Weather Whipped Wisdom

It’s an exhausted cliché, but it’s true: we never really know what we are capable of until we have to do it. Never mind the sunny August morning with light winds at the race start, if anyone had hinted that I would be blown off of my bike during the Mt. Washington Bicycle Hillclimb that day, I would have bet my kid’s college tuition that I could not have finished the race. The longer the fifty mph winds churned me in a blender of fog up the treacherous course, the stronger my mind and my body got: a miracle I did not know about myself. I now know the state of extreme coherence I experienced that day is athletic nirvana. I was literally “in the zone” and able to tap new power from within--it was like finding a treasure chest of jewels right inside of my body.

I love to climb mountains on my Serotta CSI- thousands of miles of pain, pleasure, and preparation had delivered me safely to the start line that day full of confidence. Affectionately known as the world's toughest bicycle hillclimb, this race is something I enjoy doing; it was my third Mt. Washington race in four years, and I had plans for a personal best. Things got off to a smooth start in the pack: six hundred people jockey to race in this once-a-year event, the ratio is ten men for every woman. There is no honeymoon period on the course, the climbing begins immediately at the gun and it is intense: an average 12.7% grade for 7.6 miles, almost half of it on gravel. In some sections it is not unlike trying to ride your bicycle up a staircase.

The first five miles had gone smoothly, but as is Mt. Washington’s whim, the weather had steadily gone downhill as I progressed uphill. The early morning cotton candy skies had hardened into a foggy wall of whiteout conditions. I could see my tire in front of me, and that was all. Clipped into my pedals, cranking up the eolian monster in the spooky fog, I precariously dodged groups of defeated, wind-drunk cyclists pushing their bikes on the narrow potholed alley, oblivious to the riders still onboard.The headwinds were so fierce my speedometer registered 3.9 mph, just enough speed to keep the bike upright and moving forward by inches.

A half-mile to the summit I was battered to the point where I was dangerously close to bonking; it’s a hellish state of disorientation where a biker’s body simply can’t pedal anymore. As I wobbled through a tricky section of gravel I heard a giant “whoosh” and watched my front wheel lurch toward a rock pile ledge descending into a jagged abyss that looked like the mouth of a giant garbage disposal. In that same moment I was shocked by a scream, and then scared myself even more, when I realized the scream had come from me. It riveted me, and against all the laws of female physics I managed to right my wheel, stay aboard, and continue to climb.

After that out of body experience I became eerily calm and aware, I felt physically strong, yet exhausted; I felt high. It was like riding the stairway to heaven and the subway to hell at the same time. The brutal conditions had forced my body to trigger new reserves and created a euphoria so mysterious that I remember wondering ‘Is this how people feel before they die?’

I knew the mountain well, yet I was stunned when I reached the final fifty yards. How had I gotten here? Was I hallucinating? I could hear ghost voices coaching me but I was riding blind in the pea soup fog and had no idea the finish was so close. I got ready to climb the toughest part of the mountain, it’s a 22% grade curve; if you put your hand in a fist, imagine that I’m trying to ride over your biggest knuckle at this point. As I dug in to grind for the finish line, I was suddenly airborne. I had literally been blown off of my bicycle. I didn't get trashed or collide with anyone else, and luckily I was up as fast as I went down, but there was no way to remount at that grade; part shock and part reflex enabled me to grab my bike and sprint the final thirty yards. The headwind was like running into a tsunami wave, it was scary and freezing and miserable. I kept my face buried into the top tube, and made the dash propelled only by the screams of an invisible mob. I don't know how I ran to the line because as soon as I had a fleece blanket over my shoulders I couldn't really walk without help.

That day the mountain and I played chicken, and I won; the victory infused me with a confidence that is earned only outside of the comfort zone. I matriculated on the mountain that day feeling a pride and strength that was pure and sweet. I also felt that I would never do that climb again. It was a damn scary experience, and besides, three’s a charm- it was a goal complete. New and irresistible challenges will come around, and they will be met with equal parts enthusiasm and wisdom. And I’ll do them with a special kind of tailwind, the one I discovered inside of me that day on Mt. Washington.

Kim Dannies ©2008