Altitude Sickness

As the crow flies it's a little under 3.5 miles to the sandy roads of the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest.  And though it's about 400' higher than here my thought process went something like this: It's been warm here for weeks (several days pushing 60 and most of the rest have been well above freezing and the snow is virtually gone and has been for some time), it's been mostly dry, sand  drains fairly quickly.  What could go wrong?

Well I started to get an inkling as I was climbing those 400'.  But I told myself that this road had been plowed all winter and so had been deep piles of snow in the ditches that had just been slow to melt (this was true but roads down by us had been plowed all winter and the piles of snow had melted  long ago but, darn it, I just wanted to go for a ride and didn't really want to think about just what this snow could mean).  

More indications that weird things, things that I didn't completely understand, were going down.  "Neato," I thought as I stopped for a picture and then blundered on.

By now I had realized that the roads up here had not had the frost go out of them (I'm not a total moron sometimes I just act that way), the top several inches had thawed but below that was still frozen and so things couldn't drain.  I had found that riding down the side of the road - in the leaves - was better but that it sometimes unexpectedly got soft.

In what could be fairly accurately described as doofu-ness, I kept moving forward, farther away from home.  I told myself that there was a chance that the next road could be different.

I was a bit chagrined when I got to the intersection of the next road only to find this:

It might not have been muddy but it was obviously soft and soft = slow, tiring, and frustrating.

At that intersection a sane person would have cut their losses, turned around, and ridden the soggy road back towards home.  For some reason I decided that it didn't look that bad and continued on.  Doofus-ness. But - surprise, surprise - it just kept getting worse:

Most of the time the ice was surprisingly hard and, even though it was quite rotten, made for comparatively firm riding (although since we are comparing it to several inch deep muck that's not saying much).  Suddenly, and with no visibly change in the ice that I could see, you'd break through - which is what happened here.  I broke through, wallowed to a stop and had some soul-searching to do.  I was riding a loop and I was nearing the part of it where it's as far to go back as to keep forward - and, well, I just didn't want to turn around.  I was feeling fine, my hands/wrists didn't hurt (I was trying out some Jones Loop bars and had been off the bike pushing fairly often) it was a beautiful day.  Behind me was known: sloppy, tough, slow riding.  Ahead of me lay a similar distance of unknown (although, in all probability, things weren't going to change).  After a few moments of indecision I kept going.

Not too long after that my heart soared when I saw this:

It's a bit hard to see in the picture but the grey rock is coarser and made for a nice, firm road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My heart sank when not 50 yards later I came to the top of the hill and was greeted by this scene:

All our snow back at home has been gone for several weeks.  It's just a few degrees cooler up here (because of the elevation) but it's amazing what just a few degrees can mean.

Completely dry sand directly next to sand so wet that  it was splashed out as this truck tire track was laid.

Although there are worse ways to spend a gorgeous afternoon than outside doing something you love, I was still happy to get back to firm ground.  It meant more riding and less slogging.  This road had been plowed regularly all winter.