Hang in there Cowboy

We are at the top. 5,500 feet or so above sea level. The only building in the US Forest Service parking lot is an out-house under which we stand and shiver. It is raining hard and we are soaked from the two hour climb to get here. I look at my bike and think about my motivation. I am NOT looking forward to the slippery and sloppy ride back down this magnificent slab of basalt. Had there of been cellular service available I would have called for a pizza and then commandeered the delivery vehicle. 

We agree that cycling etiquette calls for us to wait for the last of our four intrepid riders to join us, but further agree that since this is a dead-end, one-way up and one-way back road, it is pragmatic and imperative that we start back down and not freeze standing around waiting. We give poor Dave ten minutes. 

I am already struggling with my brakes. My gloved hands are trying to negotiate a fine line between enough and not-enough feathering pressure as the squeals of protest from my wheels where rubber meets aluminum, attests. My neck is already objecting to the geometric positioning to accomplish this task and I see ice starting to form on my shins. Water is flying from my wheels as if shot from a high pressure hose as we negotiate the switchbacks at the steepest section of the peak. 

We round up Dave and press onward, downward, mostly because there is no other option available. My breathing is short, shallow and labored. I mentally review the three stages of hypothermia and access my current situation as category 2. I can no longer feel my toes. 

We continue under this scenario for ten miles. Having earlier pocketed my shades I allow the chip seal’s bumpiness to shake my corrective lenses to a secure point way below their designed effectiveness. I am sure I look like Granny Clampet or Jeff Sessions to the few gawking onlookers driving up as we scream down.

With about five miles to go my vision goes bleak. I am now holding on for dear life as this myopic vignette, peppered with flashing spots, plays out from the lens of my unprotected, watery eyes. We need to roll the credits, pronto.

At this point I also recall that one of the bodies survival mechanisms when under threat of stage 3 hypothermia, is to raise metabolic core temperature by adding tachycardia to the mix. Great, I think, another element to add to the chaos. 

I am now shivering almost violently, which is good as that is yet another of the miraculous ways that our bodies search for survival homeostasis as the shaking actually raises the skin temperature of our arms and legs and core. But I can feel the fatigue of staying in mental on physical red alert for two hours start to take its toll. I am weary, compromised and very concerned that I could crash at any moment. I am fighting off panic. 

HANG IN THERE COWBOY. 

Focus on right now. THIS. Here. Breathe deep (as deep as you can), try to relax your cramping core muscles, shake your head and bring the picture back into clearer focus. YOU CAN DO THIS. THINK LIKE A SEAL. 

You must.

We are two miles from the drop point and the road starts to level and then, interestingly, rise a touch, maybe one percent. I try to stand on the pedals but have no feeling and limited strength, a very weird sensation. As I ride without any data devices, not even a speedometer, I have no idea of how fast, to how slow I am going, so I decide to flow it out, and I find an ‘all things considered’ groove and steel my runaway awareness for the last leg. Which naturally seems like an eternity. 

Finally see the sag rigs up around the next bend and sigh deeply. We have made it back.

I pull up to the others and stare blankly at them as they also do back to me. I start to laugh.

We all do.