The Climb

There's nothing better than throwing your body against something daunting, something that doesn't seem doable at first. Maybe that's why I keep looking for really long and tough climbs on the bike. 

Mt. Haleakala in Maui, the San Juan Scenic Skyway in Colorado, even the Stelvio Pass through the Italian and Swiss Alps. I'm afraid every time, but it's always worth it in the end.

Seriously, what does it take to get a decent burrito after a hard climb?

STELVIO! Open day on the Stilfserjoch

The Stelvio Pass is a monster.

The final 14 of 48 switchback hairpin turns to the summit.

The second highest paved road pass in the Alps, it towers above the nearby valleys. The iconic switchbacks of the southern slope are layered on top of one another, a bitter fondant of pitiless pavement spilling down the side of a cake of stone and earth.

The pass has been a grand feature of the annual Giro d’Italia more than 10 times since 1953, and the first man to win a stage here is immortalized on every sign and every building at the peak of the pass. Cima Coppi.

Once a year the pass is closed to vehicles and thousands of cyclists take to the road to test themselves against the almost 6,000 feet of vertical gain and 48 hairpin turns in less than 15 miles. It’s a bucket list ride for any serious cyclist and this August I decided it was my turn.

Getting to the town of Prato allo Stelvio (or Prad am Stilfserjoch) begins the narrative of what it means to climb Stelvio. As Char and I drove north we left the Dolomites behind and entered the Alps.

They were silent, sleeping giants dormant under a thick verdant blanket of forests, rising straight up from the valley floor. Farms and vineyards clung to the side of the sheer sides of the mountains.

But, when we arrived in Prato, the mountains were awake. Stone soldiers stood upright, their tops bear rock and ice, looming over travellers, menacingly beautiful and terrifying. These imposing sentinels had torn free of their forested blankets, ripping through the green fabric to reach skyward with helmets capped with snow and ice. We could feel their presence everywhere, towering above the towns and villages, almost as though at any moment a giant stone hand would come crashing down from above.

Everywhere you look there's a snowy peak staring back at you.

Less intimidating, but no less interesting, the farther we drove north the less Italian everything became. Each town had both the Italian and German translation of its name on every sign, and increasingly the German name was printed first. The people we met spoke German, the radio stations were in German, and German food and bier was the norm. The houses lost their colorful Mediterranean flare, replaced with white washed walls, timber braces and steep roofs. Even in mid-August, everything seemed poised for the onslaught of long and hard winters.

We spent the night in a nearby town of Solda (Sulden) at a bed and breakfast tucked into the back of a hidden valley. Dinner was bratwurst (of course!) with fried potatoes and a bean salad that the cook claimed was a Mexican salad. Washed down with some local Italian craft beer that was actually pretty good we crashed on the double twin mattresses in our room before an early start.

The B&B had prepped a cold breakfast for us, and we grabbed what we could carry and took off on the road while the stars were still shining overhead. Twenty minutes down oppressively dark hairpin turns and we began to see the first riders already launching their rides to the summit.

The game plan was simple. Ride to the summit of the pass, descend down the backside into Switzerland to avoid the crowds, and ride back around to Prato after crossing the border into Italy. I had enough Euro to cover food at any stops, and my passport to keep from having to ride back up the mountain, just in case the border was less than friendly. I would meet Char back in Prato, get cleaned up, and head for home over three hours drive away.

Char pulled into a park just on the outside of Prato and kicked me out into the road to start my climb. It was 0630, and still cold in the mountains, hovering around 50 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature was supposed to climb all day, peaking in the mid 80s with lots of sunshine so I gambled that my vest would be enough to survive the early cold and later the descent down the backside of the pass into Switzerland.

A look of uncertainty or determination?

The first half hour was an easy warm up, getting my legs used to the constant pushing and pulling of the pedals, warming my lungs up in the thin air and thinking out how much thinner it would be in a couple hours. I stopped briefly in the town of Gomagoi to pull off my vest and then kept going.

