I never liked wind, but since I took up cycling two months before, I had developed a deeper disdain for this incessant nuisance. I’d come to think of the wind as an enemy trying to destroy my resolve. On this day in June, 2009, I knew I couldn’t defeat it, but I was determined not to let it defeat me. Standing next to my 22-year-old, steel (heavy) Univega bicycle, I faced into this wind and assessed an even greater challenge: Mt. Charleston or Mt. Charlie as it is known to cyclists.
The name Charlie seems so unimposing, yet the mountain itself presents nothing but an unforgiving ascent for anyone sadistic enough to climb it on a bicycle. The harmless-sounding nickname fits the cyclist mentality perfectly, considering that hard-core cyclists embrace pain and suffering the way a couch potato covets greasy snacks. Maybe that’s why American troops during the Vietnam War nicknamed the enemy Charlie: They wanted to take away some of the sting from the threat their foe presented.
Calling this mountain Charlie certainly wasn’t going to take away any sting from my experience. Only two months before, I had considered a three mile bike ride to the grocery store a notable accomplishment. Now, I stood facing Charlie, having already ridden 22 miles to get here, preparing to climb 5,357 feet of altitude in 17.5 miles with a 40 mile-per-hour headwind. Lee Canyon Road starts at I-95 in the desert at 3,312 feet, and climbs through forest before ending in an alpine climate at 8,669 feet.
People who tell stories often like to exaggerate the details for dramatic effect. As this wind kept pummeling me and stealing the moisture from my eyes, I tried to gage how strong it was blowing. I wanted to be honest with myself. I frequently ride down hills in Las Vegas at 25 miles per hour according to my bike computer. I knew what that felt like, and I could feel these wind gusts now. Some of them certainly felt twice as strong as the air in my face during a 25-mile-per hour descent. I felt justified in my 40 mile-per-hour estimate, no need to exaggerate.
I wouldn’t need to exaggerate the steepness of the climb, either. Reality was bad enough. Charlie “Hill” is nothing but straight up, no reprieve. So I watched as a woman with a pink jersey set out alone to take on this climb. I had ridden here with a group of cyclists to reach this rest stop at the base of the mountain. As I learned later, the majority of riders turned around at this rest stop and headed back to the park where we started, without even pushing 20 yards up the mountain. In fact, many just put their bikes into a van and got a ride back. I had no idea I could ride back in a van, nor did I consider doing anything but ride my bike. Wasn’t that why we were here?
74 of us had departed from a park north of Las Vegas, Nevada, rode north along Interstate 95 and stopped here at Lee Canyon Road where the ride organizers had food and drinks ready for us. With so many riders, we had a wide range of abilities. We split into small groups to get to Lee Canyon Road, and I couldn’t see most of the riders along the way because they were so far ahead of me. The group I rode with included some people I had met through the website BikingLasVegas.com. But I could not keep up with them any better than I could with the riders who had broken away right at the start.
Out on the interstate, I got into their paceline of a dozen cyclists to take advantage of the slipstream and to conserve energy. I even got in front and “pulled” for a while, but the pace kept increasing, reaching 30 mph until I couldn’t keep up anymore. At the back of the line, I started dropping off, along with the woman in the pink jersey whose name was Karen. As we watched the paceline pull away farther we started working together, trading the lead until we reached the rest stop. We were already tired by then, but our purpose was to climb Mt. Charleston. It wasn’t until we stopped at the base of the mountain that I realized we had been riding with a heavy tail-wind, which would translate into a cross-wind and switch to become a head-wind as we climbed the hill. As I prepared myself to continue, Karen started climbing alone.
Some others from the paceline had already headed up, and a few were still “re-fueling” when I clicked my shoes onto my pedals and started grinding it out. The wind pushed back against every effort, but I resolved to keep going. Six miles per hour, I kept saying to myself. Just stay above 6. The temperature wasn’t too hot, yet. I’d eaten some orange wedges and filled up with water. Nothing left to think about but getting the job done.
Aside from the constant wind noise and the sound of a few cars squeezing past me, the only noise was the rubbing of my misaligned chain against the chain guide. It only made noise when the chain was in the lowest gear, which was the only gear I would need as I climbed. So grind I did, one turn after another, the chain making its rhythmic grrr . . . grrr sound as I went.
Then, I dropped below 6. I just couldn’t keep up to the big six miles per hour. So I set a new target: 5.5. I had to stay above 5.5. That did not last long, though. Just as I was dipping below the new target, a shadow crept up on my left. Someone was passing me! Without a word, two guys working together slowly moved ahead of me. At the front was Don, a determined, persistent guy on a new Trek, and Jack, a southern guy with a steel bike almost as old as mine.
That’s it, I thought. I’ve got to keep up with these guys, at least! So I jumped in behind them and stuck to Jack’s wheel. We kept at this for a long time, making slow progress, Don cranking away with a rhythmic swaying of his shoulders and a slight bobbing of his head; jack stuck to Don’s wheel, and me determined not to fall behind.
