the Koppenberg

I knew something was very wrong when the portapotty, neighboring the one I occupied, blew over.  The floor began to rock backwards and I scrambled towards the door to get it back on the ground.  Outside, my family was huddled in the car.  The sun was out, but the wind whipped the parking area, the registration table began losing forms and riders clutched their bikes, flags were tilting up.  Sand and very small rocks were airborne.  There wasn’t a thought of not racing today; we’d driven 70 miles up to this god-forsaken suburb of Boulder, pre-registered online and committed mentally to the idea of suffering for an hour and a half.

There is a hill on a dirt road in Colorado.  A sign says ‘No Outlet’.  The road is three ridges at the bottom separated by two deep gullies, deeper than the axle of my front wheel.  By the middle of the climb there are two ridges separated by three gullies.  Rocks and sand fill each trench.  Our group of 35+ Masters riders, turns onto the climb and play Monty Hall, ‘I’ll take curtain number 2, Monty’ with the ridges.  I choose correctly but mid hill, my tire slides into a trough and I stall into a strange trackstand, kept upright by the gusting wind and my tire wedged into the side of the hill.   I am the only one that has this problem and the group crests the grade and turns right.  I unclip and scramble the rest of the way, jump on the seat and pedal east, the wind on my side.  The group stays just in front, a few hundred meters away, but I can’t make the tail.

The road turns to pavement with a thump where pavement and dirt come together in a elongated hole.  I’m abusing my bike now, focusing on the peloton instead of the pavement.  I make the gap smaller by diving the corner onto the highway and get the full tailwind now.  I’m doing 45, but the group begins to pull away a bit.  Another corner helps me close and then the straightaway to the finish.  Each straight the group gains ground.  When we hit the dirt, I know I can’t close before the hill.

The flyer said the hill is 17 percent.  On a dirt road with sand, this means the rear wheel will slip unless it’s weighted with my rear end.  Climbing a road that steep seated is a painful exercise.  I’m sure it’s good for me in some strange way.

‘That’s it, keep it up.’ ‘C’mon, get back in the game.  they’re just ahead.’  None of this helps, really.  It’s a physical problem, physics problem.  Mass (ie. my large self) + Force (where is my watt meter again?)= I can only go up this hill so fast without blowing up.  I have to do it four more times.  Can I do it four more times?  The wind greets me full in the face at the top, sand blows in under my glasses. 

This really sucks.  Each time up the hill is a slowly increasing fraction, one out of six, two out of six, three times (only half left!).  I ride by myself.  Twice, a fellow rides by on the section past the hill, gapping me for a few moments and then blowing completely up as I pass.  I assume they drop.  I parcel out the effort, thinking of finishing.  On lap 5, a fellow from the Swift team, who I passed two laps before, comes by, sucking the wheels of two pro riders out warming up on the course.  It’s not fair, so I grab his wheel until the pros are gone.  He’s friendly and we chat.  We take turns pulling and my legs feel much better. 

I have no idea who is behind me, but I’m determined I will not be last.  On our last time up the hill, I take a pull and then recover.  Onto the highway, I move to the front and stay there.  I glance back at the last turn and don’t see him.  I’m definitely not last.