Death By Mountain

Who wouldn't want to go mountain biking in the mountains? We are in Utah for a family vacation, and we are staying on a mountain. The scenery is beautiful, the people are wonderful, the air smells like pine, and there is a bike shop two minutes from our front door where they rent bikes. Perfect.

My daughter's health class did a piece this last year on the damaging effects of alcohol. As a teaching point the kids were given "beer goggles" to wear, and then they were instructed to perform different tasks. As instructed, my daughter put the goggles on and was then told to ride a bike. She never actually made it on the bike unless you count laying atop it while it was horizontal on the grass. She scraped up her leg and arm. That is pretty much how I rode my mountain bike in the mountains.

For one thing, I live in Iowa. Where we have air.

It started nicely. Mike and I woke up early, donned helmets, hugged a tree, and took off down the bike trail with smiles on our faces. Mike zoomed away like he was born to ride a bike directly upwards, but the slant of the bike trail quickly bossed me around. I made it two blocks.

"What's wrong?" Mike asked after circling back to find me near our starting spot.
"My lungs aren't working!" I wheezed, doubled over in the grass.
"Oh, it's the altitude. Raise your hands over your head and take a deep breath."
"Aaaa!" I screamed into the sky with my hands raised high.
"Are you going to be okay?" Mike asked, hoping the people who had begun to stare would keep on walking.
"There is a boulder on my chest!" I yelled into the sky.
"Do you want to go back?"
"No. The mountain is not the boss of me."

Five minutes later Mike circled back again to find me doubled over my bike huffing and panting like a teenager making a prank phone call. After more hand raising, some growling, and a pep talk, we biked on. For two feet. Then we faced reality and chained our bikes to a tree in order to attempt conquering the mountain on foot.

"If you breathe more consistently it would be better for you," Mike said after I flung my body to the ground and growled at the sky.
"I can't breathe more consistently because I can't breathe AT ALL!" I shouted from the ground. Wheezing and panting, I stretched my arms out wide in a futile attempt to fit more air inside my lungs.
"We are almost to the summit," Mike told me.
"I'M GOING TO DIE HERE!"
"You can make dirt angels as long as you need to," Mike said because he is a sassy pants.

"How long have we been doing this?" I asked after Mike's dirt angel comment spurred me into action.
"A little over an hour, but a good chunk of that time you spent on the ground. It should only take about fifteen more minutes to reach the summit."

Fifteen minutes full of growling, hand raising, rolling in the grass, and threatening to throw up, ended with two Iowans on the top of a mountain in Utah. I believe it was beautiful. I was breathing like a 90 year old man with emphysema. It was distracting.

We then altered from leaning into the uphill and instead braced against the downhill. When we arrived back to our room, my wobbly legs barely carried me to my bed where I immediately fell asleep. I decided one thing:  the mountain IS the boss of me.