Day Three: Surfing Giants

Day Three:  Surfing Giants

Miles: A lousy 28

Climb: 3452 ft.--Double Ugh.

Ave. spd.: 6.1 mph

The morning begins in dampness and fog--prodigious amounts of moisture.  Absent straight-up rain, this is my dampest camp since waking up on the shores of Lake Erie in the summer of my cross country ride.  Everything is soaked. It takes some effort to drag myself out into the soggy cold, but I manage at dark-thirty to pull on my big boy pants and get to work.  Hot coffee, as always, helps enormously, and it works its magic. A weak sun at last breaks over Telescope Peak and by 8AM I’m pedaling away from camp and into the belly of the beast.

For all my sturm und drang, the trike climb of the century goes well, though not, of course, without considerable sweat and effort.  While I’m unhappy about the flat light caused by the high and shifting clouds, I have to admit the moderated temperatures help considerably.  In no time I’m sweating hugely, the cycloputer reading 9--10% steady, bumping to 12% sometimes more. It is a work of hours, slow, relentless patience to tackle these climbs.  This isn’t my first rodeo. Jodi and I have done many such ascents, but each time climbing these outrageous techtonic waves leaves me humbled. What a crazy thing to do. I laugh out loud when a car drives by and a woman passenger gives me a priceless WTF?! look.  Exactly, lady. Exactly.

A huge gulf of air and mountain slope opens up behind me.  To the west, The Sierras break the horizon, and I quickly name off Olancha, Langley, Whitney and others.  Adios, amigos.  See you in a couple of weeks.  At a break, I actually have to chock the rear wheel to aid my parking brake and keep the trike from backsliding.  I stop periodically to cool, eat, stretch. I cannot believe how much moisture I’m pumping out through my skin. And the temps are in the mid-50’s!  Timing is everything on desert tours.

An upshifting of gears marks a momentous event in the life of the climb.  Slowly, so slowly, the grade is easing towards the pass, but my urge to finish makes even the lessening grade hard enough.  The last mile is a painful push. At noon, I stand beside the Towne Pass sign, just a shave under 5,000 ft. A cold breeze cuts through the gap under a grey sky.  I suit up, eat up, and push off for the nearly 20 mile, no-pedal descent to sea level.

It’s a huge, freezing rush. I should have layered more, but my hands are the worst.  Even with insulated mitts, my hands are frozen claws on the brakes, but I’ve got enough movement to use the occasionally--but not much.  For long stretches, I’m ripping along in the high 30’s to low 40’s, which is painfully slow in a car, but with no steel and glass around you and your ass about 5 inches off the pavement, that speed takes on a different dimension.

The vast dry valley absorbs this tiny trike and rider, and I fall at last to the outpost of Stovepipe Wells, a busy resort hub--hotel, restaurant and saloon, convenience store and gas station--cars, RV’s, motorbikes, and one other cyclist, a young superfit guy with an unloaded carbon fiber sissy bike that probably weighs less than ONE of my panniers.  So what if the guy did 8,000 ft of climbing yesterday and Wild Rose pass today. I’ll show him! Stunned, we both talk about the freezing descent. My hands are so numb I can hardly get my helmet off, and it takes a good 15 minutes for feeling to come back into my fumbling flippers.

Eventually, I go to find a campsite amid the chaos--forgetting it was a long weekend AND a super blood moon eclipse, too.  So the crowds. On a Sunday. Fortunately a sympathetic camper offers me a site he was reserving for a friend who, he says, was probably unlikely to stay the night, and my savior could see my situation.  Grateful, I pull in and setup camp. Behind me, massive troops of Scout tents foretell more chaos. Welcome to DV on a holiday weekend.