It had been a hard Winter, and was then only in the early part of February. Much more to come. We’d been through a long stretch of rough weather. The pattern had been evil and relentless.
It would warm, just slightly. The daytime highs would inch up to just above freezing. Then it would get cloudy, chilly, and nasty out for a day. Then the rain would start. It would rain (mixed with freezing rain) for four to six hours. The rain temps would drop and the rain would turn to snow. A lot of snow. The storm would pass, and the high that followed would leave us with clear sky, but also with plunging temperatures. The cycle would repeat. Each repetition of the pattern would take four or five days.
I rode. I rode when I wasn’t digging out from the latest snow. I rode in the awful rains. I rode (but not well) in the snow. I rode the rollers. I rode on the bitterly cold clear days.
The day came when the pattern seemed to break. The clear cold gave way to slightly warmer days, but it didn’t cloud up. I conceived an idea born of Winter madness. I would ride out and visit the top of “my mountain.”
I call it my mountain, not because I own it, but rather because I’ve always had a deep connection with it. I’ve climbed it on a bike, and on foot. I’ve driven to the top on many occasions. I’ve stood on the ultimate summit and stared deep into the night skies. I’ve watched the Sun rise from that summit, and watched it set there. On two occasions I’ve seen the “green flash” at sunset, while standing on that summit. It is a place that exists and pulls at me. I need to go there.
At that time, in that Winter, I felt the pull, the need. I hadn’t been on a ride longer than an hour and a half in over a month, and I could not remember when I’d last been up in the high country. The roads were clear, and while it wasn’t exactly warm, it wasn’t too cold either.
I was in motion even as I was deciding to go. I grabbed a small loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and stuffed them in a jersey pocket. I filled two bottles, pulled on some more clothing, pumped tires, and I was rolling.
The approach ride was 16 miles long. It warmed me and cooled me. Each hill was a bit warmer than the last. I pulled my jacket off and tied it around my waist. The short fast descents, between the banks of plowed snow were bracingly chilly. (That should have been a warning.)
I passed an entrance to the George Washington National Forrest, and the climb began in earnest. I noticed that the sky had cleared completely. I gave thought to what a clear and perfect day it was to summit my mountain. Then I was focused on the long hard climb.
The climb was good. The first part had me moving in and out of sunlight, and I warmed wonderfully. But then…
There is this place, a fork in the road. Go left, on the better pavement, and you descend into West Virginia. Go right, on the rougher surface, and the grade pitches up sharply. It’s completely exposed there, and the wind lashes at you. That’s the summit road. The last two miles are a struggle under the best of conditions.
On that day, the wind was strong, and cold. No shelter. It stole the warmth out of my body. I had to dismount for the last 100 yards, but I’d made it. I was standing at the summit, over 6,000 feet above sea level, higher than anything within sight. The wind was incredible! I had no way of knowing what the temperature was, but the word “cold” was hopelessly inadequate.
I propped the bike and found the footpath on the south side of the summit. Once down from the top a few yards, the mountain blocked the wind, and the Sun, shining up from the south, provided a bit of welcome warming. I crouched there, rubbing my hands, restoring circulation.
As soon as I could, I went back up to the top and remounted the bike. I could not stay there long, much though I wanted to.
Descending, usually a joy, was tough. The wind rushing by, ripped anything like heat from me. I was going hypothermic before I got down to the fork. Most of the trip down the mountain was agony. I was trembling so badly that I could barely control the bike. The temptation to brake was irresistible. It took a subjective eternity to get down to the lower slopes of the mountain.
It was a joy to finally get down far enough so that it was possible to turn the cranks again, possible to work and make some heat. I have no recollection of the rest of the ride home. I know that when I arrived, I hit the shower, and then the bed, bundled under every blanket I owned. I would not re-visit my beloved mountain again until Spring. Cold had been defined. It was a place I was not welcomed in.
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