Southern Swan Song
The day started with a triple shot Americano from the world's best known caffeine seller off Airport Road after a 0515 wake up. Some days, I think just the prospect of that rich espresso combined with a lovely baked scone are my greatest motivations for sacrificing sleep to spend extra time in my bike's saddle on these cold days. For not the first time, my good buddy Mark Fischer and I had planned another Enterprise-like adventure to boldly go where no cyclist had gone before, to seek out new roads and new uncivilized climbs.
The trip to Fort Payne, Alabama from Huntsville went by quickly enough and after a few pre-flight checks, we were on our way. Once atop the Lookout Mountain Plateau, we both commented on how beautiful this tucked away treasure of the south was. We cruised along the scenic highway enjoying every pedal stroke and soaking in as much sun as we could. As bright and shiny as it was, this turned out to be one of the coldest days of the month. Both of us were well-layered and gloved for the entirety of the ride. It wouldn't reach 40 degrees.
Passing through Mentone, I reminisced upon one of my very first childhood memories of sleeping in a little cabin in the woods somewhere along that very road, decades ago.
Mark warned me that there would be a decent on a dirt road. We'd done our best to scout out the route ahead of time but there are just some things you can't account for, no matter where that Google car has been. We took a left off the scenic highway and plunged down a gravely dirt road that would descend a solid 700 feet before finally letting up. Several times, we had to unclip and walk our bikes down for fear of completely wrecking ourselves. There are many times during a ride like this where there must be motorists who are completely surprised or otherwise aghast at the sight of a pair of cyclists riding along their isolated county road. About a third of the way down the climb, though, the joke was on us. A man, apparently out for a Tuesday morning hike, was trudging up the same sketchy dirt road we were descending. Also, this man was wearing a ski mask with a lumberjack style flannel shirt. Mark was ahead of me at this point and crossed his path first. I was almost surprised this man wasn't dragging a bloody ax in his wake, ready at any moment to riddle his next victim with flesh wounds. No one could find us. It was the perfect crime. As it turned out though, this was just some weird old man who had obviously no clue about the implications of wearing such a ski mask and gave us a quick wave and smile from behind the small cutouts from the wool covering the rest of his face.
Once Jack Nicholson was behind us and my forearm muscles had reached failure several times from squeezing the brakes so much, we reached the bottom of the day's first descent. We would soon climb right back up the mountain on a different, but equally as dirty, road. Praising the top quality of our Continental tires, we made it to the top of the next climb with no flats or significant loss of PSI.
Having made terrible time on the last two hills, we started pace-lining hoping to make some of it up. Deep into the Georgia portion of the plateau, we passed Cloudland Canyon State Park and tore down the second descent at over 40mph.
After knocking out another big climb and a few more miles we made it to Covenant College. Due to a little mix up in our Garmin's directions, we presently found ourselves rolling right down the center of the campus. We got a number of perplexed looks from local students walking from class to class as we tried to get off the college's main concourse and back on 189. I tired flirting with a cute girl there but I couldn't really stop my bike at the time so it was a little short lived. Maybe next time...
At mile 60 or so, we clogged into the famous Lookout Mountain Starbucks. I was a little giddy at my fortune, that I would find myself at the same coffee shop that I started my first stage race ultra back in summer 2009, as well as a shop I've visited on more than one occasion deeper into my childhood. Something about arriving at this place in the world on my bike had some sort of existential value to it. The "tall" Sumatra roast and muffin I enjoyed there were about the closest thing to heaven I'll reach in the South.
Warmed by dark-roasted caffeine and fresh, streusel-topped blueberry muffins, we began our wicked fast descent down Ochs Highway before turning on St. Elmo and heading back south. At this point, the sun was wrecking our vision. The climb up Nick-a-Jack was particularly rough. Between the heavy, bottle-necked traffic, blinding sunlight, and long, long ascent after over 70 miles on our legs, the crest of that hill was a welcome sight.
We stopped for a quick respite at a church before turning south again along 157. My thick Louis Garneau gloves I'd been wearing all day made it nearly impossible to fuel on the move, so our stops had to be frequent. Our hands would freeze otherwise.
Roughly ten miles later, The next intersection gave us a game-time decision to make. Continuing straight on 157 would be the most direct route back to Mentone. Left would take us back down the mountain to the east where we would meander though some rural back roads before climbing the mountain a final time. After my precise, Bear Grylls-style sunlight estimate, I figured we'd be good, assuming we only had 20 miles of flat road left. This turned out to be a terribly false assumption.
