Day Sixty Five: Mighty Mighty Monarch Pass
5:50AM: Wake to semi-darkness in Mark and Loni’s biker shack; 48 degrees; nothing moves. Exit by 6:30, rousing Rob from his dormant position on the lawn, he’s been alternating between rest and sleep since yesterday afternoon.
Sleepy mountain town streets are vacant, our hands shake, so unaccustomed to cold, we stop into the only place open with warm food, a small cafe next to the bakery (lazy bakers?), eat two oatmeals with half a coffee (you never can pay for half). Shortly after 7 we tell ourselves that’s it, no more delays, it’s time to begin….
Hard to overstate how energetically nervous I had been for today’s climb. Monarch Pass will climb for fourteen miles to a 11,312 foot ridge of the continental divide, between San Isabel National Forest on the Atlantic side and Gunnison on the Pacific. We ease into 8,000 feet as shuttered skiier’s cabins give way to rural mountain farmlands; fishermen gather by a {deep} reservoir at the base of the first few mountain ridges; round the corner besides sparkling rocks beneath a pristine clearwater river gurgling beside the road. Up, up, up, a few cars pass with mountain biked to rear racks, the occasional beep or gleeful cheer recognizes our progress.
The six mile sign marks our only true indication of where we stand in the climb, and comes much earlier than expected; though six miles at a 6 — 9 percent grade promises another couple hours of riding. A half hour later we break to stretch our throbbing hammies at the base of Monarch ski mountain; a hiker parks his car on the gravel pulloff and sets up hill for a climb to Waterdog Lakes
By 9,000 feet I’m getting slammed by the thinning atmosphere, swallow heaping gasps of oxygen despite slugging upwards at a snail’s pace in my lowest gear. I remain in this state for several hours; my legs are strong but without sufficient oxygen they morph into pool noodles. I sputter off the road for a short break, nothing happens but gasping breaths and a few energy chews, a few minutes later my motivation to DO THIS as Shia Labouffe would say sets me back on the bike and I assault my legs one more time, one-two, one-two, up, up, up, up.
SUMMIT! I’m high as hell from the endorphins and lack of oxygen; I’m a hyenic over-caffeinated nitrous junkie shot towards Mars; I can’t stand still, I’m too dizzy and unbearably happy; I pace around clomping my boots hard onto the ground, grinning wildly, fighting off bouts of out-loud laughter. Lizzie arrives and we. embrace and ask tourists for some photos; how did I ever convince her to do this?!
Minutes later I succumb to uncontrollable laughter in the bathroom, bursting into giggles on toilet as I envision some poor car tourist entering to find me in euphoric laggard state, hooping gargantuan breaths from the stall as I simply cannot catch my breath, picture him thinking THE HORROR AN UNSEEMLY CREATURE LURKING IN THE STALL; I giggle and snort even harder realizing that giggling and snorting behind a stall is no better than huffy breathing, making me laugh and huff all the more.
A few minutes later er bike the downhill from the pass at fifty miles per hour, only stopping when we spot a spicket carrying stream water from the mountains through a frosty tube.
Later, three arnold palmers and a large veggie pizza.
Splurging on a motel room.
A Harry Potter marathon on the tele.
A pint of local mint moose tracks ice cream.
Day done.
