Ever Upward

TIME TO FACE WHAT LIES AHEAD

 

 

Last Saturday I decided to adopt the theme advanced by Scott Walker in his pseudo-autobiography, Unintimidated, in which he attributes his success thus far to his willingness to face and conquer whatever obstacles life and liberals have placed in his path.  Whether that is true, or whether he has instead been boosted over bumps by the Koch Brothers and their ilk is irrelevant -- there is a truth to his theme.

 

For me and biking, that obstacle has been hill-climbing.  To the extent possible, I generally try to avoid hills.  And judging from the scads of articles on how to be a better climber, I'm not alone in that.  And it's apparently long been part of cycling lore, not the least of which the peddling of the illusion of conquering hills without effort.  As illustrated by the following:

 

 

 

No matter what the copywriters contend, I don't believe that smug face.  Not, anyway, on a chainless bicycle.  I know my face is rarely anything but taut and tired after a long climb.

 

The issue of hill-climbing and my psyche became came to sharply to mind recently, and indirectly, when I listened to a recording of Jeff Shaara's book, The Final Storm, about the Marine amphibious landings on Okinawa during WWII.  In one particularly compelling passage, he describes the demanding personal physical struggle of one Marine, from the time he dragged himself through the surf and mud, up and across the beach, and the long, long, march and climb inland, carrying his pack and his rife, the way he had to move beyond his apparently utter exhaustion until finally reaching a point at which he could stop.

 

I realized that I have never been to where I had to reach beyond the point of mere discomfort, rarely moved myself beyond the point of mere discomfort; when my legs begin to not even hurt, simply express a bit of concern.  And that's primarily because I've never had to -- it's always an option to stop, rest, and remount or walk the rest of the hill.  A luxury but also an overwhelming temptation. 

 

Which brought me to the question:  if I were to really reach inside, what would I find?  After all,  Shaara's character was nothing more than a composite of the real men who made those lands, generally unremarkable men thrown into an overwhelmingly demanding situation.

 

As was my father. 

 

Dad served in the Pacific campaign, though, through no doing of his own, he was sent to Alaska's Aleutian Islands, and never saw combat.  As a kid, and, I must admit until recently, I tended to be dismissive of his service because of that.  No glamour, no glory.  But while reading Shaara, I realized that I was looking at Dad through the lens of hindsight.  When he landed at Adak, the presumption was that Japanese soldiers were waiting for them.  He had to prepare his gear and himself the night before, had to come face-to-face with his mortality and his fears, had to ride that LST to shore, jump out into that freezing surf, struggle onto the beach, drop down, wait, gather himself, and march inland, always expecting gunfire that never came.  He had to reach down and find something within himself, and move past it.

 

And he did.

 

 

ADAK LANDING

 

 

If he could do that, then I, his son, ought to be able to suck it up and climb a few  hills.  So when I went out, I decided to take the direct route downtown, to treat those few manageable hills for what they were, simple topographical deviations.  So I did, and they were.  Once I got downtown, the ride was mostly uneventful, save for one turn on the way home -- I decided to turn upward toward the lake, and found myself facing an unexpectedly short and steep climb, only a block or so, but one that demanded some deep digging.  I was tempted to discard the Adak analogy and listen to my legs, but to my right a troop of Boy Scouts were happily tramping up the sidewalk, and I vowed that I would be damned before I would walk it in front of them.  So I pushed and pushed and panted and climbed, passing them to the top of the rise.  Not the glory of Iowa Jima, I know, but an accomplishment nonetheless. 

 

As I rolled toward home, I had another decision to make.  As part of my brash declaration of unintimidation for this trip, I had considered making my first 2014 climb of Mt. Nemesis as a crowning closing climb.  But, on further reflection, I decided that had been crazy talk.  Not yet.  So I compromised, and took a less challenging route, though I took it without hesitation and without concern for what lay ahead on that route.  And I did it.

 

Nemesis can wait.  For awhile.  In the interim I'll bike and walk the stair-stepper (and the steps). 

 

Maybe this weekend.  Or the next.