There’s a special kind of self loathing reserved for times when you willingly set an alarm before 3am.
May 24, 2020 was especially loathsome with a 2:40am wakeup (and a 2:45am backup alarm because, let’s be honest, I’m a snoozer). That said, this same day also turned out to be unexpectedly positive, so it all evened out in the end.
Let me start at the beginning.
I’ll be the first to admit that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Just a couple weeks prior to Memorial Day Weekend, I had registered for Rebecca Rusch’s Giddy Up For Good Challenge, which was both a Covid-19 relief fundraiser and a commitment to climb 29,029 feet of elevation by bike within a 24-hour period (also known as “Everesting” because it is the vertical equivalent of Mount Everest). It was a call to action for endurance athletes who wanted to give back to the community while also testing their physical and mental fortitude. For those who are unfamiliar, the challenge requires you to identify a single climb that you must repeat in full, for as many times as it takes to reach a total elevation gain of 29,029’ in one session — no naps, no extended breaks.
If you think this challenge sounds insane, you’re in the majority of the population. But, a contest like this is the perfect match for some of the hardcore professional cyclists who have been craving ways to push their limits while watching the race season disappear in the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic. In total, 123 cyclists from across the globe committed to Rebecca’s Giddy Up For Good Everesting challenge outdoors and a shocking 25 additional cyclists committed to riding indoors on their trainers (in my opinion, this is truly the stuff of nightmares....).
My segment (a.k.a. hill climb) of choice was the auto road up Mount Kearsarge in Rollins State Park, NH, plus about a half mile before the park gate, which totaled 3.94 miles and 1,643’ of elevation gain.
My torture of choice: Mount Kearsarge auto road.
The most intriguing part about the Mount Kearsarge auto road is that the first mile is steep. Wicked STEEP. At many points, my Garmin read 20% grade. In my engineering mind, this made the climb perfectly efficient; gain elevation quickly and easily. Hah. You should know that on the actual challenge day, in a state of equal parts clarity and rage, I nicknamed that specific section “The Mile from Hell”. More on that later.
Just by the numbers, the day was destined to be epic: 17.5 laps of my segment would get me well over the 29,029’ mark (I wanted to be certain that I reached my target) and about 136 miles total. For reference, most local cyclists who ride this auto road might do so once or twice in a day, for a solid workout.
Key details about my bike setup for the day:
Bike: Seven Cycles KellCross / Evergreen SL with a fresh set of brake pads
Wheels: Industry Nine i9.35 Carbon with Torch Hubs
Tires: Vittoria Corsa
Gearing: 34-46t chainring, 11-34t cassette
GPS Devices: Garmin Edge 800 bike computer (primary) and Garmin 920XT watch (backup), both fully charged, with a backup external USB charger for the Garmin 800
Backup Bike: Seven Cycles KellCountry hardtail mountain bike, in the event of a mechanical failure. Plus, this bike has a 50t gear in the back, for those times when my legs require a pie plate to help me climb.
Kit: Verge Sport custom short sleeve Team KellCat skinsuit, arm warmers, CX pants, and thermal vest
My weapon of choice: The Seven Cycles KellCross / Evergreen SL speed machine.
Everyone who attempts the Everesting challenge has their own approach. Some aim simply to complete the full challenge in one session, however long it takes. Some feel certain they will finish the full 29,029’ in far fewer than 24 hours and choose to take their time and never dig too deep, which enables them to take in the views and enjoy the journey, as much as one can “enjoy” that much climbing. Some aim to set world records.
If you know anything about me, you know everything is a competition. So, of course, this day was a race against the clock. My approach was to see just how fast I could complete this challenge. Plus, a very, very small piece of me, deep down, believed that I might be able to set the female world record. Boy, did I have a lot to learn.
Despite the racing mindset, I wasn’t particularly nervous. I recorded the first of what I believed would be many selfie video updates throughout the day just before I started to ride and, as you can tell, I was actually pretty calm. I was able to eat my entire breakfast during the car ride up to the mountain at 4am, when I typically struggle to eat even a portion of breakfast in the comfort of a kitchen on normal race day. If I’m being honest, I really thought this would be “just a big day on the bike”, because my mind couldn’t actually fathom testing my body for that long.
