination unknown.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
fording
I love gates. snow gates. the kind of gates that are pulled across the roads and locked tight for the winter season, allowing snowplows some time off and those of us who enjoy non-motorized sports some time on.
I often use gates as landmarks for timing myself, or for checking miles per hour in one direction compared to the other (let's see, I'm riding up this road at 14.7 mph, I wonder how fast I'll be riding down this road at the same spot, oh, I'll use this gate as the spot to check myself on the way down...).
when riding up big cottonwood canyon I know that I average one hour eight minutes from the base to the big gate, and once I reach the big gate it's only another 35 or so minutes to the top.
you know I love the east canyon gate, which remains blissfully shut and locked six months of the year.
some gates remain shut longer, and I am amazed by the willingness of the forest/park services to let us walkers, runners, hikers, and cyclists own these roads for so many months of the year.
I rode around one such gate this morning, the one half-way up millcreek canyon. this gate remains locked until july 1st each summer, and then it is unlocked for a mere four months until the sweeping metal arms are drawn shut again for the snow to pile, untouched, upon the narrow swath of asphalt that winds its way to the meadow at the top.
each of the past three springs I've ridden up millcreek, past the gate, and then at some point been thwarted by snow-packed stretches that have kept me from reaching the top. june is the best time to ride millcreek, when you can possibly get all the way to the top while you definitely have a road to ride that's free of cars.
it has other things: pine needles and cones galore, fallen timber and twigs, the debris of a winter without plowing, and walkers/runners/dogs/bicyclists. which all ~ especially the tail-wagging, grinning dogs ~ bring a smile to my face.
this morning the canyon also gave me a few opportunities to dismount and ford the snowbanks.
yep.
about five times, when four-to-ten foot stretches of snow lay thick and frozen across the road, daring me to pass them and climb onward toward the top.
they threw their frozen, bike-tire tracked gauntlets down in front of me, and I picked the darn things up. where others have travailed, I, too, will travel.
have I told you that I am determined?
the parking lot at the top of the canyon road is clear of snow but littered with dog droppings that have fallen as the snow has melted, and the yurt remains tented. it was a quiet place this morning, cold and seemingly motionless, though I know better.
five more fords on the way down that last half-mile to the top, and then a bitterly cold descent that brought me back down to a snowless world where fording is unnecessary and only a distant, yet exhilarating, memory.
I often use gates as landmarks for timing myself, or for checking miles per hour in one direction compared to the other (let's see, I'm riding up this road at 14.7 mph, I wonder how fast I'll be riding down this road at the same spot, oh, I'll use this gate as the spot to check myself on the way down...).
when riding up big cottonwood canyon I know that I average one hour eight minutes from the base to the big gate, and once I reach the big gate it's only another 35 or so minutes to the top.
you know I love the east canyon gate, which remains blissfully shut and locked six months of the year.
some gates remain shut longer, and I am amazed by the willingness of the forest/park services to let us walkers, runners, hikers, and cyclists own these roads for so many months of the year.
I rode around one such gate this morning, the one half-way up millcreek canyon. this gate remains locked until july 1st each summer, and then it is unlocked for a mere four months until the sweeping metal arms are drawn shut again for the snow to pile, untouched, upon the narrow swath of asphalt that winds its way to the meadow at the top.
each of the past three springs I've ridden up millcreek, past the gate, and then at some point been thwarted by snow-packed stretches that have kept me from reaching the top. june is the best time to ride millcreek, when you can possibly get all the way to the top while you definitely have a road to ride that's free of cars.
it has other things: pine needles and cones galore, fallen timber and twigs, the debris of a winter without plowing, and walkers/runners/dogs/bicyclists. which all ~ especially the tail-wagging, grinning dogs ~ bring a smile to my face.
this morning the canyon also gave me a few opportunities to dismount and ford the snowbanks.
yep.
about five times, when four-to-ten foot stretches of snow lay thick and frozen across the road, daring me to pass them and climb onward toward the top.
they threw their frozen, bike-tire tracked gauntlets down in front of me, and I picked the darn things up. where others have travailed, I, too, will travel.
have I told you that I am determined?
the parking lot at the top of the canyon road is clear of snow but littered with dog droppings that have fallen as the snow has melted, and the yurt remains tented. it was a quiet place this morning, cold and seemingly motionless, though I know better.
