The Centurion route has not yet been published, but it will almost certainly include the Blue Mounds region near Mt. Horeb, the area's highest and hilliest patch. With that in mind, I decided to check it out. The day was cool and gray, with a slight chance of showers and thunderstorms, but the increasing patches of sunlight convinced me the weather would hold. Just to be sure, I packed my rain jacket (which I never needed).
The trip involved driving to Mt. Horeb, since I had neither the time nor the certain energy -- nor the commitment -- to do it all on a bike yet. Driving up involved whizzing along the same hills and roads I'd ridden up the weeks before; as always, what seemed so critical on a bike seems so almost irrelevant from a car seat. A friend of mine long ago remarked he preferred riding a motorcycle to a bicycle, because from the bicycle all he saw was pavement and the immediate surrounding area. On this drive I saw what he meant, and had to agree; the vistas were much broader. But it's also a tradeoff -- the experience is much more intense on a bicycle, details from the road surface to the smell of the landscape to the windshifts, all matter more.
I parked the car at the Mt. Horeb visitor center lot, sucked down a tube of Strawberry Banana gu, and headed out Hiway 78, to the Hiway J cutoff, which led to the Tyrol Ski Basin. Which of course implied downhill. One fundamental of cycling, to me, is that one ought never surrender high ground easily -- the rationale is simple: if you are uphill, you must have gotten there somehow, so if you go down, you'll need to go back up to be back where you were. This truism burst into mind as I headed down a marvelous long steep decline, into deep woods, with no one around, simply me and Rocinante and the moderately well-maintained winding blacktopped road. As I went deeper, I passed a sign announcing the Township of Vermont; I understood immediately why the early settlers had chosen that name, the tiny farms tucked into the hillsides, with small bands of black-and-white dairy cows and decrepit barns reminded me of a Ben and Jerry's ad.
The road leveled off, still winding and silent, and the smell was that of the deep woods, almost like the mountains. Just me and the bike and the occasional squirrel and chipmunk dashing into the road, some large bird gliding down into a nearby copse. I stopped at the intersection of Hiway J and F, and unfurled the map. A pack of cyclists came whizzing past, resplendent in garish jerseys, sort of a Monty Python parody of a motorcyle gang, their appearance preceded by snippets of conversation and the whir of chains and tires. One shouted to me as they passed, "Got everything?" I gave the thumbs up, and they vanished up the road, toward Mazomanie. I heard one remark to the group, "Zip it up," to which the others laughed, no doubt an inside joke. I turned the other way, to finish the loop back toward Mt. Horeb, and toward the lost altitude I knew I had to recover.
My only request, as I had gone down the long steep hill, was that the road back be one of long moderate climbs instead of one steep grind, and I got that wish (to be filed, perhaps, under one should be careful for what one asks). I worked my way up some long hills, fortunately broken by level areas and even a few brief downhills. Mostly I did all right, though at one point I pulled over and checked the tires, convinced my lack of speed must be due to a flat -- nope, just the hills and a hint of fatigue. I stopped briefly at a small cemetary, refueled and rehydrated, and went on. I felt spent by the time I reached Brigham County Park, but perked up again as I reached the highway, and spun happily into Mt. Horeb, to my car, and to home, already planning next week's adventure.
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