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3-State 3-Mountain 2001
How I Love Those Hills
by Jeff Harris
A 4.5 hour drive from Memphis through Nashville to Chattanooga,
and an ordeal hauling gear and bike up one of the only two elevators in a Clarion Hotel
overrun with cyclists and a golf convention were the debut activities in preparation
for my first century, and first experience with mountains. We lost an hour in transit due
to time zones, and I spent two hours that evening with bike and gear spread out on the
floor of the hotel room, packing and making final adjustments, and—of
course—putting that last shine on my Bianchi.
The morning of the ride came early after a night of anxious
tossing and turning and a late final shuteye. I’d packed bagels, bananas and
breakfast bars, and had one of each and a bottle of water before dressing and making a
final pre-flight check of cycle and gear. Up early enough to beat the masses to the
elevators, I tooled over to the pre-arranged ride start at the parking lot between
downtown streets, and spent a few idle minutes gawking at the steel, aluminum and titanium
investments (and their proud riders). At 7:20 I rode over to the courthouse to meet my
ride partner, who also drove up the day before from Memphis. We made way to the starting
lot, where everyone had moved en masse at just before 8:00. Through a little confusion and
elbowing, the field formed and made its way onto the streets of downtown Chattanooga.
Crossing the Tennessee River for the first of a few times this ride, we began a small
climb in the city itself, and were underway.
Not sure if it was the excitement of the event or the shock of
actually being there after so much preparation, training and traveling, but the first leg
to Suck Creek Mountain passed before I knew it. At one point, on mainly flat roads
approaching the climb, I was surrounded by dozens of riders in every direction, and the
sounds of Saturday morning in the big city outskirts gave way to gears and freewheels
turning. What a feeling. Suck Creek Mountain’s foot snuck up on me, and suddenly, we
were climbing. The main peloton had slipped away, and I was on the back of the second
pack; it stretched out into a long, thin line a few minutes into the climb, everyone in
high spirits (and high heart rates!). Parts of the ride up Suck Creek (2050 feet)
paralleled the beautiful creek going the other direction (down!), and the treed canopy and
smells of nature were overwhelming. The support and gear (SAG) stop at the top was
welcomed, and it seemed this was a definite summit and immediate descent down the other
side. The descent was a fast one, with one careful switchback nearing the bottom. Fun,
fun, fun!
The roads between the Suck Creek descent and the next SAG were
mainly flat and fast, and detoured us past Ketner’s Mill, where many folks
were lounging and fishing. The water was green and visually stunning, and the small
waterfall in the midst of the country roads and old buildings added quite a bit to the
experience. My partner and I had formed a group of three with another, sharing the work
across the valley roads toward the next climb of the day. Our third was on the metric
ride, and we separated at the SAG just beyond our next crossing of the Tennessee River.
The day was starting to warm. Leaving the SAG, the route climbs a small bridge and meets a
fork in the road. At the right prior to the fork, on the road surface, the ride organizers
had marked directions forcing your choice–straight on and home for the metric, or
right and toward Sand and Lookout Mountains for the full century. There was quiet talk at
the SAG and on the road to this point about the “big decision”, but there was no
decision necessary for me. One thousand road miles under my belt for the year and a 4.5
hour drive from Memphis, I was committed. A right turn and down the road, then a quick up,
up, up Ladd’s Mountain and a speedy descent took us well into the full century
route.
A few more miles down the road, the ascent of Sand Mountain begins.
Compared to Suck Creek, this one was steeper, and required a little more concentration and
dedication to the task. Considering its placement at about 50 miles into the route, the
heat of the day beginning, and the increased steepness of the climb, things were becoming
a little rough. There were two or more (who remembers?) switchbacks on the way up, steep
to nearly vertical in the crux(es), and the roads were mainly pothole-strewn and several
times re-paved and re-patched surfaces, no smooth asphalt to be found. Whereas the climb
up Suck Creek was fraught with trucks and passenger vehicles, the Sand Mountain climb (1600
feet) was very quiet; the sounds of nature and the heat of the day mixed to make the
surroundings almost surreal. Plenty of time pushing in my lowest gear. Plenty of quality
time for me and the voices in my head. This climb was the first where I encountered riders
stopped on the side of the road. Not for me. With the climb to the top, we earned one
heckuva view from several vantage points over the flats we’d just journeyed en route
to Sand. But, we paid for it…this one hurt a bit. The view from the top: mountains
and passes in the distance, quite the photo opportunity. How different things look, and
seem, from way, way up above.