five more fords on the way down that last half-mile to the top, and then a bitterly cold descent that brought me back down to a snowless world where fording is unnecessary and only a distant, yet exhilarating, memory.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
four stories
a list of the many things I could write about today:
I do reserve the right to revisit any or all of these topics at some later date.
but for now, here are the short stories:
they are putting chip seal down on emigration canyon. I rode six miles of it this morning, and it belongs in the category titled Not Fun. especially when they leave little piles of gravel (oops! forgot to spread that out!) for our skinny little tires to navigate. farewell, smooth asphalt . . . by the way, do you know what chip seal really is? it's just a bunch of (hopefully) small gravel held together with wings and prayers. okay, held together by pressure and a little tiny bit of oily stuff. the powers that be believe it's a cheaper way to pave a road, and I'm awfully tempted to place a call to said powers and have a discussion about quality paying off in the long run. or I could just be patient and let that chip seal crush in upon itself and eventually form a smooth (er) surface. sigh.
while I was riding on said chip seal this morning I heard a branch snap, up and to my right, and saw the swinging broken piece, perhaps 10 yards away. I thought, how odd, branches don't usually just suddenly break and fall all by themselves, but perhaps this is just one example of a tree falling in a forest, only making noise if someone is there to hear it . . . as I approached the sight of the broken branch I heard rustling in the bushes, though, and a flash of brown fur, which I know belonged to the deer I'd seen just a half mile back, flouncing through the wild growth. there is an explanation for everything, if one just employs patience.
there's really not much more to say here. there was a plastic rake lying on the shoulder beside the road, and next to it, a pair of black, suede-like men's shoes. I have no idea.
I love a good mystery. as well, I am fairly observant and quite curious.
so this morning as I swooped down from the golf course to begin heading up emigration, I noticed that there were four cars parked alongside each other in the parking lot at the canyon's mouth. now there are cars there some mornings, but usually only one or two, and the four-in-a-row thing was odd. only one had a noticeable bike rack on it. I pondered this sign. hmmm. could be runners. could be cyclists who keep their bikes in their cars. maybe I just didn't see the bike racks. maybe they're walkers. I have no idea.
so I rode. and didn't see anyone running, or walking. didn't even see another cyclist until a mile or so from the little mountain summit, when a single female heading down went past.
I crested the top and kept going, not another cyclist in sight.
I went past the reservoir and on toward big mountain, with just an occasional thought about the mystery car. they must have gone somewhere else, perhaps trail running or something. I shrugged my mental shoulders and focused on breathing, muscles flexing and straining as I climbed up and up.
a quarter mile from the top of big mountain two guys came swooshing down, and then a hundred yards behind them came the other two.
I grinned.
mystery solved.
sometimes it just takes a little patience.
- chip seal, or, how to get rid of cyclists on the road
- branches do not break on their own, or, there's a deer in there
- roadside flotsam, or, is that really a pair of men's dress shoes sitting by that rake?
- mysteries solved, or, aha, that's why there were four cars parked at the mouth of the canyon at 5:40 this morning
I do reserve the right to revisit any or all of these topics at some later date.
but for now, here are the short stories:
they are putting chip seal down on emigration canyon. I rode six miles of it this morning, and it belongs in the category titled Not Fun. especially when they leave little piles of gravel (oops! forgot to spread that out!) for our skinny little tires to navigate. farewell, smooth asphalt . . . by the way, do you know what chip seal really is? it's just a bunch of (hopefully) small gravel held together with wings and prayers. okay, held together by pressure and a little tiny bit of oily stuff. the powers that be believe it's a cheaper way to pave a road, and I'm awfully tempted to place a call to said powers and have a discussion about quality paying off in the long run. or I could just be patient and let that chip seal crush in upon itself and eventually form a smooth (er) surface. sigh.
while I was riding on said chip seal this morning I heard a branch snap, up and to my right, and saw the swinging broken piece, perhaps 10 yards away. I thought, how odd, branches don't usually just suddenly break and fall all by themselves, but perhaps this is just one example of a tree falling in a forest, only making noise if someone is there to hear it . . . as I approached the sight of the broken branch I heard rustling in the bushes, though, and a flash of brown fur, which I know belonged to the deer I'd seen just a half mile back, flouncing through the wild growth. there is an explanation for everything, if one just employs patience.
there's really not much more to say here. there was a plastic rake lying on the shoulder beside the road, and next to it, a pair of black, suede-like men's shoes. I have no idea.
