The Mountain Stages

Last Thursday I drove down to Shaftsbury for a weekend of training with Steve and Bogden. Friday afternoon Steve and I packed up the PBJs, water and chocolate milk and hit the road towards the Massachusetts border en route to Mt. Greylock. We were meeting Bogden for a serious ascent up the tallest mountain in the state via the freshly paved access road. This summer I've really been hitting up the rollerski climbs. Mostly just the Bolton access road, really, but that one's a doosy. With the Tour De France climbing in the Alps that weekend, I imagined us gliding up and around the mountain like a perfectly fluid team. In skiing I think we all have moments where reality just escapes us. Sometimes it's because we're pushing so hard that nothing matters, and sometimes it's just our surroundings. Being nordic skiers seems to set us up for a different sort of reality anyway. A reality where Whiteface is seen as an UPHILL ski area, and the sound of "Fischer" invokes images of yellow carbonfiber, not forest animals or weekends on a boat. The reality of Greylock was that it was going to hurt, plain and simple. We hit the road and after an initial steep pitch the road flattened out, eventually even going downhill in sections.



As the scenic lookout pulloffs increased though, so did the grade. Without saying a word or making so much as the slightest gesture, we began to speed up. Our poles crunched and cracked into the pavement with a more defiant "snap!", and our breathing became rhythmic and heavy. Sweat cruised in a rollercoaster ride from my forehead down my nose, jumping to my chin and slopping to the pavement from the strap on my helmet. It was on. Still without speaking we upped the tempo again. We hit a series of full-on switchbacks and suddenly the insidious climb seemed to edge on gravity a little more. C'mon, make it a little heavier it nagged. Cars stopped passing on either side. Or more likely, we just didn't notice them anymore. I hit the top and went into the nordic pain cave position: wide feet, elbows on the poles and head slunk low under the straps. After a while cars began to go by again, and people appeared seemingly out of thin air, staring at me in the typical dumbfounded gaze of tourist-on-rollerskier amusement. I was back in reality.


(Both photos stolen from Ben)