I looked up as we passed a speed limit sign that read “55.” “At least we’re going the speed limit,” said Jack. Sure enough, my bike computer read “5.5.” Ha! So we stuck to it at 5.5. The wind kept slamming our faces and sides, and we sometimes seemed to be getting nowhere with all our efforts, even slowing to a stand-still with some of the gusts. Eventually, we could see the next rest stop off in the dirt a hundred yards ahead. When we finally reached it, some of the people from the paceline were there, too. I immediately recognized Lisa, the owner of BikingLasVegas.com and Lynetta, a magician I had met a couple weeks before that. Karen was sitting on a lawn chair and seemed to be doing well.
I topped off my three water bottles, ate some orange wedges and leaned into the wind to keep from being blown over. This rest stop was only seven miles up the mountain. Still 10.5 miles to go. Everyone looked beat. 10.5 more miles of this and we still have to ride all the way back to the park. The higher we climbed, the farther we would have to ride back. The wind seemed even stronger now. I imagined battling back along I-95 against this wind that was getting worse, and I knew it would be hotter, too. Could we really do this?
Just as I began to doubt everything we were doing, Karen set out again. I turned away for a moment, and when I looked back, she was on her side in the dirt. I didn’t need to see any more. Karen was okay, but I had to go back. Everyone else wanted to keep going. I waved goodbye and headed back down the mountain. I certainly don’t back down easily from challenges, but I don’t think of myself as stupid, either. I would have to fight Charlie another day.
Even the descent was difficult. The wind had turned more from the south, meaning heavy buffeting while I tried to take advantage of the down-hill to go fast, reaching 35 mph for a while. At the bottom of the hill, I just kept going and turned right into the wind as I hit I-95. My speed dropped almost to nothing immediately. It was like running into a stretched sheet. I couldn’t see any other riders anywhere. This is no better than climbing the mountain, I thought. As my energy dwindled, I felt worse. 22 miles to go. I just put my head down and kept going. I had to get back.
The whole way back looked uphill, and the hill infinitely long. This is when I first got a taste of suffering. I tried to pace myself so I wouldn’t burn out. The desolate desert highway seemed endless, and I couldn’t even see Las Vegas over the hill. Nothing blocked the wind. I wondered why anyone would put himself into such a situation. What was I doing riding a bike on such a mean, ugly strip of highway? All I wanted to do was get out of the wind and lie down. Push, push push. I reached the Kyle Canyon turn-off to Mt. Charleston (another way up the mountain), said, “No thank you” to this second invitation to climb to Mt. Charleston, and went the opposite way, aiming for the park where I started so long ago.
That’s when I realized I really hadn’t paid too much attention to the streets when I left in the morning. I knew the general direction, and I knew how to get there from the direction I drove earlier, but this wasn’t a familiar part of town for me. I turned too soon and took myself off the route and into the wind again. By this time, I was completely sick of riding and hating every minute. Eventually I wove my way back to a street I recognized and saw the park, with food and friends. Even then, I still wasn’t sure I could make it. I wondered how everyone else was doing climbing the mountain. I thought they should be on their way back by now. I felt sick and a little dizzy as I turned into the wind again for the last block before reaching my van and the end of the torture. If I felt this badly, how would they feel? I put my bike into the hot van and waddled over to the shade where a lot of other riders were relaxing and eating.
The first person I recognized was Lisa, who was at the seven-mile rest stop the last time I saw her. “How did you get here before me?” I demanded. “Oh, we got SAG’d (meaning they had gotten a ride down with the support and gear vehicle) she said. “We only went a couple more miles before we got picked up.” That’s the first time I had heard of anyone getting picked up. I didn’t know that was an option. I thought I had to ride back, and I did. So I told Lisa that I rode back. “You rode back? Alone? In the wind?” She was surprised, as though I had told her I’d just returned from the moon. “Yes, I didn’t know I had a choice,” I said. As it turned out, a few people did reach the top earlier in the day, but almost everyone I rode with took a van back down. A couple others worked together to get back along the highway, but I was the only one who battled back alone in the afternoon when the wind had picked up even more.
I felt proud of this physical and mental victory, and for having gone 58 miles, my longest ride yet. But the wind and Charlie had beaten me. I didn’t really care at the time, but as the weeks went on, I wanted another shot at beating Charlie. I couldn’t leave that ride undone.
