The Dead Spot

This photo may not look like much, but if so, it's a clear case of how a camera can lie. This is what I have named "the Dead Spot," the point on the long climb on Garfoot Road, where I literally feel the energy and hope dropping from me; I must have stopped at that point half a dozen times, the first when I was riding with Robb up this road for the first time, the last about amonth after the Centurion ride (on which I had also come up short). And I'm not sure which was the harder of the two; on the first I had no idea what was coming up, and had convinced myself that the earlier, long and gentle climb, was the guts of it. I remember rounding the corner, thinking I had peaked, when I saw the road turning upward again. All my resolutions about giving the last and deepest effort, mind over matter, persistence over pain, all disappeared into the simple sensation of being overwhelmed.

I could not make it, and simply wishing or wanting, even "deserving" to make it was not enough. One did it, or one did not. I stopped, walked a ways, got on and ground my way up.

The second time I thought I'd do it. I'd seen that the remainder of the hill from the point was not so bad, and I understood it was a matter of mind and not body, that if I kept the discouragement under control, the ride would go on, and, once the spot was conquered, like I had conquered Mt. Nemesis (who had never succeeded in stopping me despite his fearsomely official 11% grade), the next rides would be easier. I still don't know if that's true, because as I neared the spot, and saw the side road thrusting out, like a taunting arrow or maybe middlefinger, it all went away again. Every damned time. The last time was the worst -- I stopped just beyond the side road, rested a few moments, got back on without walking, and made it. If only I'd had the conviction to keep going past that deepest, deadest, spot. . . .

Then came Daniel's surgery, and winter, and the seductive thought of taking a few weeks' hard earned recovery time. Time that stretched out, like Garfoot Hill, until it began to seem unconquerable. The pounds came back and the desire melted. A few desultory spins on the trainer, some treadmill time, but not much. A glimmer of hope, perhaps, with Mark's simple advice, "just go out and ride, and write about it."

Then Racer came along. Suddenly I had a reason to ride, to get Daniel out. And it would not be easy to push him around on it, but it could be done. So it began. Then the real new incentive: his twin Anna, my sometimes reluctant biking buddy, who never really liked riding. Suddenly she liked being on Racer, covering ground like she'd never covered it, at speeds she'd never attained. Suddenly she's asking me to go for a long ride; and I'm experiencing a taste of fresh riding and fresh joy.

And there's Mei, who'd never been on a bike before, discovering the pleasure of it. I recall friend Mark's comment that he never would have believed one could have so much pleasure from two wheels. Now that's at least two of them.

And so on I go, and we go. I may be moving again off the dead spot, but in my mind The Dead Spot lurks, as I know it will until I conquer it. It would be an amazing thing if I climbed it on Racer, but Rocinante would be as good. I do know I just need to do it.