Clinton to Whistler

I got a nice early start from my campground in Whistler, and started off excited for a big day. I hesitated, briefly, as I passed by the short cut I had considered the night before, but decided to take the long way around... I had planned on pedaling about 180 km that day (already 30km longer than my average), but between stopping early the night before and skipping the shortcut, the distance to Whistler had been stretched to 250 km. Regardless, I was pretty confident I could cover that distance, but if I pedaled 30 km out to look at the shortcut and then turned around, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make 310 km.

I had no idea what the road had in store for me that day. My map showed a pass a little ways before Whistler at 1272 m, but Clinton was at about 1100 m so I was optimistic that the there wouldn't be too big of a climb ahead. Some people would call my lack of research on the topography of my route foolish...I kind of like the surprises.

As soon as I passed by the shortcut, I started down a steep hill. Half an hour later, I was still descending the same steep hill. Oh boy, I thought, this is going to be a very hard day. The road descended steadily for the first 20 km South of Clinton, and then started to slowly climb for the next 30 km.

As soon as I left Clinton, despite the small sense of doom associated with the descent, I recognized that this was a beautiful place to ride. The traffic wasn't bad, and the surrounding terrain became increasingly rugged and strikingly beautiful. The road wound through sandy hills hundreds of meters high (similar in scale to the domes surrounding Fairbanks), speckled with sharp, colorful cliffs. The road followed a stream through a Ts'kw'aylaxw first nation reservation, and occasionally I could catch glimpses of a bluish-green lake through the trees as I pedaled by.

As I passed by the mini town of Pavilion, I saw a sign pointing to the shortcut back to Clinton. It looked like a nice gravel road, and I could see it climbing up a hill behind Pavilion at a reasonable angle. I was frustrated: The road looked completely ridable, and I could've gotten to this point two hours earlier. But in the end, it just made this day that much more epic (and I eventually spoke with another biker about the shortcut, who said he had gotten similar advice from locals in Clinton...maybe the road is worth than the part that I could see). I pedaled on.

Past Pavilion, the road began to descend again. So much for the last 30 km of climbing! I thought to myself, sarcastically.  But the terrain also got ever more exciting. The road paralleled an enormous canyon, and I could just barely see the Fraser River far roaring a couple hundred meters below me. The hills near the road grew into full sized mountains too, and I could see snow for the first time since leaving the Seven Sisters about a week ago. It was exciting to start seeing signs that I was approaching the coast again.

The land was still dry and dusty though, like the horse-land surrounding towns in old western movies. There were little shrubs growing in the dust, and occasional horse stalls, but not much else. I expected to see a ball of tumble weed rolling along, and imagined riding horses through the hills...this would be a good place for that.

I cruised down the hills, feeling good and enjoying the scenery, and purposefully not thinking about the climbing each meter of descent implied. The hills were fun: fast enough to be exhilarating, but straight and slow enough that breaks weren't necessary.

As I got close to the bottom of the canyon, the day began to get hot. I put on sunscreen and sunglasses and pressed on, feeling grateful for the two extra water bottles the Quebecois gave me the day before.

I rolled into the town of Lillooet (Guarunteed Rugged, according to all of the propaganda bill boards posted on the of the road), a little after noon and pedaled up a steep hill to reach the visitor information desk. On the way, I passed by a sign that said 32 C (I'm trying to stick to metric units because I find them a lot more user-friendly...and to make a political statement...but to emphasize my point, that's 90 F!)

The women working at the visitor center were very helpful, filling my water bottle from their kitchen once, and then again after I drank half of it. I asked what elevation Lillooet was at, hoping optimistically that it would be around 700 meters. "270 m" they answered cheerfully.

"Oh," I said with a smile, thinking: wow, this is going to be an incredible day! I wonder if I can climb 1000 meters in this heat...

The ladies went on to inform me: "There's a beautiful, free campground just 5 km down the road...Which way are you going? South? Hmmm that's the biggest climb. Most cyclists that come through here stay at that campground, and then get an early start the next morning, like 5 AM."

"Yeah?" I said, "That's probably a good idea." I'm absolutely going to try....

"Yeah, given the weather here, that's probably the smartest way to do it." They went on to show me a few other campgrounds a bit farther scattered along the way up to the pass. Great, I thought, If I get too hot, I can stop in at one of those. "Do those campgrounds have water?" I asked.

"They're right next to a stream."

