But when I woke up Sunday, tired and sore from the day before, my anxiety returned, especially when we started talking about where to ride and decided that a descent into the monument and a ride along the rim would be the route. If I am a novice and a slow rider in general, I am 100 times worse on climbs. But I didn't want to be a baby, and was also operating under the conviction that I needed to challenge myself and establish a benchmark at the same time.
And so we started out. There was about a mile of downhill riding on a gravel road, which was tough for this scaredy cat. Gravel freaks me out because I'm desperately afraid of my wheels skidding sideways, causing me to crash. When I was 12 I was standing up, pedaling furiously on my bike and one of the pedals came off. I crashed hard, sliding several feet on concrete and gravel and still remember the pain of my mom picking the gravel out of my hip, ribs and arms. Definite negative emotional tagging there. Happily, no crashes today.
The first part of the ride was great. More downhill riding than climbing and breathtaking, stunning vistas, which you will see below this blog. But as we rode down, down, down, I worried more and more about the up, up, up that would be necessary in order to get back to the house. About midway through we did a fairly ambitious climb, and I could feel the previous day's ride, because pushing uphill was even harder than usual. Then there was a long, steep downhill ride. It was like flying. So much fun. But when we turned back toward home, the real work began.
Peter is really, really good at climbing and genuinely enjoys it. By my estimation, he climbed about three times as much as Fred and I, because we would begin a long hill and he would take off like a bullet, riding up the hill, then turning around and coming back down to where we were to check on us and start all over. He was amazing, offering advice and encourage and lots of energy to the experience. I was thinking that Peter is to cycling what Brett Favre was to football (before he got weird and creepy.) He has this great boyish joy about riding that is infectious, and it makes me want to get really good at it so I can love it the way he does.
That being said, today was the hardest physical challenge I have ever attempted. I have never been so out of breath for so long a period of time in my whole life. We climbed 1200 feet the second part of the ride, and I slowly dragged my carcass up every inch of it, huffing and puffing the whole way. It was such hard work that I couldn't recover in-between climbs, so each one started more out-of-breath than the last one.
And I had to contend with both my fragility AND my ego. So at some point I started doing this weird half-gasping, half-crying thing where I would suck in a huge gulp of air and then push it out in these ragged, pathetic sobs. Then I would see Peter riding back down the hill toward me and my pride would force me to swallow it and get it together long enough to say, "Oh, I'm fine. I may be slow, but I am determined."
When I became not only teary but really shaky I realized I need to get some calories into me. I stopped to drink water and eat these tasty little gummy energy bites. Fred stopped, too, and downed an energy bar, and Peter rode back, I think a little mystified as to why the ride was even taking long enough or taking enough energy to warrant a mini-meal. Apparently my façade was also starting to break down, because he offered to ride back to the house and bring his truck back so we could throw our bikes in the back and be done. "No!" I said. "I am going to finish this ride. I may be slow, but I can do it." (All false bravado. I really doubted I could make it all the way back at this point and was beginning to wonder the exact spot in which I would lie down on the side of the road, unable to make one more revolution of the pedals.)
Fred was jubilant, by the way. Although he, too, felt sore and extremely fatigued by the ride, he was buoyed by the thought that what we were doing was harder than any single day of our September ride will be. We finished our energy snacks and started another long, steep climb. Peter stayed by my side as I began to lose my breath again and encouraged me. "When you get to the top of the hill -- see those three arrows?-- it will be the crest. Well, there is one more hill, but then it's downhill and easy riding from there."
"Okay," I told him. "I got this. But go on and ride ahead, because if I start to cry I want to do it alone." Peter laughed, reassured me one more time and took off. I gritted my teeth and worked my granny gear. At the top of the hill the road veered left behind a cluster of trees, so I couldn't really see where the road went as I climbed. But I kept my eyes fixed on the top of the hill, telling myself that this was it -- the last tough piece. And I did it. I got to the top of the hill, turned left... and there was another steep hill (which Peter had referenced, but which had not registered in my oxygen-deprived brain.) I stopped my bike.
Fred turned and rode back to me, and when he asked, "Are you okay?" I shook my head. No, I wasn't, and this time I didn't bother trying not to cry in front of anyone. Like a pressure valve releasing, tears streamed down my cheeks, and Fred was smart enough and kind enough to just let me cry.
But you know what? I finished the ride. After that last climb, there was a most glorious downhill ride and about halfway down, I felt the energy from the food we had consumed kick in. There were about four final miles of mostly rolling hills, and they flew by like nothing. And afterward, I had something huge to feel proud of. Dianne met us as we were coming back up the driveway. "How did it go?" she asked.
"It was hard," I replied. "I cried a little, but I stayed on my bike." Yeah, probably not the best thing to tell her, because she looked a little alarmed and asked me several times after that if I was okay. I hadn't known her long enough to disclose my weeper tendencies, or that I am surprisingly gritty despite the sometimes freely-flowing tears.
We finished our stay with a brunch of omelets and peach and walnut pancakes. The weekend was so great for learning, growing, testing my limits and getting a more accurate picture of the road ahead (no pun intended.) As I told Peter, there is some work to be done in the next month. There's a road off of 189 that is a two-mile long climb, and I think I need to get on it and ride up and back, up and back over and over to practice.
In the coming days I will reflect more on all the subtle and outright things I learned, but for now, thanks blog.
And thanks so much to Dianne and Peter, our wonderful hosts and mentors, for an incredible weekend.
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