Numb and Number

(continued from Icicle Ride)

During the van ride up the mountain, the guides seemed a little nervous. "It could be a bit windy up there today," advised Mark. "When we get to the top, we'll take a look about, and depending on the conditions, we may start our ride a couple of kilometers down the road at the Point."

No one in our group looked particularly athletic. There was a couple from New South Wales that didn't know much about bikes but were at least dressed for cold weather. Then there was a fussy British gal in a bright yellow jacket, anxious to get the ride over on time so she could drive up to Devonport later tonight. Finally there was a young Aussie version of Eugene Levy

and his chipper Saffa (South African) wife. Clearly, Jo and I would be the most capable pair on this tour. I bike regularly back home in sub-tropical swamp fog, and Jo is a freestyle boxer and certified fitness instructor currently in top form. I attended her Body Pump torture session last week at the Viva Gym in Adelaide, and for the entire hour, I chanted to the beat: "Aussie, Aussie. Ow. Ow. Ow. "

As we wound our way up an increasingly agitated Overlord Wellington, the air grew chillier and the sky cloudier. "It snowed about three weeks ago," Mark informed us, "but by now it's mostly melted." Clearly not in the mood to deal with whining Chicken Littles all day, he tried to put the ride in perspective for us:

"Every November, the Cascade Brewery hosts a Fun Run up the mountain. It takes a little more than half an hour to drive up the mountain, and the record for running up it is 1 1/2 hours. Back in the day, before they built the road, they called it the 'Come As You Please Run.' You chose whatever route you liked. So when you got to the top, you'd have a drink, and then, of course, you'd have to run back down."

You'd think that running down the mountain would be the easy part. And we weren't even running. We would be rolling. But when we reached the summit, we were greeted by a couple of bad omens. First, the snow wasn't melting. It was falling. Falling fast, just like the temperature, which had dropped below freezing with a serious wind chill to boot. We might as well have been at the South Pole. Second, we were greeted by a stranded cyclist banging on the van window. "I misjudged the conditions, mate." he murmured. "Would you guys mind sharing a lift down the mountain?" This guy was neither a tourist nor a novice. In his red racing jacket and matching helmet, he looked like a Tasmanian Lance Armstrong. Trying his best not to look like a pansy, he passed on our guides' offer of extra clothes. He crawled into the back of the van, where he hung his head quietly as he warmed up.

Dan, the other guide, drove us down to the Point, where we bundled up in extra layers and waited for a reprieve from the windstorm. After about ten minutes, it finally eased up for a second, and off we went.

I ease up and come to a stop. My fingers have turned from icicles to burning embers and the pain is searing and relentless. I fully expect to stand here shivering for a while until the van full of my riding mates arrives. To my surprise, after only a few seconds, Jo rides up, still on her bike but visibly shattered. "Is this hurting you like it is me?" I ask, shaking.

Jo can't speak through her chattering teeth and blistered cheeks, but she nods and looks at me, bug-eyed. As we stand there helplessly, I see something coming fast behind us on the road. I hear a gleeful "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" as the Saffa whizzes past us with a dumb grin on her face and no righteous respect for the elements. "This is soooooooo fun!" Her voice echoes off the mountain walls as she rounds the corner. Jo and I look at each other sheepishly and climb back onto our death chariots.

I push off first into the middle of the road and then ease back to the left in case there is incoming traffic. Apparently I cut Jo off because I hear her groan and squeeze her brakes. When you can't feel your fingers, it's hard to move them all with equal pressure. She lays too heavy on the front brake and the bike tosses her head over handlebars. She takes it hard in the bottom of the breadbasket as both she and the bike bite it. Ouch. As she looks at me with scorn, I can't help but feel a tinge of joy. Not at her misfortune, but because now we both have a valid excuse to climb into that van and save ourselves, if not our pride.

"You pulled in front of me," she growls, wincing.

"I'm sorry, Jo. I was trying to stay out of the road." The rest of the group cruises past us and the van pulls up beside us. I whisper in her ear, "But I need you to be a big sissy right now. I can't ride anymore."

"Good. Me neither," she replies.

(to be continued in the RAINBOW CONNECTION. . . )



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