I love a good mystery. as well, I am fairly observant and quite curious.
so this morning as I swooped down from the golf course to begin heading up emigration, I noticed that there were four cars parked alongside each other in the parking lot at the canyon's mouth. now there are cars there some mornings, but usually only one or two, and the four-in-a-row thing was odd. only one had a noticeable bike rack on it. I pondered this sign. hmmm. could be runners. could be cyclists who keep their bikes in their cars. maybe I just didn't see the bike racks. maybe they're walkers. I have no idea.
so I rode. and didn't see anyone running, or walking. didn't even see another cyclist until a mile or so from the little mountain summit, when a single female heading down went past.
I crested the top and kept going, not another cyclist in sight.
I went past the reservoir and on toward big mountain, with just an occasional thought about the mystery car. they must have gone somewhere else, perhaps trail running or something. I shrugged my mental shoulders and focused on breathing, muscles flexing and straining as I climbed up and up.
a quarter mile from the top of big mountain two guys came swooshing down, and then a hundred yards behind them came the other two.
I grinned.
mystery solved.
sometimes it just takes a little patience.
Monday, June 7, 2010
the trickster
I've seen three coyotes in the past two weeks, all of them up close and (relatively) personal. so of course my mind moves to the inevitable conclusion that the universe must be trying to communicate with me.
the first was in big cottonwood canyon, the second in emigration, and the third, in parley's. I hadn't seen a coyote before these sitings for at least two years, if not more. and then three within two weeks?
obviously, definitely, a message.
in native american lore the coyote is a famed creature, known as the trickster. tale after tale exists that speak of his creativity, his sneakiness, his ability to make a fool of himself and still come out on top, and his ability to change the very way of the world. here's a brief story to demonstrate:
Coyote and the Columbia
(Sahaptin/Salishan Tribes)
retold by
S. E. Schlosser
One day, Coyote was walking along. The sun was shining brightly, and Coyote felt very hot.
"I would like a cloud," Coyote said.
So a cloud came and made some shade for Coyote. Coyote was not satisfied.
"I would like more clouds," he said. More clouds came along, and the sky began to look very stormy. But Coyote was still hot.
"How about some rain," said Coyote. The clouds began to sprinkle rain on Coyote.
"More rain," Coyote demanded. The rain became a downpour.
"I would like a creek to put my feet in," said Coyote. So a creek sprang up beside him, and Coyote walked in it to cool off his feet.
"It should be deeper," said Coyote.
The creek became a huge, swirling river. Coyote was swept over and over by the water. Finally, nearly drowned, Coyote was thrown up on the bank far away. When he woke up, the buzzards were watching him, trying to decide if he was dead.
"I'm not dead," Coyote told them, and they flew away.
That is how the Columbia River began.
the coyote is resourceful, intelligent, adaptable; in fact, he is the most so of all mammals.
in the spiritual world the coyote represents opportunity, stealth, creativity, experience, new life, and illumination. he represents both folly and wisdom, and the balance between the two. the coyote teaches us to see through our foolish acts, laugh at them, and then gain the wisdom from this process.
and what does this all mean for me? I don't yet know. perhaps the message they are bringing me is that I have overcome my foolishness and increased my sagacity; perhaps the message is to watch out for what's still to come. perhaps they are simply acknowledging my own resourcefulness, my intelligence, my adaptability, and reminding me of the creative powers I hold deep within.
whatever the message may be, I have reveled in each siting and been grateful for it. the thought of the devious and excessively fortunate trickster crossing my path again and again brings a great smile to my face, and I dare to hope for just one more coyote, please, before the month is out.
the first was in big cottonwood canyon, the second in emigration, and the third, in parley's. I hadn't seen a coyote before these sitings for at least two years, if not more. and then three within two weeks?
obviously, definitely, a message.
in native american lore the coyote is a famed creature, known as the trickster. tale after tale exists that speak of his creativity, his sneakiness, his ability to make a fool of himself and still come out on top, and his ability to change the very way of the world. here's a brief story to demonstrate:
Coyote and the Columbia
(Sahaptin/Salishan Tribes)
retold by
S. E. Schlosser
One day, Coyote was walking along. The sun was shining brightly, and Coyote felt very hot.