The road sloped gently up farther into the valley, and I could just make out the stony and icy peaks of the mountains we were all riding to cross. I rode six miles along a rushing and bitterly cold looking river before the first switchback appeared. Number 48, with 47 more to go.

The road cut steeply up the side of the valley, walled in on either side by a dense forest of tall pines. Whenever there was a break in the trees, the real majesty of the alpine valley was exposed and it was hard not to stop every single time to take a picture and just drink in the expansive views of pitched stone and ice rising above the thick forests.

Switchbacks were stacked on top of switchbacks, with no relief in the constantly uphill gradient of pavement other than the strategically placed water stations and much appreciated porta johns. Halfway up the mountain the road emerged from the trees and turned into the upper valley of the Stelvio Pass. There was a gasthof (tavern) situated right on the edge of the upper valley with a full view down into the lower river valley. Several of the older riders were turning into the drive way but I wasted no time and kept plugging upwards.

By now, my legs were aching and my lungs starting to burn with fatigue and deprivation. The sun was fully out and the grass and shrub of the upper valley offered no protection. I counted down the switchbacks as I climbed, the descending number motivating my ascent.

34, over a quarter of the way there.

22, past the halfway point.

14, I’m on the final stretch now.

Once I hit the single digits, the real pain began. My lungs couldn’t get enough air to feel adequate. My legs were burning furiously, and there was no easier gear to switch into. My back ached, and even my arms struggled to grip the handlebars and hold my upper body up. I dared not stop, even to take a picture, for fear of never starting again.

Reaching the top is almost always hard to describe. There’s relief, joy, incredible euphoria, and a great sense of accomplishment. But there’s also pain from the climb, the hard ride, the great expenditure of energy and effort. And then there’s a sense of loss, too. The climb is over, the challenge met and overcome and now it’s no longer something I can look forward to, it’s something that I’ve already done. It’s in the past.

Tired but very happy.

Putting all the emotional strife aside, there were lots of riders recovering, lots of vendors hawking knickknacks and cycling apparel, and, most importantly, bratwurst and beer everywhere. I made the decision to skip a bier after imagining what it would be like to fall off the mountain and opted for a bratwurst on brown bread with sauerkraut and mustard instead.

He claimed he had the finest sausages in the Alps, and they were very tasty.

After refueling and stretching my legs, it was time to start downhill.

I pulled my vest back on, pulled my scarf up, dumped the rock out of my shoe that’d been terrorizing me the last half hour (how it got there, I don’t know) and pointed my bike downhill. This side of the pass was much more open, miles of brown grass and shrub, before the valley dropped sharply into a thick forest of pine amidst sharp switchbacks.

Very quickly I left the noise of the summit behind, the music, the sound of brat vendors calling to customers, riders shouting to friends and encouraging those just reaching the summit. There was nothing but the rush of air and the clanging of cowbells from the sparse herds grazing on the slopes.

Looking down the backside. To the right is Switzerland.

There were very few riders climbing this side and they mostly clung to the very edge as they struggled slowly upward. With no cars to worry about, I could finally let go and really enjoy the long breathtaking descent. I braked hard for the hairpin turns and then let the bike run free downhill. Even when the edge of the road wasn’t a steep dropoff into a rocky or pine abyss there was a sensation of being very high up. It was exhilarating and, when combined with the speed of flying down the mountain, left me laughing loudly. Not a creepy laugh, just one of pure joy and fun. It was a laughter I hadn’t felt in a while, and the only way to accurately express how if felt racing through the Alps.

Somewhere on the road I crossed into Switzerland, but couldn’t tell any difference until I reached Santa Maria Val Mustair and could see the road signs and businesses labeled entirely in German. Here a local policeman stood with batons to direct all riders onto a local trail to avoid the downtown area. We circumvented Santa Maria but also navigated a half-mile of rough dirt and gravel trail. Not the easiest thing on my skinny tires.

Soon afterward I crossed back into Italy, a cursory wave of the hand from the border guard and my passport remained buried deep in a jersey pocket.

