June gloom. It’s the mix of heavy fog and clouds that hug the San Diego coastline with a grayness, dampness and surprising coolness. June gloom, my cycling friends, is not what you expect to find at elevation on your beloved mountain. And yet, there it was, all over Palomar Mountain, gray and omnipresent. Shrouding the peak, the south face, and then some. Blowing about. Pressing down. June gloom turned the pavement wet, forcing the use of rain capes and negating any reason to don the latest dark eye-covering technology. June gloom, hello.
We met, made introductions and clipped in. We climbed the front of the mountain, the most difficult section. The same route that tortured me 2.5 times last weekend in sizzling conditions. Along the way up the 5+ miles of Highway 76, I scratched my head like a tourist bundled up on a Del Mar beach, swathed in SPF50 and staring in disbelief at come-hither San Diego ads in a travel magazine. How could weather radars, meteorologists and iPhone apps get this one wrong? June gloom, I don’t believe you.
Spray off the front wheels painted shins with road grime. Passing cars and trucks hissed. It was still early, so the optimist inside piped in: “It will burn off. We’re too far inland, and the sun is far to powerful. It was boiling out here last week.” The voice was a distraction to reality. I didn’t have “good sensations” in my legs. I intentionally put on the Open Pros with 24mm Grand Prix 4000s. I wouldn’t be setting a personal best today. No way. I would relent to gravity, to the other rider, and to myself. June gloom, I accept you.
We looked around and chatted. Everywhere, moisture and a quiet that tells you that you’re among the first up the road. And then, like clockwork, a familiar yellow vehicle ahead, parking in the dirt. The driver: an ultra marathoner and Everest climber who runs the mountain. I mean all over the thing like it was a high school quarter mile oval track. Always humbling to witness. We were now at the South Grade Road turnoff. Slippery metal cattle grate crossings, 20+ switchbacks, another half dozen miles and average 7 percent awaited. June gloom, I will survive you.
Cadence found, we settled in. The mile-marker signs displayed the numbers. A silent taunt, these small green markers become on a difficult day, while on the best of days they’re a barely noticeable piece of man-made landscape. How much longer would the skies frown upon us? The wind delivered addition chill and visual entertainment. Mist on all sides, closing in. Two riders in protective gear on the descent nodded and carefully picked their way down. Their faces didn’t carry the typical wide grin of Palomar descenders, and their positions on the bikes were not those of riders bombing with the type of calculated risk that can produce 50+ mph speeds. June gloom, you’re in charge.
Then, without warning, blue sky. The cloud ceiling. We were at 5,000-feet. Only 200 more to go to the top. Spirits lifted. Eyes brightened. Legs lightened. And backs eased (mine, anyway). The final few tenths of a mile were all that separated a damp, no-excuses exercise into a glorious summit where you can suddenly see more clearly. Through the gray there was light, space and a renewed hope. We marveled. The ride had just started anew, even though 4,000-feet of climb were in the bank. Ahead lay much more: the descent of East Grade, the climb of Mesa Grande, a slice of apple pie and a cup of hot coffee in Santa Isabel, the climb up East Grade, then a final descent, this time down South Grade. June gloom, thank you for teaching me.
P.S. On this ride, I had a UK partner who truly knows how to dance on the pedals. If you haven’t ridden with Jo Allen of the UK, I suggest you do. She’ll be riding across the US in short order with a purpose. And if you don’t have your climbing legs, she’ll show mercy. A first-class human. The Garmin says 9,400 feet in a tad over 70 miles.
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