Pulling into the Mt. Washington Auto Road, my eyes bulged as I looked at the peak from a new perspective… one of horror really, as I wondered to myself what the heck I was thinking when I signed up to climb the thing. It would have been a blessing if the peak was hidden in the clouds, but there it was staring back at me, stark and unmoving. “Let’s see what you got,” I heard.
Good old mom had driven over at 4:00 in the morning to drive my little civic to the peak. After 20 years of driving automatics, her skills on a stick were a bit rusty, but who was I to complain at this stage in the game. I didn’t really feel like packing my bike down.
On the bright side, what a day we had. Temps in the 50s at the top with very little wind. With all the horror stories of riders being stripped from their bikes by gusts of wind, I was more than grateful for this turnout.
Mom wished me luck as I started past the gatehouse, feeling more like I was heading past the gates of hell. No warm-up today, I’m too anxious to be on my way. The first of the climb is no joke and I pulled past the first rider in sight. The guy sounded like Puff the Magic Dragon, and I wondered whether I would see him at the top.
My strategy was to ride conservatively, recalling the exceptional wisdom imparted to me by ECVs very own Zach Johnson: “Find your own rhythm.” I learned this lesson the hard way on the Kanc two weeks earlier as I found myself lying on the side of the road looking at black spots.
I passed four or five more riders by the 2-mile mark … legs feeling pretty solid. I started seeing a lot of mom since she discovered several pull-offs on the winding route up the mountain. I was certain we’d be able to fill an entire album as she clicked away on her digital camera.
I smiled and chatted to the familiar faces I saw mile after mile, supporters who were usually getting an earful from mom. However, the chatting decreased as the miles built up under my legs and sweat dripped, ok, poured down my face. Mile 5 greeted me with a view full of switchbacks. The packed dirt that replaced the earlier pavement didn’t help matters either. At one point, I actually looked down at my back tire to make sure I hadn’t flatted. Nope, must be the bungee they attached to me at the parking lot.
I watched as my Cateye passed the 1 hour mark, and marveled that the heavy hitters would be reaching the peak by now. Less than 30 minutes to go to my expected ETA. I could see a couple guys walking their bikes in the distance as I focused on keeping my own legs churning, however slowly. I couldn’t stop thinking how grateful I was for the last-minute switch to a 24 chain ring. I’d have been lost without it.
The last time mom passed me, my faithful civic was groaning considerably. I was able to pause briefly in my suffering to muse, please God, tell me she’s shifted out of first. Oh well.
Mile mark 7 came and went quickly and I could see the observatory approaching. The route seemed to flatten a bit, but I’d heard the last little jaunt was a sick grade, something like 22 percent. Yep, they weren’t kidding. I began ascending what felt like a wall. A small crowd cheered riders on as I mistakenly hugged the inside of the last switchback, the steepest part of the road. I felt like my bike and I were going to flip over backwards as I did all I could to keep upright and moving forward. Mom’s beaming face met me as I crested the hill. I put my feet down and had to fight for my breath for a minute. Cateye read 1:31:08. Close enough. Let’s just call it a benchmark for next year.
Thanks to Mark and Stu for the gearing recommendations, Chris for the ECV getup, and Zach for never pacing me back on when I get dropped.