The road descended further into the valley, and I was joined (or caught up to) several other riders racing down the mountain. Together, we flew along the road, leaning through sweeping turns and tucking down into our bikes to scream along the straightaways.

The final five miles that led from Glorenza (Glurns) to Prato were mostly flat or slightly uphill. I had thought my legs were too spent to do anything serious after climbing Stelvio, but was surprised to find something left in the tank after all. I pounded along the road, slowly dropping the group I had been descending with and reeling in others that had left earlier. I kept up a blistering pace and my lungs were heaving with the effort when I pulled into Prato.

The festa scheduled for the riders climbing Stelvio was only just being put up, the tents still empty and the beer kegs not yet tapped. It had taken almost three and a half hours to climb the 15 miles to Stelvio, but only little more than an hour to finish the 25 miles back to Prato. The temperature was well into the 80s and I was grateful to be off the bike before it got much warmer.

Char and I found each other, and I changed out of my sweaty kit with a quick baby wipe bath before the long drive back home.

Lessons learned:

Bratwurst mit brot und sauerkraut und mustard is great riding fuel but a beer is dependent on the total meters you might fall when crashing into the railing of a steep switchback.

Also, fig newtons help prevent bratwurst burps while riding.

It’s ok to not find the right words to describe something as majestic as the Alps. Words can be powerful, pictures more so, but often nothing compares to the emotional experience of witnessing true magnificence and beauty in person.

This is especially true when you’re 8 miles into a 15 mile, almost 6,000 foot ascent on your bike and have to pee. How do you really describe that experience to someone?

All I Want for Christmas is a Little Snow

A white Christmas is not just a line from a song or a Hollywood-esque, commercial vision for me. It’s something that I grew up with. My family would spend the holiday vacation on the farm with our grandparents and relatives, feeding cattle and building snow forts.

One winter vacation, when I was running on the high school cross country and track team, I went for a run in the freshly fallen snow. I ran several miles up the road and past the neighboring farm. By the time I turned to come back my tracks had vanished beneath a fresh carpet of powder. When I finished the run, my hair was covered in a layer of white dust and my proud, teenage goatee was coated in my own frozen breath.

It was an amazing experience, running alone in completely baffled silence through the thickly falling flakes. It was also an experience that I would not repeat for many years. Through several moves, and Army dictated adventures, I would not enjoy very many white Christmases for more than a decade.

Until now.

Char and I flew to Wyoming for the Christmas holiday to see her family before we left the states for a three-year extended vacation overseas.

Ok, pretty much everything I do is one form of a vacation or other.

The weather reports looked pretty solid to bring us some new snow on Christmas Day. When we woke up, sure enough, it was snowing. There was a solid two inches already sticking on the ground.

Yup, that's a white Christmas, alright.

I got what I wanted for Christmas, so I decided to unwrap my gift the best way I know how.

Char and I slipped on some winter gear, prepped for the mid-20-degree temperature waiting for us, and took off down the road.

The road out of town led up into the hills out of the valley. My lungs were burning from the extra 6,000 feet of elevation and the steady climbing of the lonely, snow-covered road.

That is a long and lonesome road when you're on foot.

 A mile into the run I stopped at the wild horse holding facility to see the horses and burros milling about in corrals, thick and fuzzy with their winter coats. The neigh of a wild horse is like nothing I’ve heard before. Imagine a horse whinny and a pig squeal mashed together and you’ve just about got it.

The road continued to wind slowly up into the hills and the silence grew more profound, more complete. The sounds of the city behind us, of people waking up to a wintery Christmas morning, were obscured behind thick curtains of falling flakes.

I must admit, I find supreme joy in the solitary enterprise of running. The solitude brought on by the snowstorm, along with the physical challenge of running through snowdrifts, left me ecstatic.

There’s something special and moving about leaving tracks in freshly fallen snow where no one else has yet tread.