"I would like a cloud," Coyote said.
So a cloud came and made some shade for Coyote. Coyote was not satisfied.
"I would like more clouds," he said. More clouds came along, and the sky began to look very stormy. But Coyote was still hot.
"How about some rain," said Coyote. The clouds began to sprinkle rain on Coyote.
"More rain," Coyote demanded. The rain became a downpour.
"I would like a creek to put my feet in," said Coyote. So a creek sprang up beside him, and Coyote walked in it to cool off his feet.
"It should be deeper," said Coyote.
The creek became a huge, swirling river. Coyote was swept over and over by the water. Finally, nearly drowned, Coyote was thrown up on the bank far away. When he woke up, the buzzards were watching him, trying to decide if he was dead.
"I'm not dead," Coyote told them, and they flew away.
That is how the Columbia River began.
the coyote is resourceful, intelligent, adaptable; in fact, he is the most so of all mammals.
in the spiritual world the coyote represents opportunity, stealth, creativity, experience, new life, and illumination. he represents both folly and wisdom, and the balance between the two. the coyote teaches us to see through our foolish acts, laugh at them, and then gain the wisdom from this process.
and what does this all mean for me? I don't yet know. perhaps the message they are bringing me is that I have overcome my foolishness and increased my sagacity; perhaps the message is to watch out for what's still to come. perhaps they are simply acknowledging my own resourcefulness, my intelligence, my adaptability, and reminding me of the creative powers I hold deep within.
whatever the message may be, I have reveled in each siting and been grateful for it. the thought of the devious and excessively fortunate trickster crossing my path again and again brings a great smile to my face, and I dare to hope for just one more coyote, please, before the month is out.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
naps and other rewards
I need to be clear: it is not high on my list of Favorite Things to Do to get up at 5 am. or even 5:13.
I don't like the pressure to get to bed early the night before, nor the grogginess and difficulty of pushing myself out over the edge of my mattress and onto the floor. nor the creaking and groaning muscles, ligaments, tendons, and limbs.
I do not like it sam I am.
but being out in the cool morning air, listening to bird chatter and leaf rustling, watching the sky change and the light hit earthen grooves to create shadows and reliefs, and finally reaching the top of the hill and looking out at the kingdom one possesses makes those early awakenings completely, entirely worth it.
I find the symbiosis between working for something and reaping a reward to be similar to my getting-up-and-then-eventually-being-grateful scenario: almost every effort is more meaningful when a benefit, reward, or some other pampering or indulgence follows, and in return, the enjoyment gained from those rewards is exponentially increased when serious effort is involved in the work.
for example, this afternoon's nap was so well earned (early early morning ride up big mountain, three hours of mom-time at the lacrosse field, lawn mowing, edging, laundry, and house cleaning all preceded said event) that I just lay there with a smile on my face until I drifted off. I was bone tired and that nap was glorious.
I believe we are programmed to find fulfillment in accomplishment, to find joy in stretching ourselves, to delight in discovering extended boundaries to our abilities. we will never know what we're capable of until we push the next limit.
within reason.
I'm still not ready (and predict I will never be so) to join the adventure racing crowd, or the ironman participant crew, or even that large faction of triathletes.
that's okay. I seem to find plenty other ways to challenge myself and push my boundaries just a little further than their last placement.
and then I take a nap.
I don't like the pressure to get to bed early the night before, nor the grogginess and difficulty of pushing myself out over the edge of my mattress and onto the floor. nor the creaking and groaning muscles, ligaments, tendons, and limbs.
I do not like it sam I am.
but being out in the cool morning air, listening to bird chatter and leaf rustling, watching the sky change and the light hit earthen grooves to create shadows and reliefs, and finally reaching the top of the hill and looking out at the kingdom one possesses makes those early awakenings completely, entirely worth it.
I find the symbiosis between working for something and reaping a reward to be similar to my getting-up-and-then-eventually-being-grateful scenario: almost every effort is more meaningful when a benefit, reward, or some other pampering or indulgence follows, and in return, the enjoyment gained from those rewards is exponentially increased when serious effort is involved in the work.
for example, this afternoon's nap was so well earned (early early morning ride up big mountain, three hours of mom-time at the lacrosse field, lawn mowing, edging, laundry, and house cleaning all preceded said event) that I just lay there with a smile on my face until I drifted off. I was bone tired and that nap was glorious.
