Potato Chip Hill
Back in 1997 my dad and I credit card camped and rode our bikes around Lopez and San Juan Island for a few days. I had my souped-up steel Serrotta and my dad rode his titanium Serrotta machine. I had been riding a lot around Seattle, but I wasn't the kind who actively sought out big hills on my own. That whole "comfort zone" thing. My dad, however, being a testosterone-driven cyclist from the Appalachian hills of western Pennsylvania absolutely loved climbing on his bike. The more the merrier, the harder the better. His climbing prowess was even more nauseating because he had recently shed almost 40 lbs by strictly restricting his food consumption to the point of lowering his body fat to about 10%. He didn't look particularly healthy to my mom and me, but he could ride and climb like a beast.
My memories of our trip to the San Juans are of: gray skies, a few raindrops, lots and lots of big hills, my dad riding out front the whole way, me complaining about the hills the whole trip, me dropping out one day because I was so tired of hills, and most of all - Potato Chip Hill.
One of the toughest climbs was a hill through the middle of San Juan Island. The map said this was one of the flattest roads, but it was punctuated by this one huge hill. My dad said we could do it and he'd wait for me at the top. I remember going really slow upwards as he rode away….thinking how much I hated hills…the revolutions of my pedal stroke getting slower and slower…seeing a cow pasture on my right in the valley below…a guardrail the whole way up the serpentine road…one endless, winding turn after the other…one more steep grade after the other. Mentally, I was taking my weakness out on my dad.
He did meet me at the top and was happy to see me. But, he had a little speech prepared. He gloated about how great it is climbing when you've lost weight. That all you have to do is get rid of the junk food and the weight just peels off. He's never felt better. Like it's so fucking easy to lose weight and the skies open and the angels fucking sing to you. “Whatever,” I thought. Just get me the fuck off this stupid island. I suck. I’m a loser. I can’t climb like you. I get the message. I've never, ever forgotten that day.
Fast forward to 2005 and this past week riding Rosemary around the islands with fat panniers. I had been doing a stupendous job climbing the hills with and without the panniers, stunning myself on the steep sections without walking one step. One of the greatest moments was climbing the hill that rises straight out of Lime Kiln State Park. Straight the fuck up. As we looked up from the bottom I said to my friend, "I might have to walk this one." But I didn't. Rosemary didn't let me stop. We kept pedaling, kept crawling, kept straining to get our load up this steep ass climb. When I thought Rosemary would topple over, she gave a boost and we moved forward. We did the first section, it petered out for a bit, then went straight up again. This is when I really dug in. I screamed, I strained, I grunted, I swore. I was Jan Ulrich not giving up. I wouldn't give up. I was going to get the fuck up this hill and I didn't care if I had to stop a thousand cars to wait for me. As the hill finally crested, I smiled and nodded to myself. I was pretty fucking awesome. Good job, girl.
But the real test was Potato Chip Hill. My nemesis from 8 years ago. As my friend and I traveled back to Friday Harbor on that road with our full loads, I knew what lay in front of me. A very small part of me thought, "Well, it's ok if you walk, just do your best for as long as you can. Not only are you riding on one gear, but you're toting 30 extra pounds on the back." But there was a bigger part of me that wanted to chew up this hill and spit it all over the ground. As we approached the bottom of the hill, its memory loomed in front of me. The guard rail. The cow pasture. The serpentine of black asphalt curving high and disappearing around a bend.
Rosemary and I began going up. I kept pedaling. I kept moving. Yes, moving. Once again when I thought we couldn't go any faster, Rosemary dug in and I felt acceleration under my feet. It was slow and my cadence was grinding. Certainly not the swift, smooth stroke of Lance going through the Alps, but I was doing it. I was climbing up this goddamned hill! I was so strong and I was annihilating that cursed day from years ago. The road curved around and more climbing lay in front of me, but I ate it up. Give me more you fucking road! I'll take it all! You can't stop me from climbing this hill! Finally I saw the pull-off area to the side at the crest of the hill. I rode a little farther just because I could. I stopped. I smiled. I started to cry the exhaustive cry of triumph and defeating something that has taunted you and beat you for years. I climbed this fucking hill and I was so awesome. Not only did I do it so strongly, but I did it on a 44x18 gear with full panniers. Standing at this spot 8 years ago listening to my dad's speech, would I have ever thought this would be me standing here now? Nothing, but nothing could take it away from me because I did it myself and earned every inch of it.
My friend came up behind me a few minutes later and we had some water. She said, "Good job," and I said “Thanks,” but said nothing more. I was content where I was and needed nothing else. My demon had been slain.
Me and Rosemary in a happy place.