Thanks for joining me for another edition of the SerenityThroughSweat blog. I recently had an adventure in the mountains, a challenge of sorts that I wanted to share with you.
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” “When am I going to be here again?” “I’m not getting any younger” these are the things I was telling myself as I made the slogging climb up Pikes Peak on my bike.
The whole thing was thrown together rather haphazardly. A few days before the trip, I realized how close my layover hotel was to the mountain.
I started looking at routes, bike rentals and weather forecasts, and realized that,maybe, it was doable.
Not necessarily that I could do it, mind you, just that it could be done. All the parts could come together for a pretty epic bike ride from downtown Colorado Springs up to the summit of Pikes Peak.
It was going to be a beautiful day in the mountains. Highs in the upper 60s or low 70s in town. Sunny and mostly clear skies. Light winds and temps above freezing at the 14,100′ summit.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to plan for that. I ordered a pair of fleece lined full leg bike bibs and a fleece lined cycling jacket that would arrive just before I left for the trip.
I knew I would be hot, and as the title suggests, very sweaty on the way up the mountain. But I was nervous about steep descents on slippery roads in temperatures much colder than I’m used to riding in, so fleece lined options won the day.
I got to the bike shop before they opened and was able to get a little bit of an early start thanks to some helpful fellow cyclists.
Winding out of Colorado Springs and through Manitou Springs, the road started to pitch up almost immediately. Not urgently but consistently and noticeably. With the base of the mountain at 5,900′ above sea level even these small changes in pitch got your attention.
The climb started in earnest with an ever so slight turn onto the pikes peak highway. A not unsubstantial climb from the turn before you even reach the toll gate.
At the gate, I paid the fare just like a car would, with a strange sense of equality mixed with superiority. It’s nice to be treated the same as a car on the road, despite knowing we have two very different paths ahead of us.
The toll collector told me the top 3 miles of the road were closed due to snow melt that refroze overnight. Simultaneously disappointing and comforting news as I was already sweaty and winded with a lot of climbing left in front of me.
This may have been one of the friendliest roads I’ve ever ridden on. Every car, regardless of direction, gave a wide berth and were quick to offer cheers and moral support. Many wanted to chat, or perhaps question my sanity, though my responses were often short while fighting for more oxygen in the thinning air.
I stopped frequently. I stopped when I wanted to. I stopped when I needed to. I stopped when the views took my breath away. I stopped when the slope and elevation took my breath away. When I needed to eat or to take a picture, there was no lack of stops on the way up.
At some point, a plow truck pulled up beside me to chat. Fighting for air, struggling to keep my cadance and the front wheel attatched to the steep slopes, he told me the summit had been reopened. “Good news or bad news?” He asked, maybe reading my reaction and body language. A bit of both I suppose.
I stopped once more at the Glen Cove Inn at 11, 450′ it would be the last easy pull of spot before the summit. Already feeling winded and unsure of the outcome I lingered and tried to recover as much as I could.
My stops were becoming more frequent, but the real estate for those stops was becoming scarce as I continued my ascent. Restarting presented its own challenge, clipping in on the steep slopes with no momentum and traffic potentially hurtling down the mountain and around hairpin corners unseen at any time.
Eventually, my legs, but more so my lungs and my heart made the decision inevitable. The mountain would win this day.
The risk calculus just wasnt adding up in my favor any more. Pushing myself into exhaustion in three to 5 minute bursts for ever shrinking distances didnt seem like a good idea. The shrinking shoulder of the road and the sheer cliffs loomed as I felt my will to continue slip away.
I took my jacket out of my pack and zipped the sleeves tight. I took one last picture. It was beautiful. Despite my failure, it was a pretty epic climb and a reluctant smile crept across my face. Type II fun was in the bag, now it was time for some type I fun.
I reminded myself that while this was the fun part, it was also the part with highest risk of catastrophe. Decending down a mountain on your bike can take your breath away in more ways than one.
I decided for the first and steepest part of the descent to keep my fingerless cycling gloves, rather than my windproof running gloves. I didn’t want any doubts about my grip or my ability to use the brake levers.
This came at the expense of very chilly fingers. Plunging down the mountain, braking against the building speed into the hairpin corners, as I zipped through the frigid apline air.
I stopped again at the visitor center rougly halfway down my descent and switched gloves. Even if there was decreased grip, it was the better alternative to frozen fingers.
I continued my snaking downhill ride back through town and dropped the bike at the bike shop before walking back to my hotel.
It had been a great day. Maybe not the ride I wanted, or the outcome I wanted, but a great day none the less.
I wrote a while back about a concept called misogi. A quest or an adventure that tests your limits. The challenge should be set hard enough that the odds of success are a coin flip.
Nobody wants to fail. Setting out knowing there is a good chance you won’t reach your goal is daunting. But it is also inspiring.
Failing to reach the summit was inspiring. I can’t wait to go back and try again. Finding out where your limits are is rarely a fun experience. In this case, being able to look out over the mountainside to the town below showed a tangible reflection of how far I had come. How high I went, even reaching my limit that day. The summit ahead, unreached, served as a reminder that the limit can still be pushed farther.
While thinking back on my time in the saddle up Pikes Peak, the Blues Travelers song popped into my head
“I pick up my smile, and put it my pocket. Hold it for a while, try not to have to drop it. Ooh can you feel the same? Ooh you gotta love that pain, ooh it looks like rain again. Ooh feel it comin in, the mountains win again.”
I hope I get another chance to climb that mountain and reach the summit. I am grateful for the experience and the lessons the mountain has already given me, even if it won this round.
Thanks for joining me, stay safe, and stay sweaty my friends.