Today: 70.7 Miles - AVG Speed 12.2MPH – Top Speed 38.6MPH
Total: 3,386.2
Be prepared for some statistics here, things are about to get mathematical.
Today was a day of extreme variations and a reminder of the harsh realities of cycling. Before today, my highest constant climb had been approximately 2,500 feet and that was after 5 days in Maine. I also had a few days of 5,000+ feet of climbing in The Ozarks, but the ascents were matched by glorious downhills to give my legs some respite. Today would be approximately 4,000ft of climbing, but it would be constant for 15 miles where the peak would be over two miles above sea level. By far the longest uphill of the trip and, unsurprisingly, my life.
The early morning sun lit up Salida and the temperature was a comfortable 85 Fahrenheit (29 celsius) I knew this would drop considerably as I made the long and arduous ascent up Monarch Mountain, but at least the sun was shining. There were headwinds to battle early on, but my most serious concern was the traffic. For a state that is held in such high regard for it’s promotion of the outdoor lifestyle, from what I’ve seen, Colorado has very few provisions for cyclists, and this includes a decent width shoulder on the way to the Monarch Pass. This lack of foresight for vulnerable cyclists combined with the disregard from motorists, in particular RV owners, made for a day of not only physical exertion, but also mental strain, the fear of being driven into a ravine or crushed against a rock face leading me to constantly arch my neck and pull over whenever I deemed it a risk.
The next battle was with the altitude. After about 8,500 feet I began to notice the thinning of the air and had to pay close attention to my breathing, the lack of oxygen was severely limiting my muscle movement and despite the gradient on the climb not being as steep as The Ozarks or The Green Mountains this caused a much greater strain on my body. With six miles to go I found myself stopping every other mile for water so as not to be gasping for breath whilst drinking in motion. After three hours of slow and steady climbing I reached the summit of 11,312 feet and immediately noticed the chill in the air upon disembarking from my steed. It is not uncommon to have snow closures on this pass even in July, so goose-pimpled knackers were the least to be expected. I stopped for 15 minutes to get some breath and pictures before taking a good look at the map and realising that it would be a steep downhill for 10 miles followed by a constant decline in elevation for the next 32 miles all the way to Gunnison. Glorious, or so I thought.
The initial descent was exhilarating. After a climb of that magnitude, the thrills of going at speed down a winding mountain with views to die for is the stuff of fantasy. But it was after the gradient lessened that the views that greeted me also surprised me. No longer was I looking at sharp, alpine like mountains, but instead, rolling green hills dotted with cattle and streams. It was as if I had just left Switzerland for the Brecon Beacons. And with the apparent change in nation, came a certain change in weather. The storms clouds weren’t so much gathering as jostling for prime position in the skies above. Lightning rods struck the ground with increasing regularity and then the heavens opened. And they didn’t stop for the next two hours. No wonder this country has so many god-fearing citizens. Every-time someone farts during a sermon there must be at least one weekly storm in the local area that could be construed as punishment from on-high, that or continued drought. There is apparently no such thing as drizzle in the Land of the Free.
By the time I arrived in Gunnison I was again, soaked through, but felt fortunate to find The Wanderlust hostel, and it is from here that I type under my Navajo Indian bed linen with aching legs. No doubt looking like a pallid and agonised Pocahontas.
Total: 3,386.2
Be prepared for some statistics here, things are about to get mathematical.
Today was a day of extreme variations and a reminder of the harsh realities of cycling. Before today, my highest constant climb had been approximately 2,500 feet and that was after 5 days in Maine. I also had a few days of 5,000+ feet of climbing in The Ozarks, but the ascents were matched by glorious downhills to give my legs some respite. Today would be approximately 4,000ft of climbing, but it would be constant for 15 miles where the peak would be over two miles above sea level. By far the longest uphill of the trip and, unsurprisingly, my life.
The early morning sun lit up Salida and the temperature was a comfortable 85 Fahrenheit (29 celsius) I knew this would drop considerably as I made the long and arduous ascent up Monarch Mountain, but at least the sun was shining. There were headwinds to battle early on, but my most serious concern was the traffic. For a state that is held in such high regard for it’s promotion of the outdoor lifestyle, from what I’ve seen, Colorado has very few provisions for cyclists, and this includes a decent width shoulder on the way to the Monarch Pass. This lack of foresight for vulnerable cyclists combined with the disregard from motorists, in particular RV owners, made for a day of not only physical exertion, but also mental strain, the fear of being driven into a ravine or crushed against a rock face leading me to constantly arch my neck and pull over whenever I deemed it a risk.
The next battle was with the altitude. After about 8,500 feet I began to notice the thinning of the air and had to pay close attention to my breathing, the lack of oxygen was severely limiting my muscle movement and despite the gradient on the climb not being as steep as The Ozarks or The Green Mountains this caused a much greater strain on my body. With six miles to go I found myself stopping every other mile for water so as not to be gasping for breath whilst drinking in motion. After three hours of slow and steady climbing I reached the summit of 11,312 feet and immediately noticed the chill in the air upon disembarking from my steed. It is not uncommon to have snow closures on this pass even in July, so goose-pimpled knackers were the least to be expected. I stopped for 15 minutes to get some breath and pictures before taking a good look at the map and realising that it would be a steep downhill for 10 miles followed by a constant decline in elevation for the next 32 miles all the way to Gunnison. Glorious, or so I thought.
The initial descent was exhilarating. After a climb of that magnitude, the thrills of going at speed down a winding mountain with views to die for is the stuff of fantasy. But it was after the gradient lessened that the views that greeted me also surprised me. No longer was I looking at sharp, alpine like mountains, but instead, rolling green hills dotted with cattle and streams. It was as if I had just left Switzerland for the Brecon Beacons. And with the apparent change in nation, came a certain change in weather. The storms clouds weren’t so much gathering as jostling for prime position in the skies above. Lightning rods struck the ground with increasing regularity and then the heavens opened. And they didn’t stop for the next two hours. No wonder this country has so many god-fearing citizens. Every-time someone farts during a sermon there must be at least one weekly storm in the local area that could be construed as punishment from on-high, that or continued drought. There is apparently no such thing as drizzle in the Land of the Free.
By the time I arrived in Gunnison I was again, soaked through, but felt fortunate to find The Wanderlust hostel, and it is from here that I type under my Navajo Indian bed linen with aching legs. No doubt looking like a pallid and agonised Pocahontas.
Life and Death.
the higher we get, the more we see.
Slightly different angle. Why? You ask. I dunno, it looked nice.
Why not just use comic sans and be done with it.
A memento of your trip, sir?
err, no.
Into the Welsh Valleys we go.
WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN SHOWING ME THE SAME IMAGE TWICE?
Dunno.
Their croissants are MASSIVE here.
RSS Feed