quasigeostrophy | Part 4: Ashford Mill (?) to Jubilee Pass (1293 ft), 7 miles (Reply)

E and I continue up the straight climb out of Ashford Mill. We're doing between 6 and 8 mph, and I'm already in my lowest gear. We pass more riders on their way down. Many of them make encouraging remarks ("Keep it up! You can do it!"), which is nice. About a mile up, We're starting to warm up again. The winds have died down (thankfully, on this climb), and the rain has stopped. We pull over to ditch our jackets, and press on.

Another 3/4 of a mile or so, and I realize my CamelBak is coming off. I forgot to attach the chest and stomach straps. I shout back to E that I'm pulling off, and I slow down very quickly and stop on the narrow shoulder. I didn't realize how close E was, or that I should have shouted even louder. She didn't stop in time and ran right into my back wheel, falling over into the road. Ugh! I felt like complete shit. I couldn't fall over myself enough apologizing. She got back up quickly, though. Convinced she was okay, we continued on. We made the big left turn, and started heading up into the mountains. The grade stayed fairly constant. It supposedly averages 4% over the 7 miles, which is about the same as most overpass approaches in Indiana (albeit much shorter). Around the 3 mile point, we noticed that we were having trouble maintaining 4 mph. E commented that we could almost walk and go faster. I decided to try that. E kept riding, while I took a break, although walking a bike on an uphill grade is still work.

We started getting some entertainment in the sky. Planes (don't know if they were F-16s or A-10s or a combination) from either Nellis or Mojave started performing maneuvers overhead. I didn't look up a lot, but could hear them roaring by quite frequently for some time.

I walked for a few feet, then stopped for a moment, then got back on to ride again. E continued on, and after a while I lost sight of her ahead of me. Bummer. I wasn't bummed that she kept going, and have no feelings of being "ditched" - ya gotta do what ya gotta do on this hill. I was more bummed about losing the company. Psychologically, having a pacing partner really helped get through the lousy conditions of the morning. The weather was getting better, though. The climbing wasn't, however, I was not going to give up. I can do this.

I fell into a pattern of riding for 1/2 mile or so, stopping for a bit, and walking a few feet. Over and over I continued this pattern, though I broke it up even more frequently in the last mile and a half or so. I also started talking to myself. Not delusional. I was both kicking back at the hill that was kicking my ass and keeping my mind positive that I would make it to the top. I saw several riders from the Indiana chapter starting to make their return trips. Their words of encouragement meant more than those from the riders I didn't know. It was funny, though, that it seemed like every time I saw someone I knew, I was stopped. D reminded me later that when he passed I was on the bike and moving. SAG vans occasionally pull along side, especially when I would be taking a break, and ask if I was okay. I tell each of them I'm fine, and wave them along. The car with the Indiana chapter President and Special Events Coordinator passes when I'm a couple miles from the top. They check to see if I'm okay and tell me they'll see me at the pass in a few.

I looked ahead and behind quite a lot during the climb, and I saw rider after rider packing it in to the SAG vans. Not me, dammit...

Another group of riders on their return flies by me, and I can tell one of them is E. She's looking like she's in good spirits as she passes by. "Hey-ey! It's worth it! You can do it!" she shouts, and disappears down the road behind me. After this, I start getting tired of another comment being made by returning riders and SAG drivers alike: "You're almost there!" I have an odometer, thank you. How about a little definition of how much "almost" actually is. It got frustrating to hear it over and over, when every time I would round a turn, I still couldn't see the tent, and my odometer confirmed I had more to go. I had already passed the 50-mile point. A turnaround was marked there for riders who wanted to do exactly 100. Finally, when I was stopped where I believed I was around a half mile from the pass, a SAG van driver pulled by and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine. He said, "You're literally almost there." That was it. I asked him, "Could you quantify that for me?" He looked at his odometer and told me it was about 4 tenths, that I should see the tent around the curve that was just ahead of me. I thanked him for the info, and pressed on.

The driver was right, but sheesh, I think the grade gets worse right before the top. I needed one more break, in sight of the tent. I thought I heard voices I knew cheering me in. I held up a finger. "Just a second." I reached down for one more burst, and rode up past the tent. S (the chapter President) told me I had to pass the tent and ride to the sign. "Which sign, the pass sign or the 'bikers turnaround' sign?" I asked. "The pass sign." I manage it, and I get off the bike. S takes the bike and has me walk up to the pass sign, which is a few feet up above the road, where "S2" (the Special Events Coordinator) takes my photo with her camera and my camera, and someone else was there, probably from the contracted professional photo outfit.

"Now," I start to ask S, "do I have a snowball's chance of getting back before dark?" It is 1:30 PM. Almost two hours to climb seven miles. "Yes, you do. You have a snowman's chance!" I mention the psychological crutch of missing a pacing partner, so I think S actually asked one of the guys who arrived at the pass after I did to go back with me, because, while I was sitting have more PB&J (I've lost count), he offers to do the return with me. So after a few minutes, R, a rider from Long Island, and I head back, racing only the sun now.

Next: Part 5: Wheeeeeee!!!