Atop Sand, a couple ups and downs brought us to one good climb,
where I unexpectedly went fast from strong and at a good pace to standing on the side of
the road, stretching and limping, fighting serious leg cramps. Another rider stopped just
beyond my position on the road, fighting the same type of cramps (power of suggestion or a
Jedi mind trick?). I’d eaten and taken in fluids on a schedule since the
beginning, and had stretched at each SAG, but the cramps came without regard. After a few
minutes, and clear traffic, back on the road and up the hill, and I found my ride partner
waiting at the top. We pushed on to the next SAG in Bryant, Alabama, where the road riding
experience went from ice-skating a glassy frozen lake to running your face over
sandpaper at high speeds. This was the final SAG before the dreaded Burkhalter Gap and
Lookout Mountain, and gossip among the riders seeking shade beneath the under-story trees
and shrubs was that Burkhalter was a brute of a climb, and most would walk the climb
proper. One fellow cyclist told me that, once the radio tower was in sight, to keep
cranking away, as the top would be near. I filled my water stores and had a few banana
portions, ate a Clif Bar from my pack, and we stretched our legs and headed across and
down the other side of Sand Mountain, a nice descent.
I’d read the review from last year, called and talked to Daisy,
the ride contact with the Chattanooga Bicycle Club, and done my research on the internet
and asked around about (the now nearly legendary) Burkhalter Gap. Putting the hammer down
off Suck Creek mountain was the wrong idea, so in preparation for our final expedition, we
took our time, worked on our hydration and food stores, and rode quietly in reverence to
the backside of Lookout Mountain (1800 feet), looming overhead and to the left. The
terrain was rolling hills, until we reached a good bit of steep climbing. Thinking that
was the beginning of Lookout, I took a double-caffeinated PowerGel and some water, then
settled in for the climb. Much to our surprise, we reached the top quickly and sped down
the other side of what must have been a very large hill or minor mountain, as we hit just
over 40 on the downhill. This was not good. The situation was dire. Ominous thoughts
filled our heads as, at just under 80 miles, we prepared for the worst. Heads hanging,
barely turning the cranks, we waited for yet another second wind, and recovered just in
time to come upon Burkhalter Gap.
One water bottle empty, one half full of warm Gatorade, and my
hydration pack sucked dry, the heat of midday, blacktop with the air above the road
shimmering in the temperature, I turned left onto Burkhalter Gap road. I can
remember thinking that the tiny road sign did little justice to the horror stories and
warning I’d heard tell in the past few weeks. “Here we go,” I said to my
partner, with wild abandon, having steeled myself for the climb; this is what the day is
all about. Looking up the road, it was long with a slight curve, and went up (up, up, up)
into the mountain. Where the Suck Creek ascent was long and shaded, following a beautiful
mountain stream, Sand was shorter and steeper, and a real challenge, the Burkhalter Gap
ascent up Lookout Mountain was a creature of another world, a monster of a climb straight
up with a slight breather in the middle. All I saw up the road was one lone rider,
walking, white towel draped over his head against the unyielding sun. As I passed him I
asked if he was alright, he said, “ohhhh, yeah. I’m good,” as though he was
enjoying the walk. I was on my ride partner’s rear wheel, working up Burkhalter. This
isn’t so hard. Tough as it may be, steep and unforgiving, this reputed widow
maker wasn’t to have me on this ride. I’d trained, climbed the steepest things I
could find around Memphis, gone out of my way the weekend before to ride a fast-paced
hilly century, and spent the last three days carbo-loading and sucking down bottle after
bottle of water. I’d slept. And slept. I’d eaten since 6:00 the morning of the 3
State 3 Mountain, every hour, on the hour, and taken water and Gatorade on the bike on an
aggressive schedule. I was strong and confident. I was unbeatable. I walked.
