Jared shows me the mountain-like graph and tells me, “This will be our elevation gain.” We were going to tackle Deer Creek Canyon. I felt the regret rise in my throat, like swallowing a wish bone, hoping it’d snap in half and I’d be able to breathe again.
The route looked rough and Jared confirmed it would be. The only time I had gone through Deer Creek Canyon was by car; and I always pitied the cyclists I saw pedaling (very slowly) up the hill.
I never know the proper breakfast to have prior to these rides, so I ate breakfast burrito with the boyfriend at my favorite breakfast place: The Wildflower, in Evergreen. Realistically, no amount of food is going to prepare me for a 25-mile incline other than training.
We put off Deer Creek for a month and we couldn’t push it back any longer. Vagina Up or Shut Up. We started at my house and jumped on to the bike trail that runs along C-470. Jared had read to go to Wadsworth. We did, but we had to cut through the neighborhood as the C-470 trail goes underneath Wadsworth.
I saw a lot of people pedaling back and it was only 11am. Here I was thinking myself crazy for doing this in the first place, but here are people coming back from their first ride up. I know as it gets closer to summer, the earlier we’ll go and we’ll be coming down from the top at 11am. At least that’s a goal.
The ride started out fine, no inclines really; a little pushing here and there. I told Jared, “I could do this if the trail stays relatively flat.”
I was wrong. I was wrong so hard.
Maybe a mile in, I had already switched to the lowest gears, sweat accumulating across my forehead, around my nose; droplets along my lips. I felt like I was part of survivor: calculation how much water I can have before I run out.
Jared’s ahead of me, like usual. At least it’s something to following. That’s all I focus on: Jared’s legs pumping away, forcing myself to match his pace.
We turn corners and I grip my handles as if that will prevent a car from nailing me. The only thing encouraging me to continue. Faster! To a safer spot! I don’t want a car to hit me! My feet pedal me to safer shoulders.
We’re in an open area, I can relax a little. But barely, because Jared uses this time to make up for our slower speeds around the corners. We’ll sleep when we’re dead (it felt like that’d be sooner rather than later).
Another corner, no shoulder, balancing on the thinly painted white line, car mirrors about a foot away from my head; sweat pooling, causing my sunglasses to fog. I just wanted to stop, turn around, and go be lazy. This was kicking my arse.
The roads kept swerving and around every corner I hoped for a flat spot, but rarely did that happen. Finally, I had to stop. My legs were shaking and it was time for my fat ass to eat a snack and energize. While Jared can run off this “Bulletproof Coffee,” I need food and lots of it if I’m going to keep up with him. I don’t know how he does it.
Before our break, we had passed an older man and as I squatted among the gravel driveway, he passed us and said, “Are we having fun yet?” He had the yellow vest and some side bags – maybe for extra weight or maybe he needs as much food as me.
10 minutes was a long enough break and we were back on the road. Within a matter of minutes, we were passing the old man again. As we cycled by, my legs wanted to give out. I wanted to stop again. I wanted to lie on the ground and let the vulture or crows or prairie dogs or the person in the woods shooting their gun consume my torn-up legs. I kept pushing and pushing. “Slow and steady, Jessica. Slow and steady.”
I saw the top of the hill. We had made it. Jared had to pee, but there weren’t any porta potties. I squatted along the dirt again to give my legs a break. I also started eating again.
Finally, we had our downhill section. I got my bike up to 31 miles an hour. The air was cool and the sweat that dampened my clothes had now cooled me off, almost to the point of regretting not having a jacket. We zipped down the road, trucks inches away as we zoomed. I knew it’d be an ugly crash if my tire blew. Luckily, it didn’t happen.
Jared took us on to 285 – not sure if that was intentional or not. At least the shoulder was wide enough. I just had to hope a car was paying attention. I don’t trust easily I still don’t know if we were allowed to be on there.
We actually had to cross the highway to dip into Indian Hills and yes, there was a hill we climbed. And climbed. And climbed. Again, no shoulder; just one thin line I attempted to follow.
I tried to care about the scenery, but all I noticed was a pig statue outside a bar. I thought it’d be funny to sit on it and take a picture, but that meant stopping and if I stopped again, I knew it’d be that much more difficult to re-start. I kept pushing. I didn’t want to kick my bike to its lowest gear just yet, so I peddled on. It didn’t last long.
Ten minutes after the pig, I was at the lowest gear, pedaling my sweet arse up the stupid hill (At this point, any type of incline was stupid).
I think I had just accepted the fact that this was a never-ending hill, when we finally reached the top. Jared peed and I finished my protein bar. And when I say finished, I mean, I only exhaled after swallowing my last bite.
More downhill biking into Evergreen. Funny enough, I was there that morning for my breakfast burrito. Riding through Evergreen and Idledale was more enjoyable than anything. I actually spent time enjoying the scenery, yet still focused on keeping up with Jared; sometimes distracted with the tiny room I had between cars and the railing (and the sheer drop off the cliff). This trip brought cycling to a whole new level.
We saw a woman sitting along the shoulder, bike upside down, wheel and tire off. Jared started to slow down and asked if she needed help. She said there was glass in her tire, but she didn’t need help. He was almost to a stop when I told him, “She said ‘no!’” as I cycled past. He let me lead for a while.
We dropped into Morrison: cars and people everywhere. I swerved past parked cars and overweight pedestrians, wishing there were more bike trails in Colorado.
You don’t realize how few of options cyclists have until you become one. I’m already bored with the end routes we have to take to get back to my house. The last hill is always the toughest; mostly mentally, but physically exhausting too. After climbing 25-miles, the last thing I want to do is climb anymore. I did it anyway; laughing to myself at the difficulty of this tiny hill.
We got back to my house and I laid on the grass, melting into the ground. It started to rain and I thought to myself: “Now this, this is perfect timing.”
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