Acting My Age (or: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time)

The other night when I was talking to my mom on the phone I was reminding her of what a good, responsible son I was/am.* After all, I never dropped out of college to go be a ski bum (no offense, CL), never hopped in an 84 Dodge Ram 50 pick-up and drove cross country, sans spare tire, just to impress a girl (no offense, John), never got a piercing, tattoo, or perm (no offense, Micah), never drove the old Ford Tempo over 75 miles per hour (and that was in South Dakota, where it was legal), never stood on the side of the road with my thumb out, hoping against all hope for a ride (well, that's only partially true...). Yes, I told my mother, I had had a safe, sensible** childhood.


Of course, she didn't buy it.




"Well," she said, "you're only twenty-six. You've got plenty of time to do something stupid. Plus," she added, "There was that time you tried to ride your bike for twenty-four hours. I wouldn't exactly call that sensible."

Okay, maybe it wasn't sensible. But it was fun. And guess what Mom--now I can do you one better.

A couple of weeks ago, I signed up for a ride to be held in Colorado this July called "The Triple Bypass." As you may have gathered from the name, this ride is supposed to be hard. Very hard.

The hard part isn't the mileage per se. The ride is 120 miles--I've ridden that distance enough times to be comfortable with it (yeah, I know, aren't I awesome?). But the catch is that I've ridden that distance in Iowa and Michigan. And, for the geographically challenged among us, I should point out that there are no mountains in Iowa or Michigan. But there are in Colorado. And there's the rub.

Those foolish enough to attempt the Triple Bypass will attempt to ride over three of these mountains: Squaw Pass (11,140 ft), Loveland Pass (11,990 ft.) and Swan Mountain and Vail Passes (10,560 ft), which all come out to (and I quote now from the website) "over 10,000 ft. of lung-busting gain in elevation!"

Sounds delightful.

Now some of you may be thinking that I'm being a wuss. Or that, having completed the previously mentioned 24 hour challenge, this should be no big deal for a stellar cyclist such as myself. If you're in that camp, let me repeat some key facts here.

1.) I've never ridden up a mountain. Ever. Never mind three mountains in one day.

2.) I live in Denver, a city which (contrary to popular belief) is one of the flattest places on earth (it's really just an extension of Kansas, you know). Yes, the mountains are close, but it takes some doing to get to them. This makes training for such an event difficult (but admittedly not as difficult as if we lived in say, Illinois).

3.) A 24 Hour Challenge is relatively easy. As one person put it to me, you just make sure to "Stay on the d***n bike. It's a mental game.*** But in the mountains, I fear that the forces of gravity my prevail over my mental power. I think you actually need strength to ride in the mountains. And that leads me to the all important ...

4.) I'm really not in good shape--at all. I've been working on my "pastor's paunch" over the winter, and it's coming along all too nicely.

I was reminded of #4 twice this week. On Sunday, Jill and I took another ride to Chatfield State Park. As a part of that ride, we road up to the top of the reservoir. Compared to riding in Denver, this means riding up quite a significant climb. But I suspect that compared tor riding up a mountain (or three), it involves riding up a molehill.

Well, I didn't do exactly shine at Chatfield. I wasn't quite seeing spots, but I was close. I was wheezing. Straining. Grinding. I looked down more than once to see if I had a flat tire (I did not. And by the way, I can no longer use altitude as an excuse--as of this week, we've lived here six months, which is about how long its supposed to take to get fully acclimated). All in all, it was not at all an impressive display of physical (or mental) prowess.

I let myself figure that it was just a fluke. A bad day.

It wasn't.

On Friday afternoon, I rode to Cherry Creek State Park. Once again, I was faced with some relatively minor climbs. Once again, I wheezed like I had already donated one of my lungs for scientific research. If it weren't for the middle aged women I passed on the way home (decked out in their denim shorts and purple sweatsuits with their hybrid bikes) and the homeless guys (with their flat tires and 85 lbs of gear on their Huffies) my ego would've been completely shot. Perhaps that's not a good sign. Perhaps I am really not so sensible after all.

So enough whining. Why did I decide to do this? Well, psychoanalytical reasons aside (someday, maybe I'll write an entry on how this is all Darryl De Ruiter's fault), it just seemed like a good idea of the time. And the fact of the matter is that when it's January, and there is snow on the ground, and you really haven't exercised for three months, well, it's easy to dream big and (ironically) overestimate just how in shape you are (or could be). And there are cookies. And a jersey (that I get regardless of if I finish or not. Hmmm). And besides, 3,500 people attempted this ride last year (never mind that half didn't finish--supposedly due to adverse weather. A much higher percentage finished the previous year). I figured that if they could do it, I could do it. And, really, it seemed easier than some of the rides I thought doing--say, the Leadville 100. Now that would have been stupid (but then again, I'd sure like one of those shiny belt buckles...)

*Some portions of this conversation may be slightly embellished.

**I'll not put up with anyone posting comments to the contrary, reminding others of my less-than-sensible moments when I did things like, oh, use the bottom of a pop can to scrape the windshield (hey, the aluminium seemed soft enough).

***Free Marraige Tip: This is my general approach to completing endurance evants (note that I didn't say completing them fast or well). It may be yours too. That, however, does not mean your wife will find it encouraging or inspiring advice when traing for, say, a marathon.