Two-Wheel Drive: Cycling to the Summit
May 17, 2011
Mount Washington, N.H. It's a balmy August day here on the summit at 6,288 feet. It's 47 degrees, the wind is whipping, and the sun is ducking in and out of the clouds. I'm cheering madly for a lone bicyclist climbing the last leg of the Toll Road--a killer 22% grade--just below me. Who is he? I have no idea. It doesn't matter. What's important is that he is conquering the 7.6-mile hill and I'm helping to bring him across the finish line. This is the 24th Annual Cycle to the Clouds race on the Mount Washington Toll Road. I have been recruited to drive to the mountain top ahead of the 300-some cyclists and then wait for three passengers, whom I will collect at the finish line and return to the valley. Truth is, I'm not just here to drive some masochistic cyclists down the mountain. The way I see it, any nut who rides up, can ride back down. No, I'm here because my brother Patsy has made this his next cycling challenge. I cannot resist a chance to watch. It's kind of a sick curiosity. The race had been canceled the two years prior, due to ice and high winds, so we were hypersensitive to the threatening clouds all day Friday. But evening at our campsite brought a clearing breeze. As we stared into the campfire just before bedtime, stars began to dot the sky. When I crawled out of my tent at 5 a.m. the stars had multiplied. There was almost no wind. Good signs, Patsy assured me. A good sign to me at that point would have been a Starbucks marquee, but we had no time for luxury. So we packed up and took off. As we came over the hill near the start, a soft mist hung in the small valley. It looked so peaceful. What an illusion. Once out of the car and into the crowd, I sensed high intensity. There are only two kinds of individuals who do these events: those who seek out pain to see if they can conquer it and those who don't know any better. I tried not to get too close to any of them. Instead, when I spotted a canteen across the road, I headed for a cup of java. When I got back, I remembered that I needed to pick out a couple of passengers for the return trip, otherwise I'd have to pay a fee to drive the Toll Road. I decided on an ideal prototype: no one too effusive; I wanted two more-or-less mellow competitors. But it was like going to the dog pound. How do you really know what you're getting? I went on a random walk and came back with two guys. We agreed to meet at the end of the Cog Railroad at the top. By 7:10, the drivers were given the go-ahead and started up the mountain. It's an average 18% grade, so Toll Road officials advise you to keep your car in low gear and pull off to the side if the engine starts overheating. I especially liked the sign that explains the absence of guardrails. If you're afraid of heights, it reads, you should probably reconsider your trip. I love sharp drops, so I threw it into low gear and hit the gas. The ride up is fun, in a car anyway. There are lots of expansive views. Someone broke down on a curve at a cliff. Heart thumping, I pulled around him just where the road dipped toward the drop. The adrenaline rushed. Ahhh, a brush with death! The road rose constantly for the first four miles. After that I was above the treeline and found a combination of grades. Since the mountain is closed to cyclists except for this annual event, first-time pedalers spend much of the race trying to anticipate what's around each hairpin turn, balancing pace and push. At the top, inside the restaurant, those with binoculars or 20-10 vision can spot the lead riders after about 45 minutes, on a tiny bit of the road that bends around the mountain two miles below. As the word spreads that ``here they come,'' the small crowd moves outside to the finish line. The first rider comes over the line at one hour and 30 seconds. He's the returning champion, 27-year-old Josephina Street from Willow Grove, Pa.. I want to talk to him but am decidedly intimidated. Is he one of those type-A pit bulls? How else could you make it up that mountain so fast? It turns out his mother was the nice lady I was talking to in the restaurant. I summon my courage. To my delight, he's a soft spoken, articulate and very polite young man who doesn't seem bothered by my silly questions. How does he train in the flat Philly suburbs? ``You just ride until you find a hill,'' he tells me. ``Then you ride up and down it a lot.'' Sounds easy. I'm thinking I'll register next year. I run out of riveting questions for Mr. Sneed and head back toward the finish line. The mere mortals are now coming through and pain is the main theme. One guy slows to a grind on the really steep bit and tips over. He hits the pavement and ends upside down on the hill; his legs are quivering. The digital clock at the finish shows one hour and 50 minutes. Where's my brother? Then I remember that he started in the third wave, 20 minutes behind the first one. He's not late, yet. Sure enough, within minutes I spot a guy in a faded green T-shirt on the final turn; it's him. When I think he's within ear shot, I begin rooting for him by name. Someone in the crowd thinks I've shouted for ``Eric,'' and the whole crowd starts cheering him on as Erica. He crosses the finish and race aides throw a blanket on his back while he hunches over the handle bars gasping for air. I'm blas&eacute;. This is how almost everyone has finished. Some were in even worse shape and had to be removed from their bicycles by a foursome of race ``undertakers.'' When he catches his breath, I ask how that 22% incline went. ``I had every intention of getting off the bike,'' he says, ``but there was some guy named Ericka behind me and I wasn't gonna let him catch me.'' His adjusted time is one hour and 37 minutes. He's elated. But I'm worried about my two other passengers, who are still nowhere to be seen. At three hours I inquire with command control and am told that there are five stragglers. My guys finally surface, one as the fifth to last, pushing his bike, the other second to last. On the way down the mountain in the car, they are not the least bit effusive--ideal passengers. By noon, my brother and I are heading for the Stowe bike trail in Vermont, which has my kind of hills--flat ones. This whole thing was so tiring. I need a nap. Patrick can drive. Ms. O'Graig edits the Journal's Americas column.
VastPress 2011 Vastopolis
