Differentiation

Beat's hunched figure cut a spooky silhouette against the city lights. With a mountain bike dangling from his shoulders, he emerged from the steep curve of the summit like a sea monster slowly rearing its long body from a sparkling ocean. I stood up and tried to stem the rising tide of guilt. It wouldn't wash away. Because what I had done is trick another person into carrying a mountain bike 2,000 feet straight up Mount Sentinel for me.

It made me look like a monster, but I swear it started so innocently. Beat and I did a trail run on Saturday that aggravated my probable case of plantar faciitis, and I was mildly gimpy. Conversely, I guided him on an after-dark mountain bike ride Friday night that was several notches above his comfort zone. So I suggested the Sunday moonlight hike up Sentinel. Beat argued that I should avoid the downhill running/hiking that seems to aggravate my foot injury the most, lest I draw out my slow recovery indefinitely, so he suggested I bring my mountain bike for the descent down the backside.

Most of the time, I consider myself to be a reasonable person. But sometimes I fail to connect simple strings of logic that end up resulting in wholly ridiculous situations. For instance: The direct trail up Mount Sentinel is exactly that - direct - and thus extremely steep. Carrying a mountain bike up sustained steep terrain is extremely strenuous compared to not carrying a bike - bikes are awkward, heavy, and press on one's body in the most uncomfortable ways. Therefore, carrying a bike up Mount Sentinel is extremely strenuous. And of course, I should have factored in the knowledge that Beat, being the chivalrous guy he is, probably wasn't going to let me do the work myself no matter how much I begged. But I didn't put any of this together. Instead, I showed up at the trailhead at 9 p.m. and directed him — like my own personal man-slave — up the first known human-powered mountain bike shuttle of Mount Sentinel.

Beat shuffled toward me with a glazed look in his eyes. His hat was askew and his emerging hair was drenched in sweat. He stood in silence for a few seconds until I said, "Um, this is the top. You can put that thing down now." By the time he set the bike on the ground, he was noticeably shivering. Cool October air swirled around us, 35 degrees and dropping. Beat was absolutely drenched in sweat. Before our "hike," I had pictured this romantic night picnic on the summit where we could gaze out over the golden lights of Missoula, share a package Haribo Fizzy Cola gummies and coast down the mountain together, runner and mountain biker side by side. Instead, we had to start down quickly to stave off hypothermia. There was no romantic midnight picnic to assuage my guilt, just the frigid downhill ride and the knowledge I did nothing to earn it.

"If you want to break up with me now, I completely understand," I said. He just shook his head and smiled, and we launched off the summit together.

It's an interesting problem to consider: When two parallel if distant paths suddenly curve toward each other and intersect, what is the outcome? Will they continue on their directional tangents toward parallel if distant futures? Will they merge into one distinct path? Will they continue to curve away and back toward each other, colliding and separating in an undulating ribbon? What determines each path's direction? How does a change in one path affect the other? Are they related at all, or are we simply deriving the appearance of patterns from the bewildering chaos of life?

"It's like a difficult math problem," Beat tells me. "For hours you stare at it. When the answer comes to you, it's like, 'a-ha.' You realize you understood all along."

I nod as I dredge the dimly lit cellar of my memory for insight. I haven't given serious consideration to any math problem since 11th-grade calculus. (I used to brag that I tested out of all of my required college courses and managed to get a bachelor of science degree without taking a single math or science class, until I realized that a limited education isn't really something to brag about.) Beat, on the other hand, has a PhD in physics, and a quiet confidence about him that makes it easy to believe that this complicated mash of variables — the established lives, the 1,100-mile distance, the reality of travel — really can be a simple thing to solve. So we agreed to forge a relationship, not because we know what the outcome will be, but because we're excited to explore the intrigue and beauty within our complex equation.

So Beat came out to Missoula to visit me over the weekend. He arrived early enough on Friday that there was plenty of time to embark on the night mountain bike rides I had been gushing about, so I equipped him with my Rocky Mountain Element and decade (or more)-old halogen light that Bill let me borrow because he disapproved of me tearing down dark and winding singletrack with only a small helmet-mounted headlamp. I guided Beat along the narrow corridor of Hellgate Canyon before veering up the meandering Deer Creek climb. We didn't say much during those first miles. I think Beat was a little nervous about the unknowns — the frosty weather I had warned him about, riding a strange and small mountain bike when he already has limited mountain biking experience, and riding in the dark Montana wilderness with woefully inadequate lights. I admit I was a little nervous about other unknowns — actively acknowledging the launch of a new relationship for the first time since I was in my early 20s — but I tried not to let it show.

As we approached Pattee Canyon, I realized that I had never guided a night ride up Mount Sentinel before, and actually had no idea how to get there. When Beat and I first started corresponding back in July, he asked me about the characteristics I don't like about myself. Near the top of that list is the way I can be startlingly inattentive to important details, despite having what I consider to be a decent memory. There were a number of dots in the climb that I couldn't quite connect. I guided Beat up a road that I thought was possibly the Crazy Canyon Road. The gravel was loose and steep and I quickly approached the entrance of my pain cave as I attempted to grind up it on my singlespeed. A whole bunch of quiet minutes passed before I looked up, saw the flashing red lights of the University Beacon, and said, "Oh, no, we don't want to go up here."