I rode lots of miles in the weeks that followed, topping 1,000 miles total. I found out about a charity ride for the National MS Society and that BikingLasVegas.com had a team. Because my wife Colleen has MS, I immediately decided to do the ride and join the team. From then on, I thought of my rides as training for the MS Ride coming on November 7th, 2009. That would be 167 miles in two days. I reached 70 miles in a single ride in August and did a couple rides at Mt. Charleston, but nothing like a full climb from bottom to top. Then, I heard about an official, sanctioned bike race called the Mt. Charleston Hill Climb and that it is the oldest bike race in Las Vegas. Why couldn’t I ride in the race? Sure, I’m an old guy (44) with an old bike (22) and I’m new to cycling (5 months). Is my bike heavier than everyone else’s? Yes. Are most of the riders in the race veterans to cycling? Yes. Do I think for a second that I can beat anyone? No. Do I care? Hell no!
All I want is to beat Charlie. Not coming in last would be nice, but getting to the top would be the victory I want. So I signed up. I had to buy a one-day license to ride in this sanctioned race. So, I arrived at the base of Mt. Charleston on September 19, 2009 with only one goal in mind and no nervousness in my stomach. I had nothing to lose. This was between the mountain and me.
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Cars are scattered across the desert. Riders are warming up on trainers. Race officials are marking the starting lines in the road. I just wait my turn. It’s a beautiful morning. No sign of wind. This will be different! But it won’t be easy.
More than 300 cyclists are participating, people of all abilities and ages. The race is staged to start in four groups based on rider classification. Each group starts a few minutes apart. I’m in the third group, a large general classification for non-professionals. The race officials are very precise about timing. We get a countdown at the start, and they record the exact finishing times at the top. Also, they are very particular about the rules. We are not allowed to draft behind anyone who is not in our starting group. That means we can not ride closely behind any rider except someone from the same starting group. My number is 431, so I can only draft behind someone with a number between 399 and 451. So, if I start to overtake someone outside my group, and I ride closely behind that person, I can be disqualified. I’m not worried about overtaking anyone, however. In fact, I find the idea of drafting while riding up this steep mountain quite amusing. Maybe others can do it, but I know I’ll be on my own.
The splits happen quickly. Cyclists pass me within minutes of the start. I don’t care because I have to find my own pace, and I especially have to avoid “blowing up” by pushing too hard too soon. So, I settle in. First, I’m going 8 miles per hour. Not bad. Hey, I can do this. But it’s not long before I’m down to the familiar 5.5. I laugh to myself and stick with it. The temperature is perfect, around 75 degrees, and the wind is hiding today, no sign of it at all.
I’ve spent lots of time learning about nutrition and testing what to eat when I’m riding as well as before and after rides. Today, I’m only eating some nutrition gel, electrolyte liquid and water. I’m careful not to drink too much because in the past I’ve gotten too full and bogged myself down from too much water. I’m really aiming for a balance. The gel gives me energy; the electrolytes help keep all my biological signals firing properly; and water is what we’re made of. We lose water quickly on long rides, but we can’t really replace all that we lose while we’re riding. Our bodies can not process enough to maintain what we lose during a ride. It’s a game of deficits with some catch-up in the hours after the ride. Unlike our government with its deficits, I’ll be paying myself back (with lots of food) later in the day.
As I grind away, I realize a little wind would be nice. Nothing is ever just right. Even though it’s not too hot, sweat is running down into my right eye and causing a noticeable, stinging annoyance. There is absolutely no wind to dry away the sweat. Now I realize why I see so many riders with caps and head sweats under their helmets. It wasn’t just to be cool-looking. Strange that I’ve never needed one until now. I have no choice but to stop and wash my face with water. A few more riders pass me.
Now, I’m looking at the riders’ numbers. When I see numbers 451 and up, I know I’m really falling behind because they started a couple minutes after me. I have no idea how people ahead of me are doing. I do know the record for this climb is somewhere around 1 hour 16 minutes. I imagine my time will be three times that. As long as I’m not last, I don’t really care. As I hook back onto my pedals, a rider from my group pulls along side me. “We’re almost to the rest stop, he says.” It’s the seven mile point. Good. I feel okay, even though I’m going slowly. We ride together for a short time and finally reach the rest stop. This was the farthest I had reached the first time I tried this climb. I’m comfortable and ready to keep going. I have three water bottles, and I haven’t used more than one yet, so I don’t need anything at the rest stop. I just pause to clear the numbness from my hands, feet and other body parts before we keep going. The trees are taller here, and it’s a little cooler.
“I thought they would have some gels or powders at the rest stops, so I didn’t bring any,” says the other cyclist with me. “All they had was water.” I offer him a packet of solid gels I had as a back-up. He turns them down saying that solids don’t sit well with him when he’s riding. Eventually, I can’t keep pace with him, and I’m alone again. There are other riders behind me still, but I can’t tell how many or whether or not I’m going the slowest overall. I just keep pushing. My heart rate is averaging around 160 beats per minute. That’s in the red zone for me, but not my maximum of 178. Clearly I’m working hard, and I don’t feel that I should push harder.