Close to my turnaround time I came to what looked like a mountain rising up from the road. I just had to climb it. Slowly, I trotted carefully up the slick trail towards the peak, picking my way carefully across the snowdrifts and subtly hidden rocks. Twice I stopped to catch my breath and enjoy the view back into the valley, my lungs were on fire and my legs were starting to give out. At the top, I realized my mountain was only the edge of the prairie that sits above the town nestled in the river valley. The view was pretty awesome, even though the snow was now falling much heavier and quickly swallowing up the surrounding landscape.

Catching up to Charla, we could barely
see each other from a distance.

During most of the run, I had felt quite warm and even a little sweaty. Now, the wind was picking up and the flakes were falling hard and fast. It was time to go home. I started to pick my way down the hill back to the road when I realized that I might be in serious trouble.

One of the most important rules about running in the snow: Don’t lose your own tracks, or you won’t know how to get home. And I came real close to doing just that. For a minute or two I wandered across the face of the hill, searching the snowdrifts before I found my own trail that led me back to my road home. Getting lost in a snowstorm would have been pretty embarrassing. And a little cold.

The run home was only slightly less peaceful with wind and snow blowing into my face and clogging up my glasses with ice. But, it was all downhill, and I made good time following footprints left by Charla, trotting along in the snow somewhere ahead of me.

Her hair is completely frozen.
I couldn't help but laugh.

We came together just a few blocks from the end, and jogged slowly together, savoring this silent winter wonderland that we had been given.

It really did feel like the empty road and falling snow was a Christmas gift, just for us. And we made sure to unwrap it right away.

How else do you finish a run this awesome?

Do Sasquatch Float?

(and what's the plural of Sasquatch anyways?)


My constant struggle to survive being fully immersed in a body of water that's trying to kill me is legendary, and I always find myself coming back to the same story origin.

A few years back I decided to teach myself to swim.  Well, at least to drown with a little more dignity while crossing a small body of water no more than 50 meters across.  (50 yards for you that are still stuck in the stone age and eat bugs off each other)

Then, two years ago, I signed up for my first triathlon, spent all summer training, and finished second to last in the swim portion.

In the year that followed, I spent countless hours in the pool, to the sincere resentment of those that have to fish out all the animal hair, refining my technique and desperately trying not to actually kill myself.

Using an annual sprint triathlon as a measuring tool, I managed to finish in the middle of the slow pack last year.  Then something terrible happened.  I moved to Oklahoma for a professional course, started working on a graduate program in addition to the daily class load, and forgot completely about trying to swim.  For the last six months my furry paws have not touched the inside of a pool.

With my annual self-imposed sprint triathlon coming up this weekend I was in a panic to know if I would even survive.  It doesn't help that it's my first open water swim.  Are there sharks in Oklahoma?

To the rescue--the four day weekend trip to the wife's cousin's wedding in Denver.

We splurged, booked a room in the Hyatt Regency in downtown, and made full use of the saltwater lap pool in the fitness lounge.  So awesome!

The first dip in the pool, other than the initial, excruciating shock of cold water, was devoid of the panic and sense of certain doom that used to accompany a dip in the pool after extended absence.  I slowly did my full workout, roughly 600 meters (~600 yards, neanderthals!), with plenty of stopping to check my pulse and make sure I didn't need CPR.

The second dip, I took off with my stopwatch running.  10 minutes and 57 seconds later, head throbbing, lungs burning, I finished a cool 500 meters. (~500 yards, picking up what I'm putting down, yet?)  Faster than I used to swim the 400 meter. (~400 yards, cretans!)  And I was swimming over a mile above sea level after 6 months down on the plains.

I suppose I should thank the school house instructors that have been dragging us out for a weekly "this is not Cross Fit" Cross Fit session they dub the Filthy Fifty.  And I should also thank the sadistic classmates that thought the Mountain Athlete program, and the requisite million leg blasters that go with it, would be a "nice little break from the routine."  Apparently, along with my own tortuous cycling program, my full body strength and cardio are making up for a lack of water time and I'm feeling pretty confident about the Body vs. Earth Triathlon this weekend.

So, to answer the question, do Sasquatch float?  No, definitely not.  But, when there are sharks in the water, don't get in our way!