"Why?" Beat asked. "How much farther is it?"

"Pretty far. The Beacon's about 1,000 feet higher than Sentinel. It's a heinous grind of a climb. And I promise you the descent is way too gnarly for either of us. It's like a loose fall-line direct shot down the mountain. It's seriously unfun." (Note to Beat: Now that you've seen the front side of Sentinel, imagine what descending down that trail would be like. That's what the Beacon is like.)

So we turned around, skidded down the gravel road for the 1,000 feet we didn't need to gain, then veered into the confusing and convoluted network of ski trails in Pattee Canyon. (Note to cross-country skiers: Why the need to create such a tight maze of trails? Do you really enjoy being constantly lost in a few acres of forest, or am I the only one who can't find their way out of cross-country ski mazes?) Anyway, we burned up more than an hour between the Beacon detour and me being lost - and complaining about it. I started to fear that after we actually rode down The Gut in the darkness, Beat really was going to go home and bump up his flight back to San Francisco and never speak to me again. But he was an amazingly good sport, proving to me that not only can I be myself around him, but I can be the worst of myself around him.

That's another thing we're trying to reconcile - the fact that I'm an avid mountain biker and beginning runner, and he's an avid runner and beginning mountain biker. Since we're both excited about the other's passion, there's no conflict, but it is difficult at this point to mesh our abilities. Beat found himself well beyond his comfort zone during the switchbacking singletrack descent on Friday, so on Saturday I decided we should go to Blodgett Canyon for a trail run. I'd never been to Blodgett Canyon before. It was surprisingly spectacular: a little bit of Yosemite, Northern Rockies, and fall in Vermont, all wedged into a narrow corridor in this fairly remote corner of Montana. Because of my foot issues, we played it conservative, alternating running and walking. We traveled about six or seven miles up the canyon, to the edge of the wilderness area. We stopped often to gaze up at the mountain ridges and discuss the various ways we could access them (this is another way we fit together well. We both crave higher ground.)

Despite playing it conservatively, I was still slightly hobbled by the end. I admit I am a little frustrated right now with my inability to join Beat on a long trail run. I feel like my legs are up for it and my lungs are getting there, but unfortunately feet are important for that sort of thing. (And of course what I'm dealing with is an overuse injury, so I have nothing to blame but myself.)

On Sunday, we put outdoor passions aside and behaved almost like a normal couple might — going to lunch at an amusingly hip (for Montana) cafe, walking around downtown and commenting on the stuff in the shop windows, sharing ice cream cones at Big Dipper. The Indian summer has gone quite late this year, and the sun was hot and high, enough so that we could walk around outside in T-shirts, in mid-October. Beat, because he lives in California, wasn't nearly as impressed as I was by the weather, but it was a wholly beautiful day, rare in both its timing and perfection. A sunny Sunday afternoon.

Still, the pull of adventure is hard to resist, and by 8 p.m. we had hatched the convoluted Mount Sentinel shuttle. The theory sounded simple - him on foot and me on mountain bike, working in harmony. But the result was much more difficult if predictable - him doing all of the work for none of the fun (he argued that he had much more fun running The Gut than riding it, and while I believe him, I still agree that no one should have to carry a bike up Mount Sentinel for any reason, even as a punishing form of training, ever again.)

But I know that seeking the common derivative in our wildly fluctuating paths will be a beautiful journey in itself, and I look forward to it, complications and all.

Into the night

Thursday Night Ride: A diverse group of longtime Missoulians and newcomers, young professionals and working parents, college students and 68-year-old college professors, have been gathering for years to pedal local trails on long summer Thursday nights. Years back, they used to call it quits for the season when the dark and cold crept too close for comfort. But every year the group grows, the dynamic shifts, and ambitions spread. I showed up on a good year, when ambitions have resulted in four-hour assaults of big mountains, or a sunset ice cream run in mid-October.

Six mountain bikes rolled into the Turah store just as the last pink light of Thursday slipped below the Sapphire Mountains. We peeled off thick gloves, then peeled off the wrappers of ice cream sandwiches. We stood in the parking lot to watch the light fade, applied the remainder of our layers as the chill set in, switched on our lights, and returned to the canyon.

Just a few miles from our destination, Bill wordlessly veered off the main track and shot up a hill. "Where's he going?" a few asked, and the others answered, "Looks like Deer Creek." Why add 12 miles and another 2,000 feet of climbing to an already late and chilly Thursday Night Ride? Why indeed? "Are you going to go?" one in the group asked. "I don't know, you?" another answered. And with that, three of the five remaining in the group chased after Bill's flickering light.

