The East is not Flat

While this may not be a general misconception among all, it surely was one of mine. It's not that I figured the East coast was entirely flat with ant hills looking like mountains, but I certainly had the impression that great expanses could be covered without much climbing. Although I had spent numerous vacations out here as a kid, it was always experienced from the back seat of an automobile. An automobile which made little notice of elevation change as I focused on defeating my motion sickness.

The reality of the matter is that while the East does not have single pitch climbs that gain many thousands of feet, they actually have something which can be much more relentless for touring cyclists. Consistent hills which tend to repeat themselves over and over across states. Most of them aren't too big and are behind us within a couple minutes, but none of them pass without a noticeable effect on our legs. While they're quick and straightforward, with the end usually in sight, another appears as soon as one is conquered. Some areas are better than others, yet none seem to be completely free of it. Connecticut, seemingly considered by neighboring states to have little elevation change, surely had the most hills we have experienced so far. They weren't the mountains of New Hampshire, which were much larger but passed after seeing, accepting, grunting over, and accomplishing in a day. Such bigger mountains allow the creation of a goal and a following sense of accomplishment. Hills do very little for the camaraderie between cyclist and topography.

Days of riding are spent powering through our highest gears downhill, carrying as much speed as possible into the next hill, then slowly shifting down to our granny gears without loosing momentum. The clicking index of our rear derailleurs has become the soundtrack to which we ride. Nine up and nine down, with a guarantee each will be clicked through every ten minutes. Each time we settle into our granny gear, our control gains a bit of a wobble as we keep the weighted bike upright with little speed. It gives me time to over-think whether or not my front fender is properly aligned, when I will need my next pair of brake pads, find the new and magical hand position to prevent fingers from going numb, try to ride as straight as possible, or gaze at an unknown sight until I realize I'm swerving. The 90+% humidity causes beads of sweat to occasionally connect and move down my face, which I trace off my nose and onto the top tube it splatters on as I stare downward. Drivers give a quick tap of their horn to show they recognize the comparable strain we are enduring when viewed next to driving a car. We reach the crest of the hill and the first to summit (usually Wes), with more time to catch their breath, asks "Where the hell did that one come from?" The other usually responding with a comment on it's relentlessness.

When the hills do seem to subside for a segment, it's best to throw up ones hands and embrace it, for it surely will not last long.