The Mountains in Our Minds

The trail branched off from the main route just outside the town, and after getting through that gauntlet of a town it's at this point in the route (the one I call Crosswind Way), that I settle in for a short recovery before the said crosswinds kick in after the turn onto the road.  I never gave the trail a second thought.  Except where it intersects the Mainweg, you can't see it.  It disappears into a grove of short, thick trees and the shade of the overpass.  It looks like one of those little branches that appear all along the cycle routes for taking local traffic into the outskirts of neighborhoods.

But, I am bored.  It's not that Crosswind Way doesn't have it's rewarding scenery.  It does.  It passes through a deep valley cut by the Main, covered in vineyards.  There are some red stone ruins dotting hill tops, flat river barges, small towns, and sweet smelling woods.  But, after time, even things like that become old hat.  I am itching for a change of scene and a change of wind.  A glimpse at the map indicated this trail would lead me down another valley into the ominous sounding Odenwald.  Ominous sounding forests are just what I need.  So, at the last second as I head down the hill out that town, I lean right and turn under the overpass.  There is no wind, for a bit, but as I come out of the shelter of hedges and farm buildings on the other side of the highway, it hits me full in the face.  The cross winds of Crosswind Way are now a headwind, the constant headwind of the Main Valley.  I shift into a smaller ring and got into the drops.  I don't see many people, just the occasional retiree on an old upright, with a "morgen."  I come out of the rhythm for a nod and a smile.  I'm just out to explore, no need to retreat too far into my head and ignore the world.  I'm finding a new one, after all.  I pass through a nondescript town, with gravel based businesses lining it's outskirts.   Gravel mining is a thing in these parts.  Shortly after exiting the town streets, I hit my first stretch.  I shift into the next smaller ring, but keep my hands on the hoods.  The faster I ride over the gravel, the smoother the ride and the less chance of wiping out on a loose spot.  My eyes search for a clean line around the holes and squishy patches and my tires find it.  I'm not a huge fan of gravel, just because of what it can bring- punctures but, once I'm on it, I can't help but not enjoy the rush of attacking it at full speed.  I'm out of the town, long out, the road ends at a T; no indication of which way the next town is.  That's the way you go exploring on a bike in Germany.  Pick a town name on a sign and follow the rest of the signs there.  I pause for a moment and pull the map up on my phone.  I could take the road on my right, or see where this gravel takes me to my left.  A huge flat bed truck carrying half a dozen tractors rumbles past throwing dust on me from the road.  I turn left.

The gravel ends in a parking lot for a shooting club.  A quick scan of the lot reveals a break in the trees where there should be another road which will take me on to my chosen town.  I hope this isn't one of those shooting clubs with the target course in the woods.  I follow the path, just a dirt single track now, dip below the parking lot, around a patch of fist sized gravel, over a footbridge and onto another gravel road.  The gravel continues for another several kilometers before petering out and depositing me in another town.  I have no idea which one, but the sign says my destination is still quite a ways off.  With the pavement firmly beneath my tires, I breathe a sigh of relief from the gravel rattling, and kick into a more civilized pace.  A turn here, a turn there, a camp ground, a group of bird watchers, a farmer straight off of a postcard sitting in the bed of his truck with a pipe in his mouth and his dog at his side.  The countryside rolls by.  The hills rise around me, no vineyards, just dark trees- the Odenwald.  As I round a bend a large hill looms up in the distance, red walls crown its brow and a tower perches on the crest.  Another castle.  But, this one is new, so I let my eyes linger on it for a bit, before the hill twists out of sight.  After all this time, I still have a thing for castles.  They are huge monuments to this experience.  Reminders I'm not in Ohio anymore, reminders not to take that for granted.

After thirty or so kilometers, I've arrived at my destination, but I don't know it yet.  I'm expecting to roll out into a town center, paved in cobbles, with a church in the middle, and a bench next to the church.  That's the usual choice for a break to take a snack and refill the bottles if I need to.  I don't need to yet and the way to the quaint center is hidden around construction barriers and passing local traffic.  I decide to take the easy way through the congestion and head straight at the intersection.  I'll sort the way to the church bench after I get out of this cluster.  But, I don't.

