Now I know why God made streams

Like a nagging headache or an intermittent backpain, my bonk-aborted ride two weeks ago sat in the back of my brain festering.  “I’m going to do a long ride today, honey.  I should be back for the kids’ soccer practice at 5.” 

The plan was to complete the loop up to Sedalia and down to the South Platte River, returning via Deckers and Woodland Park.  Doing it counter clockwise would mean going down the 15% gravel grades down to the river, instead of up them which was part of my undoing last time. 

Palmer Lake and Deckers both have places serving espresso, so I knew I was going to be OK. 

I rode through the Garden of the Gods, turned north on 30th Street and left the scenic portion of my ride and entered the crazed car culture that is Colorado Springs.  Centennial to Allegheny is somewhat bike friendly, if not friendly to the eyes.  Rows of condos, and apartments and the itinerant Walgreens give way to one acre lots and suburban homes.  Looking beyond the houses and one can visualize the beautiful red rock country they’ve been super imposed upon.  A woman is washing her driveway with her hose as I descend to the knot of roads and Academy.  We’ve come to this.

I’m not feeling that great, probably allergies, but I dread my time on Academy.  Last week I was nearly taken out trying to get to the friendly cycling confines of the Air Force Academy, turned back because of road construction at the North Gate, and damn near killed again by an organic shopper rushing to get to Whole Foods.  The irony.  Janet chastized me yesterday for yelling at a driver that cut us off on a ‘Bicycle Route’.  ‘What am I supposed to do? They’re trying to kill us!’ 

And so it happened, as it must I suppose, a fellow in large Dodge D250, probably in a hurry to buy something, lays on his horn.  I’m riding north on Academy, trying to get to the turn north on Voyager.  There are four lanes of traffic, including a turn lane, which I’m taking right now, not wanting to move into the middle of the crazed shoppers and commuters who are much to busy texting and talking on their cells to bother with some freak on a bicycle.  No, the turn lane is the safest location.  The guys hits the horn again.  There is an additional turn lane 10 yards up the road; he’s turning into a parking lot; I am impeding his shopping instinct. My own instinct of self preservation kicks in (he’s trying to kill you!) and I turn and let him have it, gesticulating like a crazed Italian.  This all passes quickly.  He moves ahead in the additional turn lane, briefly hitting his brakes, perhaps considering a more physical challenge.  I turn on Voyager.

The urban center gives way again to suburban and then I’m riding along the expressway towards Monument.  I am still in the Suburban Sprawl, home of the Village Inn, Seven Eleven and intense traffic.  Where are these people going at 10am?  Finally, a few miles north, I can smell pine again and Palmer Lake arrives

with my first latte.  I put my feet up and take care of a cheese sandwich tucked in my jersey.

 

There’s a headwind today, about 10-15mph out of the northeast, which means that I get to eat it all the way to Sedalia, about 60 miles into the ride.  The great thing now is that I’ve nearly crested the Palmer Divide, a gradual ramp that peaks around 7500 feet just north of town.  Downhill into the wind shouldn’t be too bad and there is always the possible tailwind once I get to the Platte.

The road smoothes out and the wide spaces begin to digest my thoughts.  The scale of the west is monumental.  Grass and the occasional pioneer pine, a complete lack of traffic and the smooth then dotted then smooth yellow center lines of the road tap out a visual rhythm and my ride becomes a meditation.

Sedalia and another gatorade stop at the local fly and convenience store.  ‘Where you heading?’  ‘Back home to Manitou.’  The flyfisherman/grocer eyes me.  ‘You’ve got a ways to go yet.’  I agree and thank him for the two gatorades.  I’ve drunk six bottles so far and it looks like this will be at least a 12 bottle ride.  Gatorade and my bagel with schmeer and cucumbers, my cheese sandwich and giant chocolate chip cookie, my clif blocks and granola bar; I will not bonk or

dehydrate today.

I do know why God invented streams for cyclists; roads built along streams are humane affairs, with tolerable inclines in the 3-4 percent range.  Any time a road leaves the stream, creek or river, the cyclist is in human hands and then the sky is the limit, literally.  The road from Sedalia begins the trek back to the mountains.  There is a stream off to the side and the climb is gentle.  I’m astounded how good it feels not

to have a headwind and begin to daydream a bit as the mountains loom closer.  Suddenly the road is jerked to the right and the pitch is over 12 percent.  My legs scream at me for not putting on the 13-27 this morning.  The brain forgot.  The sun is out and it’s suddenly hot with no wind blowing and the road goes up and on and on and up again.  There is brief respite and a phantom horizon through the trees; just cruel jokes.  There is no stream to regulate this agony just my brain and some gatorade and I pull over to rest a second. 

‘You OK?  Got enough water?’  Sure, thanks, just taking a breather.  The pine forest is deep and I’m surrounded by the scent of sun-warmed pine sap.  A logging truck is pulling out up the road and I contemplate this short, 27 mile jaunt to Deckers.  I already know that there is a steep downhill grade on gravel; I attempted the reverse with Scoots two weeks ago, but what is there between the two Knowns of where I’ve been today and where I was two weeks ago?  A philosophical question. 

The legs churn on up the climb.