We're gonna need a bigger boat!

Bucket List Item #273: Circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains

It was a ride that I'd been dreaming of since I bought my first road bike over three years ago.  It was also a ride that I'd been terrified of trying for just as long.

What's funny about that, is that I'd ridden almost every part of the route at some time in the last 3 years.  In fact, there was only about two miles that would be "undiscovered country" for me.

So, for one of the last items on my El Paso bucket list, I decided that I would circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains.
 

El Paso is roughly horseshoe shaped, with the Franklin Mountains sitting in the center of the city.  There are three passes over the mountains, Scenic Drive on the south end, Transmountain Road in the middle, and Anthony Gap to the north.  To do the mountains justice, I decided to skip the middle, and use the north and south passes when crossing over.


I rolled out just before sunrise with the air a crisp 43 degrees.  The wind would stay fairly consistent, about 10 mph from the north, for my entire ride.  I made sure to wear my heart rate monitor to help maintain a low heart rate and level of exertion.  Although the route was only 72 miles, I wasn't sure what unknown obstacles I might face, surprise detours, etc., and wanted to conserve enough energy to overcome anything.

The climb over Scenic Drive was uneventful, I stayed light in the saddle and wasted nothing summiting and coasting down the backside.  Almost immediately, the temperature dropped 5 degrees and I was incredibly grateful for the layers I'd almost left behind.

On the west side of the mountains, I zig-zagged through side streets, making my way to Mesa Street, for the crossing into the Rio Grande valley.  This was my first time on the major street and the reason I'd taken off so early.  Turning onto the road, I spied two other riders in front of me, just close enough that I could bridge the gap and jump onto their tail.

I was suddenly faced with an unexpected opportunity and decision.  Did I bridge the gap and join them along Mesa, save myself about 10 miles overall, and feel safer with a group for security?

I asked myself what a half-crazed, masochistic sasquatch would do.

I turned left on Executive and crossed I-10 into the river valley.

The temperature dropped another 5 degrees in the valley and I soon found myself along familiar roads.  My fingers were numb but traffic was still fairly light, with the first church goers of the day the only other cars on the streets.

Par for the course, another flat tire.

My first stop was the Johhny Lolitas coffee shop in La Union, NM, about 27 miles into the ride.  I pulled into their gravel lot and coasted up to the shop.  And that's when I noticed the goathead embedded deep into my front tire.

Perfect.

It was what I was most afraid of on a ride this long and so far from help.  Flat tires.  Well, that, and getting run over.  That's also not fun.

I ingnored it and went inside to thaw out and get some coffee and sugar into my system.  The proprietors are fantastic local bicycle advocates and a standard breakstop or start/finish point for rides on the west side.

Warmed up, I got to work patching the front tire.  That's when the massage therapist showed up.

Oh, the people you'll meet.

She offered me a ride, gave me her card, offered me a massage, offered another ride, then made me promise to give her a phone call if I ran into any trouble.  And that's when I realized that I had left my wedding ring at home, gloves were off, and sleeves rolled back.  Maybe she was drawn to my animal magnetism or the pheromones of athletic effort.  I like to think that I look real good in my cycling kit.

Specializing in relaxation, deep tissue, myofacial release
and scar tissue release.

I can dream, can't I?

The ride up the valley and then east to Anthony Gap was peaceful, quiet and scenic.  I found myself mostly alone on the road with only the occasional cyclist heading opposite to wave to.  It was at this point in the ride, while pedaling through barren, winter slumbering pecan orchards,  that I realized I was truly committed to finishing this ride as planned.

There's always that moment in longer rides, especially so in this one, that you realize that you are totally committed to finishing what you started.  It may be that you have gone too far to turn around, that it's easier to just finish the route, or maybe you've already reached the halfway point in an out-and-back course and you have no choice but to finish.  Either way, there's no quitting and you start counting down the miles, instead of counting up. 

