Cycling to Hudson

The morning was gloomy. Grey completely covered the skies, but it didn’t really feel like rain was coming our way. Though precipitation had fallen overnight, the typical dryness was absent in the air. I was nearly choking on the mugginess; it’s just not typical for Colorado to have a lot of humidity, so any significant amount of moisture feels foreign and heavy to my lungs.

The night prior, Sam and I had decided to take a ride out to a small community east of our home. Sam had casually mentioned that he’d like to ride out to Hudson, and although I didn’t understand the reasoning, I was game for pedaling the 30+ miles out to see if there was anything interesting to be found. Plus, we have a longer ride coming next weekend and we figured we needed to do a bit more distance in a single ride so the 60-ish miles would be a nice little jaunt.

It was supposed to be a fairly flat route. We are routinely told that pedaling east is easier than pedaling west from our location. It makes sense because the mountains are to the west and it is flat-looking to the east, but we both know this idea that gets repeated is not always, and is actually rarely true. Additionally, the mental state of believing it will be flatter pedaling always results in disappointment and an increase in perceived pain when not prepared to do the climbing that will inevitably come, even if it is lesser than climbing into the mountains.

We would also be traveling a large portion of the route on a highway. I rarely traverse this particular roadway as I have no need (the last time I drove on it was about 10 years ago when we were making our way to Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota), and I have never ridden it, so I couldn’t recall what type of shoulder exists on this road, nor did I recall the road conditions or speed for motorized traffic.

In June, I was hardly prepared to deal with layers, but it was a quite cold morning, so I donned winter tights and long sleeves, hoping that the temperatures wouldn’t change too much and have me wishing I’d worn something lighter.

Regardless of the oddly cool, nearly summer morning, I intended to enjoy this ride and to take in the open spaces. Spending most of our days in more populated areas, I was eager to spend time away from crowds, buildings, and cars. As we pedaled into a headwind, we both commented on the condition of the road. Our teeth chattered – not from the temperature, but because of the broken and fissured asphalt. Mile after mile we felt our hands becoming more and more numb, making it a bit more challenging to appreciate the greenery and open spaces.

Cars whizzed past us. Big-rigs skimmed by closer than I would have preferred. Unfortunately, the shoulder thinned out into a nearly non-existent space and for the last several miles of our outbound trip, we struggled to find a balance between being run off the road and claiming our space with motorized vehicles traveling at 65+ mph (105 kph).

A rare, clear and car-free moment on our route. The shoulder was actually workable in this spot, which was nice.

On the up side, the skies were clearing and the usual beautifully clear blue sky was once again appearing. For the most part, cars were being a bit more generous to us with space as well, which was appreciated.

When we arrived in Hudson there really wasn’t much to see. I’m not sure what Sam had expected to find, but it was like many small, interstate-accessible towns. There were a few old houses, a small, unbranded grocery store, a handful of gas stations, a couple of pubs and that was about the extent of it.

So, we turned around and headed back home. Sam had mentioned that perhaps we should find a different route back and that maybe we should take one of the county roads and head north rather than back west. I was not particularly keen on the prospect of aimlessly wandering roads we are unfamiliar with and for which we had no knowledge of their length or potential end points, so we decided to stop off to see if we could map out a better route without too much trouble on a phone.

After some fussing and fiddling it was decided that, despite the road not being the best choice to travel by bicycle, we knew what we were in for and decided to see it through. We also hoped it would be mostly downhill, as the ride out had felt remarkably climb-y.

It looks flat, and while it was flat by comparison to the mountains, it was hillier than expected.

What struck me most during this ride was how much my mind was wandering. Normally, when I’m concerned about fast-moving cars I can only focus on keeping as far right as is practical, but instead (though I was aware that I needed to hold our line), my mind was lost in thought.

Strangely, when we are on these short-long rides (my term for rides that are longer than a 30-miler, but shorter than something more epic), I find myself thinking about people who do brevets, particularly when my body is uncomfortable or having pains. I go through a slew of thoughts – everything from amazement at how people are able to cycle 300, 400, 600+ kilometer distances in one go to telling myself to “suck it up” because my little ride is nothing in the grand scheme of things. I am aware that we all have different tolerances and abilities, but because those long distances are always something I’ve thought about trying, I can beat myself up a little when riding a distance that pales in comparison, despite knowing that when we tandem, we are more capable than I often believe.

These thoughts inevitably lead to pondering mortality, reminding myself to appreciate all the little moments and to be in the present. We never know how long we have after all. This segues into thoughts of my departed father. I find myself trying to communicate with him, wanting to believe that he hears me and can somehow respond to my life-questions. The vast open spaces serve to reinforce how small and insignificant I truly am, but also cause me to believe that it’s possible he really can respond in some manner.

I find myself conflicted because I can both believe in being able to communicate with the dead and simultaneously think it’s the craziest thought in the world. Maybe it’s more that I want to believe these things are possible, but logic wants to force other realities upon me. It’s a similar dichotomy I experience when wanting to be rational about creating art — sometimes, things just aren’t logical and we have to allow ourselves the sliver (or crater, as is sometimes the case) of space to believe in things that simply don’t follow the tangible or known.

We roll past disintegrating road kill. It’s impossible to discern if it’s rabbit, prairie dog, squirrel or something else, but this sight snaps me back into the moment. I realize we have arrived into more populated areas and that the shoulder has widened once again. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that we have some wiggle room to avoid wide cracks and bumps in our path. We’ll be home again before I know it.

“So,” I ask of Sam, “Next Saturday… are we ready?” I don’t really need a response. I know us well enough to know that we’ll power through whatever presents itself.