October 1, 2007

Greetings from where I rest,


For three days I rode the roller coaster between towns, pedaling up hills and down, making my way through the thick forestland of western Colorado.   Behind me was the desert of Nevada, the Uintah Mountains of Utah, distinct challenges on their own.  Now I found myself biking along tree lined two-lane roads, giant rock formations on one side, huge valleys on the other.  Water rushed down the rocks into ravines along the roads, fresh and icy cold from the snowmelt above.  This is where I began the final climb to Trail Ridge pass.  

Thirty-one years ago, late July, there is snow in the mountains around me.  At times as I grind over a crest I can look back and see the forests I have been riding through these last few days only now looking down from the tops of the trees in the thin air thousands of feet above the valleys where I began.

Trail Ridge Pass is often closed in winter because the snow is too deep, the roads too treacherous for even the brave souls accustomed to mountain driving.  Approaching from the west, the road is a series of switchbacks, lacing through the woods, traversing up the Rocky Mountain range to the pass 12,183 feet above sea level.

There in the July sun, I climbed toward the pass, an afternoon of incredible effort, unbelievable beauty, and unforgettable clarity.  

Coasting.

All of us have experienced the thrill of barreling down a sidewalk in a wagon, or maybe on a bike, the wind in our face, the light roar in our ears. It is one of life’s treats, a thrill for children.  Adults too, if they let go long enough to allow it.

Coasting is a reward, you earned it.  You pedaled or pushed up a hill, invested some energy, it’s your right to redeem that.  It might be the reason you worked so hard to begin with.  Or at least much of the reason.

At the bottom of the hill there is a moment when you feel the physics change, the momentum fade.  You can sense your ride is coming to an end.  You can choose to coast to a stop, or to use the remaining momentum to push yourself to the next thing.

Every day we wind ourselves up and propel away from the mattress and begin the climb toward whatever we have in mind.  There are days when the effort is enormous, when the challenges in front of us demand all the energy we have.  And, there are times when we expend what is needed just to keep moving forward, dealing with slight rises and level places in the horizon giving only what is needed at the moment, perhaps saving ourselves for bigger days.  In any case we keep pushing forward.   

Some of us are working toward the time when we reach the top that we will be able to coast.  Maybe just for awhile, an afternoon or a few minutes between phone calls.  Maybe to coast until we can catch our breath.  Some of us are looking to the place where maybe we can coast for the rest of our lives.

Therein lies the trap.

Man is most alive when he attempts, strives, climbs.  Yes the ride down the other side can be exhilarating, but it is not what we are designed for, it is not a destiny to build a life around.  

The whole concept of coasting is easy for me to discuss this morning because I am on vacation.  Suzanne and I are floating off the coast of Greece, basking in the sun, paddling in the water, planning outings among ancient ruins.  In the few days since we left home we have eaten more meals than we normally do in a full week.  It is just the beginning of our week away, but I can already feel the knots loosening.  

Someone once said: “Rest long enough to gather strength.”  It sounds sort of harsh when there is no context, as if we should wait until we drop to our knees from exhaustion, and then only until the sweat dries on our forehead.  

But it is a far more kind instruction.  It says:  “Don’t overlook the value in taking the time to recharge, to refresh physically and mentally.”  And the rest is: “Don’t make coasting a way of life.”

Rest long enough to gather strength.   This has been a good rule, hard to follow, which is true of many good rules.  I am guilty of ignoring the body’s need to recover, of ignoring the need to sit face to face with my wife, my family, my friends, and just soak them in.  Too often I confuse activity with accomplishment, thinking that as long as I am grinding forward I am living my potential.

This kind of recklessness often tosses me on the rocks, exhausted, angry and frustrated.  Worse, it is the kind of life that alienate the people I care most for, living their own lives,  looking for the time when I might stop long enough to rest with them.  

We all have been at the other end of that pendulum swing, when perhaps we are idle so long we become inert, lethargic, and the energy needed to begin again is more than we can muster. There are times when we only look for the moments we can coast again.


My feet are locked in my pedals in leather cleated shoes, marshaling every bit of strength in my legs to rotate the pedals around again and again to keep from tipping over on the road.  I am barely moving the bike up the road, cars are veering around me on the switchbacks.  My breathing is harsh and labored with the effort moving up into the altitude toward the pass.  

I am above the tree line now, where snow still hides in the crevasses and shady places.  Occasionally I can peek to one side, careful not to look away too long for fear of crashing, and I can see the world stretch out to the west.

The day has ebbed away, and it is nearly dinner time as I approach the final pull toward the top.  My legs are burning with fatigue, my arms are sore, my hands numb from gripping the handlebars.  Sweat is crusted beneath the brim of my hat.  

I crest the final rise and relief spreads through me, I see no more hill to climb.  In any direction.  I pull to the side of the road, unclip my feet from the stirrups and stand next to my bike.  My legs and arms are shaking.  I look back across the range of mountains, hundreds of miles to the west, and I can see back in time.  The last few days of my journey stretch out for me to see and beyond that nothing but horizon.


It is an incredible moment, standing at the top of the world, but the cool air urges me forward.  To the east, miles below, is Estes Park.  After a while, I swing my leg over the saddle and begin the ride down.  

In less than a mile I begin to be a little afraid.  I’ve heard stories of cyclists crashing on roads like this; passing out from the altitude, or brakes overheating, or missing a turn at high speed.

Now my eyes are watering so that I can barely see, and the wind is thundering in my ears.  I keep tapping the brakes to control the speed but it is almost too tempting to simply give in to the force and see how fast it will take me.  I move from the switchbacks into some straightaways and give the bike its head and soon I am straining to keep the front wheel on the ground.

I am passing groups of cars clustered here and there in small traffic jams.  In the clear again I let the bike pick up speed again.  A motorcycle appears in my rear view mirror and I slide over to let him pass.  I can barely hear his engine over the scream of the wind, and so it’s hard to hear him as he shouts at me.  He’s telling me  ‘….fifty miles an hour’.

It is more than coasting, it is more like riding a meteor toward earth.  The thrill of the ride is irresistible, and zooming past all the cars that passed me on the other side of Trail Ridge Pass gives me an almost sinful feeling.  I blaze past the entrance to Rocky Mountain National park, and the last miles into Estes.  

Now the road begins to level some, and my speed becomes more sane.  The temperature has gone up, the humidity begins to wrap around me.  Finally I coast to a stop, a rather anticlimactic finish to an incredible ride, and stand in the parking lot of a party store and look back up the road I just left.  After a time, I swing the bike around and began pedaling back up, not to the pass, but pushing on to the next thing.

Here in the predawn hours of Monday morning, three decades and half a world away, I can still feel the exhilaration of that ride.  And then in the next moment, sadness.  I felt as though I had given away days of effort in a mad moment of speed down the mountain.  The coasting was fun, and it was part of the journey, but nothing will compare to the climb.  

Standing at the top of the pass, seeing what the world looked like there, inspired me to want to keep climbing.  

I am going to enjoy these days of rest.  I am ready for some coasting, a break from the grind.  I want to enjoy the time with Suzanne, to see Greece and Turkey and bask in the history here.  

And when I have rested long enough to gather strength, I will begin the climb again.

Hope this finds you with time to coast, and will to climb,        

David

Copyright © 2007 David Smith

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