That’s the thing about a day like this. I had no points of comparison and was unable to predict how my body would feel. The longest I had ever raced before May 24, 2020 was about 8 hours of gravel. It was grueling, but I still felt like a human in the end. Using this as my primary point of reference, I inferred that adding another 4-6 hours of hard effort would leave me feeling slightly more depleted. What would actually happen to the body and the mind? Your guess would have been as good as mine.
Armed with naivety and confidence, I was simultaneously overly prepared and highly ill prepared when it came to fueling for the day. I had no idea what I would want to eat. I didn’t know what I would crave or what my body was going to tolerate in the mysterious time that proceeded 8 hours of hard riding. So, naturally, I went to the grocery store and bought EVERYTHING that looked good. In the end, we packed the car with: gluten free fig bars, gluten free Tate’s Bake Shop chocolate chip cookies, white bread and almond butter for sandwiches, bananas, oranges, apples, Kate’s Real Food bars, UnTapped Maple syrup packets, UnTapped Maple waffles, pancakes from the day before, SIS caffeine gels, Gu Energy Chews, and First Endurance EFS drink mix. Later that day, I was gifted a Big Kat Kit Kat and Snickers bar from my father. We had enough carbohydrates to power multiple Everesting attempts, all packed beautifully into a giant cooler like a flawless execution of tetris, which I believed was the epitome of “prepared”.
Now, before I jump into the ride details, there are two more pieces of information that you, my reader, should know:
First, most people who attempt this challenge do so with a riding partner for all, many, a few, or even one of their laps. For this adventure, I had no riding companion for even a single lap. This is not a “woe is me” statement, just a fact. In an effort to be socially responsible during the current Covid-19 pandemic, I didn’t invite the masses to join me, though I suspect few, if any people, would have joined even if asked. I would be taking this on solo.
Second, I chose to ride distraction-free, meaning I was without headphones for music or podcasts to help supply doses of distraction for the hours spent deep in the pain cave. I still carried my phone with me for emergencies, and knew the entire time that I could have plugged in some headphones and “tuned out.” But that wasn’t the goal. I knew I would have to dig deep during this adventure. It didn’t matter how fit or prepared I was; this was going to be a lot on the body at one time. I didn’t want the option to ignore the pain because, frankly, you don’t grow when you're comfortable. I wanted to learn what my body was truly capable of, and I wanted to do it all while being present, taking a front row seat to every pedal stroke, every breath, every heartbeat.
The day started wonderfully and I couldn’t have asked for better weather. It was 38°F at 5am, and forecasted to reach mid-70’s and clear skies, which is perfect climbing weather and ideal for the inevitable views.
My trusty ol’ blubaru was packed to the brim with food and supplies for the adventure ahead.
Rollins State Park has a locked gate at the base of the auto road that is open 9am to 5pm. I started at 5am, so I had 4 hours of wide open road to myself. “Wide open” is a bit of an exaggeration because the road can barely fit two car widths is most places. Needless to say, I was safe and also very alone. On lap one, I raced the sun and watched it rise over the foothills as I crested one of the overlooks. The New Hampshire hills were green, clear, and tinted orange with the early sunlight. Today, I thought, was going to be beautiful.
The downhills were exhilarating. While racing the clock, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and let go of the brakes, reaching nearly 43 miles per hour, feeling the wind, the brisk chill, and the rattling of Winter-worn pavement. In the first few laps, I studied the road and all its cracks, dips, and imperfections, knowing that my focus several hours later would be waning and I would feel grateful for identifying and memorizing all the potential hazards while I was still alert. It’s important to note that the road is a mess, which is not unlike a typical New England paved road, and high speeds could be dangerous without proper bike handling skills.
Joe was parked at the bottom of the auto road, right near the locked gate, which was about a half mile from the segment start. As I passed him on my way back down to start each new lap, I shouted my to-go order for when I passed him a few minutes later on my way up: “new bottle, UnTapped Maple packet, half a sandwich!” or “new bottle, banana, and Gu Chews!”