It's not long before the road takes a severe uphill grade.  I'm basically committed at this point without making a u-turn.  I'm definitely leaving the town, almost as soon as I arrived in it, and I'm going up. A wooden, hand painted sign on the right of the road points up the hill I've unintentionally arrived on.  It says "Berg."  I glance up to the top of this hill; just the hint of red stone peaks through the trees.  The berg I saw from the valley below.

Sometimes the mind does weird things.  Things that are huge, things that terrify us, that intimidate, just stop being a big deal.  The butterfly feeling never hits.  We say, "I'm not afraid of you today."  We don't know why, we just aren't.

I don't make a u-turn.  I stop thinking about locating the town center.  I want to see this castle instead, and do so I have to climb this hill.  So, climb this hill I will.  I focus.  My head in its weird non-panicky state says, "Find the rhythm.  Speed isn't rhythm.  Just go up the hill.  Just go up.  If your speedometer is reading single digits, who cares?  You're going up this hill.  When you get up there, and you will, your life will never be the same."  And I find the rhythm, or it finds me.  I'm in the sun, full on my back.  I breathe through my mouth.  A bead of sweat runs down my left temple and falls on my shoulder.  Switchback.  I'm in the shade.  I took the turn tight on the inside as a red hatchback passes.  I hear the telltale grind of dropped chain.  I roll into a wide spot on the side of the road and sort it out.  I must have bumped the shifter when I stood up in the turn.  I click back in and keep going up.  Sorry, I'm not going to let the dropped chain dissuade me.  I'm going up this hill.  Switchback.  Sun.  The grade steepens.  I downshift and put my hands on the tops.  I hear the sound of laughing children coming fast behind me, and then they're on me.  In two firetrucks.  They barrel past, a small head pokes out a window and looks back, waving.  Sorry, kid, I'd wave back, but I'm kinda in the middle of something.  Switchback.  Shade and a break in the grade.  But, the road is positively pocked with holes.  This will probably hurt on the way down.  I leave it in the low gear and spin my legs out a bit, swig a bit from the bottle before the next increase hits a few meters ahead.  Ok, I should probably fill my bottle at some point.  There are no more switchbacks, just a steady increase in the grade.  Sun.  Shade.  Sun. Shade.  The sound of water somewhere.

Sun.  The trees are below me, just the castle sits above.  I run out of road and find the fire trucks at the same time.  Their passengers are running around the playground at the base of the fortress.  I pass between these random emergency vehicles and smoosh my front tire into a parking lot filled with loose pea gravel.  I'm going so slow at this point, it doesn't matter.  It's like landing on a feather bed.  My bike and I swim out and make our way to the near vertical cobbled road leading up through the castle gate.  The cobbles are set in such a way, basically stepped, so vehicles and shoes have something to grip, but there's no way I'd be getting a bike up that.  A sign nearby say's don't even try.  So, I unclip and walk, pushing the bike along the path next to me.  Another sign advertises a museum and the toiletten, aka. places to refill my bottles.  We climb through the first gate into a courtyard with a cannon.  We stop and turn around.

All that emotion I expected to hit me at the start of the climb, finally arrives.  But, it's not the butterflies of fear, the choke of trepidation.  It's a lump in the throat.  It rises, and my eyes well up.  A big green landscape wraps itself around me and below me.  A big old castle stands behind me.  I got here on my bike, the whole way.  I climbed a hill, pretty darn big one, a category 4 actually, on my own because I wanted to.  Because I said I would.  Because I couldn't let this hill or any other scare me back down the road.  I climbed.  I climbed.  It went pretty good and here I am.

The mountains in my head had been defeated with that climb.  My life isn't the same.  After filling my bottles and having a quick snack, I headed home the way I came.  The descent down that hill was the most fun I can ever remember having on two wheels.  Descents are a reason to climb.  But, the climb itself is the real reason.  With every pedal stroke, we get higher, stronger in the body and in the head.  If this hill can be climbed so can others.  The road is wide is open now.  There is nothing to fear.

Don't believe me?  The next day I climbed two more hills just like it.

