The other day, I was reading through training literature, as I am wont to do during my thrillingly thrilling workday, when I had a brief epiphany. I’d just read a line about how, in order to be a good climber, you ought to weigh about two pounds for every inch of your height. The initial thought that had gone through my head was, "Right! Maybe if your name is Richard Virenque! EPO works as a diet pill too, right?"
But then I got to thinking about it: Two pounds to every inch? I’m 67 inches tall, so that means I’d need to weigh only 134 pounds.
I’d woken up that particular morning weighing … (drumroll please) … 137 pounds. That means that, at current, I have about 2.04 pounds to every inch of my height. Whadda ya know? I’m not that far off after all. I got to thinking maybe there’s hope after all.
In other news …
I took my buddy Mike out for a ride today. He recently purchased a Gary Fisher Tassajara, and he’s been dying to go hit the trails again, so I couldn’t disappoint the guy even after I looked out the window and saw that it had been raining all night and there were huge patches of fog moving in and out of the valley.
As it turned out, it was actually quite pretty up in K. Canyon. You could see the fog moving through the rock formations on either side of us as we slowly ascending the canyon road.
But, to our surprise, the night’s moisture had brought more than just rain to the canyon. About 700 feet up (the ride to the ski hill gains about 900 feet, all on paved road), we found our back wheels spinning on what looked like pavement. As we passed the ski hill and started slopping through the muddy fire road (the trails were looking darn near impossible at this point), we found the scenery around us changing from ‘snow falling on cedars’ mist to ‘winter wonderland’ white. It didn’t take long before we couldn’t go any farther–the rest of the road was covered in a sheet of ice and snow.
The bummer side of that is that the dirt road and the trails really don’t open up again until April or May, which means I’ve missed my last chance to ride the 40-minute climb up to the top of the mountain already.
With not many choices left, we rode to the bottom of the climb and started up the pavement again, which was still plenty for us.
I’ve decided I like riding with Mike–he doesn’t complain, ever. Here we were, freezing, my feet turning blue, ice under our wheels, not an ounce of rideable singletrack in sight, a steady rain falling, and he was content to just enjoy the ride. That’s my kind of riding company.