The climb up Anthony Gap is a solid 5 miles with a few grades that peak over 10%.  Once I crossed the summit, most of the remaining mileage would be slightly downhill, albeit, some of it with a challenging crosswind.  It was on this climb and descent that I encountered my first traffic issues.  Drivers in El Paso don't seem to be mindful of anything around them, and even exhibit erratic and homicidal tendencies.  I found myself fighting to maintain a safe bubble around me while cars passed well within 3 feet.  More than once oncoming traffic decided I was not an obstacle to their passing slower cars.  I finally had to push the image out of my head of colliding head on with little more than carbon fiber and styrofoam between me and 1,000 lbs of speeding aluminum.

One more reason I'm glad to be leaving El Paso behind.

Turning south onto War Highway (connects El Paso to White Sands Missile Range) I finally found my first bit of clean shoulder to ride on.  I try to measure how safe a shoulder is by how much broken glass, twisted metal and shredded particle board is waiting to kill me.  In a 72 mile ride, this was the only 4 mile section I felt comfortable riding.

Go figure.

I left the War Highway behind and headed east, only stopping to find a quiet, inconspicuous bush and eat some delicious peanut butter bars.  (Mom's recipe with Charla's twist)  The rest of the ride was familiar turf, and once I turned south I could ride the tailwind the 18 miles to home. 

When I pulled into my driveway, Charla was waiting for me.  My legs were shaking, my arms were tired, and I was short of breath.  I definitely didn't eat enough on the ride, and probably should have drank more water.  But I was finished, with only one flat out on the route to slow me down.  (later that afternoon, I would check on my bike to find both tires had slow leaks and were completely flat)


I've ridden longer rides and I've ridden harder rides.  But this ride will always be singular in my memory for what it signified in how far I've come as a cyclist.  Three years ago, a ride this long, covering so many different areas around town and so far away from my support base was beyond intimidating.

Only in perspective does it now seem hardly terrifying at all. 

 My biggest rides of the last year have all led me to this final test of my commitment and development as a cyclist.  The Death Ride was over 230 miles in 3 days (111 miles on the longest day), the Chile Pepper Challenge was a fast 100 mile bike ride, and the climb up Haleakala Volcano started at sea level and climbed straight up to 10,000 feet.  All have given me the perspective to recognize that nothing is impossible once you have committed to achieving it and put in the preparation to do so.

Circumnavigate the Franklin Mountains, check!

The Maui Report Part I - The Ride up Haleakala

The Maui Report

Part One – The Ride up Haleakala

Or

 To Hell and Back

Or

 Climb to the Sun Highway

Or

I Really Hope the Brakes Work on this Rental!

I’d been talking about it for months.  The ride up the Haleakala Volcano.

There was only really one rule - start and finish at sea level.  

Oh, and don't get eaten by angry lava monsters or fall off the volcano!

 

The map of my route, plus the elevation chart.  Straight up, straight down.

It took us an hour of driving blind in the dark to find the Paia Beach to start the ride.  There aren’t too many street lights on Maui, so when the sun’s down, it’s dark!  Our hosts at the B&B had packed us a picnic breakfast: yogurt with granola, banana bread, juice and fruit cup.  Delicious and perfect.  Once we found the beach front, I scarfed down the breakfast and got my gear rigged to ride.  Then it was a short trot down to the waters edge to kick off the ride properly by dipping my toe into the Pacific Ocean, proving that I’d started at sea level.  Like I said, it was pitch black and the waves were crashing hard.  With no other sound to soften their blows, it was really intimidating to walk out there in the dark.  (side note: Char and I had to stop and watch the burrowing sand crabs)

I rolled out of the beach lot at 6:38 am, still dark and difficult to see where I was going, praying that the cars rushing down the highway into Paia would see me and not run me over. Hey, West Maui Cycles, how about some lights on your rental bikes?  And, while you’re at it, how about a cyclocomputer so I know how far I’ve ridden and how fast I’m not climbing?

For those that care, here's the ride analysis data.