"Great!" I replied, thinking, even better.

We chatted a bit more, and the women repeated once more what a good idea it is to stay at the campground and get an early start..."Thanks a bunch," I replied, "I'll probably see how I feel." A short while later, I was back on the road.

HOT!

The road is steep--the signs warn of 13% grades, and it literally switch backs it's way up the mountain. I'm trying to climb it at the absolute worst time of day. The sun is directly overhead, so there's no way to hide in the shade, and each time a pass by a rock face that's been blasted away to make way for the road, I can feel the heat radiating off of it. I drink water every time the road flattens out a bit, counting on my two liters to hold out until I get to the first campground. Eating is out of the question: as long as the road stays steep I spend all of the parts that don't require me to pull on the handle bars drinking water, and I don't want to stop in the sun.

I thought of those football players that died of heatstroke....Listen to your body, I told myself, confident from spending so much time running and trying to avoid injury. I didn't have to deal with heat growing up, but I did some running in the heat in New York during college, and the last 10 days have conditioned me, somewhat. It felt brutally hot, but I wasn't light headed or nauseous and my heart rate was high but not out of control. In fact, I felt strong. I kept going, and made an effort to smile at cars as they passed...I got a few honks of encouragement on the way, which I appreciated.

After climbing for an undetermined amount of time (still no watch or bike computer : ), I was aghast to see that the road descended: "12% grade, next 2 km" the sign said!  Wow! This day just kept getting more incredible.

By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, the slick coating of sweat that had covered my entire body was entirely dry, and I was completely cool. There was a river running next to the road there, and ten minutes earlier I was longing to jump in one. But now I was almost cold. I kept pedaling. Best of all, the road had changed angle, and now I was in the shade, off and on. I can do this, I thought, happily thinking of couch surfing that night.

By now, the road was in the mountains and truly awe-inspiring..."awesome" in the best sense of the word. The arid landscape of the morning had given way to evergreen forest, and mountains shot up to the sky on both sides of the road. I could see snow and glaciers above treeline, and the smell of pine trees caught in my nose occasionally. The constant sound of roaring water as the road roughly followed a creek bed was comforting as I dealt with the heat, too. As I continued Southbound on the Sea to Sky highway, I felt closer and closer to home.

I felt good. I dripped sweat, the occasional droplet making its way through my eyebrows and stinging my eyes. I drank constantly, but was always thirsty. Big puffy clouds teased me as they burned away just before providing shade. But the trees and offered brief respite from the heat when the road hit the right angle, and I was in the mountains! I imagined cyclists racing through these hills, and pulled up on my pedals.

After a couple more descents, and their associated climbs, the road again cut next to the river, and I stopped to fill my water. A sign said that I was 20 km from Lillooet, which meant if the road averaged a 5% grade, including those descents, I was near the summit in elevation (although it's actual location was still 30 or 40 km away). I went down to the stream, dipped my feet in shoes and all, ate, and filled my water. The feeling was heavenly.

I returned to my bicycle feeling refreshed, and was about to leave when a Swiss man came flying down the hill on his bicycle and pulled into my pullout. I was mildly surprised--cyclists aren't too uncommon on this road--and then another cyclist pulled in, and another. Within five minutes there were eight Swiss men in bike shorts and shirts sizing me up; a whole Swiss peloton had joined me in this little pull out. "Which way are you going?" they asked. I pointed: "South."

"Oooh," they said, suggesting that I still had some climbing to do. "Where are you trying to get?" They're English was good by most standards, but poor compared to the other Swiss I had met...it would be hard to have a long conversation.

"Whistler," I said, mildly dreading the doubtful reaction I was going to get. There was some babbling in another language.

"You know that's 100km?"

"Yeah...I've made it 150km so far today," I replied wryly. There was more babbling.

We chatted a bit more, and eventually I said, "Well, have a good ride," and we were off in our opposite directions. A typical cycle touring meeting, I've come to realize, brief close camaraderie in our shared insanity, and then parting with essentially no chance of seeing each other again. It's kind of fun!

I covered the next 40 km with trepidation, expecting another big climb the whole way, but it never came. The road climbed and descended over rolling hills all the way to the end of the pass. Eventually, clouds survived the trip in front of the sun without evaporating, cooling the day considerably. When at last I reached the first sign warning trucks to gear down, I was relieved.

Little did I know the most treacherous part of the day was still to come.

Out of time on this library computer...more to come!