The (Gulp…) Incline!
Two recent events motivated this particular blog entry. First, last Thursday, the Statue of Liberty was struck by lightning. Even atheists and agnostics can appreciate the irony and symbolism there. We’re in the middle of a political, economic, racial, health, and life-in-general excrement storm and wham! Miss Liberty gets lit up. Seems fitting and a little freaky, right?
The other event is the second wave of the pandemic. Or maybe it’s the harsh tail end of the first wave. No one’s sure. But an article recently decried the resurgence, especially in California. “For a while there in late spring,” it reported, “it seemed as though California, with its bold first-in-the-nation decision... to shelter in place, had spared itself the worst of the coronavirus. But, as mounting case numbers and dire hospitalization figures have starkly illustrated, talk of a miracle was premature, to say the least.”
This thing just won’t go away! And with summer now here, and the virus not dying as it was expected to... um... We’re beginning to wonder if things will ever get back to normal (the concept of “normal” being fodder for an upcoming blog post).
It’s tempting to despair and give up, like those weird creatures who were facing the Jedis in the Star Wars episode that wasn’t super good but had Darth Maul and his cool double-ended light saber. Which one was that?
Which brings me to today’s subject: The Incline. If you’re from around here, those two words either strike full-blown panic in your heart or cause a surge of adrenaline to ripple up your spine and send you scrambling through your closet for your Salomons.
For the uninitiated, the Incline (yes, capital “I”), is a trail composed of 2,744 railroad ties that gains 2,000 feet of elevation in approximately 2 miles. The trailhead in Manitou Springs starts at 6,500 feet above sea level. The average grade is 45%, but there are places where it climbs at a severe 68%.
Here, I’ll do the math for you: 2,744 ties + 2,000 feet x 2 miles + altitude gain of 6,500 to 8,500 feet x 45% with an occasional factor of 65% = EXCRUCIATING PAIN! At least, for newbies.
Even for locals who frequent the Incline, it’s a tough workout. Especially if it’s been a while. It makes you sweat, pant, ache, and, at numerous points along the way, pray for an airlift out of there. I’ve done it 50+ (maybe 100+) times - in the spring, summer, fall, winter, with Fran, with friends, with runners, with out-of-town, lowlander guests (heh-heh-heh...), often with GoPros blazing (see shots scattered throughout this blog). Probably three-quarters of those times, I’ve been in the uncomfortable to downright hurting range. One summer, I vowed to do it weekly, sometimes doubling down on weekends. Over the course of those months, I progressed from “Jesus, save me!” to “That wasn’t too bad!” to “Let’s see how fast can I do this thing...”
I started doing the Incline before the turn of the century, when it was kind of a local secret. In those old school days, there was a section of it that had a big sign: “Private Property: Keep Out!” You had to scurry through an opening in a wire fence. There were big, nasty pieces of rebar sticking up everywhere, ready to impale you if you slipped, and razor-sharp, tetanus-ridden pieces of rusted drainage pipe capable of slicing you open if you stumbled. It was awesome!
There have been numerous improvements and changes over the years. But the most infamous feature of the Incline remains unchanged. In addition to the cruel and unusual physical punishment it metes out, there is an emotional distress point capable of crushing even the most enthusiastic first-timer. It’s called... (insert Jaws music here...) the False Summit.
To appreciate how terrible the False Summit is, you need to understand the structure of the Incline itself. Though daunting to look at from ground zero (think stairway to heaven) it starts off rather modestly. It’s like going up a set of stairs. A really l-o-n-g set of stairs. Then, about the time you’re warmed up and you’ve gotten your stride, it levels off a bit. At this point, you’re thinking: “Piece of cake.”
A matter of moments later, you’re eating that cake because it goes vertical. This section is affectionately referred to as simply “the bad part.” About halfway through the seemingly interminable bad part, there’s a bail-out spot. This is where many people throw in the towel. Out of breath, legs trembling, heads downcast in defeat, glistening with perspiration, they bail and trudge back down the Barr trail.
If you choose to stick it out, things only gets worse. Up, up, and away it goes, with the trajectory of a ballistic missile. Just when you’re kicking yourself for passing up the chance to bail, you catch your first glimpse of it: the top! Woo-hoo! Something inside of you begins to dance. You feel a giddy wave of relief wash over you and your energy level spikes. You can do it! Yes! It’s not that much farther! (Heavy sigh…) We got this!
Except, as the term false in False Summit implies, you’re wrong. Very wrong. That isn’t the top you’re looking at. In fact, it’s not even close to the top. It’s just a hill hiding the real summit, which is still hundreds of railroad ties away - that tiny speck up there in the clouds.
Those who have Inclined before are well aware of the False Summit. We all recall our first terrible encounter with it and now watch, with a mixture of amusement and sympathy, as poor, unsuspecting, but zealous rookies make their approach, grinning and laughing, boasting, “We made it!” before topping the rise. As reality sets in and they gaze up at the true summit, they visibly deflate, shoulders slumping, and they begin to moan, curse, and complain loudly. Some even collapse to the ground, refusing to go another step.
Unfortunately, the Incline is currently closed. The authorities shut it down to keep us from swapping germs and mimicking California. Even more unfortunate, because of the growing popularity of the Incline, the city of Manitou is now planning to require reservations and charge a fee to go up it. That means, when/if it reopens, you’ll have to you call ahead and pay for the pain.
Whether or not I ever do the Incline again (which depends largely on how much they decide to charge), I think it and it’s wonderful False Summit can provide us with some hope and practical advice for our current situation.
First, it’s a mental game. Life, that is. On the Incline, people have the strength to reach the False Summit. They somehow endure the bad part to get there. But when they see that it isn’t the end, something inside collapses. They go from energetic celebration to overwhelming exhaustion in the blink of an eye. And it’s the result of their mind freaking out and saying, “Oh, hell no... We can’t do that!”
Actually, we can. It’s just going to take some effort.
It’s a mental game. Life, that is.
Second, if our goal is the top, we shouldn’t be satisfied with anything less. If the False Summit has any effect, it should be to tick us off and make us all the more determined to get to the real summit. Time to dig deep.
Third, this summer isn’t the end just like the False Summit isn’t the end. And the top isn’t even the end. It’s just an accomplishment. After topping the Incline, you are rewarded with the fun part - running down the Barr trail. Maybe that’s waiting for us on the other side of COVID: the fun part. You never know.
As I was preparing to post this, I just happened (see previous blog on serendipity) to be listening to The Motivational Movement podcast and hear Michael Russo offer this quote: “However hard you thought things were going to be, they’re going to be harder. However long you thought things would take, they’re going to take longer.”
Pretty profound. And spot on for us. This whole, crappy pandemic keeps presenting us with False Summits - moments when we think the worst is over. But then… nope. It’s taking WAY longer than we expected and is SO much harder than we thought. But here’s what we’re learning in the process: we’re much tougher than we thought we were.
So let’s get over our disappointment. Quit whining about how unfair it all is. Put away the anger over what’s behind us and the anxiety of the daunting challenge ahead. It’s time to do a Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson nod into the mirror (see another earlier blog), and finish this thing - no matter how hard or long it turns out to be.
The view from the top will be worth it.