Pedaling Pikes Peak

In recent years, I’ve made it a mission to ascend a big mountain on a bicycle each spring or summer. This year, Pikes Peak chose me. How? I had heard about the mountain’s steep average grade of 7%, its peak elevation of 14,115 feet, its beautiful views, its geodiversity and biodiversity, its whiplash of weather patterns and temperature ranges, and the impact of its seductive sass for cyclists. And then I heard it beckoning me in a dream. So, I said, “Thank you for choosing me this year, Pikes Peak. Yes, let’s commune on a day splattered with golden light and landscape. I’d be honored to pedal to the frequency of your prominence.”

On September 26 at 8:15AM, my husband Aaron dropped my bicycle and me off at Mile 2 past the Pikes Peak Highway Tollgate in Cascade, Colorado. This committed me to a 17-mile big mountain climb laddered with 6,000 feet of elevation gain. My original plan was to start at the Crystal Creek Reservoir from which it would’ve been 12.5 miles to the summit. I’d studied the specifications of the ride. I could’ve started in Manitou Springs for a longer ride and endured heavy traffic. No thanks. I wanted to be amidst the thickets of wild wonder wilderness for the hypnotic serenity. I wanted to be able to hear the symphony of the light wind caressing my bicycle chain and pedal cranks as they pirouetted each revolution.

I had read that many cyclists start at the reservoir because that’s where the sustained steep incline starts, where the expansiveness of landscape and loyalty to the ride really begins. However, when we drove through the tollgate and paid the $38.00 fee, I asked the employee where most cyclists start from and he responded with peppy spirits, “Many start right here at the tollgate. You can park right there!” He pointed to a few empty parking spots. We drove through the gate and I asked my husband to pause the car so I could think. Could I add six miles to this steep ride? But, then I said, “Keep driving, just a bit.” A flash of sensibility and heartsong flooded through me as an answer to my question: I had enough food, I had enough water, I had enough gumption in my lungs and legs, I had enough heart in my heart, I had enough spirit in my spirit, and I had enough grit, grace, and gratitude on any given day to get me from here to the moon on a bicycle. Checklist confirmed. “Drop me off at the next pull off,” I said to Aaron.

My stomach butterflies flirted with the rogue realization that I’d get to ride more miles than I had anticipated. It was then I knew why Pikes Peak had chosen me this year. I was a sucker for its seductive sass. As my great-great-great-great uncle P.T. Barnum said, “There’s a sucker born every minute,” so I guess I’m as trued to that as the spokes of my bicycle wheels are trued to big mountain rides.

We came around a bend and I asked Aaron to veer into a small pull-off. “Here. Yes! I’m going to start from here!” I jumped out, and got ready. The rest of “ready,” I mean. You see, I had already accomplished the majority of the getting ready part of doing a big mountain ride. The night before we had stayed in Woodland Park in a tiny home Airbnb where I’d slept a decent eight hours of sleep. I’d folded into my morning yoga routine on the only six-foot stretch of floor available in the tiny home. For breakfast I'd gobbled up a whopping bowl of oatmeal ornamented with dates, figs, nuts, and banana bits, as well as two scrambled eggs, one green apple, and a few chunks of watermelon and kiwi. Yes, I eat big-big for a big mountain ride. I’d scoured the weather app and determined my appropriate attire. I’d entertained my own preparative routine by sing-song-mumbling the phrase, “Pikes Peak, a goddess mountain beast, you are brrrr, burly, and beautiful this morning.” I’d packed snacks of more nuts and dates, plus carrots, celery, fruit chews, cacao nibs, licorice bits, granola bars, and beef jerky. Yeah, it sounds like I was prepping for a 30-day bike tour, but I just eat a lot all of the time. I guess I’m built with a high metabolism for a high mountain. I also packed water and extra layers of clothing and rain gear in my panniers and ensured those panniers were secure on the bicycle. I’d navigated the pre-ride routine methodically and joyfully, so I knew I was ready for the ride.

For the rest of the “ready” at the pull-off point, I removed my gravel bike from the rear bike rack. I’ll pause here and explain that I chose to ride my Santa Cruz Highball gravel bike for this ride, mostly for the extra gearing. I’m a high-cadence spinner by nature, and I knew I’d want to access at some point in the higher elevation stage of the ride those “just in case you’re groggy and grumpy” gears. I’ll also add that the Santa Cruz Highball is a fully rigid carbon mountain bike frame that a dear friend, gifted wheel-builder, and bike mechanic named Zack from Vermont built for me. “I want a gravel bike that has flat bars,” I had requested. Why flat bars? Well, in my experience, hands on the wide handlebars opens the heart. And an open heart on a bicycle equates to expansive experiences in body, mind, and spirit, and it’s the expansive experiences on a bicycle that catapults me into the full embodiment of love, joy, and thrive-jive. Zack had found the used bike which had the perfect frame and fork for our vision, masterfully adorned the frame with mighty fine gravel-bike-compatible components, and crafted a brand new wheel set that birthed the customized diva dream velocipede to life.