I believe we are programmed to find fulfillment in accomplishment, to find joy in stretching ourselves, to delight in discovering extended boundaries to our abilities. we will never know what we're capable of until we push the next limit.
within reason.
I'm still not ready (and predict I will never be so) to join the adventure racing crowd, or the ironman participant crew, or even that large faction of triathletes.
that's okay. I seem to find plenty other ways to challenge myself and push my boundaries just a little further than their last placement.
and then I take a nap.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
me and louis
lest you think I've stopped loving utah, I must tell you about yesterday's ride.
it was a simple thing, up emigration and down to little dell and back, but I spent most of it swiveling my head back and forth, up to the left, up to the right, admiring the green hillsides and the lush growth spurting from yards along the way. the sky was blue and the pavement was still damp in places from the early morning rain, and the temperature hovered right in the perfect zone for my entire ride. (that would be mid-60's, possibly upper 60's for my descent, sunshine throughout.)
even the road workers were pleasant.
they're getting to know me, I think: they've been patching and filling cracks for the past ten days or so, and they are awfully kind to all of us bicyclists whipping through between their SLOW and STOP signs.
(but as I reflect on this, I've decided that I'm full of self-aggrandizement to think that they're recognizing me. hundreds, if not a thousand, of bikers must past them during the day, and who am I to think that they're remembering little old me? )
the most beautiful piece yesterday was the scene to my east as I rode through the golf course: the foothills are thick with green growth, rounding and shaded in each groove and crevasse. the golf course itself has never looked richer, and the sweet air, cool and just slightly damp, completed my magical experience.
it all brings to mind a conversation I had last weekend about riding bicycles in different locales. one could fly across the ocean to ride in hawaii or france, or one could drive 2000 miles to ride in maine and vermont, or one could leave from their own driveway. each experience would be rich and distinguishable from the others, but it is terribly difficult to rank them. I know I talked up the ouray to red mountain pass ride, and I was truly awed by my experience there, but as I looked at our snow-dusted mountain peaks today I fell right back into my spot of loving this place in which I live and ride.
my conclusion, then, is that there are so many beautiful, stunning, awe-inspiring places in this world in which I might ride my bicycle that I will never be able to experience even a small percentage of them. I choose to be grateful for each one I do encounter, and will work toward discovering more of them close to home as I fill up my piggy bank for the ones somewhat farther away.
picture if you will louis armstrong's generous cheeks and twinkling eyes, his gentle girth and his love for making music, and perhaps you'll even be able to hear his voice in your head singing the chorus of one of my very favorite ~ and appropriate, today ~ songs:
and I think to myself,
what a wonderful world . . .
it was a simple thing, up emigration and down to little dell and back, but I spent most of it swiveling my head back and forth, up to the left, up to the right, admiring the green hillsides and the lush growth spurting from yards along the way. the sky was blue and the pavement was still damp in places from the early morning rain, and the temperature hovered right in the perfect zone for my entire ride. (that would be mid-60's, possibly upper 60's for my descent, sunshine throughout.)
even the road workers were pleasant.
they're getting to know me, I think: they've been patching and filling cracks for the past ten days or so, and they are awfully kind to all of us bicyclists whipping through between their SLOW and STOP signs.
(but as I reflect on this, I've decided that I'm full of self-aggrandizement to think that they're recognizing me. hundreds, if not a thousand, of bikers must past them during the day, and who am I to think that they're remembering little old me? )
the most beautiful piece yesterday was the scene to my east as I rode through the golf course: the foothills are thick with green growth, rounding and shaded in each groove and crevasse. the golf course itself has never looked richer, and the sweet air, cool and just slightly damp, completed my magical experience.
it all brings to mind a conversation I had last weekend about riding bicycles in different locales. one could fly across the ocean to ride in hawaii or france, or one could drive 2000 miles to ride in maine and vermont, or one could leave from their own driveway. each experience would be rich and distinguishable from the others, but it is terribly difficult to rank them. I know I talked up the ouray to red mountain pass ride, and I was truly awed by my experience there, but as I looked at our snow-dusted mountain peaks today I fell right back into my spot of loving this place in which I live and ride.
