It started off like any other Saturday. The alarm went off too early (for a Saturday). Looked outside - the ground was wet but there weren’t rivers running down the road. Coach made a good call, I thought. If he says we’ll ride, well, I’ll be there.
Still, it wasn’t exactly dry, either. There were wipers involved on the way to the start.
As each cyclist pulled in to park, the same comment was made. “I can’t believe we’re out here.”
It was misty as we rolled. And cold. I was happy for my 4 layers. A nice long climb warmed us up and then we had an incredible 14 mile descent. The curves were well banked, the road surface good and the turns arced gently enough that we could build up some speed.
Eventually, we pulled into Pescadero, stopping at the General Store. By that time, I was soaked through and getting chilled. The General Store is one interesting joint. As you enter, to the left is a bar straight out of a 70’s nightmare. The walls and ceilings are painted a metallic cerulean blue; the light fixtures could have been on the Jetson’s ship. A cramped convenience market is tucked behind that, with very basic basics. The main room is a deli counter. Customer service, for a town that size, depending on wayward cyclists and folks going to visit Harley Farms or Duartes for some of their pie or famous artichoke soup, was lacking any sense of interest or urgency in helping a pack of 20 cold cyclists get something warm in them. Snack choice of champions: a banana and a Snickers bar.
Remounting my trusty steed after the break, I was shivering as I pedaled east back towards Skyline. The creator of our route said we had a “bump” to go over before the real, 7.5 mile, climb up Alpine back to Skyline.
Perhaps I should have asked for his definition of “bump.” To me, a bump is a hill that makes me think a bit but one for which the crest is visible within a relatively short distance from the base. A bump is not 1000 foot elevation gain. But I’m told over and over again that my perspective on what is a flat ride vs a hilly ride will change as I continue my training. I am uncertain as to whether my legs’ perspective will also change.
The rain began in earnest when we were about 3 miles from the top of Alpine. The exertion of hard pedalling kept us from freezing but we were in no way overheating. When climbing, sometimes I just countdown pedal strokes until the end, waiting for the reward of the downhill.
This day, there would be no reward. As we crested Alpine and started back down towards Skyline, the wind and the rain on my waterlogged body made me feel like someone just dropped me for a swim in the Bay with no wetsuit. Shivers turned to shakes, taking deep breaths was a measured and concerted effort. I was terrified of getting a flat because I thought I’d get hypothermia and be unable to continue. The realization that I had 9 more miles of this frostbitten descent to go - water pouring down on me, water running in rivulets across the road, water water everywhere - was not a happy one. Frozen hands barely able to operate the brakes or shifters, I was cycling only by the grace of my autonomic system. Bank left, left knee up. Don’t brake in the curve. Bank right. Right knee up. Breathe. Brake. Brake? Feather. Feather. Dry your rims. Hands aren’t working. Hands aren’t working! Wide spot. Pull over and get some feeling back. Shake. Start again. Cars passing us. Drivers looking at us like we were nuts. Oh, right. We WERE nuts. We were also without a choice.
At last, we were down Page Mill and pedalling (!!!) again. Blood started flowing. Shaking reduced to shivers. We stopped at a trailhead with flush toilets. Life was good. Well, less intolerable. A little snack, a wringing out of the gloves, and back on the road for the last 7 miles. After we had regrouped at the bathrooms, we stuck together in a paceline. There’s strength in numbers. While it didn’t make us any warmer or snugglier, the paceline helped to cut the wind. The water shooting off the rear tire of the rider in front of me was immaterial at that point. How much wetter than wet can one get?
But wait! Please! Not another downhill! No!
At last we made it back to our cars.
(The adventure of changing out of wet cycling clothes into something dry in a compact vehicle is a story I’ll spare you. In addition to shivering and trying to peel sausage casing from clammy skin using frozen dysfunctional hands, you must also be a contortionist.)
We were officially bad-asses. And tired and hungry. But definitely feeling like bad-asses. We went for “lunch” (3:30? hey, it’s still lunch) at Jack’s Prime in San Mateo and ordered the Blue Lip special and a beer. And then, life didn’t seem quite so bad.
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