An Afternoon Stop at Rapha Cycle Club London

We were in London last weekend visiting some friends.  All that talk about London being cycling mad is true, by the way.  We had a free afternoon after flying in so we decided to head over to the London Rapha Club to see what they were all about.

At first, we weren't sure.  It seemed like a hipster cycling themed coffee shop with some Team Sky paraphernalia on display.  The windows were covered in Marco Pantani themed art (I'm currently reading about Pantani's life and I honestly don't understand the glorification) and there seemed to be way more staff than necessary.  The menu looked quite good though, there were Giro themed specials and the main menu had a nice variety of cycling friendly foods.  We were starved after traveling all morning so decided this was as good as any place for a late lunch.  We both opted for the toasted cheese sandwiches and sat back to enjoy them (really tasty) and watch that day's stage of the Giro.  As the stage progressed, the place started to change.  People began to file in and grab a seat and later on, some standing room.  There were a lot of hipsters, a lot.  But, a good portion of the crowd were legitimate cycling fans.  Then, in the last 10km of the stage, it got real.  Everything in the cafe ground to a halt.  The staff came around from the counter.  Everyone put their eyes on the race.  We all sat there together, hipsters, roadies, fans, old and young and watched the race in almost total silence, waiting with baited breath to see the end result.  It was pretty darn cool.

When it was over, some grabbed their bikes and headed out.  Some stuck around for one more cup.  Others browsed through the racks.  I don't know if the customers were into the race because of the cycling mania that has hit London or what, but listening to a lot of the staff, I could tell these people really care about cycling and the products they carry.  They took the time to talk to customers about everything from their bibs to their socks and what would work best for the individual.  They were friendly and helpful.  They were, despite what the price tags, the artsy Ridley Scott films, the Chris King espresso tampers, the "Gentlemens Races," and the African hair sheep leather suggest, down to earth and easy to talk to even though neither of us has tattoo sleeves nor does my husband sport an ironic beard.

As for the clothes?  We picked up a variety of products.  The verdict is still out on their performance, I'll let you know after they've been saddle tested for a while.  But, I can tell you they are the most comfortable, well fitting cycling clothes I've tried on.  It was as if someone came to my house, took my measurements, and made me a custom kit.  The jersey was snug where it needed to be, but not too snug.  The bibs were supportive, but comfy.  I was impressed right off the bat without even getting on the bike.  Now that we're back from our trip, I'm looking forward to putting this stuff through the paces.

I have to admit, I was pretty hesitant about Rapha.  They do have a bit of a snooty reputation; their marketing is rather pretentious.  Wearing their stuff could be kinda like high school, buying what the cool kids wear hoping to fit in.  But, I'd been in the market for a new kit for a while, tired of picking up another set of $30 shorts and a jersey that isn't comfortable and can't handle heavy miles.  I was tired of compromising to save some money, tired of things riding up, flapping in the breeze, and performing pretty miserably.  I narrowed it down to a couple of brands, with Rapha being one.  From there it came down to being able to get it.  Not everyone ships to Germany.  Even if they do, there's the question of whether or not it will actually get to us.  Fun fact, the German customs department has a thing with stuff shipped from the US.  Anything worth more than about $20 is held at an office somewhere for the recipient to pick up.  Once they get there to pick up their stuff, they have to provide a receipt of purchase and pay fees that sometimes exceed the original price of the item.  Then, of course, there is the likely chance the stuff is just held indefinitely or pocketed by a customs worker.  So, that took any brand from the States off the table (unless I was willing to wait to pick it up on the annual visit home).  That left me with European brands, all of which are only available online here.  You can buy anything online, but I always balk at buying clothes unless I know how they fit.  So, the visit to Rapha to handle the products, try them on, and get a feel for the company made a huge difference.  I decided to go with them for the time being.  I can promise you one thing, if I do become a fan of Rapha it will be based on its performance, not because it has fancy labels in the clothing, they outfit Tour de France winners, or because of their brooding ads.  We'll see how it goes.

As for the Cycle Club London, it was pretty nifty to be in a place where people love cycling just as much as I do.  It would be pretty great if more places like that existed.