Climbing into the night, we turned off our lights for a while to watch the stars, a bright spread cut by treetops and the narrow canyon. I crashed into a log and the lights went back on, but still we climbed higher, reaching for those quiet, shadowy places that once only existed in the confines of eerie dreams. Our lights hit the shining eyes of deer, which startled us all, and we nervously joked about mountain lions and bears, oh my. The narrow trail veered downhill and we launched into it wide-eyed, tears streaming in the wind, seeing only the immediate ground five feet in front of us, jerking around corners and barrelling over rocks before we could even react. Night carves a different world, a world where the moon casts dull silver shadows and dark figures hover overhead. It's a beautiful place to ride, completely different from the day, and so easy to miss if you're not out there looking.

We emerged from the canyon and wended around the front side of Sentinel Mountain, an open hillside with nothing but gravity between us and Missoula. We tore through the tall dry grass as city lights rushed toward us, smiling uncontrollably because sometimes there really is nothing better in this world than riding a bicycle.

Clinging to summer

The bank sign read 59 degrees just after 5:30 p.m. Monday.

"Ah, it's still warm," I thought. Golden sunlight cast long shadows on the streets. "And it's a beautiful evening."

I put on a long-sleeved jersey, shorts, and a thin pair of gloves, and set out toward the mountains. The subtle warmth of the low sun caressed my skin, and sweat began to bead on my forehead as I climbed Pattee Canyon. I felt particularly strong, perhaps because it had been several days since I had ridden a bicycle, or perhaps because I was finally getting into singlespeed shape. I ramped up the pace, veered right on a narrow logging road and churned up the steep gravel as twilight descended. I crested a saddle and continued climbing toward the Miller Creek Divide, as night opened the sky to an expanding spread of stars and a sliver of the moon. I felt amazing. I love to climb and climb. I'd climb into eternity if there was a mountain high enough. But the Miller Creek Divide eventually crests out and drops into a bewildering maze of logging roads, and it was there, at 8 p.m. or so, that I finally slowed to a stop.

A rush of cold air struck me like a freight train out of the darkness. I gasped and insta-frozen breath swirled in the beam of my headlamp. I shined it down on my feet and saw hints of sparkle on the grass. Was that frost? The chill needled in before I could investigate. It was cold! How did it get so suddenly cold? I opened my frame bag to confirm what I already knew - that I had failed to bring an extra layer. Because it was summer, right? No, no it wasn't summer. The temperature was near freezing and plummeting. And there was nothing I could do but descend 3,500 feet of elevation - on a spun-out singlespeed, no less - into the frigid night.

Unpleasant would be a kind word I could use to describe that descent. I tucked into my handlebars if only to glean off my own body heat, and dropped into black canyon. My dim light turned the gravel road into a flicker of shapes and shadows as the icy wind stung my bare legs. My fingers lost sensation first, then my toes, and then the windchill worked its way into my arms, legs, and finally butt. I am blessed with what I think is uncommonly good heat retention in my core - especially in dry cold - so I managed to stave off shivering. But my limbs were for all practical purposes frozen. I was a statue on a bicycle, a blur in the dark night with only the tears in my eyes to reveal any sign of life.

By the time I reached the bottom of the canyon, I still had to pedal home, but my legs absolutely refused to move. My hands were so numb that when I went to adjust my helmet strap, I found it completely impossible to even unbuckle it, so I just placed the frozen stumps back on my handlebars and strained to push every ounce of warm blood I still had in my core toward my legs, on the off chance I still had muscles to move. I wasn't sure, because I certainly couldn't feel them. I creaked robot-like toward home, then fumbled with my keys for nearly 10 minutes just to get the door unlocked. After that came the shower of much punishment: 10 minutes of hot agony as the thousand invisible needles pricked my skin back to life, followed by 10 more minutes of numb recovery, still trying to make rigid fingers work.

Ah, the early season. Have to respect the annual lesson in the importance of warm clothing.

But the truth is, it's been difficult for me to accept that Missoula has any other seasons besides summer. When I moved here, summer had just begun, both literally (it was June 21) and figuratively (the long spring rains finally let up, and haven't really come back since.) It's been four months of sunshine and long evening rides and warm nights. I can't even really imagine Missoula any other way. Until Monday, cold nights seemed to be a long way off. Winter felt like another lifetime.

Then I woke up this morning to thick frost on the grass and porch, and I knew it was probably time to start saying so long to the summer, for real this time.

But not yet. Not quite yet. Tuesday was Dave's last night in town. He, Bill and I rode up the Lincoln Hills and worked our way up to a particularly challenging series of singletrack trails called the Larch and Sidewinder families. We climbed into fading light and dropped into expanding darkness, losing the rest of the twilight to a 20-minute stop to saw a fallen tree in half. I launched into the darkness with wide eyes. All the obstacles seemed more insurmountable, the trees more foreboding. I struggled with this trail when it was still summer, and with the early night, my headlamp cast it in a new, even eerier light. The air was still, the temperatures falling, and the city lights of Missoula sparkled like a sea below us. But my apprehension began to diminish as I tucked into the turns. I smiled with the warmth of my fledgling confidence, because I've experienced much in the past four months, and those are the remnants of summer that will never fade.