What I love about this bike, and another reason why I chose it for the Pikes Peak ride, is its sexy spacing for the perfect panniers. I’m a biker who loves her bike bags: one tube-shaped pannier for spare bike parts attached to the front of the handlebars, two small toptube bags for foodie quick-grabs, and one conical-shaped rollup pannier extending from the seat post over the rear wheel for extra clothing. My goal for all of my big mountain rides has always been to be as self-sufficient as possible. I used to race road bicycles. My focus was on how fast I could go, and on how light I could make my bicycle with titanium and carbon this ‘n thats. Then the savory aromas of forests along paved roads, dirt roads, and forest trails tempted me with radical love story essence, and I melted into the pause-to-ponder and peripheral realms of my rides. So, now I’m no longer focused on how speedy my ascent is. I will confidently use the analogy that I love feeling like a turtle with her house on her back. I carry all that I need for my wonder-full ascent, my dilly-dally dazing at the summit, and my dreamy descent. Having graduated obsession about the weight of bicycles to years past, I now consider the weight with efficiency, diligence, and merriment. I mindfully discern the dire necessities like it’s a game. What do I really need in case of …? The considerations and contemplations of what “just-in-cases” to carry is as fun a challenge as the ride itself. For me on a big mountain bike ride, like a turtle, slow and steady wins not the race, but wins the “I accurately anticipated exactly what I needed for this ride” award. I love that feeling of “Yes, I calculated the considerations and contemplations with a sacred medley of intuition and intellect. Sweet!” I love that feeling as much as I love cresting the final feet of the summit. Yet, even when I miscalculate, it’s okay. Argh, I carried spare tubes, raingear, puffy coat and pants, shoe covers, fleece hat and gloves, and the kitchen sink, and never needed any of it! Humor and humility are superheroines that both hover in the artistry of my pedalstroke and keep me going no matter what.

We were at the pull-off, and I was in the final stage of being ready. Finally! I removed the Santa Cruz Highball from the bike rack. It weighed approximately 32 pounds, and I weighed 135 pounds. I pinched the knobby gravel tires to ensure they were still plump-pumped up for the ride from when I’d checked the PSI with the bike pump earlier that morning. I applied SPF. I futzed with my layers of clothing as the sunrise and its growing warmth winked at us on the horizon. I put on my helmet and bike shoes. I straddled my bike. I gave Aaron an “And I’m off!” hug. Usually it’s a kiss, but I’d already applied the SPF lip gunk and we joked about the Ewww! of that (I know, so silly). I clipped into the pedals. And, I launched. Aaron’s plan was to drive a few miles ahead of me throughout the ride, find cell service to make some work calls, and wait for me to pass by or stop at the car if I needed anything. I loved that he was there. When planning this trip, as with others before, I’d asked him, “Do you want to come? I’ll be fine on my own. My resume of solo cyclist saunterings is legit. And, you know I love riding like a turtle with her house on her back for all the reasons, including so I don’t feel like I’m cheating, but yeah, it’s nice knowing you’re part of the journey with me too. So, it’s up to you!” I’ve done many big mountain rides without anyone there as a “just-in-case”, and I know when I’m pedaling I’m not thinking about anything but the ride. I’m not thinking, What if something happens and no one is there to rescue me? What if I’m the damsel in distress atop a big mountain and I’ll never get down? What if the unpredictability, unfamiliarity, and unchartered territory swallow me up and spit me out in Cyclist Saga-ville? But, I admit, it is nice when I come around a switchback and there’s Aaron on the side of the road cheering me on and running after me to offer a propulsion push. Thanks, love!

