Climbing, ripping, growing

It is the highest point in Massachusetts. The road was recently paved. Its profile closely resembles the Col D'Aspin, a fabled climb of the Tour de France. Its peak was shrouded in clouds all day today. Forty percent chance of rain.

I happened to be in North Adams, with my bike. Of course, I had to ride up Mount Greylock. I just hadn't gotten around to it, until today.

I took a nice warm-up out Massachusetts Avenue, to Williamstown, about 40 minutes or so. Raindrops mixed with patches of sun. I took the right turn on Notch Road, a surprisingly nondescript spot from which to begin such an epic climb. I left busy Route 2 behind, and the road immediately began to rise. My legs felt rubbery, and the thick, humid air seemed to stick to my lungs. I was out of the saddle on the very modest rise, passing people cutting lawns, kids playing.

I soon turned right, and started into the park, and the road pitched up even more sharply. I put my head down, and slowly turned my lowest gear, trying to keep my breathing even. My heart rate monitor wasn't working, which was just as well. The relevant information was all there, in the form of my labored breaths, the creaks of my cleats, and the sound of the tires on the new pavement.

Climb inside yourself, I've read in more than one place. Go at your own pace. But there's often another meaning to that phrase. Climb inside yourself--scaling a grade on a bike allows me to climb into my mind. It's a narrow focus. It's an elegantly simple proposition: keep the wheels moving, stay upright. Sure enough, my mind opened itself. I thought about how I haven't been riding that often or that hard recently. I thought about how the muscles of my legs were hosting little explosions, as the glycogen burned, as the fibers of the muscles were being stretched and torn. I'll be stronger because of this, I thought. I'll feel it in a couple of days. That's good.

I continued riding, fairly straight, but my mind was turning corners. I thought of Monday, when I was helping a dear soul make some sense of her yard. We'd cleared a small patch, turned over some soil, and planted a few things: hosta, astilbe, tomatoes, basil, and tiger lilies transplanted from my own yard. I've learned that it's best to be a bit rough with plants: tear those root balls a bit, really separate them. So I did. My friend, pulling weeds, was aghast when I urged her to do the same. "It's alive--I don't want to hurt it!" It does seem counterintuitive, but I assured her that it's the way to go. She and I are transplants, too, and we both know a lot about ripping and tearing, then growing. It's humbling and empowering at the same time.

My muscles continued their quiet fusillades as I rocked the bike a bit to get more leverage around the switchbacks, the hairpin turns designed to make the Greylock road more manageable for motorized traffic. The switchbacks began to take on the appearance of a jester's lopsided, sinister smirk, sharp and steep on the low, inside corner, flatter toward the outside.

Twelve switchbacks in all, and I was seeing clear sky and tiny landscapes to my right, and increasingly scrubby pines on my left. I got a small wave from inside a Williams College van, a nod from a descending cyclist, and a bemused glance from two chipmunks. More clouds than sun. I avoided checking my mileage, and kept focusing on the road immediately ahead. I must have checked my jersey zipper (already unzipped) and rear derailleur (still in the lowest gear) at least twenty times. I got the distinct sensation that I was riding into a cloud. It was hard to imagine that this same piece of pavement started in gritty Wednesday-morning North Adams.

The road flattened out a bit, and I began to see sky on both sides. I rounded a corner, feeling a surge of energy, and saw the sign for the summit: elevation 3491 feet. I circled the monument, originally intended to be a lighthouse. That seemed appropriate: as I looked out over the railing at the top of the mountain, I felt that I might have been at sea level, looking out over a very low fog over a calm shoreline. No matter: my legs and lungs knew the deal. My breathing took on that deep, slow rhythm that tells me all is well in my body and mind.

I rolled past a rock, noticed a stanza on it, and went back. Words from Henry David Thoreau:

"As the light increased, I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the base of the tower and shut out every vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland. . . .

I lingered for a few minutes, inhaled some bits of clouds, zipped my jersey, and set off for the long, speedy descent. I knew my legs would carry me home. I knew I'd be stronger for my effort. Cycling tells me again and again that I can. I can, and sometimes it takes climbing and ripping in order to grow.

Why do people put on silly clothes and propel their bicycles up ridiculously steep slopes, dawdle for a while, then descend in a breathless, 40-mile-an-hour isometric rollercoaster? Well, why do people do anything?