800 meters
This world never adheres to the number we predict.
A quick glance outside the window, the fog has engulfed everything within its arms; all that it has left behind is despair and a choice to do nothing but change your mind and move on. It is 6 am in the morning, and I never wake up at this ungodly hour unless I have to do something important—and today is important, well, sort of. This weather is depressing, but what was I hoping for? It had been raining for a week. But I live by the numbers I see and understand, and today was supposed to be a sunny, warm day. Fifteen minutes later, another look outside, in a hurry, in excitement, in the hope that this world sometimes adheres to the numbers we predict—to see a patch of blue sky among the clouds, the spectacular views of the Himalayas, and a ray of light guiding everyone their path. And indeed, patches of blue skies are there all over the place. I get ready within ten minutes, with my tools in my pocket, gloves in my arms, helmet in my head, and excitement in my legs.
900 meters
It is cold outside, as expected. The fog has not fully gone away, but it is moving away as I march towards the hill—Sarangkot, the most brutal and the highest road climb Pokhara has to offer, in my opinion. I can go on and on about the personalities of hills, but that’s an essay for another day. It is carved with the steepest inclines one has to endure, and the most spectacular views, covered by the clouds and fogs that occasionally fail to hug them. And today was the perfect day to go up there. The fogs march towards the climb as the sun rises from its place—covering them, making them a mystery for hikers and cyclists to explore and see everything for themselves.
Spinning my legs in excitement, I forgot the one ritual of every sport in existence — warm up. It was a shock to these legs, for they had been in their natural state of rest. But they won’t speak up, silent in their demeanor; they will keep working while they drown themselves—a perfect domestique willing to sacrifice for their leaders. My excitement got the best of me, and while thinking about what might be going on up there, I forgot what was happening right in front of me—a price to be paid later.
Joined by another cyclist, who happened to be—lighter and more controlled than me. When I am out on the road, giving everything I have got left, throwing pacing out of the window—he is behind me, controlling his effort, pacing himself, fighting the demons in his mind quietly. We all fight this demon differently—some with power and stubbornness and some with patience.
The climb is in front of us — hidden within the fog. It is a mystery, provocative in its nature, as it wants us to find what’s within it. The only lesson I have learned from horror movies is to not go towards the fog, but here, I am supposed to fight it, explore it, and find myself within this fog rather than something or someone else. I set my front gear into the easiest place and prepare myself mentally while the other guy has already accepted his fate, just like everybody else going up this climb.
I start chasing him down. Pushing more power than I should have, blowing myself up within the first four minutes. I go past him. So now what? The summit is the endpoint. I keep spinning. My breathing has already become labored, my legs are paying the price now for not warming up. I can feel it; I tell myself, you should stop and let them recover; it will become easier. My body wants to recover, but I won’t stop—willingly paying the price. But I have already committed myself to this, sealing my fate, that if it requires more pain than usual, then so be it. I will endure it, but I won’t stop. This is more stubbornness than determination, but this is how I fight the demon—with force and reluctance.
The fog is cold, every switchback is hidden, and you must force through every one of them. You do not know when the hill will let you recover, but it does not matter; you are far beyond capable of recovering at this point; all you want to do is finish it or get finished by it. I am passing other people—remnants in the flesh left behind by the hill, everyone succumbing to where they belong while they watch me pitifully while I slowly end up where I will belong.