First Climb of the Season

Just Press One Pedal Down After the Other

The first bike climb of the season is a sufferfest. My thigh muscles feel like they will explode through my skin, and as I struggle to breathe, all the gunk I am spitting up could be pieces of lung.

Of course I don’t stop and rest, due to testosterone poisoning, the fact that I did this climb fairly easily at the end of last season, and that someone my age just blew by me.

It’s the first warmish day in Boulder this January, with the temperature hovering in the high 40s, and 7-8 MPH of wind from the NW gusting to 15.

“Going climbing,” I tell Blue Eyes.

“Little early for that. You haven’t been on a bike much since November.”

“No worries, just one NCAR,”

“Good luck Sweetie. Pre-program 911 on your phone.”

“Not helpful.”

I haul my road bike down from the hook in the garage ceiling and start checking components; brakes work, pads are aligned properly, shifters work, derailleur works, tires and spokes are okay. Everything is dusty. Seat bag has the same stuff in it from November. I dump out the spare tube, patch kit, tire levers, bike multi tool, and reload them.

After attaching a white light to my handlebar and a flashing red light on my seat bag, I pump up my tires and head off.

The National Center for Atmospheric Research (NCAR) is 7.5 miles from my house. That is five miles of easy riding through Boulder suburbs followed by a 2.4 mile climb that averages about a 7% grade and gains 674 feet from the flats. Nothing hard about it unless I haven’t been on a bike since November.

I reach Table Mesa Drive where I turn west and start the climb. (You read that correctly.) The word table in Spanish is mesa, therefore, this should be Table Table Drive. Mesa Mesa Drive works too. Never mind, there are a number of things in Boulder that are just a little bit off.

To my left is the King Soopers where 10 people were murdered by a psychopath with an assault weapon. It is hard to believe that we still allow people in this nation to buy and sell military-style weapons that are designed solely to maim and kill people.

The bike lane winds easily up the hill. My breathing is heavy, but not difficult, and my heart rate is maybe 110. A quarter mile from King Soopers the route is completely suburban with 1970s ranch-style houses on tree-lined cross streets.

This part of the climb is comfortable as I have dropped into my penultimate easy gear, leaving the granny gear available in case the climb gets difficult. Because of the houses and trees, the wind isn’t too much of a factor. Although the higher areas of this neighborhood are infamous for having their roofs blown off in Boulder’s occasional 100 mph winds.

My breathing is now similar to that of a moderate pace on a two-mile run when I can still talk to a partner with maybe small pauses. My legs are tight but not painful, and the bike is working perfectly.

I’m a half-mile up and have passed Bear Creek Elementary School on my left. The route has gotten steeper and my breathing more noticeable. And maybe I’m feeling a little fatigue, not bad, sort of like hiking up hill with a 20-pound pack. But in this case the 20-pounds is located somewhat below my sternum and above my belt. This 20 pounds gained since last year is due to lack of exercise, winter, indiscriminate eating, and sloth.

Struggling toward the NCAR entrance I’m passed by a skinny, shaved-leg racing type on a $10,000 bike. It’s a good bet that he still lives with his parents. In the first mile I’ve been passed a number of times.

It’s fine to be passed by younger, thinner, stronger riders on extraordinarily expensive bikes. This is almost expected in Boulder where there is always someone who is a good deal better at your sport than you are. It’s not fine to be passed by a mountain bike dude on a mud-crusty bike, particularly one with an arm in a sling. Worse yet is to be passed by a guy in a down vest, hoody, and blue jeans on a rental e-bike…it’s just not fair.

Saying that I’m now breathing hard is an understatement. This is more like serious panting; dog-like, running-after-too-many-balls sort of panting. Topping that awful little pitch I pass marker number 1.

Some time ago, I searched for the name of road signs that mark tenths of a mile. There was some expectation that it would be a clever moniker starting with the prefix ‘deci’; something like decitags. Nope. Apparently these 1/10th of a mile markers are called “intermediate reference location signs.” Sigh.

Time to make adjustments and really think about what I am doing. Maybe I should stop for a moment and plan this ascent. NOPE! The local rule is that you do the NCAR climb without stopping.

Grinding on I remember that I still have my granny gear to drop into. “Click, thump”…it makes pedaling slightly easier for about 200 feet and then I’m back in the sufferfest again. There is marker 2, only eight tenths to go. A huge distance uphill in January.

One more push down on a pedal and then another and another. My legs are beginning to talk to me with that deep muscle ache. I’ve tried that, “Shut Up Legs” routine. It doesn’t work. My legs still hurt.

Now that I’m clear of the houses, the wind becomes an issue. The route goes west for about 6/10ths and then south and east for the last 4/10ths. The wind is out of the NW. NCAR sits at the base of the Flatirons, these huge slabs of rock that thrusted up millions of years ago. The winds in Boulder are always a little flukey, but close to the mountains the wind just flies around to half the points on the compass in a matter of minutes, sometimes seconds.

Right now the wind is hitting just to my right, seriously impeding my uphill progress, or at least that’s what I am thinking because I have run out of other excuses. If the winds gusts I’m in real trouble.

Before I get to marker three, I’m passed by four more people. One of them says, “Looking good.” I ignore her sarcasm. Past the marker I look behind me as I am gulping air to see an old guy moving uphill with walking sticks.

In my mind, I time the appearance of the markers. After a certain period of misery with my head down, my lungs gasping, and my legs searing, I look up when I expect to see the next marker.

I must have missed number 4 marker. Maybe I’m going faster than I think and passed it.

Nah.

I put my head back down staring at every pebble that I crawl over and set the internal timer for marker 5 that is followed by a brief respite of a flatter 100 or so feet that will momentarily ease the pain.

At just the moment I expect to see the number 5 marker I raise my head and within seconds see it. I’m more than halfway there. Really only 3/10ths more of climbing and then the road levels out toward the top. Anyone can do three tenths.

Not so fast. Not anyone can keep going with numbing hands, barking gulps of air, cramping legs, and the wind pushing the bike around. I’m drowning in self-pity while some savage little animal in my small brain is pushing me to keep climbing.

Yes, I can hold two totally opposing thoughts in my brain. No, I’m not intelligent. Witness the fact that I’m totally out of shape and climbing this hill in the wind.

As I cross beside marker 6 I hear footsteps on the other side of the road. It’s the old guy with the walking sticks.

“You think they make this road steeper over the holidays?” he asks as he slowly passes me.

I give him a guttural grunt. My thoughts would be considered ungracious in most social circles.

Two more markers and I’m home free. Just press down on my right foot and then press down on my left foot and do it again and again. Marker 7 appears on my right just as a gust of wind from the rear almost drives me off the bike path and into the road. Adjusting to the wind, I keep going and going until the ground below starts to get more level and I see marker 8.

Whew, I’ve almost made it. I shift up a gear from my granny, gulp some more air, shift up a couple more gears, and ease up the rest of hill as if it were no problem at all.

Sort of.

When I reach the NCAR courtyard stop near the bike racks. Putting a foot down, I almost fall over. There is no strength left in my legs to hold myself up. I’m still breathing hard, and given any provocation at all I would collapse into a pile of arms, legs, ugly bike shirt, dirty neon green jacket, carbon fiber parts, and bike components. A road bike yard sale. Not a pretty sight.

I’m better now. My small pains are nothing now and will be forgotten in a day or so. I zip up my mid-layer and dirty-green bike jacket and begin the two mile blast downhill.

As the season progresses this training route will get somewhat easier. It will become a series of grunts and rocket rides. But even at the end of the season, the ride will still be a sufferfest.