The first few miles were gorgeous as the sun slowly rose and I could enjoy the tropical paradise around me.  There were old missionary churches, cemeteries, cattle and horse farms along the road.  There was nowhere to look without a spectacular view.  Within the first hour, I had climbed a 1000 feet and was able to look back down the slopes to the ocean where the sun had risen enough to reflect off the water on the north shore.  Just shy of Makawao, another rider caught up to me and introduced himself.  Tyson from Santa Cruz and I would spend the next 5 hours fighting our way to the top of the volcano.

Our goal, still 9,000 feet above us.

We cruised through Makawao, the cowboy town complete with a general store, and hit the first steep pitch of the day.  It was barely 200m but rose straight up the hillside.  My heart rate spiked and our legs burned, and this was only a preview of what awaited us farther up.

In the town of Kula we stopped at the Kula Marketplace, supposedly the last place to get any water before reaching the National Park.  The pull off rested on a 30 foot cliff above the store, and we pondered how to get down to it without breaking our necks.  Tyson took a small winding sidewalk that twisted through some potted flowers and dropped straight down the steep side of the hill.  I hesitated at the entrance, thinking about how badly this was going to end for me, when a kind gentlemen leaned out his car window and pointed out the main entrance about 40 feet down the road.  Much easier for me to go down and then back up again without breaking my skull.

Back on the road, our climbing started to increase in steepness, and we rode into a beautiful dark pine forest.  By now we were at about 4000 feet and looking forward to reaching the half way up point.  I must point out that we were also already 3 hours into the ride and weren’t halfway done climbing yet.  We had also been watching the tour groups of folks riding bikes down the road, waving and gawking at us as we slowly spun up the volcano.  Local tour companies drive paying clients up the volcano, fit them with cold weather gear and full face helmets, then let them coast down the roads.  That was starting to sound like a lot more fun than we were having.

To the west we could see the mountains on West Maui peaking through gaps in the eucalyptus trees.  Tyson asked about those, and I told him that the peak, Mt. Pu'u Kukui, is only about 5700 feet.  We realized we’d be well above that in no time.  Once we rode out of the forest and onto the grass lined switchbacks, I noticed that my heart rate was way above my comfort zone and knew that there was no way I was going to maintain our pace.  I told Tyson to go on, that I needed to throttle back a little.  We parted ways temporarily right at the 5000 ft mark.  I made it to the 5500 ft mark before I stopped to take a picture and stretch my legs out. 

Starting at 1000 feet, someone painted these friendly reminders of how far I had to go.

I never thought I would stop while climbing a hill, but 36 miles is a long ways to go straight up.  Restarting was difficult, the Specialized Roubaix that I had rented had a different balance than my personal Cannondale Synapse.  When I pushed down and stood up to clip in, the front tire came off the ground and I almost found myself skidding off the road and down several thousand feet of volcanic terrain.  It took me a couple tries to figure out how to restart uphill with this new bike, but eventually I had it figured out and didn’t kill myself trying.

The view from 5500 feet.  In the distance, Mt. Pu'u Kukui at 5700 feet.  To the right you can barely see down to the north coast near where I had started before sunrise.

As I continued on, I made a promise to stop roughly every 1000 feet of climbing.  That gave me a goal to work towards and prevented me from exhausting myself and failing.  I held out past the 6500 mark until I hit the ranger station at 6700 and paid my $5 fee.  Most depressing and bitter park ranger ever.  He needed a yogi bear in his life.

 

Lonely rider, Tyson, making his way up the volcano.

When I reached the park visitors center, at about 7300, Char was there waiting and she switched my water bottles out and I took off right away.  

Warning for the local Nene bird, of which I did see one while climbing but was too tired to get a picture of.

With only 3000 feet to go, I should have been happy but the climb just continued to get more difficult.  The altitude started working into my head, and several times I wondered if I was going to pass out, throw up or start giggling to death.  It got really weird around 8000 feet when I looked down the mountain and saw that the clouds had moved in and were almost chasing me up the volcano.  I swung my leg over my back to stand beside it and almost fell over.  My thighs were quivering, my calves screaming and I was a little dizzy.  I forced water down my throat, and stretched as best I could. 