How do I embrace the incline on big mountain rides from the getgo? I pace myself. Remember, I am a turtle personified. It’s about the smooth groove. I focus on long inhales and longer exhales as an invitation for my lungs to find their flow. I focus on smooth pedalstrokes in sync with my breathing so my lungs and legs align with frolicky ease. I focus on light hands on the handlebar grips so my heart opens to embrace optimal joy. I am multidimensional momentum. I am the landscape. I am the mountain. I am the anticipation of the summit until I am the summit. I am the journey. For Pikes Peak, I focused on the vibrant fall foliage. I focused at Mile 8 on the area where tornadoes in the last few years have touched down and uprooted trees to reveal Earth’s aromatic secrets and to rouse the ecosystem’s new intricacies. I focused on the bald eagle that flew twenty feet above my head right at 10,000 feet of elevation when a splitting headache came on. Within minutes of the eagle disappearing amidst the treetops, my headache disappeared as well. I focused on the remnants of the old ski hill that had once been abuzz and is now swallowed up by the echoes of memories and by the critters, pines, and aspens that have taken rights to thrive in it. I focused on the five other cyclists I saw ascending and descending, four on road bikes and one on a foldable ebike. One of the cyclists passed me at Mile 16, three miles shy of the summit, as I was stopped on the side of the road nibbling on pecans, granola, and carrots. “Are you okay?” he blurted as he pedaled his road bike oh so smoothly by me. “Oh yes, thank you!” I gurgled with a mouthful. Later, Aaron told me that cyclist had ridden up to him while he was waiting for me up the road. “Is that your wife riding a mountain bike? That’s crazy!” he had said to Aaron. My heart flushed and blushed even wider. Flat bars will do that, as I already shared.

What else did I focus on? Surrendering to the solace of the scenery. After the Crystal Creek Reservoir when the grade steepens, there are 156 turns in the road. Most of those are tight, steep, roller-coasterish hairpin-paperclip-whatever-tight-curve-image-you-choose-to-imagine switchbacks. I focused on the expansiveness of the experience, on the wonder of “What’s around the next corner?”, and on the distinct tree line that propelled me from Colorado’s finest vegetation to what felt like the mountains in northwestern Montenegro. I focused on the silence between passing vehicles. I focused on the pulse of alliterative rhyming raps that I tend to spew above 11,000 feet on big mountain rides. I’m 53 years old, this freedom story’s gotta be told, addressing midlife stuff, it just ain’t enough to tranquilize the membranes of nostalgia, when I’ve realized I’ve been bold and told ya, reclaiming the virginity of my values and virtues, it’s in the vicinity of the soul blues sanity, it’s in the vanity of what clues I erased when I let my integrity be chased by ... All sorts of wacky wordplay comes to me, and it always makes sense to me in the moment, in the delirium of elevatory bliss. I admit I panic at the summit when I can’t recall what raps had rappity-tappity-tap-tap-tapped my noggin during the ascent. I could pull over and scribble or phone record it, but I’ve surrendered to the fact that capturing rap on a ride isn’t the point. I ride. I know my ride raps, remembered or forgotten, are the perpetual flames igniting my heartbeat. So I just keep going, assured I’ll be riding through the inevitable Realms of Rogue Raps that do choose to flirt with me. Recollection is a bonus. And what raps consign themselves to oblivion, I surrender to their preferred obliteration. For the Pikes Peak ride, I focused on spewing poetry when it came to me, giggling and gabbing in spurts with maniacal euphoria. I focused on the stillness of mind when nil of thought. I focused on nothing. I focused on everything.

At 13,000 feet of elevation I felt waves of nausea, but I didn’t focus on it. I elongated my inhales and exhales, asked my multidimensional self to synchronize in the ways that would best align with expansiveness, and the nausea tapered. My lungs tickled which ignited some coughs, and my legs ached despite my deeper breaths and meditative musings, but I was free and fantastic. I was immersed in an expansive experience afterall. I was on my bicycle, with nowhere else to be, with no desire to be elsewhere, and with the familiar grit, grace, and gratitude that fueled my moments.

A half a mile from the summit, Aaron was pulled over at a switchback. I pulled up and he pointed out the Pikes Peak Cog Railway tracks and said he was communing with marmots who were playing hide ‘n seek in the rocks. He then gave me a push, and onward I went. Aaron drove by me. Protruded faces from ascending and descending vehicles smiled, hooted, hollered, whistled, and beeped at me in the final turns. I smiled, hooted, hollered, whistled, and rang my bike bell back at them, and even raised an arm and a thumbs up. Then I thought, If I have the energy to do all that, maybe I’m not pushing hard enough. Then I remembered the turtle. I was doing just fine as I was.

It’s surreal when your focus on the journey transforms into your focus on the “I did it!” I pedaled the final straightaway and entered the parking lot. People were everywhere, oohing and aahing at the view, snapping photos, traipsing over rocks, mozying amidst the paved and grated walkways, and reading the many maps and signs that hallmarked the history and geography of Pikes Peak and her panorama. I was a tad woozy as I dismounted my bike where Aaron had parked the car. The summit wind was cold and refreshing. And I had food on my mind. In a delirious state, I started babbling about having read about the chicken soup they served in the Summit Center. I wanted food. I wanted chicken soup. But, I paused. I had just biked 17 miles up a big mountain. I closed my eyes. I could feel Pikes Peak in my blood. We were one. Each of her 156 turns were embedded in my being as the compass that would help me navigate continued expansiveness in my life. I was already thinking about my next big mountain ride. Wait, what? Be in the moment, I thought. I was. And, that’s what expansiveness does. It bridges our experiences together so they’re one meshed past-present-future experience. All the pedalstrokes gelled into one mammoth pedalstroke. All my past turns and switchbacks, 156 Pikes Peak turns and switchbacks, and my future turns and switchbacks into one soul-sweeping turn-switchback amalgamation. And I’m along for the ride, absorbing and embedding new memories consciously, subconsciously, spiritually, physically, logically - my multidimensional self loving, joyfulling, and thrive-jiving.

