Marc, my ride buddy from years past, moved to Texas about 18
months ago to take a job helping wounded returning veterans to heal mentally
and physically by doing bike rides.
I picked him up at the Sacramento airport recently to do a
ride with him before I was to drop him off the next afternoon in Santa Clara
for a Ride to Recovery ride he was volunteering for. That ride was over several
days, a caravan heading south to Los Angeles.
The next day, we got up early to drive to a ride up Mount
Diablo, a great ride featuring a nice climb of 3,720 feet that was on the way
to his drop off in Santa Clara.
Pat and P.J., our two other local rider buddies, weren’t
able to join in, so it was Marc and me. We always push each other on rides and
both of us are pretty fit, so we both knew this ride up Diablo would be a
little more of our traditional friendly competition.
“It’s not a race,” said Marc before we rode.
Yeah, huh-huh. Dude can sandbag with the best of them.
No, I didn’t think of it as a race, technically. But I still
wanted to beat him up to the top. And he wanted to beat me, no matter what he
said. We’re both competitive on rides. We want to rip it up, every time.
Marc, as an aside, always pushed our limits on rides we did
before he moved. On big rides in the Sierra, he always lobbied for riding
farther or higher, even when we were tanked, out of snacks, nearly out of
water. I’d reluctantly go along, and suffer big for it, but we always got
through it. And at the end, those rides were the best, because we’d gone beyond
what we, or at least what I thought I could do, without bonking. That’s a
great feeling, the breakthrough reward after one of those titanic efforts, as
any rider or athlete that has pushed past his or her perceived limits, knows
well.
On Diablo, we rode together at first, and as the climbing
started I went ahead. It was a warm day, and the asphalt road, which winds
along the south side of the mountain, is mostly exposed to the sun. I pedaled
hard, and the hot mid-morning sun, along with the exertion, made sweat pour off
my forehead and into my eyes and sunglasses. The sweat stung my eyes mightily
and it was no small chore to pedal hard up the mountain while trying to rub the
sweat away from my compromised vision.
I had a big lead on Marc, and at some point stopped looking
behind. I just wanted to keep a pedaling rhythm on the steepest parts, which
were interspersed with false flats.
I stopped at the ranger station about two-thirds up the
mountain, a rest stop we usually take to eat some snacks and drink up. Marc was
about two minutes behind when he pulled up.
We ate, batted away a lot of flies in the area as we ate and
shot the bull with another rider who had just moved to California from
Minnesota. Then we took off toward the summit. We rode together for about 10
minutes, then I pulled away, looking to keep a strong momentum the rest of the
way, which is a tough pull any way you slice it. I built a good lead on Marc,
and I was pushing it, and after awhile, I just concentrated on pedaling and
forgot about him.
The last pitch to the top of Diablo is longish and ridiculously steep, around 15%, and I just went at it slow and sure. There's a reason they call it "The Wall." I just tried to keep moving forward. I
decided not to stand up for the last push, thinking it was a better strategy
than standing up, hitting the red zone and bonking.
About 20 yards from the top, Marc suddenly passed me,
yelling my name as he pedaled out of the saddle, and I crawled along. I was
gassed at the top, and rode in a couple of circles through the parking lot to
catch my breath.
“That hurt,” said Marc, also in recovery. “When I got to the
top I couldn’t breathe.” Again, he said: “That hurt.”
No doubt. Jeez Louise. That’s what oxygen debt will do!
He had turned himself inside out to beat me to the summit.
But, of course, to hear him tell it, it wasn’t a race! Yeah, right!
I have to give Marc full credit, he went full gas for a long
stretch to pass me at the end, and it did the trick. In trying to get up that
last nasty pitch, I forgot all about looking back to see if he was there. If I
had, I would have had an adrenaline jolt and jumped on it in time to hold him
off. I like to think so, anyway!
But, hey, who cares? It was all just a little friendly
competition. We had a great, tough ride to the top, and after that a very fun,
fast curvy descent back down. No mechanicals, no crashes, a great workout. What
could be better than that?
And Marc, next time we ride, it won’t be a race, right?
Here’s to more rides in the future, bro.
Remembering the good
stuff
I like to go out and do fast rides when I take the trail
near my house for 50-mile outings. It feels good when I go hard for many miles,
and come home tired, with the reward a nice, crisp time. But sometimes riding my
course fast just isn’t in the cards. I get out slow because my energy level is
low, or the legs just feel heavy. It can be extra hot, or it can rain or hail
unexpectedly. There can be nasty headwinds. Or I can forget to drink enough to
stay properly hydrated.
So when I realize the ride’s gonna be a slow one, which is
early into it, I make sure to tell myself to just chill and enjoy the ride for
what it is. And if I make it back home intact, with no crashes or mechanicals,
I’m truly thankful. I’ll take that any time. Because any time I make it back
home safe and sound, I know I definitely had a good ride. I got my pedals in,
and kept the fat at bay for another day!
Til next time, remember to strap on a helmet every time you
get on the bike. Then, keep the rubber side down, ride safely and make sure to
have fun out there.
-- Mark Eric Larson
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