18 november 2006 * tucson, arizona * 109 miles

Thursday, May 13, 2004

naked mountain

I know what you're thinking, but it's not all it's cracked up to be. I, too, pictured sprites and nymphs in various states of undress waiting to feed me peeled grapes and fan my aching limbs with palm fronds. Sort of. I mean, I guess on some level I knew all along this was not to be, but the prelude to the ascent occurred early in the ride, before my every thought became focused with laser precision on my agony; when my mind was free to wander. At any rate, I was entirely unprepared for this climb. As I mentioned, the Bacchanalian celebration I hoped for at the summit did not occur. (Sure, there was an entrance to a winery about halfway up, and a few of us discussed our options, but as it was 11 o'clock in the morning and the slope of the driveway we would have to navigate upon our departure was even worse than our climb, we passed.) And the road seemed to go straight up. They tell me this was worse than anything we will face at Tahoe, and I think for my waning sanity's sake I have to believe them.

Katie took the prior Friday off work because she couldn't make the Saturday ride. I spoke with her when she called into the office at the end of the day. Her report was that there was one big hill about halfway through but other than that it wasn't too bad. There's no way to sugar-coat this: Katie lied. That said, it was a beautiful 72 mile ride in the Shenandoah foothills. and it was tough, yes, but I really feel a sense of accomplishment having completed it. By mile 65, the climb up the much more modest Bull Run (yes, that one) "Mountain" was an even greater challenge, though the elevation change was far less. I slept soundly for about twelve hours Saturday night; I nearly passed out on the ride home.

I told myself somewhat naively when I began this undertaking that I would not succumb to the pressure to buy lots of stuff. I am a low-tech cyclist and I like it that way. It was a big step for me to realize and accept that attempting this event on my trusty mountain bike was folly and I needed to suck it up and purchase the appropriate equipment. As might be expected, that not-so-sudden epiphany occured after a particularly difficult ride. Since Saturday, my hands have felt like they are made of clay. Thousands of years of evolution have been rendered irrelevant as the appendages adjacent to my erstwhile prehensile thumb have morphed into a misshapen claw. So I recently got gloves with gel packs in the palms. Decorum prohibits me from explaining why I purchased the shorts.

We began and ended in Haymarket, Virginia. Though the 480 citizens of Haymarket, among others, are to be commended for their successful fight in the early 1990's against team rodent and it's sanitized version of history - if you'll recall, Disney America was proposed within the town limits - one citizen is not getting a free pass in my book. On the way back into town, after many hard miles, two members of the team were accosted by a motorist on John Marshall Highway (VA rt. 55, and a fairly busy road). It seems that this particular brain trust chose to stop his Ford Behemoth in traffic and step out onto his running boards to more adequately accost these two cyclists. Stacey responded in the most appropriate manner - she flipped him the bird. Eventually he climbed back into the cab and proceeded to the next light, where he was still stopped when Stacey and her friend arrived. They got a plate number, and as luck would have it, promptly saw a police officer. They rode back a bit, flagged him down, and the cop pulled the jerk over. He proceeded to tell tall tales, blaming the cyclists. He got a warning from the police, and I consider him lucky. I hate to get all preachy here at the end, but please remember: unless you're on an interstate, a bicyclist has every right to share the road.

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