We entered the Summit Center, and I focused on the chicken soup. One spoonful at a time. Oh, so good! As we walked outside toward the car afterward, we joined the hustle-bustle of tourists, and I took great pause at the colossal plaque that showcased Katharine Lee Bates’ “America the Beautiful.” I was fascinated to read how the Pikes Peak views inspired her to write it in 1893.

We took our time scanning the 360 degree view. We could see all surrounding states, and even zoomed our keen eyesight in on Mt. Blue Sky, the big mountain near Idaho Springs, Colorado that I’d biked last year. I held my heart and embodied the bridging of experiences more deeply. The external panoramic view mirrored my internal elation. True love trued. I looked in every direction again and imagined myself soaring like the eagle I’d seen on the ascent. I imagined myself flying over the entire globe, my wings and eagle call in harmony with the expansiveness of every living thing on the planet. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for the world. May all hearts experience expansiveness and openness in any form and in any way. We are One. Hands at heart center, I bowed and exhaled.

Upon reaching the car, I bundled up for the descent. Some cyclists are bored by out-and-back rides. “You see the same thing twice. I’d rather find a loop.” This does not apply to big mountain rides. The expansiveness offered when descending a big mountain on a bicycle allows you to freefall fast while concentrating on swerving as needed to avoid the cracks and frost heaves on the right side of the white line (if there is one), and surely being aware of descending vehicles. The expansiveness also blesses you with seeing with new perspectives what you saw, missed, or had forgotten about when ascending. While fluttering the brakes as you surf the waning elevation, you know the sundry perspectives flavoring the spectrum of subtleties to bold observances to alert epiphanies is the hub of the big mountain’s seductive sass. You’re in it. You are it. You can stop to take some photos, or you can keep rolling, abducted by the timelessness and spacelessness of the big mountain’s enchantment.

The focus for the descent gifts itself to you. You simply notice. Intentions are at bay. Seeking rests, and receiving zests. You just are. You are raw, magnetic, and awake, and the descent knows it can offer you what you are meant to experience. The descent is the leaf that falls at your feet as you’re waiting at the bus stop. The descent is your lover sweeping you into an impromptu dance in the middle of the grocery store when your favorite song comes on. On my Pikes Peak descent, I noticed the whir of wheels on pavement in unison with my exhaled sigh and with my humming ancient tribal primal tunes I imagine came from the ancestry of the land itself and channeled themselves through me. As the pedal cranks had spewed their own poetic rhymes in motion during the ascent, I noticed they were still and silent when descending. I noticed I was still and silent too, as Pikes Peak under, above, beside, behind, and ahead of me spewed poetry now, her rhyme and reason echoing, “I’m glad I chose you. I see you, and you see me. I am you, and you are me.” I noticed the return of trees. I noticed afternoon’s angled slant of golden light and landscape, a nurturing hue overlaying it compared to the sharp tenderness of the morning’s. I noticed nothing. I noticed everything.

I descended all 17 miles to the tollgate without stopping. I arrived before Aaron, and so I had time to remove all my layers as the afternoon heat at 7,400 feet of elevation hit me like heatstroke after having been chilled at the summit. As I waited for Aaron, I kissed the saddle of my bike, as is ritual, stretched a bit, confirmed that it had taken me over four hours to ride a gravel bike up Pikes Peak, smiled about the fact that I only stopped at the car once during the ascent to apply sunscreen to my ears when I realized I’d forgotten to do so at the pull-off start, and recalled how the end of a big mountain ride isn’t an end. Expansiveness doesn’t have a start or an end, and neither does the beat of a heart or the whir of wheels in motion. I wondered what big mountain would choose me next.

This is my life. I am eternal expansiveness because of the bicycle, because of the big mountains I ride, because I believe that I am. In the grit, grace, and gratitude of Pikes Peak and all big mountains, I am. Again, I closed my eyes and said a prayer for the world. May all hearts experience expansiveness and openness in any form and in any way. We are One. Hands at heart center, I bowed and exhaled.

I'm Jessica Amber Barnum (Jess). I'm an Intuitive and Author.