So we decided to hit the trails of Santa Rosa again. A good friend of mine, who had just upgraded to a dual-suspension bike and who had just recently conquered a two-kilometer uphill trek in Maarat (aptly dubbed “The Wall”), was insisting to test his skills at Cardiac Hill.
The problem was that, on the way to Santa Rosa, it started to drizzle, rendering the trails horrendously mushy and squishy. Climbing atop Cardiac Hill was no longer a problem. I still had a few gears to spare. But when we reached the trails, tires failed to grip onto the mucky soil and mud-caked earth stuck to our pedals and cleats. Soil clumped to our shoes. Our clothes were splattered with mire. We fell a couple of times, my last being a stumble onto a puddle, which encrusted one half of my body and splattered sludge onto my glasses and helmet. As we careened down upak trail at close to 40 kph, soil was being hurled off our bikes. Yet, in the end, our bikes looked like it swam through swamp.
Fortunately, Sabak has a shop in Paseo de Santa Rosa, and for P100 we got our bikes cleaned. It was a good idea that we ended our ride earlier than most of the other bikers (our ride still totaled close to 30k) so that we would avoid the eventual jam of bikers having their bikes cleaned. I walked back to my car and took whatever water is left to rinse off the sludge on my body.
But it was still fun. And I would still do it again.
I don’t look up. I don’t want to know how far it is to the top. I pay no attention to the riders that are passing me. I pay no attention to the riders who have dismounted and are walking the distance. Despite the music blaring through my iPod headphones, I can hear myself breath. I focus on my breathing. I focus on keeping the bike balanced. I focus on anything that detracts me from the weight on my legs. I focus on anything that distracts me from the heaviness of the pedals. I realize that I am tense, that my shoulders are hunched. I try to relax while still maintaining my grip on the handlebars. I avoid slumping my torso. I read somewhere that it lessens the capacity of your lungs and right now I need as much oxygen as I can get. I suck the air in and let out a grunt. I am panting but not as much as my first trip. In my first trip to Cardiac Hill, my breathing was labored and my heart was a car engine piston. I gave up with about 50 meters to go. I am at the granny gear now, the largest cog on my crankset. I am still not sure how much I can still downshift. And I resist the temptation to check on my rear derailleur cogs. I feel the sun stab my forearms. My thighs are concrete bricks. A drop of sweat trickles down and I taste its saltiness. A biker passes me. His sun-darkened skin betrays his experience. He steals a look at me through his dark glasses and nods in silent acknowledgement. I respond similarly. There is camaraderie in pain. I glance upwards and, to my surprise, I am probably 50 meters away from the top. I see the crest. I see where earth meets sky and beyond it is all blue. I see bikers being swallowed swiftly by the maw of the horizon. I am near the edge of the world and I know it is within my reach. It is my personal Everest and my bike is my Tenzing Norgay. I am not quite exhausted but the 50 meters might as well be 50 kilometers. I push on. My bike crawls at infantile pace. I move mere centimeters with each pedal. All I have to do is to keep myself upright, for I know that for every centimeter that I move, it is one less centimeter to the top.
