Ascension

The Brighter Side

Jon and I double check that we have everything as we load up our bikes. Heather and Marco's garage is chock full of outdoor equipment that could easily be mistaken for ours or vice versa. I carefully set my belongings in a separate pile. Jon finishes to pack his bags.

Heather bids us goodbye. Marco pokes his head around the corner.

"Do you guys want a cookie on the way out?" He says with eager eyes.  Jon and quickly looks up and sets his last belonging down on a workbench, and not in his bag.

We were still full from the night before.

Jon's Blue Steel and Mount Shasta

"Oh, I think I'm okay..." Jon smiles politely.

"It's a ganja cookie..." Marco cocks an eyebrow.

"Oh..." Jon and I look at each other, surprised.

We settle in along a cool and roaring creek after a long day of rolling hills. Jon swears and stomps his foot. 

"My headlamp..."

"What?!"

"I left it at Marco's!"

I play with a ginger snap cookie in my hand and laugh at the irony. Thankfully the stars were magnificent that night.

Boiling Point

The day before, I checked the weather and saw an unexpected warning: "the valley will reach temperatures upwards of 108 to 112 degrees Fahrenheit." Not being locals, and everything seeming a little extra mountainous in the last week, Jon and I concluded we were not in any "valley." A long descent along a river proved us wrong. 

Not even 20 minutes into the day, we both unzip our jerseys for ventilation. By noon, it is already over 90 degrees. The hot air penetrates the shade as it climbs well into 100 degrees. A much needed stop for an indoor lunch only makes going back outside much worse.

"You know that feeling when you go to take cookies out of the oven and you just feel hot air in your face?"

We both laugh, but in nervous misery.

Sapphire blue water near Lassen Peak, Volcanic Scenic Highway

We begin moving again out of obligation. I ask Jon to stop pedaling so I can diagnose something on his bike. His wheel wobbles violently, which is symptomatic of a broken spoke. I feel nervous to tell Jon about anything that is wrong with his bike. He's had a lot of misfortune when it comes to his bike holding up, mechanics doing wrong by him, or salesman up-selling him.

Thankfully in a tourist town, we stop at a bike shop to buy a spoke. The one staff member seems ill-prepared and -equipped for Labor Day Weekend business. I explain our situation and it soon becomes clear that he doesn't know how to help us solve our problem (to which he doesn't admit). He offers to let us behind the counter to do the work ourselves. I am hesitant because I know it is a liability issue. However the urgency of our situation takes precedence over formalities in my mind.

I sequence the procedure in my head. The heat gets to me and I wipe sweat from my forehead, taking care not to get grease all over my face. My hands tremble in anxiety. Perfect timing, I scoff.

We were treated to a gorgeous sunset in the Sierras that evening

By the time I finish, we see the first signs of golden hour, and we still have 25 miles to go with lots of climbing. It is still above 95 degrees. Jon and I both worry about how the day will end and how the next day will start. Biking, setting up camp, and eating in the dark are less than favorable conditions, not to mention starting again after little downtime.

My temper is simmering and I know it will carry on into the day if I don't do something about it. Jon buys an Italian soda float and pays for my "stress cone" next door.

To date, that is the most frustrated I have ever been while eating an ice cream cone.

The "I" in Team

Golden hour in Lake Tahoe

A green sign reads "Lee Summit." Jon makes a hard acceleration for a good while. He taps into his matchbox of energy and burns one or two just to claim the mountain pass that coincides with his last name. I follow but I have no rebuttal in the gas tank. I grit my teeth not in defeat, but because I am suffering. He pulls away from me. It is the small rewards that matter. 

The entire tour has been an informal race. Each city, county, and state limit is a finish line. The toughest days are when we surf the highways all day. It is not uncommon to see nearly a dozen signs on these days.

There is an art to racing. How many matches can I make him burn? When do I GO? Can I get away with a cheap shot? Can I feign tiredness or a cramp in order to get the jump? Has he had more caffeine and sugar than I have today? When will that Coca Cola and jelly beans kick in?

The "We" in Suffer

You are only as fast as your slowest teammate. 

- WWU Cycling Team

It is difficult to tell whether or not we are climbing. The canyon narrows and towers higher but the road seems to point down. The wind howls in our faces and I am taking big pulls (a turn at the front blocking the wind) for Jon and slowing down to his pace. I know he is hurting by the way he clutches his back and hangs his head. He laments that he would rather ride Lassen Peak (elev 8511 ft) twice than go south on this dreary stretch of 395. Miles later, the hum of our tires on pavement ceases. I turn to him.

"I'm glad you're here, man. Thank you."

Smoke rolling in through Tioga Pass, Yosemite National Park

Sun beaming down through storm clouds, Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite National Park

Oyster

Jon uses my draft to slingshot past me. I accelerate hard to get into his slipstream. The gap between us and the cars tailing us grows larger. A steady speed of 40 miles per hour propels us down into Yosemite Valley. The landscape commands our attention with unfathomable scale and depth. I signal to stop and we both know why. Bliss overcomes us and we laugh and cry.

I feel birthed into a new world of wonders. The air anoints me with smoke in my lungs, salt on my skin, and rays of intense sun on my back. A resounding call echoes off of the gargantuan domes. It tells me: I am alive.

Half Dome, Yosemite National Park

Tunnel View, Yosemite National Park