Yesterday was brutal. Yesterday was brilliant. Yesterday was as beautiful as it was banal.
With fresh DOMS fatigue we drove the 90 minutes to the temporary base camp parking area, added what looked like at the time to be sufficient clothing, and headed out to explore a new route to the top of Hurricane Ridge. The DOT is paving the first five miles, considered by many to be the most demanding, from the Interpretive Center to the Ranger Station gate. We had advance intel that a parallel road was an option with the caveat that there would be an off-road crossing section connecting the two just before the gate. Good enough for me, so off we rode up the always challenging 17 miles to the 5,214 ft summit.
Almost immediately the trail started to climb, topping out at 12%, that was the bad news, the really bad news was that the cloudless blue skies were disappearing quickly with chilly winds pushing gray, sooty looking clouds, clouds with heavy black bottoms suggesting, or warning perhaps, of rainfall not far off.
The short connecting path, which began at the terminus of the pavement ended up being about a mile, over downed maple trees, around boulders, into and out of muddy pools of dense vegetation, mostly moss. By the time we reached the main road, a good deal of work and plenty of precious energy reserves had already been spent. It was going to be a relentless slugfest for the next 12 miles. At least I brought arm warmers.
The secret to climbing for me is in the one-two cha-cha of cadence and rhythm. I am at my best (not saying much) when the speed of my pedal rotations matches some internal time mechanism, controlled by the drum machine in my soul. I hear sweet music when these two are practicing a melodic and percussive duet. Luckily for me, that duet is not always drum and fife, or the classic drum-bass backbone so familiar to us. The mountain, the sky, the deep leg fatigue of Jose Uno and Jose Dos, lotsa deer on the road, vacationing families from Carolina, Texas, Pennsylvania and Idaho, my fingers starting to cramp, the sun in hide and seek mode and the balletic arcs of the crows overhead, called for more subtle a score. Something ethereal and adventurous. Something to goad me up this hill with grinding sweat, gumption and gratitude.
I ride without data. Not even the most basic of measuring tools, no heart-rate, cadence or MPH. Don’t need ‘em and don’t want ‘em. My philosophy for twenty years has been to train with data and power, and to race and ride by feel. It is amazing how, with time, practice and awareness, one can match metrics with the organic muscle memory used by millions of successful athletes before the introduction of such common names as Strava, Garmin, Polar, and hundreds of others all giving you real time information on everything from tire pressure to win direction. OK fine. I can pinch and listen for that data thank you very much, I want to enjoy this moment and analyze my physiological reaction as the music keeps me in a groove no on-board monitoring device could ever measure.
A three-hour climb will put you in the front row of THAT concert, guaranteed.
We get to the top and the driving denizens who just minutes before were speeding past us in Volts, Westies, Diesel Winnebagos and Harleys are now in the parking lot of the lodge all dressed like models from REI. It is cold, the wind is howling, a light drizzle adds to the chill of the reality that we are under dressed. The ride back down, with 40 mile an hour headwinds biting your ears is just a cup of coffee away.
I have done this descent before under similar conditions and thought my face was going to freeze. Riding down a mountain road, with opposing traffic oblivious to your compromised handling capabilities, at a high rate of speed with foggy goggles and numb hands, is either wonderfully and orgasmicly exhilarating or incredibly flipping stupid.
Most likely to the dismay of 50% of the audience, I have yet to make up my mind which it is.
I’ll keep trying and maybe next time I’ll have the definitive answer for ya.
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