Glass Elevator

Side note: On my Christmas ride I told the story of a particularly irritating trashy lady in the local Escondido Starbucks (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog!). Well, the following morning I walked into the same Starbucks and who was behind the counter ready to take my order, but the yelling cup lady with the good dye job! She worked there (making it even tackier that she was last-minute gift shopping at Starbucks on Christmas). I tipped her well and got away from the counter as fast as I could, telling myself there was no reason why she would recognize me, and that even if she did there was no way for her to know that I hated her guts. I walked up to the table with the cream pitchers, and as in many Starbucks there was a bulletin board above the little island introducing me to my local Starbucks baristas. There at eye level was my friend with the dye job. Her name was Marsha, and in big, swoopy handwriting she had written that her favorite day of the year was the day that Starbucks comes out with their Christmas cups! This was too weird. I fled.

On RAAM, there was one descent that everyone was talking about for the whole trip. It was a 10-mile descent just outside San Diego called the Glass Elevator where our guy hit speeds of over 60 mph. If there's anything that catches my attention, it's a free 60 mph descent. Of all the roads across the whole country, it was the Glass Elevator that everyone said was the coolest. We in the RV hadn't gotten to see the Glass Elevator because of the steep grades and narrow road. It wasn't until my descent off of Mt. Palomar on Christmas that I remembered about the Glass Elevator and decided to take the time to check it out.

Much more to my delight, I found out that the Glass Elevator, also known as Montezuma Grade was alongside a place called Hellhole Palms. Clearly, this was something that I couldn't pass up, despite the 1:30 drive I would have to take to get there and the fact that I had no clean shorts. Oh well, a few pustules on my ass from humping a saddle in filthy shorts never hurt anybody, right? Maybe I could even snag a picture of a sign that said "Hellhole."

When I woke up, though, there was wet on the ground. It's never supposed to rain in San Diego, but there it was all over the streets. I wouldn't be so worried about the rain, except for the fabled 60 mph descent. I did not want to die smeared across the road in some place called Hellhole. I was having vivid mental images of how far my teeth would be thrown from my mouth if my wheel slid out at 50 mph or I got a blow-out on a straightaway. Okay, I'll drive out there, and if it's too wet at least I will have seen it, I told myself. When was I ever going to find myself in East San Diego again, anyway? As you can see, there's nothing out there.
Funny thing about California is that the climate can change so much if you just cross the street. The hills trap all the weather systems where they are, creating completely different weather from one town to the next. I drove nearly due east through an hour of cows and drizzle, and as soon as I reached the top of the ridge, the road was dry and KAPOW! just like that I was in the desert. On the other side, the sun was out.

I had the choice to either park at the top of the hill and do the descent first, or drive over to the other side and earn my descent. I decided to park at the bottom of the valley and ride up, mostly because I wanted the air and my body to get as warm as possible before I started whipping down the hill tucked into a tight ball. I hopped on my bike and immediately began pounding back up the way I'd come. If all I was riding was one measly climb just to come back down, I might as well ride it hard, right? For the next hour and 20 minutes I motored up the 3,700-ish feet to the top as fast as I could, maintaining a heart rate that started at around 155 and slowly drifted up to the low 170's by the time I reached the top (my normal "steady" climbing heart rate when I'm warmed up is 165). It wasn't until much later that I realized that this could actually have been considered a pretty hard workout. I wondered again at how my mental space could make something seem completely daunting or like a piece of cake depending on how I framed it. Maybe reading all those books was bad for me. There is, after all, an angel that watches out for the stupid and makes sure that they achieve everything when if they'd known any better they'd know was impossible.

The road was a steady 6% grade for 10.5 miles. If there were steeper sections, that's when the full-face wind decided to come through with a royal Fuck You! By the top I was pretty ready to be done with the whole thing. I was chilly, I was tired, and I had been climbing balls out for 1 1/3 hours. That was a lot for a ride that I was determined not to notice that I was doing. Despite some anger at the mountain for not cooperating and ending early as I'd hoped it would, I realized that when I rode, my inner monologue was totally different from when I was running. When I run, I tell myself what a piece of shit I am. My inner monologue during a road race usually sounds something like this:
Don't fuck this up, Claire. You can hold this pace. Don't fucking slow down, and don't fuck it up by speeding up either. Just keep running. God this sucks! When is it going to be over? Why do I suck so much at running? My stomach hurts. Is there anyone around me? If I fart, will anyone hear me? Can't fart. Push. Nope, still nothing. No relief. God, will this ever end? 1.5 miles to go. That's just six times around the track. How much is left now? 1.48 miles to go. God, this sucks. Why do I do this shit to myself? When is it going to be over?

On the other hand, as I slogged my way to the top of Montezuma Grade, as cold, tired and thirsty as I was, my inner dialogue sounded something like this:
Don't stop, Claire. You can do it. Just keep pedaling. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam. Just get to those rocks up there. Just keep pedaling. Then you'll be falling down, down, down, down. Just keep it up. You got this, keep it moving. Whatever you do, just don't stop pedaling. Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggggg! Why won't this wind leave me alone? Just relax. Just keep spinning. You got this. You just have to get up there...
Not that I was feeling full of joy and love of life. I was feeling distinctly miserable and if the Flying Spaghetti Monster had blown me off the mountain, it would have been a welcome break from my misery. But The Voice is much kinder to me when I ride than when I run, coaxing and cajoling me to the next landmark rather than yelling epithets, insults and abuse at me the whole way. Interesting...


I reached the rocks that I had given myself permission to call "the top," put on a jacket, and turned around. I didn't actually hit 60 mph on the descent. I doubt I even exceeded 40. It was just too cold and I wasn't feeling loose enough to take switchbacks at 40 mph. So I just rode down, feathering the brakes lightly and watching my hard-won mile markers flash by seconds apart.

That was it. There wasn't much of a story. I didn't see a single other rider all day. I had gone to a cool place, I had ridden the cool part of it, and then I had gotten off my bike. The whole thing had taken less than 2 hours, but I felt neither mentally or physically exhausted. I just felt... glad I'd done it.
I suppose I must have gotten some kind of high from it, because as I drove the 2 hours to Coronado, I was filled with that old, familiar I love San Diego! feeling. It's really gotta be the best riding in the United States, and the best climate... I will live down there someday. Grad school perhaps?