Dirt season is rapidly coming to a close on the High Planes. Morning temperatures have been in the twenties for two of the last three days but not this morning. This morning it was 48 degrees when I left the cottage on my gallant steed. Knowing that I’m only going to get a few more chances this season, at least in short sleeved bikey britches, I figured I would crank up the volume a bit, see if I could throw down a big number.
I ended up with a medium number but it was a hard medium. I was in zone 4 for over an hour, zone 5 for 30+ minutes and even went anaerobic, (182 bpm) as I pushed up a big hill into the wind at the end of the ride. I wasn’t actually trying to punish myself, I just got on the wrong side of the wind. It happens sometimes, when I’m jonesing for some dirt time, and in my exuberance I don’t pay attention to which way the wind is blowing. Eventually it becomes obvious.
In this case, when I was a dozen miles from home and turned the corner into a stiff head wind that contintued to strengthen all the way in. It’s funny, I never consider the reason I’m going so fast with so little effort on the outbound leg is because the wind is at my back. Then when it’s time to loop back, it becomes painfully obvious.
It was a fun ride. It’s sort of my bent to make metaphors about the evil winds that steal my joy on these gravel excursions but it’s the one thing I can count on – the winds going to blow. I reckon it comes down to finding joy in jacking the heart rate up to about 182 bpm and mouth-breathing up a hill into a 15 mph headwind in granny gear at 9 mph or something like that.
Actually there was plenty of joy to be had. While I had the wind at my back early on, I got into an exciting race with a couple pronghorn bucks. I was flying across the gravel at close to thirty miles per hour and the turbo-goats were right there off my shoulder pacing me up the road. Muscles flexing and rippling (theirs, not mine), then they peeled off to the left and picked up the pace before disappearing over the horizon.
Then as I came flying down the hill into the Smoky Hill River, I flushed a couple of ringneck cocks and a hen. They soared on the wind for half a mile without even flapping a wing and landed deep into a field of sorghum. They made me think of Max and a tear tracked across the side of my face, partly from the rushing wind and partly from his memory. Less than a month until pheasant season and Xam won’t be big enough to hunt this year.
Then as I approached the southeast corner of the massive Cheyenne Ridge Wind Farm, I got the message, that I would be riding into the wind for the rest of the ride. Two dozen giant white props pointing soutwest, (the direction home) and spinning at a good clip. It takes 8 mph just to get them started and they were humming pretty good. My guess was 11-12 mph. Doesn’t sound that bad and it’s not in a pickup, a car or even a tractor. On a bike though going 12 mph into a 12 mph wind is pretty stiff.
I’m not bitching though, I love it. Ok, I’m bitching a little bit. It definitely works better when I go out against the wind, when I’m fresh and ride it in but it’s dangerous to have those thoughts when I’m out there with a half dozen miles to go. I saved the Clif bar and the energy drink until about mile 25. I came to the top of the hill I had been struggling up for a couple miles and caught sight of Emerald City and knew the ride was over. Five miles to town and that’s about what I had left in the tank.
So just as I was getting ready to stop and refuel I ran into a fat little rattlesnake sunning himself, (herself) in the middle of the road. Perfect. I pulled over, parked Double Cross and broke out the snacks. I sat down and tried some dialog with the little rattlesnake but it never really warmed up to the conversation, just laid there and flicked it’s tongue in and out.
It looked fat and sassy – ready to hibernate for the winter months. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet. I’ve got a trainer in the basement and I could probably get the heart rate up to 182 bpm down there but it’s not the same as ripping down the gravel road, racing pronghorns, flushing pheasant and talking to rattlesnakes.
We’ve got a plan though. Once the real cold shows up, we’ll climb aboard the 3mph bus and head for the Third Coast, where we can relax in the sun and share some time with the grandkids – they know all about the best ways to play in the dirt.