Pantsed By the Wind

This may turn out to be a long one. So using my journalistic(ish) talents and my father's (perhaps all parents) trick of  condensing  a bedtime story from a full-length novel to a fortune cookie insert, I will provide a brief synopsis before I delve into my most recent cycling adventure. 

A few days ago I took the mountain bike on a ride up the road to the top of the mountain and then rode it down the fire road back to my car. But on this particular day, the wind was so strong that it altered my plans. I made it to the top and then on the ride along the ridgeline, but the wind was so fierce that it nearly knocked me over, tore my pant-leg clean off and forced me to turn around. I fought my way back to the road, then coasted down, having to dismount and climb (with the bike) through a fallen tree blocking the road. I made it back to my car and drove home thus surviving an ordeal and learning about myself in the process. THE END...now go to sleep.

(I admit that was a little long for a fortune cookie)

OK, for those of you who have more time to kill I will now give you a fuller description of my experience in the windstorm that tried to take my pants off...

As the season continues to change from hot and dry to cool and rainy, I thought I would try and squeeze in as many biking opportunities as possible. I decided a couple days ago to go for a ride on a blustery late Sunday afternoon. By blustery I mean that the winds blew a constant thirty miles an hour. So I drove my car, with bike attached, up the road about two miles from the staging area at the top of the mountain. Typically, I park the car here, ride the road to the top, then bomb down the fire trails back to the car. The whole ride takes a little under an hour and is probably a five-mile ride. 

On this particular day, a friend and I drove to the spot, parked and started riding our bikes on the asphalt to the top. My buddy, wisely as it turns out, decided to turn around early and ride back to his house (we both live off this main road). I, however, decided to soldier on. I made it to the staging area, where the wind was significantly more intense...on the road you are sheltered by trees and hills on both sides so the wind isn't much of a factor. Up on the ridge is another story entirely. Two things happened that should've given me pause. The first was that I changed from the vest I was wearing, into a windproof/waterproof jacket, but in the process of changing, the wind caught my jacket and sent it tumbling fifty feet across the dirt and grass. I then ran after it clumsily and finally tracked it down, then spending the next five minutes removing all of the stickers from the fleece-lined interior. That was clue number one...

Clue number two occurred not even five minutes later, when I went through the trail gate and rode to the top of a hill before starting the slow descent down the fire trail. At this point I slipped a neck gaiter over my ears, nose and mouth to protect against wind, dust and the cold. In the midst of this, my helmet flew from its resting place and rolled down the entire slope. I adjusted my headphones, gaiter and re-tied my right pants leg (to keep it out of the chainring) and proceeded down the slope to retrieve my helmet. Once I put the lid back on the jar, so to speak, I was ready to ride the dirt downhill back to the car, which is my favorite part. I do all of the grueling climbing just for the thrill of the descent. Anyway, I was having a lovely ride zipping down the trail, mostly because the trail was protected from the wind by the ridgeline, for about two miles, until I came to the part of the trail that crosses over the ridge and bombs downhill for about a mile back to the trailhead where I initially parked. 

At this point I was having a pretty good ride. I felt exhilarated, strong and I was eagerly awaiting the drops that were just around the corner...Problem was, I couldn't turn the corner. As I approached the ridge I was hit with winds so strong that it pushed me so far to the right, I actually went off the road (the road is 8ft wide btw). I hopped off the bike and tried to walk it over the ridge, but I was pelted with dust and very small rocks so hard that I had to hunker down into a crouch and use my helmet to protect me from debris. I sat there for about two minutes, thinking that this was just a strong gust and I would be able to sneak across and ride the last mile to my car. I waited longer...one minute...two minutes...then three...finally I realized that this wasn't a gust, but a sustained wind of (what I guessed to be) 40 knots, I  know I am a bit melodramatic, but I think this is pretty accurate. 

Panic set in when I realized that even though I was only a mile from my car, and the one way to end this progressively harrowing experience quickly, I didn't think I could make it. I tried two more times to cross the ridge, but again the wind was too strong and my legs too weak to get to the other side. It finally dawned on me that the only way back to the car was to turn around and ride back the way I came. So I started walking the bike back up the trail and that is when I noticed that my right pant leg had torn just below the knee almost all the way across the front. When I finally got some cover from the ridge, I hopped on the bike and rode back uphill along the trail, stopping only for strong winds and my pants leg getting caught in the chain ring and tearing further. After about two miles of this I finally just ripped the lower pant leg off entirely, which further exposed me to the elements (calm down it was only fifty-two degrees, but that's pretty cold for a guy from New Orleans). It was at this point I also became aware that could no longer feel my toes. Barefoot shoes and ultra-thin socks are not the best recipe for warm toes...just so you know. 

So I rode/walked in the wind back to the hill where my helmet went a-tumblin' and took a little break. Lacking the energy and desire to get knocked over again, I walked up the hill and made it back to the staging area. At least from here I knew it was an easy coasting ride downhill on the pavement all the way back to the car. The only other hiccup, was that now it was dark and I had given my other bike light to my friend so he could see and be seen on the way down. I did have my headlamp, which is a little better because it swivels and is brighter than the handlebar light. But in the in-between time of dusk and dark, your lights do very little to help you distinguish things in your path until they are under your front tire. So as the sun sank further and plunged me into darkness, ironically, the better I could see. 

The road was strewn with orange and yellow leaves that still swirled about, but I could only see what flew in front of me. I dodged sticks and branches and navigated the pavement as best I could...There is something oddly refreshing about only being able to see what is in front of you. In the center of chaos, literally being able to focus only on what you need to see turned out to be a nice metaphor. 

About half way, a mile or so, down the road a pick-up truck flagged me down and told me that there was a tree down and that the road was impassable. (OK, well a guy driving a pick-up truck...although I have been known to speak to inanimate objects). I thanked him for the update, but kept on going. I ran into the tree about half a mile later. The "branch" was about a foot-and-a-half in diameter with most of it blocking the road and the smaller branches and leaves cascading over the edge of the road, down to the barbed wire fence. I realized that I couldn't climb over the top with the bike, so I (with bike in tow) climbed through the foliage trying not to slip down the shoulder of the road and into the fence. I successfully navigated the tree and rode the last half-mile back to the car with (thankfully) no more fanfare. 

So, eight miles, 3/4 pants and a tree later I finally made it back to the car and sat there in the dark,  slowly letting the tension ooze out, replaced with a sense of relief. I drove back home and (of course) shared every embarrassing detail with anyone I saw and then decided to give myself a haircut, take a shower and not move a single muscle for the next eight hours. While using the clippers during my haircut, however, I kept getting grinding noises, much like when a lawnmower runs over a patch of dirt and rocks, and I realized that all the dirt pounding my helmet in the wind has nestled in my fro in the same pattern as the vents on the helmet. I did manage to get all cleaned up and sheep-shorn and basically not move until the next morning. It wasn't until the next day that I really was able to truly appreciate the experience. Looking back on the ride, it was sheer adventure...it tested me and made me think rationally in the face of (quasi) panic. It was fun to live the adventure. Also, I am now in search of pants...

OK, now go to sleep...