So, at this point, I’m still the fastest biker in Kochi.
I was wondering where the challenges lay.
I didn’t have to wonder much longer. We stopped to regroup and prepare for the most difficult stretch of the day - a six-mile climb of 2,400 feet to the top of Tengu’s Plateau. We could see our goal, which was an incredibly steep, skyscraping plain off in the distance with a road etched into the side of the jagged cliff underneath it.
The sight was phenomenal and other-worldly. I should have taken a picture and will next time. I watched a microscopic, white car disappear over the plain in the distance and geared up for the ascent of my life.
I had never attempted a climb of this magnitude even on the old bike with easier climbing gears. The closest would be a sudden, thousand-foot rise over a three-mile road just north of Kochi City that I had done several times.
Recalling all of the advice I had received about climbing on a road bike, I set out to keep momentum going and pedal hard. It didn’t work, and I failed fantastically. I was pooped after getting through the first 12% grade incline within the second mile.
On the old bike, I could always make one last pedal before simply letting my feet fall off the pedals and to the ground. This time, however, I forgot to clip out again and collapsed in a heap, wheezing, spitting, and cursing the Tengu, wondering what I had done to deserve such punishment.
Aside: A tengu is some kind of mountain demon with a red face and an extremely long nose. It has several meanings in ancient history and religion, but many people I’ve asked agree that it’s an evil spirit that only does bad stuff to bad people.
I waited for the familiar purple and yellow rings in front of my eyes to go away and attempted to hop back on for more pain, but clipping in uphill proved to be a frustrating endeavor. I finally got it done, but was off the bike again in two or three minutes, defeated by yet another steep slope.
There was no way I could get back on at that point, so I began to walk the bike up to the next flat point, the existence of which I doubted.
Walking in cleated shoes that are not designed for walking is not fun, and I was extremely flustered by the slow place and the slipping around as I dragged my body uphill. It was more difficult than walking on cement in metal baseball cleats, and my old baseball buddies and the scars on the insides of my ankles will tell you that I was horrible at doing that.
I tried twice more to get moving on the bicycle but did not have the aerobic capacity to keep anything going. A few riders passed me, pedaling painstakingly slowly but, alas, still moving toward the goal.
What they were doing looked masochistic, a way to draw out the awful pain and make it last as long as possible. I thought then that if someone had come by and given me a choice between pedaling all the way up that thing without stopping or dying, I would have gotten on my knees and said, “Make it quick.”
However, the other bikers were experienced and I thought it wiser to imitate them than to sit and wait for the support van, so I got back on the horse and did as the Romans were doing.
It worked! It was much harder on my legs, but my lungs no longer felt like blazing hot bricks and I could actually look around and enjoy the scenes of an early fall in the Shikoku Mountains.
Not until I reached the 4,500-foot summit did the Bike Shops take me aside and tell me that biking was an aerobic activity. I really didn’t think of it that way, because on the old bike I had always been out of breath with muscles aflame trying to keep up with the group.
I see the merits on both sides, keeping momentum versus consistent respiration. If you’re intimate with a certain mountain or hill, you know where it makes sense to push it and blow through a rise and where it’s smarter to hold back and trudge up slowly.
Tengu’s Plateau had no such variation as far as I saw, it was just damn hard the whole way through. I took note of how well the aerobic approach worked and will try it again in the future.
I sat on the ground at the peak, looking around at the white clouds and barren, sloping plain before me. The karsts I had seen in pictures were all covered with beautiful, wild green grass that made the white and gray boulders stand out and shine in the sun, but it seemed that we had missed that time of year. The ground was brown and the rocks dull.
Still, the highest point on Shikoku is 6,000 feet and we couldn’t see that mountain for all of the clouds, so it felt like we were on the top of the world. It was deathly quiet, and a lonely wind crawled past our ears as we zipped up our windbreakers and changed into winter gloves.
We still had 15 miles to go to get to the riverside lodge where we would spend the night. My butt had frozen up and it hurt just to sit on the saddle, let alone pedal. Fortunately it was all downhill from the plateau, but the pain was excruciating and deep. Now I know exactly where the muscles connect to the hip bone, they were screaming at me the whole way down the mountain.
In the middle, there was an unlit, curved tunnel 350 yards long. We went through one by one and stopped in the middle, experiencing total darkness. My turn came, and I felt very small and alone in the absence of light. I remembered to clip out, though, that was good.
In that short time, I let my mind wander to an assortment of topics and forgot which way was out. My body hadn’t moved, so I was pointing in the right direction, but I couldn’t remember how much I had already turned to the right or how far away from the walls I was. There may not have been any walls for all I knew, perhaps that tunnel was where holes to China, missing socks, and Alex Winter ended up.
Complete darkness is fun when you’re in a cave and the guide has just turned off the flashlight, or when you’re groping your way around inside the base of a Buddha statue, enclosed in a space barely large enough to stand up straight, let alone kick your toe around looking for the next stairstep.
Not as fun when you have to guess which way is forward and gyrate some wheels to establish balance. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel appeared, but it had a very definite end to it and I was still bathed in darkness. It was such an odd, nightmarish feeling to see the light source and where the light rays stopped but to be outside of that area.
The national highway inexplicably ceased to be paved and we tumbled and bounced over rocks and gravel for about half a mile before reaching the lodge, where we enjoyed Korean food, cheap Korean beer and Kochi sake, and stories from long ago until we fell asleep, completely exhausted.
We awoke early the following morning to a misty rain that would stay with us all the way back into the city. I was anxious to get home and jump in the tub, and I shot out in front of the group before being told again to slow down.
I didn’t quite get it until a few miles later when we faced a long, but gradual uphill slope. The biker behind me whispered in my ear, “Mac, take it a little slower on the hills, eh?”
The oldest member of the group that day, a 58-year-old retired veterinarian with a huge face, shouted out a phrase in Japanese that has multiple uses, one of which is “please take care of this for me.”
I’ve stopped translating the phrase and don’t ever have to think about it to know what it means in each situation, so I understood what the vet meant as soon as he said it.
I also finally understood the team aspect of cycling and our trip. We stuck together to share the wind, the grind, and the experience. It was important for everyone to stay together, and all I had been thinking about the whole time was myself.
I then thought back on all the times someone had stayed behind to tell me where to turn, or turned and gone back early with me when I simply could not keep up or make it one more leg at the breakneck speed of the racers. Scarce were times that I returned to Kochi City alone.
I owe the riders in KCTC a lot. I feel a great sense of accomplishment having toughed it out for a year with inferior equipment and less experience, but I didn’t beat those obstacles alone. I got encouragement and guidance from every single member and I will pay it forward.
So, while I really wanted to stretch my wings (and hop in the tub as soon as possible), I joined the group and rode merrily with them back to Kochi. It was fantastic and I am looking forward to riding with them again and again. There will be plenty of other times to sprint and max out.
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Where had I gotten off thinking that the challenge in cycling was gone? I’m glad that I was brought down to Earth quickly on that one. I still feel like I can go until the pavement stops, and I’m anxious to expand my radius over the winter, but I know there is still so much to learn and I’m wide open to it.
On top of the lessons in humility, I had seen several guys in their fifties ace the hellish trek up Tengu Plateau. Talk about inspiration. I hope that I’m still able to do that in thirty years.
I thought I was the fastest biker in Kochi.