Mouth wide-open, I chomp with both rows of teeth. Nearly choke on cold, crushed dates, pulled haphazardly from my jersey’s back pocket. I huff and smack like a hypoglycemic kindergartener, consuming recess snacks after a morning of enduring the frigging alphabet. I heave my chin towards rockfaces, hands fiercely gripping, no time for water; I pray for safe passage of simple sugars through esophagus. Pec major suffocating sternum, squeezes and contracts just as hard as my pedalling legs. Against raw autumn wind, my skin taut, tears automatic, nose running. The mountains, laughing.
At the start line, our breath steams the morning. Our fingers, bony icicles dripping slowly over handle bars. Straight-legged straddling saddles, ears perked for roll call, we endure race-banter. The guy who just signed-up, a half-banana hanging from his mouth. Over megaphone feedback, steps from a sleepy four-way stop, the pack leans into the sun. Out from the shadows cast by tall, morphing oaks. We strangely yearn for heat, although the Elgin 120 begins in moments, and with one humid climb.
It’s October in Elgin and every maple has turned yellow. The Elgin 120 is three unique 40-kilometer loops that flower petal out from the central four-way stop. We bike into and out of loose bowls of grey gravel. Drop what feels like below sea level. We look up to nautical skies, the glowing clouds, false glaciers. In barren stretches, this landscape, a possible desert. We become red pins dropped in Google Earth broccoli forests, blood prioritized to legs making the mind more interesting.
We take-in and dwell-on pavement moments of witnessing humans. Volunteers at driveway ends, abreast country mailboxes. Bearded and broad-shouldered, arms crossed thickly over camouflaged chests, ready to hand water, clap, nod. Behind them, the next shy mountain.
Under tree cover, we traverse light and shadow. Climb calculated switchbacks, tire-width severs. Neck and navel corner hairpin turns, the front fork barely missing the frame in this bike-bending trick. The threat of spinning out is constant, too much weight on the front tire and the climb is over. The summit reward: a brake-testing wet-leaf descent, dimly-lit, like a 90s bungalow. Devouring turns and hallways of brown, yellow, and orange, I avoid blinking and mutter wheeeeeee.
Surfacing from tree-lines, in the second lap, a sunny blueberry field. A high-altitude habitat of mosaic mauve accented with cottony wisps of wild wheat. Golden warmth lifts the chin, somewhere, angel harps playing. Legs acclimatized, mind wary but still rational, now is the time to look out and savour second-lap-sanity. To admire the arcing sun, wild flowers and rocks. Cutting and pasting time, the second lap drags us toward sounds of a waterfall we will never see. Crosses covered bridges, weaves through a tree nursery, ends in farmland. White houses, rolling hills, all reassurance that the four-way stop could be down there. Still, no people. Cow poop in the wind.
Refueling at town center, clumsy hands fumble for water. We crawl to the cruelty tour: lap three. Pulled in a direction less congruent, more isolated than the first two, there is no mercy in the immediate and looser climb. Baseball-sized rocks fling from beneath while leaning into a hill that seemingly leans back. Tire ruts are tales of faster riders passed. Like cold graves, they suggest routes to circumnavigate the pond-sized puddles.
Following a series of fire roads intended for ATVs, and after the final water stop, the mind and all measurement are left behind. Clear cuts are indistinguishable, do not come with landmarks. My monkey mind, however, boasts accuracy. Scans blurry memories of montages from this same race two years ago. Ah yes, the hermit camp with the broken window out in the open, its just a little more single track, a quick wiggle down by the graveyard, then you’re rolling back into Elgin on the road to the four-way-stop. It remains beautiful. Grids of new growth, pine needles brushing forearms, orange evening sun spot-lighting empty roads. Ah yes, the handmade sign and the remote park bench, its just a little more single track, a quick wiggle down by the graveyard, then you’re rolling back into Elgin on the road to the four-way-stop. Intermittently, the forest is full grown and loamy. At this hour, leafy shadows especially dark and deceiving. Are there multiple clear cuts? Holy fuck, is that the coast? Alma? Where’s Elgin? What county am I in? Do I have to back track? Back into another clump of forest, apparently more single track. Ah, the ‘Green Mile’ trail, clever, that must mean its just a little more single track, a quick wiggle down by the graveyard, then you’re rolling back into Elgin on the road to the four-way-stop. Then a piece of trail literally called ‘Short Cut.’ Who designed this? Where is the graveyard? And then, I am there. I bump down the last descent like a pony clip-clopping cobblestone. I see light. The graveyard. The road. Cars. A person. A person on a stoop! Then, for the fourth time, I roll through the four-way stop.
Music is playing, helmets are off, beers are cracked, the sun is still out. Although it’s been over 8 hours it feels like morning again, the day compressed. High fives, hugs, horror stories of missed turns and bike parts that finally gave out, or didn’t.
In the church hall, the windows are steamy, a plethora of plaid flung over chairs. Maple syrup glows amber in glass jars, labels hand-written. Our cheeks are salty, but we look surprisingly good. There is no wifi signal, no cell service. We fill our plates and sit in whatever seat is open, long tables, cold salads, hot stews. Somehow, we are still able to articulate and converse after a day of survival. Familiar faces, volunteers now in indoor lighting, superimposed from their previous stations far out in the unmarked wilderness.
Heaven is a cup of black tea in a wood-paneled hall. It is an idea we repeat. A ritual of over-doing. A combination of riders and spectators, finally sitting. Every year, hands laced on tablecloths, we make plans for the next one. Bellies full, drive home in various directions. Minds boggled into peace.