Got Hills?

For several months now I've been reading a blog titled "The Daily Grind".  The blog's author is Rob Manning - an amazing writer, photographer, sport science graduate, bike geek, racer, enthusiast, and Hudson Valley Chiropractor (who specializes dealing with athletes, by the way).   Living so close to the Catskill Mountains, he's ridden his bike here from time to time.  Since he's a fan of CatskillsCycling.com, and is an A+ writer, I asked him if he would put something together as a guest writer about one of his adventures within our hills here. 

He graciously accepted, and I am happy to publish what he sent to me.  I really enjoyed reading it, and I hope you do too!

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Climbing in the Catskills

I fancy myself a climber. I'm rather slightly built, standing 5'10" tall and weighing only 142 pounds during the competitive season (let's not talk about the pain of one too many beers during the holidays) and have a penchant for seeking out pain and suffering on a bike wherever possible. I never really noticed my love of and success when the road tilted uphill until transitioning from heavy mountain biking to almost exclusively road riding nearly four years ago during my graduate school years. You see, spending a lot of time in the middle of the Finger Lakes region left me with no mountain biking to speak of, so the road bike was all I had. And where I happened to be, it was flat. Not just "a couple rollers" but we're talking flat with a capital "F". My average rides would entail 35 miles and 300 feet of vertical gain. Sad, I know. I longed for hills: I hated time trialling (I still do) and I can't sprint to save my life. I looked forward to those weekend when I would pack the bike in the car and drive the four and a half hours to the Hudson Valley, where they had honest to god hills.

I cut my teeth on the likes of Mountain Road, Mountain Rest Road, and Route 44/55, cutting across the ridge known as "The Gunks" outside of New Paltz. It was here I realized what a joy it was to climb, to ride on the ragged edge of control, to suffer against the force of gravity and your own doubtful consciousness. However, as spectacular as those rides were, I was frequently drawn northward into the foothills of the Catskills, allured by the huge peaks that could be seen upon crossing the Kingston Rhinecliffe bridge. Of course, it didn't hurt that one of my favorite bike shops, Mexican restaurants and coffee stops were in the little town of Woodstock, either...

After finally leaving behind the pancake flat roads of western New York and settling outside Red Hook, last summer I made it a point to challenge myself and attempt a few of the bigger climbs at the doorstep of the Catskills. I phoned my buddy Matt who shared my twisted love of double digit gradients, and we decided to meet for a Wednesday afternoon climb fest outside Woodstock. Not having ridden any of the climbs in question, he sort of chuckled when I said that I'd be switching my 12/25 to a 12/27 climbing cassette, but leaving my 39 tooth little ring on. He asked if I owned a compact crank. For some reason, I thought he was joking.

We met on the outskirts of Woodstock and geared up. My legs were a touch stiff from a fast hammer-fest mountain bike ride the night before, but I thought nothing of riding with a semi-full book of matches, so to speak. We rolled out of town on Tinker Street, heading west to Wittenberg road, and eventually catching Yankeetown road. The steeper grades of Yankeetown road helped to awaken my tired legs and I burned a couple matches on short, sharp accelerations to get the juices flowing. As I fell into a solid rhythm, I was excited at the prospects of climbing Ohayo Mountain road and finally the big boy in town, Meade's Mountain road. Yankeetown came and went, dropping us off at the foot of Ohayo Mountain. I knew from the map I had perused (and having driven the road previously) that seven switchbacks awaited us. I was also wary that the elevation profile on my Garmin shot straight off the top of the screen, never to be seen. Oh well, no time like the present...


The gradient climbed along with us. 9%... 10%... 12%... There was a constant, edge-of-detonation rush of agony that accompanies the best climbs. THIS is what I came here for. Although my epic mistake came about switchback number five, which I had somehow in my lactic acid addled mind thought was the penultimate hairpin. I hit the gas, doing my best impression of Andy Schleck on the Col de Madeline, and rounded the next switchback, wide eyed and horrified that there was still a bit of climbing left to go. Whoops, chalk up another burned match out of an already depleted pack. Cresting the top of the .7 mile, 9.8% average gradient climb and descending the 14% average backside into town was exhilarating. Well, except for the 'Vette that attempted to pass me, doing 53 MPH downhill. That was slightly less exhilarating. We tooled about through town, stopped briefly and sucked down an espresso at Bread Alone, and decided "what the hell, let's get our money's worth. How bad can it be?"

Famous last words. Or should I say MY famous last words. He knew EXACTLY what he was getting into.

I knew the numbers of Meade's Mountain road. 2 miles long, 10.6% average grade, a half mile above 12.5% average, and max 21% grade. I'd driven it a couple times in the past, and knew vaguely the contour of the climb. I also remembered that the top was marked by a Tibetan Buddhist Monastery, so at least I had something to tell me how close I was to my goal.

We started the climb just outside of town, and veering left at the fork immediately pitched us into the meat of the climb. I watched the gradient increase almost exponentially, at one point noting my cadence of 50 and a gradient of 18%. "Stand, sit, stand, sit, don't blow up, grind it out, here's a flatter spot, only 9% grade now, oh joy, here comes 16% again." I recall thinking that maybe that espresso wasn't the greatest idea after all. "Sit, stand, keep that rhythm, 18% here, down to 12% again, recover a little bit now...oh s**t, there's that 21% max." I vaguely remember wondering if the monastery at the top would accept dead cyclists. With my heart doing its best impression of a jackhammer, I rounded the final right hand hairpin and raised my gaze to see the multi-colored flags of the monastery ground fluttering before me. Finding the last match I had left, I kicked hard to the top, nearly collapsing onto my bars as I rolled to a stop in front of the monastery driveway, and Matt, who had beaten me to the summit by only a couple of minutes. I flipped him off as he chuckled about how he loved his compact crankset, and tried in vain to slow my pounding heart.

 After a breakneck speed descent back into town, we packed it in, I reiterated my friendly disgust with his compact crank, and we headed off to our respective family duties. On the drive home, I was exhausted, I was achy, but I was utterly exhilarated. For some bizarre reason, I wanted to do the whole thing again, maybe adding a couple more big monuments to the mix; thought of the famous Devil's Kitchen climb up Platte Clove road danced in my head, along with a few of the other standouts such as the Glade Hill road and Peekamoose climbs. That's the strange, sick and twisted nature of these mountains: they always leave you pining for more. Ah well, the Catskills have been here long before I came along, and they'll continue to be here for a long time after. I've got a lifetime to conquer the steep pitches of these mountains, so no hurry. I've only just begun to set foot on the doorstep of climbing the big peaks of the Catskills.

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You can follow Rob Manning on Twitter here.

You can follow Rob's great blog here.