The truly unfortunate part about being stuck outside the Rollins State Park locked gate is that eating became very difficult in those following minutes after refueling. The steepest mile of the climb occurred nearly right after the gate, and chewing and swallowing a mealy nut butter sandwich is the second worst thing I could eat when calling on my legs and lung to work hard (second only to pretzel rods, as I learned in a 2019 gravel race). Thus, it took only two laps for me to nickname that first section “The Mile from Hell”. As a side note, when the park rangers arrived and unlocked the gate, Joe moved the car up to the top of the climb so I could replenish my fuel and hydration before the downhill, which enabled me consume some carbs comfortably before The Mile from Hell.
After a few laps, I was feeling consistent and strong. I had started to identify random landmarks on the climb that I associated with a specific lap time. For example, there was a pothole I noticed at around 7 minutes, and a east-facing lookout I passed at around 22 minutes. Of particular note was a very rusty metal contraption that appeared to have broken off of a car and had weathered it’s fair share of the elements, sitting right around 20 minutes. These landmarks became welcomed scenes and critical for me as I tried to keep pace in later laps, attempting to stay consistent with each effort.
We can appreciate that this was early in the ride, as I was pedaling uphill fast enough for my unzipped vest to flap in the wind.
That said, I knew I had started the day too strong. I didn’t pace myself well and pushed too hard in the first few hours; I was surprisingly on track to complete the challenge in about 11.5 hours (ahh!!). In my naivete and excitement, I burned far too many matches than I should have at the start. While I felt powerful, my legs were expressing a deep burn that I expected to feel much later in the ride. I slowed my pace but knew I had made a critical mistake that would cost me later in the day.
When the auto road opened at 9am, the Park rangers were incredibly supportive. They told the droves of cars who entered the park to be careful of the cyclist who was riding up and down the road. My father said he heard them telling people “that girl is training for Everest!” (clearly, there was something lost in translation, but I’m grateful for the support nonetheless).
Complete strangers cheered for me at the top of the climb. They cheered for me from their cars. Multiple young children rolled down their windows and yelled my name. I got a few thumbs up and lots of waves. I was connecting with this amazing, albeit transient, community in a completely unexpected but energizing way.
My sister and father arrived shortly after the gate opened and were bubbling with excitement. My mind still had not grasped what I believe everyone else had already known: that this would be the biggest ride of my life to date. On my next climb, they followed in the car alongside me for a couple minutes, honking the car horn, taking pictures, and cheering. I regret not taking a few photos from my point of view, to capture their faces of pride and support, and to remember what it feels like to be simultaneously alone and surrounded by love.
One of my sister’s drive-by photos. I don’t remember what I was saying but it was probably something like “I can’t believe how much fun I’m having right now!”
I was clearly having so much fun that my father and sister were jealous and decided to jog the last half mile of one of my laps.
For each hour of riding, I knew I needed to consume 40-60 grams of carbohydrates and a bottle of water. In general, I know off the top of my head the carbohydrate values in a medium banana, a packet of UnTapped Maple syrup, a slice of bread, a scoop of my electrolyte drink mix, and every other snack in the car (I’m an engineer, remember). While climbing each lap, I would decide the combination of fuel I felt like consuming on the next lap, to reach the 40-60 gram mark. This became my support crew’s to-go orders, which they turned around in less than a minute (better than any McDonald’s, might I add).
However, after summiting the climb for the 9th time, I had just seen the half-way mark in elevation on my GPS and I was teetering on the end of a massive bonk. My leg muscles were aching in a way that they never had before. I was at about 6.5 hours into the ride and the gravity of what awaited me pulled me into a deep darkness. My bottom lip started to quiver and I was seconds from breaking down into an extreme fit of sobbing, which would have been the beginning of the end for me. Joe asked me what I wanted to eat and I couldn’t decide. There were too many choices! I couldn’t remember what I brought. And my body craved nothing!
