Paly 2.5: Bring the heat

The day started unlike a typical SoCal training ride: nearly 90 degrees — ideal conditions to acclimate. The kind of day that puts instant limitations on your body. If not you’re not careful, the red zone arrives faster than you can shift down into your bail-out cog. Don’t go nuts, I said to myself before clicking in. The air was dry, the sun powerful and the road one continuous rise. 11.5 miles and 4,200 feet. Palomar Mountain, my good friend, smiled down. It was time to test internal capacities and mental boundaries.

Methodology and experimentation topped the list of priorities. Stay hydrated, pour water everywhere, and don’t worry about any lithe climbers who might overtake you, I repeated several times as I started my first ascent. Brute force gets you nowhere except in deep trouble on hot days. Of this, I’m intimately aware. The goal Saturday was to embrace the weather and prepare the mind and body for furnace-like conditions of Clovis, California later this month. Why? I never want to experience this again. Although it was but a year ago, the memory remains fresh. Anniversaries of dark moments do that. Physical and mental annihilation never quite leave you, they just humble you.

Muscle cramps on an epic scale are to cycling what a boiling-over radiator and no air conditioning is to driving across desert. You’re done. No matter what your brain tells your body, it’s nearly hopeless. The only thing that can save you? Yourself — and maybe time.

The first ascent of Palomar presented temptations, but only for a moment. Heat suffocates. The first rider I happened upon in this festival of suffering had already removed his helmet, fastened it to his bars, and zipped his jersey down. It flapped like a white flag of surrender. Through a red, salt-caked face and optimistic eyes he described how conditions atop the mountain weren’t much better. He had finished his first ascent already. “I’m doing L’Étape, he said. “I need to get my climbing legs and drop this weight. You go ahead. I’ll see you at the top.”

Right then from behind, a svelte rider split the two of us before we bade farewell. Head nod exchanged, the smaller rider blazed onward up the road, literally dancing on the pedals. I didn’t even think for a second to hold that pace. The guy looked like Alberto Contador. Effortless. And the heat seemed to be intensifying. I started pouring water over my head, down my back and over my shoulders. At the turnoff to South Grade Road, a lone figure stood in the shade. It was the svelte rider. He had logged miles getting to the initial climb, so it wasn’t too surprising. I plowed onward, and still prepared to be passed anew by him. The odds were high, with another 2800 feet over 6 miles and 20-some switchbacks to the top. More water dousing and a conscious mindset of letting go, I readied myself for the catch.

But it never came. I crested the summit alone. I could see no one ahead. I could hear nothing behind. On the descent, I saw the pedal dancer coming up. I didn’t see the L’Étape rider. The heat was exacting its cruelty with no prejudice. More dousing. Methodology. Experimentation.

My second ascent taught me a second, even more intense lesson in pain. And a final third half ascent (South Grade Road only) taught me a small lesson of hope. By this time, the sun hid behind trees, losing its grip over temperatures, and allowing one last determined march. By now, the legs were beyond toast, but the mind was willing. Bail-out cog it would be for most of the struggle. The road was empty. I’d never seen the light hit Palomar this way. I drank it in, took a few photos and stayed vigilant for the slightest onset of muscle cramps. At the summit, I was met by silence. Nothing. Store closed. Restaurant closed. Parking lot empty. Motorcyclists gone. The wind played with the pines. I zipped up, shook my legs, stretched my back and descended solo. The mountain won on this day. But you know what? It usually does.

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