I Climb the Smokey’s (maybe)

I’ve been struggling with how best to write about crossing the Smokey Mountains. There’s the physical exertion necessary to hump 40 lbs. of gear up a mountain, the technical 20-mile descent, and the photos and video of both. To try and do it all (jack of all trades, master of none), I’ll write a brief recap and add some  videos and pictures.

10:15 am - The morning meal was a continental breakfast with danishes, coffee and the CNN Money gang discussing the implosion of the financial market. When I made it into the hotel hallway donned in full ElectionCycle.com garb the maid gave me a lustful wink, she must have liked the spandex.

10:45 am - After three miles of building my cadence on the flat section leading to the initial grades of 5-percent I took the following video and pictures. Please note that what I am saying on camera is only a psychological trick to improve my self-confidence. I was terrified that the mountain would break me and I’d end up pushing my bike as cars zoomed past laughing, or that I’d simply end up like Danny from Karate Kid repeatedly screaming, “I hate this stupid bike.”

After a few miles of the modest grade, I was anxious for the challenging grades. The Smokey’s had penetrated my sleep and robbed me of emotional clarity for the past two weeks. Instead of being laid back I was casually challenging myself on smaller sections of climbs to make sure I had the stones to make a climb thre times as long as I’d ever tried without weight. If these mountains had a plan of destruction I’d rather they execute it.

Anyways. To build my energy and maintain a solid cadence I pulled out the iPod and mentally prepped for the first four miles of the climb.

The trees were overhanging the road, meanign that reds and yellow leaves above my head were also starting to cover the asphalt. Fortunately the trees also provided shade which prevented any thoughts of premature dehydration.

And then-Boom! No drunks dressed running beside me, no sidewalk chalk, just a steep pitch and a thigh swelling start to my day of climbing. Despite my best efforts to choose a playlist full of inspirational music (i.e. bad punk, Jay-Z and The Arcade Fire) I managed to slip in The Killer’s cover of “Romeo and Juliet.” Great song, but hardly the way to start climb.

For the next hour I didn’t take any videos or pictures and instead absorbed my surroundings and chose to focus on the pain. The incredible, debilitating, “I’m a big fat wus” - pain. I tried to keep my rotations up and stay in the saddle, which of course I was completely uncertain if it was the right method for taking on the mountain. I just figured if I kept my butt down, my muscles would stay fresher longer and I’d be able to handle the steeper grades near the top of the mountain.

As I climbed I got some waves, a couple dozen gawking children (being a good role model I was wearing my helmet) and a much appreciated fist pump from what looked like a cyclist himself. After 30-40 minutes of pedaling I was good but increasingly out of my saddle and staring as the rotation of my front wheel.

I was averaging about 7 mph on a compact crank and was in the best gears I could find, leaving me little room for later adjustment. I couldn’t sandbag.

After another 45 minutes I reached a small switchback that offered the first view of the North Carolina’s side of the Smokey’s. Magnificent. If I’d come two weeks later the leaves might have had more color, but, no bother, I gained energy from the first feelings of accomplishment started to think, perhaps to a falult, “I’m probably gonna make it.”

This was also the start of climb’s third section, where the grade slightly increased. Here’s the video, and turn down the volume unless you want to hear me panting…

Now I was certain that this project was a great idea, the voters I’d met, the eccentric people that seemed to arrive dailydaily - all of the effort was worthwhile. But then, the final pitch.

To put this into context; on occasion I’ve managed to reach about 45 mph going downhill, a modest speed that was initially scary because of the obvious dangers. But I quickly began to enjoy and grew accustomed to dangers, knowing that with increased concentration I’d be fine. But I was now climbing at FIVE mph which was  more nerve wracking because I lost focus, and hardly being able to keep the bike upright could veer into traffic or make a bad sift and go head first into a ditch. Climbing hills in New York and Vermont acclimated me to the idea I’d have a final kick when I hopped out of the saddle and made a move for the top, but with the weight of a chubby 3rd-grader on my rear tires I was out of the saddle hustling hard and still only managing the pace of push mower.

11:30 a.m. The final 45 minutes of climbing was brutal.

Each passing car brought the stench of hot brake dust and more motivation to make the top. I became a bad person for the last mile, intently focused on that first sign of a flat I was letting out roars of motivation to myself, like you’d hear a Bulgarian bellow as he attempted some quarter-ton dead lift. Corny, cheesy, dorky (or worse) that motivation worked and each howl led me further up the mountain with a shot of adrenaline for my quickly fading gams.

12:20 p.m.: After a few more kicks, and a dozen more howls I reached the top and was treated to a clear day and striking views of the valley below.

I met a few families who had driven up the mountain from the Tennessee side and each wished me safety, though they seemed more concerned about me riding through Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge than they did the upcoming 20 mile descent. A young woman who took the photo below told me that her fiancee proposed to her in the exact same spot last New Year’s Day. After the photo she loaded me up with Luna bars and drove away. That’s trail magic!

After 30 minutes near the summit I threw on my jacket and started the descent. The initial grades were insane, and I loved leaning into turns and receiving my hard earned rewards for the last few hours of climbing. I was ahead of any leafers for several miles and entered, exited, and the reentered areas of the park where I’d be completely covered by changing leaves and then vista’s that stretched for several miles.

I took lots of video of the descent, but much of it is too wobbly, here is a brief section that came out okay, its some of the first that I shot, only 20 miles into the ride, so about four to six miles into the descent. Luckily there were no jerks flying past like there were on Soco Road leading to Cherokee.

Anyways, the video…

The rest of the day’s cycling was a trudge on narrow, dangerous highways to Knoxville. Fitting, that I would have the least enjoyable riding right after an accomplishment like the Smokey’s. Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge and Dollywood didn’t do much to reignite idealism, but my focus had turned to food and water.

When I arrived in Knoxville I was happy to have accomplished the toughest physical challenge of the trip. But there was no time to celebrate, I needed to report and write the day’s voter profile. At times this trip has been, and will continue to be a cycling adventure, I’m most excited to hear the problems and opinions of voters.

Create the Best Day!

-Tim