As I close on the second rest stop, which is at the 13 mile point, there are three other riders behind me. I wait to see their numbers. One is from the group that left after mine, and two are from my group. Good. I still have a shot at not being last. I refill my water bottles, take a couple of deep breaths, and head out again. 4.5 more miles. Less than an hour. The steepest parts are behind me, and I know the last three miles are not too bad because I’ve come up here and ridden this section of road before. We’re among tall pine trees now. The sun feels hot even though the air is cool. I stop to wipe away the sweat from my face again, and two of the riders behind me ride past. One says, “I’m never dong this again.” I say, “It’s not too bad from here.” “Are you sure?” he replies?” I tell him “yes, I’ve climbed this twice before.” “Sadist,” he says. I realize he took me to mean that I’d climbed the whole hill before, but I’m too tired to correct him. I feel his comment is justified, anyway.
I work my way past one guy, leaving two still behind me. The road levels off a little and curves through meadows before turning at the camp grounds and rising steeply to the ski resort. My heart is beating faster than I would like, so I stop just before the meadows. The heart rate slows quickly, so I turn to get back on the road, but the two riders are closing on me. Just behind them are the SAG vehicle and an ambulance, pacing with them and keeping the rear. It’s the end of the train! I wait for them all to pass, just to be polite, but I realize this might not be a good idea as I wave at the two vehicles to signal I’m okay. Now I know for sure I’m in the back. Wait! Even the ambulance is ahead of me. No way!
I jump onto my bike and find myself right on the bumper of the ambulance. I don’t want to get disqualified for drafting behind a vehicle, so I look for a way to pass them. The left side is not okay, because you can be disqualified for crossing the center line. The right side seems dangerous but when the road widens where it splits to the right, I huff it past the ambulance. Then I stick behind the right side mirror of the SAG van until I see the passenger notice me. I wave and ride past them. Now it’s the two riders ahead. They’re not going to finish before me! I click up a couple gears, stand up and go. Quickly I pass them both. One guy is pacing himself. The other looks almost dead.
I put my head down and keep pumping. At the campground I know there’s only one mile to go. I look back, and the two riders are a few dozen yards behind me. That’s it. They’re not going to pass me now.
The road turns sharply right and widens to accommodate parking spaces. Cars, vans and trucks fill most of the spaces. A woman sitting in a chair next to a white truck starts clapping. “Whooo. You’re almost there.” She yells. I want to thank her for the kind words of encouragement, but I can only ride. Right at the entrance to the ski resort, the road turns up 180 degrees and gets steeper briefly before ending in a turn-around. As I climb, the crowd cheers enthusiastically. I’m alone, and I feel late for the party, but the guests are happy to welcome me anyway. I stand up and push the pedals two more times hard before coasting past the finish line. Done! I made it.
Food. I want food. But I’m tired, too. Maybe I just want to sit down. Maybe I’ll pass out. I coast back down to the turn as the other two riders pass the finish line. The first person I see is Lisa. She didn’t do the ride, but she came up with Don and Lynetta to watch the race. “Congratulations!” she says and gives me a hug. It’s nice to see someone I know up here. She gives me my backpack that I had sent up in a support truck so I would have my nutrition and a warmer shirt. I lean my bike down to the pavement amidst other bikes. People are standing and sitting all around among the sun shelters that were set up just for this event. I make my way to the food table, get a hamburger and sit next to my bike. I really don’t feel like eating, but I need energy. After a while, I feel well enough to stand. I know I still have to go back down the hill.
As I find out later, the fastest time was 1 hour 19 minutes, just three minutes short of the record. One guy even climbed the entire hill in 2 hours 5 minutes on a unicycle. I finished in 3 hours 12 minutes. Two others finished after me. I was not last!.
As I put on my long-sleeve jersey, it starts to rain. I have to go down. Better now than later. Before I get out of the parking area and turn toward the campgrounds, the rain falls heavier and cold. It won’t be long, I tell myself. Just keep going. This is supposed to be the fun part, but I’m starting to shiver. The rain feels like ice as it hits my face. I’m getting soaked. The shivering becomes shaking as I go faster, reaching more than 40 miles per hour. It’s hard to keep the bike steady with all my shaking, but I don’t want to stop for fear of getting even colder. I just keep going. That’s what riding is, sometimes. It’s just going without thinking. But I have to be very careful and keep thinking here. I need to control this bike; I need to remember I’m still in traffic; I need to be aware that I could skid off the road very easily. I carefully control the bike as the air gets warmer, and I’m out of the rain. Now it’s full sun again and quickly getting hot as I roll down the hill.
At the bottom, most of the cars are gone from the desert clearing. It took me 33 minutes to get down. I put everything into the van as quickly as possible thinking how often these rides end with my getting into this hot van. Having finished now, I don’t feel as though I’ve beaten the mountain. I know the mountain and the wind aren’t in a fight with anything. It’s all inside me. I haven’t conquered anything, but I have accomplished something. Maybe I’ll figure out what it is some day. In the mean time I wonder, Do I really enjoy this? Before I’m done asking the question I hear the answer: “Hell yes. What’s next?”
