Millcreek Canyon

I learned some things yesterday.  I think I may have crossed a mental and physical bridge to truly becoming a cyclist as well as gained some important insights into my approach to certain aspects of life.

Mark suggested that we cycle up Millcreek Canyon yesterday morning.  The mouth of the canyon is less than two miles from our house, and we have been up there a few times in the past six months, walking the dogs or - once in February - skiing down Porter Fork Road.  I had also been up there a few times over the years when taking various of the older boys to Cub Scout day camps.

But yesterday, we cycled all the way to the top of canyon, and I was blown away.  I don't want to get ahead of my story, but I again marveled at the beauty that has been there all these years that I have lived in Salt Lake, but which I never saw or experienced.  There were a number of reasons for this, but it basically boils down to the fact that I was going through life with blinders on, my nose to the grindstone, oblivious (and almost willfully so) to a landscape and a world that I refused to see or visit.  It didn't escape me, as I rode up and down the canyon yesterday, that this could be a metaphor for my life in general - particularly with respect to my hidden sexuality:  it was always there, a land rich in emotion and beauty, but I refused to go there.

Lower part of the canyon

I found the climb challenging.  Of course, since I had never been very far up the canyon, I had no idea what to expect.  I was pretty winded - ok, very winded - by the time we got to a gate at Maple Grove about four miles up the canyon.  We had been on the road an hour by that point.  I needed to rest.  Mark asked whether I'd like to turn around there or go on up the canyon.  I had no idea that I was a little less than (only) halfway up the canyon.  He suggested we go a mile or so more if I was up to it.  I said that I was, feeling better after a little rest.

The above graph tells part of the story of why I was tuckered.  It was pretty much a steady climb from our house, at 4643 feet, to the top of the canyon, at 7644 feet, an elevation change of almost exactly 3000 feet.

The whole texture of the ride changed as we moved on past the gate at Maple Grove.  (The gate keeps the road closed more than half of the year due to snow.  It won't open until July 1st, so cyclists and hikers have the road to themselves for the next 4.5 miles to the top.)  

First of all, Mark pointed out that I had the tendency to try to go all out on hills, trying to get to the top as quickly as possible.  This burned me out, he explained.  What I needed to do was to try to go as slowly as possible in the lowest gear, preserving my energy and my breath.  I wouldn't get to the top as quickly this way, but I'd get there - with much less overall effort expended.

This worked, and I couldn't help but think, as we cycled on up the canyon, able to ride side by side and talk (not having to worry about cars), how symbolic this was of my approach to life and its challenges.  For most of my life, I have been in survival mode - starting when I was a child, trying to just survive the situation in which I found myself.  I adopted survival techniques in which I just tried to pretend I didn't exist, or in which I would simply put my head down and try to get through whatever crisis or challenge I was facing at the time.  I would go all out, trying to just get to the top of the metaphorical hill.

These techniques worked when I was young - at least on the surface.  But as I carried them into adulthood, they became increasingly unsustainable the older I became, and the collateral damage associated with such techniques also became increasingly apparent as I aged.  Pretending I didn't exist, for example, helped me to dissociate myself from the physical and emotional pain of being abused, but it also separated me from myself.  "I" was separate from "me," and I lost "me" over the years.  I would go through the motions, functioning, performing, but I wasn't a whole person.

I also, by putting my head down and focusing on the "top of the hill," missed out on the journey.  I didn't care about the journey.  All I cared about what the destination.  I had to "get through" the next challenge so that I could then "get through" the next challenge, so that I could then "get through" the next challenge, etc., etc.  In the process, I exhausted myself.  I crashed and burned.

So, as we climbed ever closer to the top of the canyon and I met those particularly challenging ascents, I would slow down and meditate, controlling my breathing, willing my legs to work harder, allowing myself to take it slowly.  But I also meditated on my life and realized that I needed to apply these same lessons to challenges I face in my journey.  Mark has repeatedly told me that I shouldn't expect to overnight work through everything I have been and am dealing with.  It will take time.  And during that time, I need to slow down, control my breathing, and focus on the here and now.

The other thing that dramatically changed the texture of the ride was the scenery.  It was stunningly beautiful.  I felt like I was not in Utah but in some alpine area of Switzerland.  I half expected to meet Heidi around the next bend in the road, herding a group of goats.

Finally, after cycling for an additional 40 minutes past the gate, or about an hour and 40 minutes into the ride (illustrated by the following chart), we reached the small parking lot at the top of the canyon.  It took 100 minutes to get to the top and only 30 minutes to go down, all the way to home.  The speed difference is illustrated by the second chart.

At the top

"Joseph," Mark exclaimed as we came to a stop in the parking lot, "I'm flabbergasted!"  He told me that, upon starting out that morning, he thought that we'd (I'd) be doing well if we made it to the gate before turning around.  Instead, we (I) had gone all the way to the top.  He was proud of me, as I was of myself.  

A patch of snow off to the side of the parking lot

On our way down