At this point, I had already repeated to myself many times “I can’t and I won’t make it through this...I’ll just do one more lap and call it quits.” I wholeheartedly believed this was a terrible mistake. I turned to Joe and said “I don’t think I can do this.” Through his supportive and calming grin, he ordered me to “just do this next lap”. And so I did.
I had to remind myself to “ride the lap you’re in” and forget about how many awaited me. This proved to be incredibly difficult. I would focus on the road, on the next turn, the next overlook, the next landmark, for maybe 1 minute but then would ultimately revert back to counting laps, almost as if I was going to lose count.
Ride the lap you’re in.
As mental darkness permeated my thoughts and I started digging deeper into the pain cave, I found myself loathing all the people who have the luxury of a companion or a “rabbit” for pacing them on the climbs. I hated that I had to suffer in solitude, while others were able to talk, laugh, and push their limits alongside friends, family, and even strangers. Then, I had to remind myself that I chose this fate and that I would be stronger for it if I ever finished the ride. Then I hated myself for choosing to suffer in solitude.
On multiple occasions during the ride, I found my mind wandering in unexpected directions (what else would you expect to happen when you’re suffering alone for 14 hours without headphones?). One of my recurring musings was something along the lines of: there is no road that starts at sea level and rises to the tip of Everest. Everyone who climbs Mount Everest by foot probably starts several thousand feet above sea level. It would have been easier just to go hike the damn mountain Hah! Not really, but why the hell am I doing this again? (Side note: according to Wikipedia, the source of all truth, the North Base Camp in Tibet, China is 16,900 ft above sea level. Hikers only have to climb 12,129 feet to the summit. Those cheaters don’t know how lucky they are!)
Throughout the day, I discovered a fascinating pattern. I passed hikers and walkers at various points on the auto road, sometimes multiple times, and was consistently met with encouragement. “Wow, again!?” “You’re crushing it!” “Way to go!” and one evening jogger cheered “You GO GIRL!” My favorite was the young man who did a double take after I passed him and his female companion for the fourth time and exclaimed in shock “Wait, are you the same person? Has it been you the entire time?” This one made me chuckle because I could tell the young man was trying to be cool, but also trying to make sense of the trick he believed his mind was playing. All I wanted to say was “believe me, buddy, my mind feels just as puzzled as yours.”
At the top of each lap, I was taking longer breaks than anticipated. I was stopping to pee almost once per hour (I think it was 13 times total, but I honestly lost count after about 5). One time I changed into my alligator workout socks because even though it wasn’t Wednesday, I was damn sure going to use every ounce of motivation I could get.
My Everesting version of #workoutsockwednesday.
On the 12th lap, I had noticed my Garmin 800 battery was dying. Team KellCat was prepared for this, though, and on the top of the mountain Joe strapped a very small external USB charger to my bike frame and plugged in the GPS while it continued to run. Phew! However, in the middle of the 13th lap, I noticed that the elevation counter had stopped increasing. I tried to toggle the screen and nothing happened. I pressed the Pause button and still no response. I immediately stopped pedaling and started panicking. What if it was broken and I didn’t have a complete ride file? What if I couldn’t upload my ride file as “proof” that I completed this epic challenge? Luckily, I had been practicing daily meditation for all of 3 days prior to this challenge, which helped me just about not at all in this situation.
I restarted the GPS, unplugged the charger, and tried myriad other troubleshooting techniques to revive the device, all while watching time tick away. Unfortunately, the screen remained frozen and I was forced to move forward. GPS time of death: Lap 13.7ish. Despairingly, I clipped back into my pedals and worked my way to the top of the climb.
In reflection, the first pedal stroke after realizing my GPS was dead was the most critical milestone during the entire day.
I knew as much at the time as well. The reality was that my backup GPS device, the Garmin watch, was likely to die before the ride was complete. I had never tested it’s true limit, but the watch had died mid-workout before, when it was almost fully charged, and the battery at this exact time in the ride was already quite depleted. After completing the 14th lap, I still had 3.5 to go and knew it wasn’t going to survive.
