The Devil Saddle

[ Day 3 – June 15, 2012 ]

Though I’d anticipated a tough climb into Yosemite, I soon found myself dealing with an altogether different challenge. My firm, unforgiving saddle and lack of prior training dealt me an unexpected handicap: sitting on the saddle hurt! This unforeseen discomfort soon colored every mile, dampening the pleasures of the road and ratcheting up each challenge.

I first found trouble on the Central Yosemite Highway, where I climbed over 1,000 feet of foothills before barreling down past Midpines and its eponymous evergreen forests. The feeling lingered on the steep and winding downhill to the Merced River, reminding me that every foot of descent would be reclaimed with interest in the climb back up to Yosemite Valley. Climbing up through Merced Canyon, I passed the curious, worn-down remains of a quarry operation—usually more than enough to warrant a detour—with little more than a sideways glance. I was so struck by this new discomfort that I barely stopped to eat or drink, flirting dangerously with dehydration.

I wanted to get to the valley and be done with it. This seemingly insignificant injury had flipped the touring experience on its head; the journey was supposed to be the reward, but all I could think of was the destination.

About 30 miles of roadway and 3,000 feet of climbing later, I rolled onto Yosemite’s Southside Drive and made my way into the valley. I took a break at Swinging Bridge, where I sat gingerly on a picnic bench, eyeing well-fed park visitors as I wolfed down what felt like my ninth consecutive meal of peanut butter tortilla rollups. I eyed a nearby grill full of hamburgers with almost primal desire. I felt like a wild animal.

I pushed on to grab one of the last spots at Camp 4, which by noon on a Friday was nearly full. I pitched my tent, climbed inside, and stripped all unnecessary layers. A tent in the afternoon sun is like a solar oven, but at that moment even a sweaty, fitful nap seemed better than anything else. I napped until late afternoon shade reclaimed most of the valley, then wandered over to the Yosemite Village General Store. It’s hard to overstate the joy of grocery shopping with a full wallet and an empty stomach; I went down each aisle twice, grabbing whatever looked good.

Taking a seat outside, I settled into my “second lunch,” which in normal circumstances would’ve been two day’s worth of groceries: a quart of milk, two bananas, a pack of deli turkey, tortillas, pilfered condiments from the nearby restaurant—all went down the hatch in effective (albeit somewhat gross) service to calorie replacement.

Refueled and rehydrated, I pulled free from the irritability and confusion that had beset me all afternoon. I felt better in the moment, but became increasingly concerned about the next day’s ride and how I would ever bounce back from posterior discomfort without taking time off the saddle. Tomorrow’s ride would involve even more climbing, more traffic, and hotter temperatures.

I made calls to Pete, Brian, and my dad. They offered whatever advice they could. It was helpful just to hear their voices.

I returned to Camp 4 feeling better than I had when I’d left it, but was still troubled by the prospect of the next day’s ride. With equal mixture determination and anxiety, I called it an early night. Though many in Camp 4 did the same, others gathered around communal campfires, chatting late into the night. It was a warm social atmosphere, but I was far too tired to enjoy it.

[ Daily Miles: 55 ] [ Total Miles: 205 ]

<< Prev     Next >>