After another incredibly fun, flying descent down Lookout Mountain Scenic Highway, we navigated through the next few intersections and made our way down some of the strangest named roads I'd ever seen. We followed Hog Jowl Road for several miles while dozens of cattle and other such farm mammals slowly turned their heads, tracking us go by while simultaneously munchin' on grass blades, jaws turning in their ever circular pattern. After passing Rape Gap Road (seriously, that was the name), we came upon the final ascent of the day.
The sun's rays were only somewhat visible on the opposite ridges. It had long since disappeared over the western mountain crest. I finally took my specs off; they were doing more harm than good for my visibility by now. Both of us concluded that under different, warmer circumstances, this last climb up Doughtry Gap would make for some great competition and fun among our other cycling friends. The four switchbacks, smooth pavement, and complete lack of traffic made for a satisfying final climb.
Back on the plateau's top, the sun was well on its way to lighting New Zealand's morning. We still had a solid eight miles before reaching Mentone. After that, one final descent separated us from our cars. The wonderful caffeine high provided by our halfway pit stop had worn off. The big, bright light from the heavens was failing. Once we hit one of our last intersections, Mark and I had no choice but to go full beam with our small LED's. He decided it would be best if I led with the front white light while he took up the rear with both of our red lights.
The bright star was now well out of sight. I was starting to get tangible flashbacks from those wholly surreal moments from Pinhoti where my body was still somehow moving forward after the sun was no more. My incredibly bloodshot eyes did their best to spot the endless imperfections on the dark road. By God's grace and His angel's guidance, we made it back to the top of the last climb.
My concept of time passage was completely void at this point. Going down that last hill we traversed so, so many hours earlier this day seemed to last a small eternity. My legs hardly moved the whole way down; they didn't need to. My body started to shake violently to stay warm. For whatever reason, I never did shell out the 35 bones for a pair of leg warmers, a piece of kit I so desperately needed now. My bare legs were coated with tiny bumps that didn't seem to be helping.
Finally, we reached the main road that would take us back to our starting point. Putting out as much power as I could, we zipped down that road in what felt like 15 degree weather. At times like these, I often play evocative music in my head, knowing that the end of a genuinely epic journey was nearly coming; and, I admit, a time or two I really did try to shed a tear, but my body simply wasn't capable.
One-hundred and twenty-five miles later, we pulled into the parking lot from wince our ride began over nine hours prior.
Engines running, heater on full blast, it must have been well over 15 minutes before either of us were willing to set foot back outside to rack our bikes back up.
Half an hour later, a side of homemade biscuits and apple butter and the world's greatest plate of chicken 'n dumplings was presented before me at a well heated Cracker Barrel.
The trip to Fort Payne, Alabama from Huntsville went by quickly enough and after a few pre-flight checks, we were on our way. Once atop the Lookout Mountain Plateau, we both commented on how beautiful this tucked away treasure of the south was. We cruised along the scenic highway enjoying every pedal stroke and soaking in as much sun as we could. As bright and shiny as it was, this turned out to be one of the coldest days of the month. Both of us were well-layered and gloved for the entirety of the ride. It wouldn't reach 40 degrees.
Passing through Mentone, I reminisced upon one of my very first childhood memories of sleeping in a little cabin in the woods somewhere along that very road, decades ago.
Mark warned me that there would be a decent on a dirt road. We'd done our best to scout out the route ahead of time but there are just some things you can't account for, no matter where that Google car has been. We took a left off the scenic highway and plunged down a gravely dirt road that would descend a solid 700 feet before finally letting up. Several times, we had to unclip and walk our bikes down for fear of completely wrecking ourselves. There are many times during a ride like this where there must be motorists who are completely surprised or otherwise aghast at the sight of a pair of cyclists riding along their isolated county road. About a third of the way down the climb, though, the joke was on us. A man, apparently out for a Tuesday morning hike, was trudging up the same sketchy dirt road we were descending. Also, this man was wearing a ski mask with a lumberjack style flannel shirt. Mark was ahead of me at this point and crossed his path first. I was almost surprised this man wasn't dragging a bloody ax in his wake, ready at any moment to riddle his next victim with flesh wounds. No one could find us. It was the perfect crime. As it turned out though, this was just some weird old man who had obviously no clue about the implications of wearing such a ski mask and gave us a quick wave and smile from behind the small cutouts from the wool covering the rest of his face.
Once Jack Nicholson was behind us and my forearm muscles had reached failure several times from squeezing the brakes so much, we reached the bottom of the day's first descent. We would soon climb right back up the mountain on a different, but equally as dirty, road. Praising the top quality of our Continental tires, we made it to the top of the next climb with no flats or significant loss of PSI.
