I was riding up Independence Pass with my dad the other day when he said: “Is that a new technique? Going as slow as possible without tipping over?”
“I’m just pacing myself,” I replied, citing the 20-mile climb as just cause for taking it easy.
Problem is, I was just as slow on the downhill. I don’t know what it is about riding over pavement on skinny tires, all bent over those curled handlebars just waiting for a pothole to jump out of nowhere and throw me flying through the air with this little plastic helmet – but it freaks me out. Maybe I tend to ride the brakes a little.
“The idea is you go faster on the downhill than you do on the uphill,” Dad said when I finally caught up to where he was patiently waiting.
The truth is, I have always been slow. I just don’t move that fast, even when I want to. It’s probably the single most frustrating obstacle for me as an outdoors person, since I consider myself an “athlete.”
Now that spring is in full swing, it’s uphill season – cycling, hiking, mountain biking – sports without lifts. I do fine with gravity on my side, a snowboard under my feet. But in summer, I’m like a penguin among gazelles, waddling up mountains with my short legs and webbed feet.
The worst part of it is, I’m one of those obsessive types who marks up my calendar with color-coded lines, dashes and circles to indicate which days I’ve done cardio, weight training and yoga. On most days, I try to get in two workouts, one outdoors and one in the gym or the studio. Whatever I lack in speed, I more than make up for in determination.
My slow pace is only truly evident in contrast to others. Like the other day, I was running up Smuggler Mountain, a 1.2-mile dirt road that serves as Aspen’s outdoor Stair-
master, and some Amazonian beauty with legs-to-there and long braids walked by me, pushing one of those baby jogger things and walking matching golden retrievers at the same time. You know the type – those women who wear their spandex tights and little windbreakers to the coffee shop, faces hidden behind visors and wrap-around sunglasses, flaunting the fact that good genes are on their side.
I also have a slew of guy friends who have never seen the inside of a gym (lest it be to sit in the steam room), who stop drinking beer for one second to go hiking with me only to leave me in the dust as they go tromping up the mountain. Why bother going hiking with someone if you’re not even going to be with them while you’re hiking? What makes matters worse is I have all this time alone to think about it, counting steps to take my mind off the fact that my heart is in my throat and might explode any second. These guys are the poster children for off-the-couch athletes.
Forget about racing. Last summer I did the Run for the Cure, a 5K community event to help fight breast cancer. I had a fight of my own that day, with this 11-year-old kid who I just couldn’t shake no matter how hard I pushed it. To make matters worse, he would sprint and then walk to catch his breath, so I’d pass him only to have him catch up to me 30 seconds later.
The worst is when my friends from sea level come to visit. You would think I’d have some kind of advantage, considering I’ve been living at 8,500 feet for four years now. But apparently, altitude sickness can affect anyone at anytime – even me. Last summer our friends from Ohio wanted to climb a fourteener, so we took them up Castle Peak. As we piled out of the car at about 11,000 feet I felt the headache coming on, the lightheadedness, the nausea. When I finally slugged up to the summit, they were done with the photos and the snacks, lounging in the sun with these looks of immense satisfaction on their faces. Let’s just say you could tell they were well rested. “Good job!” they all said, trying to pretend it wasn’t odd that I was so far behind.
“I stopped to take a few photos,” I said, lamely.
I expect this summer will be the same: It’s not about the destination, but the length of the journey.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
