I successfully cleaned the steepest segment of Kent’s trail recently, and I’m so proud of that achievement that I decided to devote a Substack post to it.
Not that this is the first time I “cleaned” this stretch, or pedaled it without putting a foot down; I’ve done so several times, always feeling a small rush of accomplishment. But as this feat exists at the far edge of my fitness and capabilities, every time I wonder: Could that be the last time?
(This post, you see, is an exploration of aging, masked as a ride report.)
Kent’s trail is one of four that fan out from the base of the vast network outside of Bend. Like brother-trails Phil’s, Ben’s and Marvin’s (Garden), Kent’s is gentle, swoopy, forgiving: almost entirely green circle stuff, punctuated by occasional blue-square peril: a brief rock garden, a shin-high drop.
Such as: after a couple of gradually elevating miles, Kent’s splits: veer left, and grind steadily uphill for 100 meters until the trail reconverges; continue straight, and the entire rise is collapsed into a 30-meter wall. For me this final push is all guts and granny gear, testing my mettle every time I attempt it.
My test section begins innocently: packed, smooth soil, a root here and there. But just as the trail bends steeper, rocks emerge. Atop those rocks rests a layer of basalt dust so fine that if — not purely hypothetically — I were to spill and land face-down, I’d stir it with my heavy breathing.
Ten meters further forward, the rocks increase in number and size, so that the only way up is through: through the channel of that same fine dirt, which gathers more deeply between the rocks. It’s here that, cruelly, the pine needles become more plentiful, so traction becomes less trustworthy.
Passing this gauntlet without dabbing a foot is my own Peter Attia-style trial: aerobic fitness gets me to the base, and then it’s an all-out combination of lungs, muscle, balance and stability. Just as my quads begin to sear and my breathing breaks anaerobic, my rear tire starts to slide; pitch my weight back to find traction, and my front wheel comes off the ground. My hips shift, my shoulders counter, my legs burn even more — and about every third attempt I make it to the top without stopping.
That’s why I give myself three tries every visit: I don’t want to spend an entire ride re-attempting the same section, and besides: As I tire, cleaning the section becomes less likely. Last week, my first attempt ended with my aforementioned face in the aforementioned ground, my pedal having glanced off a rock and bucked me sideways. I (literally) dusted myself off, and rode to the bottom for attempt #2, which pathetically ended as I slid out just as the trail kicked up. But then: I rested, and then, determined, I found that balance between front and rear wheels; looked not at what I wanted to avoid, but at the path I wanted to follow (great advice for riding and for life); and muscled — and minded — my way to my goal.
As I spend more time, fortunately, with my mom, and with Karen’s dad, and as we talk often with peers about their parents’ final years, I’ve found myself considering that every action our bodies and brains exert will, at some point, occur one final time. We’re likely conscious of only a handful of these last actions; who knows when they’ll last jump, or jog up the stairs, or lift the trash can — or eat something delicious or take a full, gratifying breath?
The arc of our lives begins with the novel becoming familiar; soon we become adept at some activities, and then even accomplished at a few; decades later the arc bends back, of course, and in roughly reverse order those abilities diminish, until even actions we once took for granted require effort, or even assistance. Across the final third of our lives we muster each such effort one last time, though rarely are we aware of this finality; perhaps we marvel later at what we once could manage.
Those who know me will assume — correctly — that it’s my plan to travel the end of my arc resistant, not raging against the dying of the light, necessarily, but certainly determined.
As I was scrambling over the final few meters of my trial section, a group of five riders was cresting the other branch’s more gradual climb, cheering each other on. Just as they stopped to rest they noticed me and watched my last few pedal strokes, my kick up over the uppermost ridge. “Whoa!” one of them called out: “That dude just rode up that super steep part!” The others applauded.
I caught my breath and thanked them, and then admitted aloud, “This is how I test myself. If I can do this, I’m not getting older.”
It’s a flawed suggestion, of course. But it’s nice to imagine — as long as that wasn’t my last time.
Interestingly, as I topped out on the Nose in darkness a month or so ago, I was wondering if this could be my last one day ascent.