Having made terrible time on the last two hills, we started pace-lining hoping to make some of it up. Deep into the Georgia portion of the plateau, we passed Cloudland Canyon State Park and tore down the second descent at over 40mph.
After knocking out another big climb and a few more miles we made it to Covenant College. Due to a little mix up in our Garmin's directions, we presently found ourselves rolling right down the center of the campus. We got a number of perplexed looks from local students walking from class to class as we tried to get off the college's main concourse and back on 189. I tired flirting with a cute girl there but I couldn't really stop my bike at the time so it was a little short lived. Maybe next time...
At mile 60 or so, we clogged into the famous Lookout Mountain Starbucks. I was a little giddy at my fortune, that I would find myself at the same coffee shop that I started my first stage race ultra back in summer 2009, as well as a shop I've visited on more than one occasion deeper into my childhood. Something about arriving at this place in the world on my bike had some sort of existential value to it. The "tall" Sumatra roast and muffin I enjoyed there were about the closest thing to heaven I'll reach in the South.
Warmed by dark-roasted caffeine and fresh, streusel-topped blueberry muffins, we began our wicked fast descent down Ochs Highway before turning on St. Elmo and heading back south. At this point, the sun was wrecking our vision. The climb up Nick-a-Jack was particularly rough. Between the heavy, bottle-necked traffic, blinding sunlight, and long, long ascent after over 70 miles on our legs, the crest of that hill was a welcome sight.
We stopped for a quick respite at a church before turning south again along 157. My thick Louis Garneau gloves I'd been wearing all day made it nearly impossible to fuel on the move, so our stops had to be frequent. Our hands would freeze otherwise.
Roughly ten miles later, The next intersection gave us a game-time decision to make. Continuing straight on 157 would be the most direct route back to Mentone. Left would take us back down the mountain to the east where we would meander though some rural back roads before climbing the mountain a final time. After my precise, Bear Grylls-style sunlight estimate, I figured we'd be good, assuming we only had 20 miles of flat road left. This turned out to be a terribly false assumption.
After another incredibly fun, flying descent down Lookout Mountain Scenic Highway, we navigated through the next few intersections and made our way down some of the strangest named roads I'd ever seen. We followed Hog Jowl Road for several miles while dozens of cattle and other such farm mammals slowly turned their heads, tracking us go by while simultaneously munchin' on grass blades, jaws turning in their ever circular pattern. After passing Rape Gap Road (seriously, that was the name), we came upon the final ascent of the day.
The sun's rays were only somewhat visible on the opposite ridges. It had long since disappeared over the western mountain crest. I finally took my specs off; they were doing more harm than good for my visibility by now. Both of us concluded that under different, warmer circumstances, this last climb up Doughtry Gap would make for some great competition and fun among our other cycling friends. The four switchbacks, smooth pavement, and complete lack of traffic made for a satisfying final climb.
Back on the plateau's top, the sun was well on its way to lighting New Zealand's morning. We still had a solid eight miles before reaching Mentone. After that, one final descent separated us from our cars. The wonderful caffeine high provided by our halfway pit stop had worn off. The big, bright light from the heavens was failing. Once we hit one of our last intersections, Mark and I had no choice but to go full beam with our small LED's. He decided it would be best if I led with the front white light while he took up the rear with both of our red lights.
The bright star was now well out of sight. I was starting to get tangible flashbacks from those wholly surreal moments from Pinhoti where my body was still somehow moving forward after the sun was no more. My incredibly bloodshot eyes did their best to spot the endless imperfections on the dark road. By God's grace and His angel's guidance, we made it back to the top of the last climb.
My concept of time passage was completely void at this point. Going down that last hill we traversed so, so many hours earlier this day seemed to last a small eternity. My legs hardly moved the whole way down; they didn't need to. My body started to shake violently to stay warm. For whatever reason, I never did shell out the 35 bones for a pair of leg warmers, a piece of kit I so desperately needed now. My bare legs were coated with tiny bumps that didn't seem to be helping.
Finally, we reached the main road that would take us back to our starting point. Putting out as much power as I could, we zipped down that road in what felt like 15 degree weather. At times like these, I often play evocative music in my head, knowing that the end of a genuinely epic journey was nearly coming; and, I admit, a time or two I really did try to shed a tear, but my body simply wasn't capable.
One-hundred and twenty-five miles later, we pulled into the parking lot from wince our ride began over nine hours prior.
Engines running, heater on full blast, it must have been well over 15 minutes before either of us were willing to set foot back outside to rack our bikes back up.
Half an hour later, a side of homemade biscuits and apple butter and the world's greatest plate of chicken 'n dumplings was presented before me at a well heated Cracker Barrel.
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