And watched my partner go up the road and disappear. There have been less than five times
in my life that I've felt actual, deep-seeded despair, complete and through-and-through
misery, absolute hopelessness. At 80 miles into the ride, this was a moment--or, to be
precise, about 50 seconds--of desperation. Then, I thought of my one year-old son, and the
bad stuff passed. I brought his picture all the way from Memphis to carry up this
climb, and I left it in the car. The least I can do is keep walking.
There are few things as fun as walking in cycling shoes and
Look cleats, pushing a bike. Walking in cycling shoes and Look cleats, pushing a bike up
Burkhalter Gap just about tops my list of the fun things I’d like to do before my
days are over. I’m not sure about the gradients for this climb, but I’d assume
they’re between 8% and 15%, steeper near the top, with a flatter part in the middle.
I’m not sure how long I walked up that road, but it was by far the most fun I’ve
had this year. I’d even go out on a limb and say that it is more than likely the most
fun I’ll have all year. This amount of fun should be illegal.
Every few minutes, a light plane would take off from the ground far
below and to the left, towing a hang glider on a long line. Before the lesser gradient
halfway up Burkhalter, there were a half dozen hang gliders circling overhead like
huge, neon vultures, daring me to lie down on the grassy shoulder. I started to
imagine large, hungry eyes and tattered feathers on the wings’ edges. I stopped a few
times, looking back down the road, and could see six or eight riders pushing, two or three
sitting, and one or two riding. One of those on the bike was weaving back and forth across
both lanes, taking one or two feet up the road at a turn, but—still on the bike. I
crossed the road to the oncoming side, stepped onto the shoulder and into the shade, and
put my head on my saddle for just a minute. Just a minute. A motorcycle stopped short and
asked if I’d like some water. Ohhh, please! I’ll take some water. It was never
more welcome in my empty bottle. He put his empty back in the pouch and headed back to the
top for a refill, then back down, delivering more water to others in need.
very few minutes, a Jeep or Explorer would pass going down, and soon
come back up with bikes in the back. I think I was asked three times, maybe more. Few of
the riders below were making any headway, and I was walking at about three miles per hour;
by this time, the weaving rider had reached me, and the motorcycle had reached him to
ascertain his condition. “Want some water? All I have is what’s in my
camelback,” the motorcycle rider said to him. The guy got off the bike. It looked
like slow motion. I wanted to yell, scream at him, warn him that it was so very easy to
stop, but near impossible to get back on. I offered to push him a few feet if he’d
get back on and ride. He looked strong, but said he was done. We walked for awhile
together, and I learned that he was from Idaho and there with a group; his wife had
flatted twice earlier in the ride, and passed us on the climb with her bike in the back of
a state trooper’s cruiser. At the lesser grade, I remounted and rode another 100
yards, then walked again at “the wall”. Hydrated and well fed, feeling
strong on the bike, cramp free, I was simply too hot—my skin was flushed deep red and
goosebumps raised on my arms, I was alternating between overheated and chilled, head
hurting, and I pushed the bike and considered the next 20 miles to the finish. Walking the
rest of the way up Burkhalter was my only option. The weaving rider was soon with me
again, on the bike, then walking, too. We hoofed it to the top together, where there was a
welcoming shade tree and, appropriately, a SAG consisting of an ambulance and other
emergency vehicles. My partner was also there, looking like I felt. Said he’d made it
around the bend and walked at “the wall”. Had been there about 20 minutes. I
said, “you been waiting for me?” His response: “nah, just
restin’.”
Another fifteen or more minutes refilling and refueling and we were
on our way, up the hill and down the hill and through the ravines atop Lookout Mountain,
then a fast and scary descent—one of those descents where you’re in the
outside lane and can see endless miles of mountains and valleys in the distance beyond the
guardrails and over the cliff three feet to your right—one of those where the cars
behind can’t pass you because they can’t catch you—one of those where
you almost…almost think the way up was worth the ride down. Then, into and through
Chattanooga and to the ride finish, earning the jersey, the ride patch, the finish line
picture, the hot bath and nap, the handful of Advil, and the bragging rights—but,
above all else, earning the microbrews at dinner! 102 miles, 3 states, 3 mountains, 7673
feet of elevatin gain. Mmmmm...beer!
Jeff Harris
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