The name Charlie seems so unimposing, yet the mountain itself presents nothing but an unforgiving ascent for anyone sadistic enough to climb it on a bicycle. The harmless-sounding nickname fits the cyclist mentality perfectly, considering that hard-core cyclists embrace pain and suffering the way a couch potato covets greasy snacks. Maybe that’s why American troops during the Vietnam War nicknamed the enemy Charlie: They wanted to take away some of the sting from the threat their foe presented.
Calling this mountain Charlie certainly wasn’t going to take away any sting from my experience. Only two months before, I had considered a three mile bike ride to the grocery store a notable accomplishment. Now, I stood facing Charlie, having already ridden 22 miles to get here, preparing to climb 5,357 feet of altitude in 17.5 miles with a 40 mile-per-hour headwind. Lee Canyon Road starts at I-95 in the desert at 3,312 feet, and climbs through forest before ending in an alpine climate at 8,669 feet.
People who tell stories often like to exaggerate the details for dramatic effect. As this wind kept pummeling me and stealing the moisture from my eyes, I tried to gage how strong it was blowing. I wanted to be honest with myself. I frequently ride down hills in Las Vegas at 25 miles per hour according to my bike computer. I knew what that felt like, and I could feel these wind gusts now. Some of them certainly felt twice as strong as the air in my face during a 25-mile-per hour descent. I felt justified in my 40 mile-per-hour estimate, no need to exaggerate.
I wouldn’t need to exaggerate the steepness of the climb, either. Reality was bad enough. Charlie “Hill” is nothing but straight up, no reprieve. So I watched as a woman with a pink jersey set out alone to take on this climb. I had ridden here with a group of cyclists to reach this rest stop at the base of the mountain. As I learned later, the majority of riders turned around at this rest stop and headed back to the park where we started, without even pushing 20 yards up the mountain. In fact, many just put their bikes into a van and got a ride back. I had no idea I could ride back in a van, nor did I consider doing anything but ride my bike. Wasn’t that why we were here?
74 of us had departed from a park north of Las Vegas, Nevada, rode north along Interstate 95 and stopped here at Lee Canyon Road where the ride organizers had food and drinks ready for us. With so many riders, we had a wide range of abilities. We split into small groups to get to Lee Canyon Road, and I couldn’t see most of the riders along the way because they were so far ahead of me. The group I rode with included some people I had met through the website BikingLasVegas.com. But I could not keep up with them any better than I could with the riders who had broken away right at the start.
Out on the interstate, I got into their paceline of a dozen cyclists to take advantage of the slipstream and to conserve energy. I even got in front and “pulled” for a while, but the pace kept increasing, reaching 30 mph until I couldn’t keep up anymore. At the back of the line, I started dropping off, along with the woman in the pink jersey whose name was Karen. As we watched the paceline pull away farther we started working together, trading the lead until we reached the rest stop. We were already tired by then, but our purpose was to climb Mt. Charleston. It wasn’t until we stopped at the base of the mountain that I realized we had been riding with a heavy tail-wind, which would translate into a cross-wind and switch to become a head-wind as we climbed the hill. As I prepared myself to continue, Karen started climbing alone.
Some others from the paceline had already headed up, and a few were still “re-fueling” when I clicked my shoes onto my pedals and started grinding it out. The wind pushed back against every effort, but I resolved to keep going. Six miles per hour, I kept saying to myself. Just stay above 6. The temperature wasn’t too hot, yet. I’d eaten some orange wedges and filled up with water. Nothing left to think about but getting the job done.
Aside from the constant wind noise and the sound of a few cars squeezing past me, the only noise was the rubbing of my misaligned chain against the chain guide. It only made noise when the chain was in the lowest gear, which was the only gear I would need as I climbed. So grind I did, one turn after another, the chain making its rhythmic grrr . . . grrr sound as I went.
Then, I dropped below 6. I just couldn’t keep up to the big six miles per hour. So I set a new target: 5.5. I had to stay above 5.5. That did not last long, though. Just as I was dipping below the new target, a shadow crept up on my left. Someone was passing me! Without a word, two guys working together slowly moved ahead of me. At the front was Don, a determined, persistent guy on a new Trek, and Jack, a southern guy with a steel bike almost as old as mine.
That’s it, I thought. I’ve got to keep up with these guys, at least! So I jumped in behind them and stuck to Jack’s wheel. We kept at this for a long time, making slow progress, Don cranking away with a rhythmic swaying of his shoulders and a slight bobbing of his head; jack stuck to Don’s wheel, and me determined not to fall behind.
