Damn you, Green Mountain!

Green Mountain, near Morrison Colorado isn’t one of the loftier peaks in the Rockies. The top is around 800 feet higher than the base and it’s only because the latter is a mile above sea level that it qualifies as a "mountain" at all. Sitting on the edge of the prairie it’s a mere wrinkle in the landscape before the foothills begin and the real Rocky Mountains get underway.

Even so, being handy for metro Denver it’s a popular haunt for local mountain bikers, the ranks of whom I’ve recently joined. My guide book describes the trail as "Ideal for beginners, as long as they don’t mind a bit of a climb." As it happens, I’ve been blessed with strings of spaghetti instead of legs, so am no great fan of climbing but I figured I could handle "a bit". After all, hadn’t I once made it to the top of Hardknott Pass in the English Lake District on my trusty 10-speed, an achievement that defeated most cars for the first few decades of motoring? Admittedly, that was a fair few years ago and I’m having more trouble than I care to admit getting back into shape but even so, how hard could it be?

Very hard as it turns out.

Not in a technical sense; the trail was smooth and manicured with none of the roots and rocks which have tormented me so while grinding uphill on my previous rides. However, the guide book had failed to impart an adequate sense of just how steep the climb was. Oh not for other people you understand, I was passed by several pedallers including one guy who looked like he’d died some time ago (and even he was breathing easily.) But me, I was in bottom gear before I was two hundred yards out of the parking lot and trying not to think about the sight of the trail winding up into the sky and the tiny dots that were my fellow bikers.

As part of the transition from road to mountain biking I’ve had to learn not to pull up on the handlebars while climbing; this having the effect of de-weighting the front wheel and lifting it off the ground. Instead the trick is to pull back on the bars, keeping the weight over the front wheel. But not too much weight, or the back wheel loses traction and spins in the dirt – see how hard this is? I was pulling back so fiercely I’m pretty sure I was dragging myself back down the hill. Still, on and on I ground despite receiving no help at all from my legs, who tend to be rather selfish at the best of times. They made their displeasure known by sending sheets of pain through every muscle to which they had access. Just when I thought the agony could get no worse, I made the mistake of glancing once more at the path ahead. A new curve had opened up showing the summit to be even further away than I’d originally thought.

My legs stopped turning of their own volition.

I sucked air for some time causing a concerned biker to stop and check on me.

"Are you OK?" he asked "Did you have a breakdown?"

"Nope, just can’t get up the hill." I told him.

He gave me an odd look, as well he might. Here I was astride a very expensive and well made mountain bike - a bike to make the most serious mountaineer drool. And yet I couldn’t make it up this beginner’s trail. What was up with that? Still, I’m plenty used to looking like an idiot so resisting the urge to invent a cover story about how I’m in rehab from some dramatic but crippling disease, I merely smiled weakly and watched him push on.

Once my breathing was back under control I made a half-hearted attempt to restart but it was obvious I wasn’t making it to the top today. Instead I contented myself with tootling around the base of the hill along with the kids on tricycles although even that had some challenging rises of 10 feet or more. Soon I was back at the car, munching on an energy bar and wishing I’d had the foresight to splatter my legs with mud so I’d blend in with the other hard cases standing around.

Still, I wasn’t beaten. This was an opportunity for a spot of character building and I vowed to return and tackle this hill again. I could come after work I reasoned, two or three times a week if necessary and push myself harder each time. If I could get a little bit further up the hill on every outing, I’d soon have it beat. Sure, it would be tough going but what a good exercise it would be. My leg muscles might be atrophied right now, but in time they’d develop and pretty soon I would laugh (ha, ha, ha, hah!) at such a trifling hill as this. You just watch. Why, I’ll start this very Tuesday!

Of course I didn’t. Two out of town conferences and a family visit to California got in the way, but I did make it back last Thursday for the rematch.

I’d eaten a solid breakfast of a bowl of oatmeal, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana. I had me headphones on with rock music a-blaring. I was wearing my favorite orange T-shirt and my lucky socks. Never mind this "a little bit further" crap; it was the top or nothing. I was invincible. This was to be my day.

Unfortunately, my legs didn’t get the memo.

"Sod off! Sod off! Sod off! We’re not doing this!" they yelled mutinously. Muscles I didn’t even know existed started to get into the act and my entire lower body was a riot of colorful pain. The PB&J started doing a polka with the oatmeal and banana and before long the bike too, started to rebel.

"Well if you’re not going to give me any support, I’m not going to do the work myself" it said and with a wobble, came to a halt. I doubt if I’d even made it half the distance I covered last time.

Oh the humiliation. At least there were fewer people to see me turn and head back down. But, once more I vowed to return and try again. And again, and again. And I’ll keep trying until I beat the bloody thing.

Perhaps if I wear my blue T-shirt…