my conclusion, then, is that there are so many beautiful, stunning, awe-inspiring places in this world in which I might ride my bicycle that I will never be able to experience even a small percentage of them. I choose to be grateful for each one I do encounter, and will work toward discovering more of them close to home as I fill up my piggy bank for the ones somewhat farther away.
picture if you will louis armstrong's generous cheeks and twinkling eyes, his gentle girth and his love for making music, and perhaps you'll even be able to hear his voice in your head singing the chorus of one of my very favorite ~ and appropriate, today ~ songs:
and I think to myself,
what a wonderful world . . .
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
135
I've been putting this off all day because I don't know where to begin.
well actually, there are a couple other reasons: I'm tired, I've been a bit busy, I've been shivering and huddling under blankets, and I can't seem to stop putting food and drink into my body.
outside of those reasons, though, I still don't really know where to begin.
so I'll just jump right into the 60.
60.
we stayed in a house about 5 miles north of the start, a place on a county road, fairly peaceful and private. private from the rest of town, that is, not necessarily from the other twelve people staying there with me.
we rode to the start, a nice little warm-up, and then took off on the Big Ride, Durango to Silverton. part of our crew raced the event, some of them reading their printed names in the results section of next day's paper, and five of us just (just) rode the thing.
it's not all uphill. there are some rollers, some flat sections, and even two grand descents. but the serious uphill begins like a punch in the gut: you're coming around a curve with some speed and all of the sudden you're moving at the pace of a strolling elephant. and it doesn't change too much for the next six miles. this is where, last year, I lost a crown in a shot block (these things aren't supposed to crunch, are they?) and swore (complete with swear words) that I would never--ever--do this ride again.
well.
this year went much better. it was about 25 degrees warmer, the ground was 100 percent drier, and my performance came with only 75 percent of the previous year's pain.
can't ask for more than that, but we got it anyway: gorgeous blue skies, cheerful support people, nice blue markings on the road to alert us to bumps, dips, and potholes, and one of the most incredible vistas available in the western united states.
we came home chipper, cleaned up and went out to eat, came back and watched a movie about extreme skiers, then went to sleep feeling like we'd accomplished something significant.
45
there's always the next day. let's see, should we go for a run? a recovery ride? something slightly challenging? or should we, gulp, take advantage of the fact that we're in this extraordinary locale and go find some more mountains to climb?
some of us chose the former (which turned into a 6-hour, 17-mile trail run, which is a complete story on its own; thank goodness I can't tell it in the first person), and three of us, after much deliberation, hopped in the car and drove to silverton (elevation 9318') to go climb another mountain.
we decided to ride up to red mountain pass (elevation 11,018'), and then see how we felt before deciding whether or not to ride down into ouray (elevation 7770') and then (gulp) back up red mountain pass and eventually back down into silverton.
and this is what happened: the climb up to red mountain pass was so nicely paced, the grades completely manageable, that I got suckered into riding down into ouray and then back up.
it's written in bike grease on my forehead, sucker . . .
and I thank God I am one.
because this was perhaps the most stunning, beautiful, amazing ride I've ever been on. the thirteen mile stretch between red mountain pass and ouray is indescribable. waterfalls, sheer cliff drops, miles of pines, roads clinging to shelves cut from rock faces . . . and the worn and weather beaten sign telling us all that this land is America's Switzerland.
and I had plenty time to view it all, especially on my way back up, my bike moving not much faster than that lumbering elephant I mentioned earlier.
this was the unplanned ride, the gift, the experience that just happened to come together perfectly and cause me to nearly melt with gratitude.
or dehydration, not sure which it was, when I finally reached the end of the road.
30
it's so hard to go away and not take advantage of what you're driving through on the way to your destination. or on the way home. so, this time we had to stop in moab on the way home monday and go for a little ride. a recovery ride, after those two significant (6600' and 5000') climbing days.
no climbing on this ride, just a casual, easy cruise up along the colorado river and back.
the up was great: tailwind, easy grade, flying.
the down was a bugger: headwind, easier grade, grinding. groaning. okay, whining.
and it was beautiful: a landscape so dramatically different from the previous two days that I felt I was in a different country. from mountain passes to butted red rock in the space of hours, and to be able to ride them both within 24 hours: this is amazing to me.
