Are You Living It?

It’s late May. Full-swing. You’ve dialed your half-dozen standby loops to the point that you’re starting to recognize your own tread in the brown sugar trail dust. You’ve convinced yourself that you’ve finally shaken the cold, life-sucking fingers of winter… (that’s right, it snowed here last week). You’re back to hammering just like you were last September. It took about fifteen rides, but you’re back. Right?

Ahhh, the fanciful narrative of a forgetful mind.

I rode down the alley towards the trail and pushed my big gear slowly, waking up my quads, trying to convince them of what was about to happen. I’d put it off for a few weeks, and even tonight as I lubed my chain, I had resolved to ignore the mountain’s taunting from the near horizon and head over to my typical stomping grounds. A quick, fun ride to let off some steam.

But something happened when I looked up at it after closing the garage door and clipping in. It was under my skin and I knew it. The wind kicked up and then I thought I heard a whisper… “Remember me?”

I tried once more to escape, forcing myself to turn right and head to easier trails. I’d be on them in ten minutes, carefree and unchallenged…

Then the wind came again, churning dirt and pollen into little devils on the alley in front of me. A cat ran across my path and I hit my brakes.

I’d only made it twenty yards and I was flipping a u-ey. Heading away from where I wanted to go. Tonight. Tonight was the night to quit making excuses and ride Animas City Mountain.

I rolled slowly between garages and backyards on my left and the rear lots of commercial properties on my right. It was 4:30, so the four-car lineup at Dairy Queen surprised me. Absurdly early dinner? Late afternoon Snickers blizzard? I peered at the Civic and Escalade and Sierra drivers with widely cast aspersion and they took me off guard by casting it right back at me. We were of different worlds across their window glass and the fixed stares of non-comprehension were bi-directional.

The worlds clashed in that microsecond: It’s been a long day. I need a Peanut Buster Parfait and maybe something with bacon -VERSUS- I’m stressed. I think I’ll climb for an hour straight up a pitch of babyheads, ledges, and tree root staircases until I’m completely anaerobic and can’t spell ‘poop.’

My disdain for the Dairy Queens fueled me. I looked up at the mountain and told it I was prepared and on my way.

“I’m doing this in my middle ring,” my ego said aloud as I approached the trailhead, my tires crunching shale. “You’re damn right,” I concurred, swelling with the notion. In my conscience grew phantasmagorical images of what awaited me at the top–mountain vistas, centaurs, Robert Plant and the Stairway–all congregated only an hour up the trail in order to congratulate my middle gear triumph. Blood pumped in my legs and I up-shifted just to tell my bike I wasn’t fooling.

Quietly, the little devil inside retorted, “Wishing doesn’t make it so.”

Many minutes passed (3? 4?) as I parried the strikes of tooth-like rocks in my path. My faith grew even further. Ever more it buoyed as I negotiated a few ascending hairpins with less wobbling than might have been expected by any eye-witnesses to the last time I rode this mountain. I’m feeling pretty good here, right? I mean, compared to how I thought I might, considering this is the first, I mean not the first… first on this trail this year, I mean… you’d think I might be, well, struggling. It’s relative, that word, I know, but just look at how I’m fully 10% through this and…. and…. AND… GASSS-S-S-S-S-S-S-SPP-PP.

The downshifts began to rain like shell casings in a Fifty Cent video (never seen one, presuming here), and I tasted something strange. It was unmistakably the “everything” bagel from lunch. Curse that wicked herb-encrusted thing.

I clung as long as I could to the dregs of my middle ring, thrashing its final gear with an intensity at once pentecostal and end-of-days desperate…

{I’ve left this portion of the essay, which covers minutes seven through seventy of the climb, to your imagination. Please, just fill in what you think happened. Don’t be mean about it. No need for that… I know the candy apple red helmet was not the best choice, but it was on sale. And the fact that it coordinated with my socks… well, whatever. Come on. You’ve been there. Just think of that ride (or climb, or wave, or run, or whatever) that you both love and hate at once. Think of when you come back to it for the first time after the off-season… That’s what happened}.

There I stood at the top seventy minutes later. I didn’t need to question my watch… it said I gave up fifteen minutes from the last time I rode the trail in September, and well, that felt about right. There had been curses and oxygen-depleted guffaws throughout the climb, all of which shamed me now as I stood alone at the apex. There was also the three minute break I took after falling into a bush, wherein I inspected different components of my drivetrain, hoping to find some disaffected gizmo to which I could attribute the sluggish feel of my bike. I remembered this as I looked out from the precipice, and sighed at myself.

The broad expanse of the La Platas and their sundry drainages stood like an altar to the west. And to the north, the reaching, jagged fingers of the San Juans trailed wispy clouds. Below me, the Animas crawled through its ox-bows on the valley floor, and a heavy wind buffeted me from above.

Did I continue berating myself for underestimating a very difficult climb? Did I start a cycle of self-loathing?

No. I let it go. I thought of what I might have done at the end of a long day… what drive-thru window I could have sat at, waiting for God knows what. What 1500 calories I could have needlessly rammed down my throat while watching TV.

I laughed to myself about how much harder the ride had been than I’d expected and how happy I was that no one had seen some of the micro-tantrums I threw as my plan of attack began to fall apart. Then I shifted to my big ring and started the ride down.

By: James Schaffer