 |
| Hurricane Ridge, 2015 |
I rode my bicycle up Hurricane Ridge with some friends a few
weeks ago. This is what it felt like.
It started out early. Too early, really. We rolled into the college
parking lot, the launching pad for our journey, around six thirty in the AM, my
day already two hours old. We debated clothing choice and talked bravely about
the climb. Jacket or no jacket? Arm warmers or no? Clothing was selected, other
clothing was tossed into the back seat.
To truly climb all of Hurricane Ridge, it is necessary to
descend from the parking lot to sea level. The descent is fast, fun, just
winding enough to keep you focused. The road ends in a trail bounded by chain
link. It feels like trespassing, like jumping the fence to an old mill site and
getting into to trouble. The trail smells like ocean, and we fly along the flat.
A quick left-hand turn leads to the start of the climb. In
the excitement of the moment, there is the temptation to leap at the hill. To
stand on the pedals and attack. This is foolishness. The ridge is twenty miles
and over 5,000 vertical feet away. Any sprint at the start would end in flames
soon after. We crawl up the hill, resisting the potent combination of
adrenaline and testosterone in our bodies.
Gray skies loom over head, threaten like a bully leaning
over you. We rode on, ignoring the threat, taken by the moment. There is
something intoxicating about small adventures with friends.
The road to the park is steep and rough. Our wheels clattered
along, our heart rates steadily rose, our breath started to chug ever so
slightly. There was no panting yet, no deep gasping for oxygen. Just a slight
pause in conversation here and there. A beat missing in the rhythm of our
chatter.
Crossing into the park is like crossing into a different road
altogether. The road becomes smooth, the gradient lessens, and it feels like
the wind is pushing your back. It started to drizzle. The atomized water coated
us, beading on our gloves and jackets. We joked about the cold. It was in the fifties.
One of my favorite memories from the last time I road the
hurricane is the slow reveal as you climb. The road, shrouded by trees, opens
on some corners to show you the miles you’ve traveled, exposes a vista of trees
falling away to salt water. Each view is slightly more dramatic and the water
slightly more removed. But not this time. Each opening in the trees showed us
the cloud we were climbing into. Walls of trees opened to display walls of
gray. We rode on.
The drizzle grew to rain. And we rode on. The temperature
dropped. Mid-fifties. Low fifties. Upper forties. We rode on.
There is a balance to suffering up a mountain. The balance
lies in how you choose to suffer. If you go quickly, your body will warm
itself. But your lungs will burn and your legs will throb and your body will
beg you to slow. If you go slowly, the cold will creep into you. It comes with
the rain. Little droplets of cold that suck the heat from you, draw it out like
thousands of icy mosquitos. The tips of your fingers begin to ache. The ache
creeps backward, filling your fingers, spreading out over your hands. Time
passes, and you wonder if you have hands any more. You can see them, but they
do not feel like they are there. Not hands. Not useful things. No, your arms
now end in faint pain and useless nubs.
We rode on. We laughed and joked and whined in equal
measure. But we grew more and more muted as the cold seeped through us, tried
to quiet us.
The drums started. More accurately, we began to hear the
drums. A few miles from the summit, men beat large drums, and the sound filled
the valleys. It draws you on, pulls you in, lights a fire inside.
There is a corner, a tight hairpin turn, that transitions
you from climbing in a valley to riding a ridgeline. The land drops away to reveal
the rocky wonderland that is the Olympics. Except on that day. The corner led
to an unimpeded view of fog. It filled the vastness of that space, robbed the
moment of its grandeur. We rode on.
It is a strange feeling, standing in a lodge and not being
able to use your hands. I clawed useless at my zippers, exasperated.
Hot coffee. Time. A new sweater. More time. Ready to ride
again.
 |
| Hurricane Ridge, 2016 |
Descending a mountain on a bicycle in forty-degree rain can
be best described with a single word: Foolish.
The skies opened. Rain fell. Real rain. Fat drops that
hammer you and the road. Rivers of water ran down the road. Bicycle tires sliced
through the flowing water, filling the air with spray. The gritty noise of
braking was muted by the howling wind. Bicycles carved their way down the
mountain, shuddering under their shivering riders.
We stopped to regain feeling in our hands. I could feel the
water slosh forward in my shoes.
“At least it’s actually raining,” I said. And then I laughed.
Because a lack of rain would have robbed us of some of this foolishness, would
have taken from us some of the pain that forged this adventure.
Out of the park again. The rough road roared under our
tires. The rain lessened, lessened, and stopped. Still suffering from the cold
of the wind and the wet, we whipped around a corner, dragging our brakes to
check our speed. The road straightened. The clouds broke. Light flooded the
road. Light and heat. I felt the sunlight hit my face, and I let go of the
brakes. I let the bike roll as fast as it can. I tucked into it, balled up as
small as I could, willed the bike to go faster. I flew.
I laughed as I flew. I couldn’t stop. The sun. The heat. The
speed. It was all uproariously hilarious, impossibly gleeful.
The adventure ended like many do. Tired. Hungry. Wrestling
out of wet clothes in the cramped confines of a car.
I went on an adventure with some friends. We climbed a
mountain in the cold and rain. It was foolish. It was painful. It was amazing.
Comments