I was parched and sweaty and tired by the end of those miles, and the shower behind the Poison Spider bicycle shop was that scale-tipping event that helped me keep moving forward, back on the path, moving toward the return home.
it's not the only way I've ever reached 135, but it might possibly be the best yet.
well actually, there are a couple other reasons: I'm tired, I've been a bit busy, I've been shivering and huddling under blankets, and I can't seem to stop putting food and drink into my body.
outside of those reasons, though, I still don't really know where to begin.
so I'll just jump right into the 60.
60.
we stayed in a house about 5 miles north of the start, a place on a county road, fairly peaceful and private. private from the rest of town, that is, not necessarily from the other twelve people staying there with me.
we rode to the start, a nice little warm-up, and then took off on the Big Ride, Durango to Silverton. part of our crew raced the event, some of them reading their printed names in the results section of next day's paper, and five of us just (just) rode the thing.
it's not all uphill. there are some rollers, some flat sections, and even two grand descents. but the serious uphill begins like a punch in the gut: you're coming around a curve with some speed and all of the sudden you're moving at the pace of a strolling elephant. and it doesn't change too much for the next six miles. this is where, last year, I lost a crown in a shot block (these things aren't supposed to crunch, are they?) and swore (complete with swear words) that I would never--ever--do this ride again.
well.
this year went much better. it was about 25 degrees warmer, the ground was 100 percent drier, and my performance came with only 75 percent of the previous year's pain.
can't ask for more than that, but we got it anyway: gorgeous blue skies, cheerful support people, nice blue markings on the road to alert us to bumps, dips, and potholes, and one of the most incredible vistas available in the western united states.
we came home chipper, cleaned up and went out to eat, came back and watched a movie about extreme skiers, then went to sleep feeling like we'd accomplished something significant.
45
there's always the next day. let's see, should we go for a run? a recovery ride? something slightly challenging? or should we, gulp, take advantage of the fact that we're in this extraordinary locale and go find some more mountains to climb?
some of us chose the former (which turned into a 6-hour, 17-mile trail run, which is a complete story on its own; thank goodness I can't tell it in the first person), and three of us, after much deliberation, hopped in the car and drove to silverton (elevation 9318') to go climb another mountain.
we decided to ride up to red mountain pass (elevation 11,018'), and then see how we felt before deciding whether or not to ride down into ouray (elevation 7770') and then (gulp) back up red mountain pass and eventually back down into silverton.
and this is what happened: the climb up to red mountain pass was so nicely paced, the grades completely manageable, that I got suckered into riding down into ouray and then back up.
it's written in bike grease on my forehead, sucker . . .
and I thank God I am one.
because this was perhaps the most stunning, beautiful, amazing ride I've ever been on. the thirteen mile stretch between red mountain pass and ouray is indescribable. waterfalls, sheer cliff drops, miles of pines, roads clinging to shelves cut from rock faces . . . and the worn and weather beaten sign telling us all that this land is America's Switzerland.
and I had plenty time to view it all, especially on my way back up, my bike moving not much faster than that lumbering elephant I mentioned earlier.
this was the unplanned ride, the gift, the experience that just happened to come together perfectly and cause me to nearly melt with gratitude.
or dehydration, not sure which it was, when I finally reached the end of the road.
30
it's so hard to go away and not take advantage of what you're driving through on the way to your destination. or on the way home. so, this time we had to stop in moab on the way home monday and go for a little ride. a recovery ride, after those two significant (6600' and 5000') climbing days.
no climbing on this ride, just a casual, easy cruise up along the colorado river and back.
the up was great: tailwind, easy grade, flying.
the down was a bugger: headwind, easier grade, grinding. groaning. okay, whining.
and it was beautiful: a landscape so dramatically different from the previous two days that I felt I was in a different country. from mountain passes to butted red rock in the space of hours, and to be able to ride them both within 24 hours: this is amazing to me.
I was parched and sweaty and tired by the end of those miles, and the shower behind the Poison Spider bicycle shop was that scale-tipping event that helped me keep moving forward, back on the path, moving toward the return home.
it's not the only way I've ever reached 135, but it might possibly be the best yet.
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