Losing the war against Blogger and free public internet access (or) What I did on July 4.

Wednesday we got up an hour early and despite the best efforts to actually get out an hour early, we left at 6:30 or something, which was perfect because there was a fine chill to the air as we started out towards the west, towards our biggest climb yet. I was tired and sluggish from the early wake-up, but the mountain air and the moving bike got me awake real quick. It wasn't bad starting out, I started out 39x19 and figured I would save my gears for when I needed them and tough it out at a good cadence at lower altitude, where I figured I wouldn't be gasping for whatever thin air is at altitude. We were given horror stories about altitude sickness at last Saturday's team meeting, but I did everything to keep my climb from becoming one; I drank plenty of water, I went at a sensible pace and I stayed as alert as possible. It would turn out fine and I got to the top alive. On the way up I was dropped by Mark coming off the foothill, then caught up to Keith and paced him a few miles before I dropped him and Dan where the 6% or so grade and the right-hand climbing lane began. The view was stunning, being up close to those mounds of rock that from a distance, have the most foreboding shade of gray or purple or green or some combination thereof and then looking back to see it fade into the distance. And up I went, a white line down the middle, a precipitous drop or rock face to the right and traffic to the left. I dropped down to 39x21 and stayed there until the top, keeping a steady rhythm in my head by replaying some dance track in my head with a heavy bass beat, the same one that I did a climbing exercise to while spinning back in February. It stuck with me and I knew it would be my climbing anthem. A mile or so from the top, the hot, wet drip of blood fell from my nose, onto my stem, my rain jacket, my handlebars, and on the mountain. There were some mountain bikers literally climbing onto the road with their bikes and I asked them for toilet paper after ruining one of my bandanas. I guess my nose started bleeding because of the altitude. Or the lack of moisture in the air. In any case, it dried me out a bit, but I was soon on my way, passing both Dan and Keith who had gotten a jump on me in the five minutes I stood road-side. And then the road ahead, instead of a rock face or a wall of trees, revealed only the sky above and I knew I was soon at the top. And there I was, at the top of the world. There was a gift shop and an expansive parking lot full of motorcycles and mountain bikers headed every which way. I raised my arms above my head and let out a cry of joy. I had climbed up Monarch Pass, 11,312 feet above sea-level, I had crossed over the continental divide, a line on the map so much less arbitrary than a time zone or a state line, something with tangible geographic, topographic, economic, political, existential, etc. meaning. To the East, the Mississippi, that highway of water I had passed over weeks ago and eventually the Atlantic. To the West, the Pacific and a large body of water that I plan on diving into when I'm close enough. I was the second to the top and watched as everyone trickled in triumphantly, something we collectively had overestimated in difficulty. We stuck around for a hour or two and took it as a massive photo-op and rest shop visit. The mountain may have taken my blood, but I defeated it in the end.

Eventually we had to come down from such great heights and I left with Andrew and Mark. Almost immediately out of the parking lot, you could feel gravity pulling you down. Behind us was a pickup pulling a camper. It wouldn't pass us until well after the grade became less so gracious. I bombed down the mountain, tucked as low as possible above my drops. I only managed 39 miles per hour for only a few moments due to a stiff wind off the mountains, but kept at the posted limits of 30 or 35 around the curves. It was exhilarating to say the least, going so fast for so long on roads they film car commercials on; that much can be said about a lot of the Rockies. Andrew and I had a close call with a truck coming into our lane passing a car in the other lane, but I thought little of it, and reacted quickly enough, I was running that high on adrenaline. When it all flattened out, I kept a good speed all the way into Gunnison after catching up and pacing with Mark. In all, the day's worth of riding was perhaps the most memorable of all my days so far. In town, we gravitated towards the grocery store and the stores of food that would nurture us in ways that a van miles away couldn't. It was a scene repeated in my head and in these days over again, the click of cycling shoes, the lonely, tired wander past aisles of foods that are tempting and delicious and expensive, and a single loaf of wheat bread in hand as I wander back and forth in front of the cold cases, considering which of meat, cheese, and milk to sacrifice and wishing I were a Safeway member. I decided not to get cheese because if it's cheap it's made of fake stuff and if it's more than halfway edible, it won't meet my high calorie-per-dollar requirements. And so I sat down in front of the grocery with my teammates and downed a plastic turkey box worth of sandwiches. And yet, I'm getting by quite well in America. We traversed the streets of historic Gunnison to get to the parish center of the Catholic church and I laid down on a rug and either slept or read cycling mags until being group interviewed by Zach with Andrew and Dan, where we all said heartfelt things and worded them badly because it was meant to be spontaneous. I helped de-bone raw chicken and felt sick. During dinner, everyone smelled something strange and saw that one of the flourescent bulbs were smoking. As a precaution we vacated the building and Jon made an emergency call. And then the sirens of the town task force descended upon our building and it seemed like at least half of the town police and fire ladders came out and blocked off the street. There were fireworks to be seen and the setting sun and the orange-red clouds sufficed, but I still left with Zach and Alicia to the town park to see one of the only fireworks displays I can remember not being in Illinois for. But wherever you are, you can be assured that there are massive crowds and entertainment to be had beforehand. We caught the tail end of a bluegrass band as dusk settled on the scene and as Zach and Alicia spread their Chief Illiniwek blanket on the grass. And then I stood up as a local music student sang the national anthem, and another first as those explosions in the sky lit up as the rocket's red glare was recited and the report reverberated off the moutains in the distance. And then skywards, a beautiful display to highlight one of the most patriotic summers doing one of the most patriotic things you can do and that is see the entire country from up close, in that moment was a microcosm of Being Surrounded By People You'll Never See Again and Experiencing The Same Thing And The Same Feeling At The Same Time. And when all was said and done, I re-encountered my teammates on a walk through historic Gunnison and was renewed by the sense of how I spent the fourth of July.