Flooded with disappointment, it was time to make a decision. Was the digital “proof” really the only reason I was suffering on this mountain? Was it even worth the effort to finish this ride if I couldn’t parade my uploaded file to the Strava gods? I could easily give up and not a single person in the world would care. Followers, friends, family would have continued on with their lives without hesitation. Even Joe would have moved on in a couple days and Team KellCat would be back to life as usual.
I’m not Kelly the Quitter. I would have to wake up the next day, and every day to follow, knowing that I quit this challenge without honoring the opportunity with the effort it deserved. That I could have tested my limits but chose to give up. That I believed external validation through Strava leaderboard standings was worth more than the “legitimacy” I instill in myself as an endurance athlete.
No. It was never about the prizes for me. It was never about glory or reward. Of course, that tiny part of me believed I could set a record (but that tiny part of me died a tiny, shriveled death hours prior...), but also remember that I started the ride with the intention to grow. I chose to be without distraction and without companionship; could I be so short sighted as to not also recognize my dependence on the GPS devices for motivation?
You didn’t come here to read about the cakewalk that is Everesting, and I didn’t embark on the adventure to leave without some level of bruises and scars. After all, these are the situations worth writing a story about.
When my GPS died, I remember saying out loud, “I can, and I will.”
I can, and I will. The mantra that kept the motor running.
As the deep fatigue set in, I started to become somewhat ridiculous. I would pass the reliable piece of rusted metal and say out loud “Oh hey, Rusty Car Part! Thanks for being here!” like we had been best buds for years. Naturally, it didn’t respond, but I knew it was proud of me for weathering the day in solitude, not unlike its own state of isolation and loneliness on the cold pavement. Nothing seems ridiculous after you’ve ridden several hours and many thousands of feet of elevation more than your longest ever ride or race.
There were times when I would call on my legs to spin but the answer was silent. The climb was so steep that the only thing propelling me forward was my body weight stamping down on the pedals on each pedal stroke, as gravity pulled me closer to the earth. The legs, I realized, had almost reached their limit for climbing.
Now, if pedal stomping wasn’t enough of an indicator, you know your pace has slowed considerably when mosquitoes are moving faster than you, and congregating around your head despite wearing (though probably sweating off) multiple applications of bug spray. Effective techniques for avoidance in earlier laps included swatting them away and quick bursts of acceleration. But I had no energy to express my hatred of them with aggressive swatting, so I embraced the situation and welcomed the company. They were, in reality, the only consistent ride companions I had after all. Most of those little buggers ended up biting me through my shorts on my butt, which in retrospect feels somewhat ironic and metaphorical.
In the last 5 laps, I started experiencing intense stomach pain. Everything I ate seemed to make my stomach cramp with a fierceness that rivaled my childhood anxiety attacks. While I didn’t know what to expect, I didn’t expect this kind of reaction from my body. I knew I needed to eat for energy, but I also couldn’t bear to writhe in pain while trying to keep myself moving uphill. It was, perhaps, the one of the worst conundrums I could have faced at this point in the journey.
I was oscillating between emotional peaks and valleys the entire day. Shock, horror, disbelief, anger, sadness, despair, relief, joy, happiness, excitement, anticipation. And while I might have only physically climbed Everest once, I emotionally summited at least 5 times.
Just before 5pm when the park gate was going to be locked, I still had about 2.5 laps remaining. Joe had to drive back down the mountain, which meant I would need to swap bottles and replenish fuel at the base of The Mile from Hell again.
Here’s when my dad saved the day. He decided to stay in the summit parking lot alone with the remaining fuel and bottles until the last lap, and then run down to the half-way mark to see me finish the challenge. He insisted on watching his daughter achieve something incredible, in person.
As expected, near the top of lap 17, my Garmin watch finally died. GPS #2 time of death: Lap 16.8ish. It was so close to the 17.5 total laps that I actually chuckled. I mumbled, dazed, something like “there we go, it’s just me now” and recognized that this was the moment I had been waiting for all day; the moment I had to answer to myself, knowing that I was the only person who truly cared whether I completed this challenge. All the suffering, all the pain (and there was a LOT of pain, believe me), boiled down to the moment when my GPS tracking devices died and the ride either meant nothing, or it meant everything.