I looked up as we passed a speed limit sign that read “55.” “At least we’re going the speed limit,” said Jack. Sure enough, my bike computer read “5.5.” Ha! So we stuck to it at 5.5. The wind kept slamming our faces and sides, and we sometimes seemed to be getting nowhere with all our efforts, even slowing to a stand-still with some of the gusts. Eventually, we could see the next rest stop off in the dirt a hundred yards ahead. When we finally reached it, some of the people from the paceline were there, too. I immediately recognized Lisa, the owner of BikingLasVegas.com and Lynetta, a magician I had met a couple weeks before that. Karen was sitting on a lawn chair and seemed to be doing well.
I topped off my three water bottles, ate some orange wedges and leaned into the wind to keep from being blown over. This rest stop was only seven miles up the mountain. Still 10.5 miles to go. Everyone looked beat. 10.5 more miles of this and we still have to ride all the way back to the park. The higher we climbed, the farther we would have to ride back. The wind seemed even stronger now. I imagined battling back along I-95 against this wind that was getting worse, and I knew it would be hotter, too. Could we really do this?
Just as I began to doubt everything we were doing, Karen set out again. I turned away for a moment, and when I looked back, she was on her side in the dirt. I didn’t need to see any more. Karen was okay, but I had to go back. Everyone else wanted to keep going. I waved goodbye and headed back down the mountain. I certainly don’t back down easily from challenges, but I don’t think of myself as stupid, either. I would have to fight Charlie another day.
Even the descent was difficult. The wind had turned more from the south, meaning heavy buffeting while I tried to take advantage of the down-hill to go fast, reaching 35 mph for a while. At the bottom of the hill, I just kept going and turned right into the wind as I hit I-95. My speed dropped almost to nothing immediately. It was like running into a stretched sheet. I couldn’t see any other riders anywhere. This is no better than climbing the mountain, I thought. As my energy dwindled, I felt worse. 22 miles to go. I just put my head down and kept going. I had to get back.
The whole way back looked uphill, and the hill infinitely long. This is when I first got a taste of suffering. I tried to pace myself so I wouldn’t burn out. The desolate desert highway seemed endless, and I couldn’t even see Las Vegas over the hill. Nothing blocked the wind. I wondered why anyone would put himself into such a situation. What was I doing riding a bike on such a mean, ugly strip of highway? All I wanted to do was get out of the wind and lie down. Push, push push. I reached the Kyle Canyon turn-off to Mt. Charleston (another way up the mountain), said, “No thank you” to this second invitation to climb to Mt. Charleston, and went the opposite way, aiming for the park where I started so long ago.
That’s when I realized I really hadn’t paid too much attention to the streets when I left in the morning. I knew the general direction, and I knew how to get there from the direction I drove earlier, but this wasn’t a familiar part of town for me. I turned too soon and took myself off the route and into the wind again. By this time, I was completely sick of riding and hating every minute. Eventually I wove my way back to a street I recognized and saw the park, with food and friends. Even then, I still wasn’t sure I could make it. I wondered how everyone else was doing climbing the mountain. I thought they should be on their way back by now. I felt sick and a little dizzy as I turned into the wind again for the last block before reaching my van and the end of the torture. If I felt this badly, how would they feel? I put my bike into the hot van and waddled over to the shade where a lot of other riders were relaxing and eating.
The first person I recognized was Lisa, who was at the seven-mile rest stop the last time I saw her. “How did you get here before me?” I demanded. “Oh, we got SAG’d (meaning they had gotten a ride down with the support and gear vehicle) she said. “We only went a couple more miles before we got picked up.” That’s the first time I had heard of anyone getting picked up. I didn’t know that was an option. I thought I had to ride back, and I did. So I told Lisa that I rode back. “You rode back? Alone? In the wind?” She was surprised, as though I had told her I’d just returned from the moon. “Yes, I didn’t know I had a choice,” I said. As it turned out, a few people did reach the top earlier in the day, but almost everyone I rode with took a van back down. A couple others worked together to get back along the highway, but I was the only one who battled back alone in the afternoon when the wind had picked up even more.
I felt proud of this physical and mental victory, and for having gone 58 miles, my longest ride yet. But the wind and Charlie had beaten me. I didn’t really care at the time, but as the weeks went on, I wanted another shot at beating Charlie. I couldn’t leave that ride undone.
I rode lots of miles in the weeks that followed, topping 1,000 miles total. I found out about a charity ride for the National MS Society and that BikingLasVegas.com had a team. Because my wife Colleen has MS, I immediately decided to do the ride and join the team. From then on, I thought of my rides as training for the MS Ride coming on November 7th, 2009. That would be 167 miles in two days. I reached 70 miles in a single ride in August and did a couple rides at Mt. Charleston, but nothing like a full climb from bottom to top. Then, I heard about an official, sanctioned bike race called the Mt. Charleston Hill Climb and that it is the oldest bike race in Las Vegas. Why couldn’t I ride in the race? Sure, I’m an old guy (44) with an old bike (22) and I’m new to cycling (5 months). Is my bike heavier than everyone else’s? Yes. Are most of the riders in the race veterans to cycling? Yes. Do I think for a second that I can beat anyone? No. Do I care? Hell no!