Being chased up the volcano by the cloud layer was disconcerting and I started worrying about my descent.

I stopped again after passing the 9000 foot marker.  There was a pull off for cars that I chose and stretched out my legs again.  The shaking was less severe and I was thinking a little clearer.  Or, perhaps, altitude sickness was setting in and I couldn’t tell how bad off I was.

At 9700 feet, I pulled into a large parking lot where Tyson was pulling on his cold weather gear.  He’d only made it about 10-15 minutes ahead of me.  Sitting on the sidewalk, we realized the actual summit was another .8 miles uphill, the steepest pitch on the entire ride, so he took off to make his summit bid and I got dressed for my attempt.  Somewhere around 8500 feet it had cooled off significantly, but I hadn’t really noticed until I stopped.  Now, I was freezing.  All the cold weather gear I had crammed into my pockets suddenly seemed like a great idea, even if some of it was damp from sweat or humidity. 

Char took this picture from the summit, of Tyson and I resting and pulling on winter gear.

The last climb to the summit was by far the worst and best part of the entire ride.  It’s only 8/10 of a mile, but is also one of the steepest pitches, over a 14% grade, and sucks the very last bits of energy and hope right out of your body.  However, you know it’s all over and you crest the hill grinning like an idiot as you pass the 10,000 feet sign.

Depleted but exhilarated that I was finished climbing.

The view awaiting me at the top.

Char was waiting for me in the parking lot and stared at me like I was an idiot when I picked up the bike to carry it (while running) the additional 23 feet up the stairs to the true summit of Haleakala.  At the time it made sense to me, and I have no idea where the energy came from to do it.  Four days later we would drive up the volcano and the same stairs would leave me breathless and dizzy from walking up.

We even took some glamour shots to prove I had survived and not fallen off the volcano or been eaten by a lava monster.

I stole food and water from Char and began my descent.  I had looked forward to this part all day long, but now wasn’t so sure.  It was cold.  Really cold.  The moisture from the clouds combined with the speed of my descent cut right through my gear and my whole core was frozen.  I’m sure that I was borderline hypothermic on the descent, and at one point was shivering so badly that the bike started bouncing on the road.  The switchbacks meant that I had to brake hard and bleed off speed constantly, and my hands started to cramp.  I expected to begin warming up as I passed through the thermal layer at 5000 feet, but no such luck.

It wasn’t until I’d made it back to Makawao that I felt warmth creeping back into my body.  Then the descent leveled out and I had to pedal to keep up with traffic.  Of course, that was probably the best thing for my body and I pedaled my butt off, easily outpacing several cars trying to follow me down.  The more I pedaled, the warmer I got and the more energy I seemed to find.  I soared around open sweeping turns through fields of sugarcane finally stopping to downgrade my gear with a couple miles to go.  It had taken over five and a half hours to climb, but less than an hour to descend.

Once back in Paia, I ripped off my shoes and picked up the bike for the walk down to the shore.  People were sunbathing, surfing and relaxing along the shoreline, and I probably looked like an idiot, but nothing would stop me from finishing in style.

From 0 feet to 10,000 feet elevation, 72 total miles.  No lava monsters.

I burned over 4000 calories during the ride, so I was promised I could relax and eat/drink whatever I wanted at that night's luau.

It wasn't until a few days later that I would come to terms with the enormity of my ride up Haleakala. On our drive to Hana on the far east coast I would gaze up at the volcano in one of the few moments that it wasn't shrouded in a cloud layer.  Staring up at the naked rocky ridge at 10,000 feet from sea level, I suddenly questioned my own sanity in attempting to climb it in the first place.  I was able to snap a shot of the volcano after sunrise during the marathon that captured some of the majesty for me.  But the greatest emotional impact came from driving up the volcano later that week, and staring down at the expanse of the island and realizing just how far above everything we were at the top.

Stay tuned for the second part of the Maui Report, where Char and I go on a 50 mile ride in search of fish tacos.