2020 has been a chaotic year, to say the least. Ever since mid March, life as we knew it proceeded to collapse in spectacular fashion. Millions of people lost their jobs while the rich got richer. Civil unrest flared up, having finally boiled over from past decades of injustice. The world is both metaphorically and physically on fire right now.
I am very fortunate to still be employed. I have my health and family and friends and so much to be grateful for. But at some point in the last few months, I found myself reaching a breaking point. How much longer will this go on? Is this really normal life now? When will the US government get their act together? No one knows the answers to these questions and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to resort to hopelessness.
For the sake of my sanity, I turned to biking. Through the spring and summer, I rode nearly every day. I fell into a rhythm of riding the local trails and low traffic roads in rotation. When restrictions started to ease up, I dared to set cycling goals for myself, writing them down like that could make them come true. And from there I thought I would find some semblance of control over my life again.
The most memorable of these goals was my ride up Mount Evans. It stands at an elevation of 14,260′ and is about 35 miles west of Denver, just south of Idaho Springs, CO. It also hosts the highest paved road in North America. So on one crisp August morning, I drove myself and my bike on up to a humble parking lot off I-70, got my things together, and started to ride.
The average grade of Mount Evans is about 5.5%, and ranges from 3% to 10%. It is a fairly steady climb, with one small downhill at Summit Lake, which in some cruel twist of fate is 5 miles away from the actual summit.
The ride can be split in two halves: from Idaho Springs to Echo Lake, and then from Echo Lake to the summit. The first half wasn’t so bad. It felt like a nice, easy Sunday ride. Mount Evans is located in the Arapaho National Forest, and so I was truly one with nature among the trees. My inner Lorax seemed to be coming out throughout the ride, full of gratitude for being here in this moment, though mixed with a little sadness too. Paved roads make it so much easier to travel and see new places, but at what cost? How much of the world do we need to cover in concrete and asphalt before it’s enough?
I was feeling pretty good when I reached Echo Lake. It gave me a little thrill to see the road closed off to cars, while my fellow cyclists snuck on by the barrier. The stretch of road from Echo Lake to the summit is closed to cars this year, in the name of road maintenance. It would make for a much more relaxing ride. Or so I thought.
The road kept on ascending and I kept on pushing my pedals. This isn’t so bad, I thought, this is what I’ve been doing all along. Some stretches had a higher grade than others, or were extra windy. In those moments, when I thought I might be blown off my bike, all I could do was hold on, keep my balance, and keep moving.
Slowly but surely, I made it above treeline. The stark contrast between the endless sea of green and barren land was impressive. I might have appreciated it more if I hadn’t been riding for three hours already, but at that point I was pretty much focused on my goal and not much else. Although it was pretty neat to see Echo Lake from higher up.
At one point, I passed by two cyclists taking a break. I remember smiling at them out of reflex. While I rode by, one of them said: “That’s not going to happen.” Of course they could have been referring to anything, but in that moment their voice seemed so loud. And all the doubt I had bottled up inside me was beginning to come out.
My bike is nothing fancy. It’s a flat bar hybrid ideal for greenway cruises and easy rides to Sunday brunch. It’s covered in stickers, scuffs and scratches from over the last five years. It’s one of my most prized possessions. But as I rode up and up, I couldn’t help but notice that basically everyone else had a real, legit road bike. Sleek carbon affairs with drop bars, cycling specific shoes clipped in. Tight jerseys galore. The works. There were one or two people with bikes like mine, but they really were a rarity.
Were those complete strangers calling me out so baldly, expressing their doubt without hesitation? What if I was a fool for attempting this ride with such ill-suited gear? What if they weren’t even thinking about me at all? What if, what if. Maybe they were projecting. Maybe they had given up themselves. Maybe I could just try my best to ignore them, brush off the incident, and keep on riding.
By the time I reached Summit Lake, my legs were really feeling it. I took a longer break here, ate some snacks, watched the mountain goats trot on by with their babies. It was getting colder now. We definitely weren’t in Kansas anymore. For a second, I thought about turning back. It would be so easy. I would just have to start coasting. Could I make it to the summit by noon? It seemed unlikely. The summer afternoon storms at such a high elevation could be deadly, or so I had heard. And yet it seemed like a pity to give up now.
For better or for worse, I started to climb once again. The switchbacks got tighter, the air got thinner. Around mile 13 a headache started to settle in. I don’t remember if I had painkillers with me. I don’t remember if there were any thoughts in my head at all. At this point I was a cycling machine, pounding the pedals. I had no other purpose than to ride and ascend further than I ever had before. It was a surreal feeling, rising up above the surrounding mountains, only looking up.
After one more switchback, I coasted into a parking lot and looked around. This was it, this really was it. I had made it. It was cold and windy here, threatening to knock me and my bike over. There were just a couple other cyclists milling around. I took plenty of photos, for posterity, and I couldn’t stop thinking I really made it.
The descent back to Idaho Springs was screaming fast and one of the most fun times of my life. As I flew down, eventually reaching trees once again, I couldn’t stop smiling. Even when cold rain began to fall, I found myself feeling grateful for my jacket and gloves, for my brakes. And once the rain passed, it left the world misty and refreshed. I coasted down the endless turns and long stretches I had worked so hard to ride up earlier, and focused my weight heavy into the pedals. I let the world rush on by and I had never felt so alive until this moment.
In the end, this wasn’t such a relaxing ride. It was hard, it was painful. When I got home that afternoon I could just barely walk. But somehow, the days after the ride felt a little dull in comparison. And even now, I still smile to myself when I think of this day.
The world is still more or less falling apart. There really is no end in sight to this pandemic. This kind of long term stress isn’t healthy, and sometimes you just have to take your bike up a mountain in order to find some peace. To remind yourself of what matters and to find hope for tomorrow.
There isn’t much I would change about this ride. It was a beautiful day. I had plenty of food and water, and lived to tell the tale. But maybe, just maybe next time I will take an actual road bike up, like an actual road cyclist. Or I might not! Anything is possible when you’re 24 and a little reckless.
Stay tuned for a Pikes Peak ride report, it’s next on my list and I can’t wait to attempt it!
Eunice Wang 