All I want is to beat Charlie. Not coming in last would be nice, but getting to the top would be the victory I want. So I signed up. I had to buy a one-day license to ride in this sanctioned race. So, I arrived at the base of Mt. Charleston on September 19, 2009 with only one goal in mind and no nervousness in my stomach. I had nothing to lose. This was between the mountain and me.
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Cars are scattered across the desert. Riders are warming up on trainers. Race officials are marking the starting lines in the road. I just wait my turn. It’s a beautiful morning. No sign of wind. This will be different! But it won’t be easy.
More than 300 cyclists are participating, people of all abilities and ages. The race is staged to start in four groups based on rider classification. Each group starts a few minutes apart. I’m in the third group, a large general classification for non-professionals. The race officials are very precise about timing. We get a countdown at the start, and they record the exact finishing times at the top. Also, they are very particular about the rules. We are not allowed to draft behind anyone who is not in our starting group. That means we can not ride closely behind any rider except someone from the same starting group. My number is 431, so I can only draft behind someone with a number between 399 and 451. So, if I start to overtake someone outside my group, and I ride closely behind that person, I can be disqualified. I’m not worried about overtaking anyone, however. In fact, I find the idea of drafting while riding up this steep mountain quite amusing. Maybe others can do it, but I know I’ll be on my own.
The splits happen quickly. Cyclists pass me within minutes of the start. I don’t care because I have to find my own pace, and I especially have to avoid “blowing up” by pushing too hard too soon. So, I settle in. First, I’m going 8 miles per hour. Not bad. Hey, I can do this. But it’s not long before I’m down to the familiar 5.5. I laugh to myself and stick with it. The temperature is perfect, around 75 degrees, and the wind is hiding today, no sign of it at all.
I’ve spent lots of time learning about nutrition and testing what to eat when I’m riding as well as before and after rides. Today, I’m only eating some nutrition gel, electrolyte liquid and water. I’m careful not to drink too much because in the past I’ve gotten too full and bogged myself down from too much water. I’m really aiming for a balance. The gel gives me energy; the electrolytes help keep all my biological signals firing properly; and water is what we’re made of. We lose water quickly on long rides, but we can’t really replace all that we lose while we’re riding. Our bodies can not process enough to maintain what we lose during a ride. It’s a game of deficits with some catch-up in the hours after the ride. Unlike our government with its deficits, I’ll be paying myself back (with lots of food) later in the day.
As I grind away, I realize a little wind would be nice. Nothing is ever just right. Even though it’s not too hot, sweat is running down into my right eye and causing a noticeable, stinging annoyance. There is absolutely no wind to dry away the sweat. Now I realize why I see so many riders with caps and head sweats under their helmets. It wasn’t just to be cool-looking. Strange that I’ve never needed one until now. I have no choice but to stop and wash my face with water. A few more riders pass me.
Now, I’m looking at the riders’ numbers. When I see numbers 451 and up, I know I’m really falling behind because they started a couple minutes after me. I have no idea how people ahead of me are doing. I do know the record for this climb is somewhere around 1 hour 16 minutes. I imagine my time will be three times that. As long as I’m not last, I don’t really care. As I hook back onto my pedals, a rider from my group pulls along side me. “We’re almost to the rest stop, he says.” It’s the seven mile point. Good. I feel okay, even though I’m going slowly. We ride together for a short time and finally reach the rest stop. This was the farthest I had reached the first time I tried this climb. I’m comfortable and ready to keep going. I have three water bottles, and I haven’t used more than one yet, so I don’t need anything at the rest stop. I just pause to clear the numbness from my hands, feet and other body parts before we keep going. The trees are taller here, and it’s a little cooler.
“I thought they would have some gels or powders at the rest stops, so I didn’t bring any,” says the other cyclist with me. “All they had was water.” I offer him a packet of solid gels I had as a back-up. He turns them down saying that solids don’t sit well with him when he’s riding. Eventually, I can’t keep pace with him, and I’m alone again. There are other riders behind me still, but I can’t tell how many or whether or not I’m going the slowest overall. I just keep pushing. My heart rate is averaging around 160 beats per minute. That’s in the red zone for me, but not my maximum of 178. Clearly I’m working hard, and I don’t feel that I should push harder.
As I close on the second rest stop, which is at the 13 mile point, there are three other riders behind me. I wait to see their numbers. One is from the group that left after mine, and two are from my group. Good. I still have a shot at not being last. I refill my water bottles, take a couple of deep breaths, and head out again. 4.5 more miles. Less than an hour. The steepest parts are behind me, and I know the last three miles are not too bad because I’ve come up here and ridden this section of road before. We’re among tall pine trees now. The sun feels hot even though the air is cool. I stop to wipe away the sweat from my face again, and two of the riders behind me ride past. One says, “I’m never dong this again.” I say, “It’s not too bad from here.” “Are you sure?” he replies?” I tell him “yes, I’ve climbed this twice before.” “Sadist,” he says. I realize he took me to mean that I’d climbed the whole hill before, but I’m too tired to correct him. I feel his comment is justified, anyway.