Of course, you know by now that I didn’t turn around and head home.
Upon reaching the summit for the last time, I was met by my father. Alone in the big gravel parking lot, he instructed me to roll over to the last patch of setting sun because it was “the warmest place in New Hampshire right now”. He was lying, of course, but there’s certainly something to be said about the beaming warmth of a proud father.
We quickly swapped bottles, he handed me a caffeine gel, and he said he would meet me at the halfway point. Surprisingly, despite my dazed stupor, I somehow realized that he didn’t know where exactly the half-way point was, so I took an orange peel and dropped it in the middle of the road. “I’ll see you very soon, Mr. Orange Peel” I thought, and I continued rolling downhill. Things were getting weird; I had just named an orange peel. Almost there.
I swooped down the road, every muscle aching and pleading with me to not push them again, but I knew I needed to call on them to help me face The Mile from Hell just once more.
At the base of the segment, I turned 180 degrees, just like I had done 17 times prior that day. But this lap was different because it was truly just me. In the absence of having a watch to press the Lap button, I yelled out loud “this is it, Kelly! One last time!” 2 miles to go.
As I struggled to push through even the gradual portions of the first half mile, my comedic alter ego jumped in. I thought to myself “This is the last time I have to see this crack in the road...
…and this crack...
….and this crack...
….and this ant hill...bye-bye ant hill!...
…bye Rusty Car Part!”
I had reached a state that was equal parts euphoria and madness. (I can’t be the only person who does this, right?)
My stomach pain was incessant. As I pushed myself up the last mile, every muscle in my body was agonizing. Muscles I didn’t even know existed were screaming in protest. I moaned loud as the pain engulfed me and my stomach cramped. Each pedal stroke was sharp, and the mosquitos were relentless. Perhaps, I thought, those 25 people who were Everesting indoors were onto something. Too late to change my mind now.
When I crested the final hill, I saw my father, with a huge smile on his face. I used the last few ounces of energy to raise my hand in celebration as I crossed the invisible finish line, exactly where I dropped Mr. Orange Peel.
Everesting: NOT just a big day on the bike.
Joe was running up the mountain to meet me at the halfway point with warm clothes and my recovery drink. When we united, I dropped the bike and sobbed. Emotion poured out of me without control. I was relieved, happy, proud, and experiencing a level of fatigue I never thought was possible. I had also just accomplished something unfathomable; something that started out as “a big day on the bike.” The gravity of the achievement made me feel strong in a time when I had never been weaker.
The moment I realized I might never see Rusty Car Part again.
Wouldn’t you know, I chose not to roll down that last half of the hill. My body had enough and my appetite for riding was satiated. I removed my cycling shoes and walked down the road in my alligator socks, alongside Joe and my father.
While swarmed in mosquitoes, I thought quietly to myself “I just did something huge. Something that most people have never done. And I did it without distraction or companionship”. But then I realized I did have companionship in a different way. Joe, my dad, my sister, my mother-in-law, they all came to witness me do something I love; the park rangers watched out for me and showed compassion for a lonely cyclist who was probably causing more-than-usual agitation for park-goers; families pulled over to let me pass on the downhill or rolled down their windows to cheer and offer a thumbs up while I was climbing. It was a different kind of companionship but it was authentic and genuine — something that’s been difficult to find over the past several weeks. In the end, this companionship helped me push through darkness and near defeat to reach 29,029’ . I suppose, the connection I wanted that day wasn’t the connection I needed.
Don’t be fooled though. While I learned a great deal about the value of connection with the people around me, the true lesson in growth derived from connection with the only person whose approval truly matters: me.
There might be a special kind of self loathing reserved for insanely early wake-ups, but there’s an even deeper kind of self respect and self confidence reserved for times when you’ve had to dig yourself out of a hollow, raw darkness and unlock new levels of capability and strength. The true growth was realizing that only I can propel myself forward; only I can define my value and worth. External validation and Strava leaderboards be damned.
