Basin. Fault. Range. Basin. Fault. Range. The repetitive nature of the terrain is much like the swing of my emotional state on this trip. Joy. Despair. Joy. Despair. There is not much relief from either.
Today on an 83 mile ride from Baker, Nevada to Milford, Utah, we encountered several sturdy sized climbs, the last of which the map has indicated as a 5 or 6 mile incline.
Between two mountains, following the winding of the road, it is nearly impossible to see what is ahead. When we reached the seventh mile of the climb, then the eighth, and finally ninth, I first wondered if we had made a wrong turn. Then I realized there have been NO TURNS since California. And then I thought, mail this f%ing map back to the crazy ass$& that created it and tell them to get it right next time.
I lost it. Completely. When Chris called this particular mountain pass "Mister Toad's Wild Ride", I laughed maniacally for ten minutes straight. Then, I thought I was going to cry from heat and exhaustion. Then I screamed at Chris and the mountain, alternately, until our eyes rested upon that beautiful green sign: "SUMMIT 6,445 FEET". I looked at Chris when we reached the top, shocked at myself, like I had just been inhabited by a demon. He was quick to forgive, but I am still trying to understand where it came from.
I am struck by what my father said about the luxury of discomfort that one chooses purposefully. When I let that concept marinate, it seems ungrateful of me to be mad at the mountain, or Chris.
So the next time I go to call the ass$%#s who constructed the adventure cycling maps on my cell phone from the base of a mountain, perhaps I should put the phone back in my water-proof map bag and tackle that mountain silently and gratefully like a warrior.
Way to put a bow on the story, sophisticated lady.