I work my way past one guy, leaving two still behind me. The road levels off a little and curves through meadows before turning at the camp grounds and rising steeply to the ski resort. My heart is beating faster than I would like, so I stop just before the meadows. The heart rate slows quickly, so I turn to get back on the road, but the two riders are closing on me. Just behind them are the SAG vehicle and an ambulance, pacing with them and keeping the rear. It’s the end of the train! I wait for them all to pass, just to be polite, but I realize this might not be a good idea as I wave at the two vehicles to signal I’m okay. Now I know for sure I’m in the back. Wait! Even the ambulance is ahead of me. No way!
I jump onto my bike and find myself right on the bumper of the ambulance. I don’t want to get disqualified for drafting behind a vehicle, so I look for a way to pass them. The left side is not okay, because you can be disqualified for crossing the center line. The right side seems dangerous but when the road widens where it splits to the right, I huff it past the ambulance. Then I stick behind the right side mirror of the SAG van until I see the passenger notice me. I wave and ride past them. Now it’s the two riders ahead. They’re not going to finish before me! I click up a couple gears, stand up and go. Quickly I pass them both. One guy is pacing himself. The other looks almost dead.
I put my head down and keep pumping. At the campground I know there’s only one mile to go. I look back, and the two riders are a few dozen yards behind me. That’s it. They’re not going to pass me now.
The road turns sharply right and widens to accommodate parking spaces. Cars, vans and trucks fill most of the spaces. A woman sitting in a chair next to a white truck starts clapping. “Whooo. You’re almost there.” She yells. I want to thank her for the kind words of encouragement, but I can only ride. Right at the entrance to the ski resort, the road turns up 180 degrees and gets steeper briefly before ending in a turn-around. As I climb, the crowd cheers enthusiastically. I’m alone, and I feel late for the party, but the guests are happy to welcome me anyway. I stand up and push the pedals two more times hard before coasting past the finish line. Done! I made it.
Food. I want food. But I’m tired, too. Maybe I just want to sit down. Maybe I’ll pass out. I coast back down to the turn as the other two riders pass the finish line. The first person I see is Lisa. She didn’t do the ride, but she came up with Don and Lynetta to watch the race. “Congratulations!” she says and gives me a hug. It’s nice to see someone I know up here. She gives me my backpack that I had sent up in a support truck so I would have my nutrition and a warmer shirt. I lean my bike down to the pavement amidst other bikes. People are standing and sitting all around among the sun shelters that were set up just for this event. I make my way to the food table, get a hamburger and sit next to my bike. I really don’t feel like eating, but I need energy. After a while, I feel well enough to stand. I know I still have to go back down the hill.
As I find out later, the fastest time was 1 hour 19 minutes, just three minutes short of the record. One guy even climbed the entire hill in 2 hours 5 minutes on a unicycle. I finished in 3 hours 12 minutes. Two others finished after me. I was not last!.
As I put on my long-sleeve jersey, it starts to rain. I have to go down. Better now than later. Before I get out of the parking area and turn toward the campgrounds, the rain falls heavier and cold. It won’t be long, I tell myself. Just keep going. This is supposed to be the fun part, but I’m starting to shiver. The rain feels like ice as it hits my face. I’m getting soaked. The shivering becomes shaking as I go faster, reaching more than 40 miles per hour. It’s hard to keep the bike steady with all my shaking, but I don’t want to stop for fear of getting even colder. I just keep going. That’s what riding is, sometimes. It’s just going without thinking. But I have to be very careful and keep thinking here. I need to control this bike; I need to remember I’m still in traffic; I need to be aware that I could skid off the road very easily. I carefully control the bike as the air gets warmer, and I’m out of the rain. Now it’s full sun again and quickly getting hot as I roll down the hill.
At the bottom, most of the cars are gone from the desert clearing. It took me 33 minutes to get down. I put everything into the van as quickly as possible thinking how often these rides end with my getting into this hot van. Having finished now, I don’t feel as though I’ve beaten the mountain. I know the mountain and the wind aren’t in a fight with anything. It’s all inside me. I haven’t conquered anything, but I have accomplished something. Maybe I’ll figure out what it is some day. In the mean time I wonder, Do I really enjoy this? Before I’m done asking the question I hear the answer: “Hell yes. What’s next?”
What I’d like to know now is: Where did that answer come from?
Please support Team BikingLasVegas.com in our fundraising efforts for Bike MS 2009 to support the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. We're riding 167 miles on November 7th and 8th, 2009. Go to http://www.patchinsfightms.com/ to contribute or find out more. Thank you.
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