Heart Versus Head

Riding in Front of the Storm

When I was younger, many decisions were based on what my heart was telling me, not what my brain was telling me.

There comes a reasonableness with age. I find myself saying, “I don’t have to do that anymore.” In the past that meant following some fool down an unknown trail at an unreasonable speed at Copper Mountain, or setting a personal best in Puerto Vallarta by drinking nine margaritas in one evening. There are fewer and fewer impulsive moves in my life these days. A majority of decisions are made with my head alone.

But then there are exceptions.

I’m cranking uphill from Frisco to Copper Mountain Resort on my road bike. My intent is to get to the top of Vail Pass that is at 10,666 feet. I pause from staring at the asphalt trail just in front of me, and look skyward for a second. The weather looks ominous. All I can see are frosty white clouds going up to roiling dark grey clouds that seem pointed directly at me. I feel like the mountain gods are chuckling among themselves, “Let’s pound the chubby old guy with some cold hard rain and maybe toss in some gusts of wind and sleet for fun.”

Stopping is always an option. I can pull off the asphalt and onto the gravel. The locals who fly up and down this bike path hate it when a rider stops in the middle of the trail. They yell rude words but are going so fast they don’t hear the rude words returned response. In a way they are right. To really ride hard on this route, a rider needs to use the entire path. Coming upon some fool lallygagging in the middle of the trail when the speedometer says 35 isn’t pleasant. The encounter requires some skilled bike handling, and not the smallest amount of luck to avoid hurtling into the aspens on one side of the trail, or off the hill and down to Ten Mile Creek on the other.

So stopping on a climb is frowned upon here in the High Country. The idea is that a rider should be strong enough to complete the climb without stopping. Further, the rider needs to pace himself so that he doesn’t hit the wall, bonk, or stop to catch his breath. Who says? It’s just tradition or mountain riding convention. If a rider stops for whatever reason, the look from other riders is often one of sympathy and occasionally condescension. Sometimes, they will say, “Are you okay?”

Seems like I’ve done this relatively easy ride fifty times in the last ten years. It’s five or six miles from Frisco to Copper with a gain of maybe 700 feet. By Colorado standards riding from 9,000 feet to 9,700 feet is easy. That is until there is some accounting for the altitude and concomitant lack of oxygen in the air as compared to the oxygen available in the flatlands.

We just drove up from Boulder yesterday. I am not acclimated to the altitude and we slept in the Sprinter last night. Lots of excuses. Oh, did I mention being 30 pounds overweight? When I’m climbing on my road bike, I like to think of my extra weight as a bag of dog food stretched across my handlebars. This huge bag of kibble that just sits there shifting slightly with each crank uphill. The bag is manageable but leads me to wonder how well I’d be climbing if I were 30 pounds lighter. Truth is, I’d be flying like the locals.

I’m maybe halfway up the route. To my right is a Forest Service toilet where I stop for a pee. To the left is a substantial rock face where I have been mesmerized by mountain goats daintily picking their way down the rock wall. To see them is to enjoy a four-footed ballet with gravity. I scan the rock wall, but with a nudge from another rider, turn my head to see three of them standing around in a parking lot next to the vault toilet.

They are scruffy looking as they shed their winter coats. But they have perfect black horns, black noses and mouths and small black hooves that don’t seen big enough to support them. They know we are here watching them from 100 feet away but they don’t seem to much care. We aren’t a threat.

Back on the bike and more cranking uphill. At this point I have about a mile to go to the beaver ponds that line the trail almost all the way to Copper. I’m not having much fun. The iPhone clipped to my handle bar says my heart rate is right on the edge of my alleged maximum for my age. I wish I hadn’t looked. My breathing isn’t ragged yet but I never seem to get enough oxygen. And legs? My thighs burn, not like they have burned on the climb to Vail Pass, but they burn. In my mind, the pass becomes more distant.

With some relief I reach the beaver ponds where the grade moderates considerably. I’m about a mile and half from Copper and the sky looks like hard times are imminent. Here in the High Country we have a certain amount of respect for the weather, analogous to the folks who live in tornado alley. The difference is that weather up here is a little more subtle than a tornado. There is almost always time to consider options when faced with a serious change in mountain weather. Like right now, I’m thinking that I can make it to just the edge of Copper, make the turn, and fly downhill in front of the storm.

Sure.

I pick my way through smart riders making their way down to Frisco. I ignore the slightly fearful but clearly determined look most of them have on their faces. I’m a Coloradan, we had a place in Breckenridge for several years. I’m almost a local up here. I know what I’m doing.

The weather isn’t improving as I make good time to the edge of Copper. Stopping at the Copper entrance, I once again consider the sky. Not good. I unzip the bag strapped under my top tube and pull out a rain jacket. Once suited up for weather, I turn the bike back toward Frisco. Vail Pass is no longer an option, for a variety of reasons. I need to get back to the relative safety of Frisco. The wind picks up as I peddle hard along the beaver ponds.

Splat. Splat. Splat. Large raindrops splash into my sunglasses and the contest is on. The temperature is dropping precipitously. It was 75 on the climb and more like 55 now. Just when it starts raining really hard—it rains even harder. The wind to my back is a good thing, the gusts that mess with my balance are a bad thing.

Can this flatlander make it back to Frisco in a pounding mountain rain without a bad landing? My back hunches, all my fingers are on the brake handles, and I am not going to mumble about being both wet and cold. No one could hear me, and if they could, they wouldn’t care. I chose the route. Live with it.

Now I’m into the steeper part of the downhill ride. Common sense would say to moderate speed and avoid losing traction. My head is in harmony with common sense. My heart knows I can beat the worst of the storm if I keep my speed and don’t screw up. I don’t look at my speed. It doesn’t matter. I am in the Pyrenees on the Tour de France and I am blasting downhill in the rain. I think I am grinning. Or maybe it is a grimace. It doesn’t matter as I lean into one turn, come upright on the bike, and then lean into another turn, the tires are holding on the wet pavement. I’m ready for the slightest indication of tire slipping. It will come fast, but I am ready.

And then there is a rattling on my helmet and glasses, white pellets shooting at my face and stinging. It is sleet. Unbelievable—sleet in June. Common sense says to slow down, take the hits. Traction could really be an issue. My head prevails over my heart. I won’t beat the storm. Now I will go for a draw with the storm. Just get to Frisco without crashing. There is a flatter stretch. I slow down and try to unclench my back and wiggle my fingers. My back feels a little better but my fingers are just claws in the cold.

“Nice job, running in front of the storm,” I think as the trail gets steeper again. Looks like the sleet is melting on contact. A good thing. I ease off the brakes, knowing there is a fairly flat run-out in the trail before Frisco. And once again I’m speeding through the storm as if I were 30 years old, cold, soaked, smiling, and listening more to my heart than my head.

END

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