Over the Hill

Hurricane Road is a long, steep, hill past farms, fields, and stone walls that ends in Westmoreland, the next town over. I started biking to the top in May when I got my bike cleats for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t yet gone over the other side, with my feet secured to the bike that is.

I have been trying to gain the skills and the strength. The last time I went over Hurricane hill was last fall on my new bike, which has much thinner tires than my old mountain bike, I got going too fast and lost control. I yelled to my husband who was behind me. As if he could do anything to help a careening out of control bicycle 50 yards in front of him.

He told me brake. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I had. Just a little too late. I came skidding to a stop on a sandy shoulder of the road. It scared me. The last time I lost control of my bike was on Ferncliff Road in Franklin in third grade.

The bike cleats were a surprise. I have been getting more and more serious about biking at this point in life. It puts less stress on the joints, is a good cardiovascular workout, and a way to whittle away those hips and thighs. I tried a potato peeler…too much blood.

Clamping my feet onto the bike forced me to learn how to bike again. The first time on them, I fell scraping my knee badly. I was a few miles out on a bike trail on Cape Cod. It was raining. I had to pee. I was bleeding. Like Curt Schilling, I came home with a bloody sock.

You have to learn how to snap your feet in and out of pedal clamps. It’s supposed to be a quick click. But for me it’s more of a desperate scramble, kind like if you had a snake in your sleeping bag. Clicking and shifting gears has to be done ahead of time. Instead of checking out people’s landscaping, I have to keep my eyes on the road.

I need to build confidence and skill before taking the new bike and shoes over the other side of Hurricane. The way up is a long, steady climb. I had been working on just going to the top, then turning around and heading back home. The other side of the hill is a steep descent translating into a tough climbing back up the hill.

The cleats connect you to your bike, giving a much more intense workout. I feel it in my core as wall as my quads. I’ve even get sore pects from maintaining the low stance on this touring bike.

But today I was ready. The weather was perfect: low seventies, sunny, and breezy. I had done six consecutive days of P90X so I was in the zone. Not to mention the fact, that I had been watching my husband watch the Tour de France on television for the last 9 days.

I was secretly wishing I had on elbow and knee pads, just in case. Like spider veins aren’t bad enough. I don’t want scars to explain. “I was climbing a hill when I got too tired to pedal any longer so I fell over sideways.” Secret confession: that’s how I fell on Cape Cod. Double secret confession: I even fell over last week when I had one foot on the ground, the other clamped in, at a stop sign, in front of my house.

No matter. I am woman hear me roar. I was on a mission. I passed a woman my age walking a beagle. A woman with a long gray pony tail riding a motorcycle. A frail, tiny woman on a porch of a large white farmhouse. For all these woman, I would go over the hill today.

I took it easy coming down the other side, never enjoying any of my momentum, but still able to hear, above the sound of Mary J. Blige on my iPod above my Blue Cross/Blue Shield insurance card flapping from my zippered sweatshirt where I had attached it for the convenience of the ER staff.

With the descent behind me, I took a long drink of water, and set my pace for the climb back up. In the lowest gear, I was actually able to discover a recovery zone, where I could catch my breath a bit while still climbing in between standing climbing stints.

As I approached the sign marker for Keene, I could see the top of the hill on the horizon. I collected myself for one last push. Failing wasn’t an option. It was like childbirth. I was going to find a focal point and breathe my way through it. At the top, I expected Queen to blare out “We are the champions of the world,” clapping lines of people to cheer, and a pit crew to approach me in a small car to hand me a sports drink like a relay baton.

Instead, a small gray squirrel with an acorn in its mouth was beginning to pass from the other side. He examined me for a moment, no doubt to gauge how quickly I was approaching, in order to determine whether he had time to cross before I arrived. He turned back. “Yes my little friend,” I said, “I’m faster than you are.”