Never gone 155 miles on one ride? Never climbed 13,500 feet up one hill? Never even thought you could do it for fun? Find a hero. Go with them. They will take you there. You can accomplish mental, spiritual, and cycling feats way past your norm, bust right up that Big Creek grade, power up to that high pass, and summit the lofty-most peak.

Some of your heroes are our ACTC exemplars: Mister Stu E. Wallace; who wrenched my utility climbing bike, John Mazzella; who bequeathed his berth for the 2003 Climb to Kaiser (CtK) to me, Rob Vermillion; who counseled me about the mortal risk on the wrong side of the centerline and demonstrated the vital skill of control in the descent, and our ACTC scribes who have described the CtK experience in club Ride Stories; Jennie Phillips, Sue Kayser, and Karl Schilling. The heroes of the Fresno Cycling Club will host, lead, guard, sustain, sag, cool, and cheer you all the way.

It is a delight to find so many of our friends gathering at the pool at the Bestwestern Inn at Clovis on Friday evening. Donald Axtell sits in the center of loungers, tubbers, and bathers. Here's Dennis Uyeno, Christine Kennedy, and my roommate, Mister Stu. We usually see Don at camp assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Tonight he's assembling a rear wheel, spoke-by-spoke. Don's been camping up at Shaver Lake with Christine and Kim Carr. They've been cycling, acclimatizing, swimming, and puzzling all week. Earlier today a spoke on his Mavic Open C-40 jerked a wedge of alloy from the rim. The spent rim looks like the X-ray of Tyler Hamilton's fractured clavicle. Don's got the same sure grip on the spoke wrench and the methodical pace that you see when he's engineering a puzzle. Here come Deborah Lefferts, David Hoag, and Pam Downs to greet and entertain us. Don is not distracted.

We ride at dawn (actually 36 minutes pre-dawn). Among the 360 companions are Ken Koach, Ray Low, Rob Vermillion, Lew Mason, Art Cruz, Paul Greene, Paul Vlasveld, and many other members, including Joe Atherton, Fred Klinger, Jennie Phillips, Jeff Orum, and Pete Klein. I don't actually see these others in the twilight or at any time during the ride because of their prompt start, speed, and climbing pace.

Our first summit is the ridge above Burrough Valley. Here's a scene of wonder and awe. The background is formed of the broad green wall of Pine Ridge. Burst from the piney wall is a gigantic oval flank of exfoliating granite. The foreground is dotted with dome hills formed over blisters of granite that balloon from the crust. Outstanding northwest is solitary Ball Mountain. It's a pile of chaparral-crested rock with a blocky bleb of flesh-pink granite expressed like a perfect jewel at its peak.

On Tollhouse grade, you get into a toil zone. Pines form a shady tunnel. The chain stays mostly on the third cog. The road tucks into the shady furrow at the base of Ball Mountain. The pine-scent air is cool and easy to breath. Shaded granite maintains a core temperature that's up to 11 degrees cooler than atmosphere. If you believe it, you can sense the coolness of the layer of air that flows down its side and gently flushes onto the road.

At the Church rest stop we see Christine and Don being constituted with PBJ's. I'm constituted with V8, PBJ, chunks of melon, and slices of tomato generously sprinkled with crystals of refined iodized sodium chloride. We ask Rob to take a snapshot of us in front of the General Store. We hear that there has been more carnage in the Tour de France. Now Jan Ulrich has crashed. "How can you crash in a time trial?" A volunteer replies, "It's raining. Several riders have fallen. Some riders fell right off of the starting ramp. But Lance has prevailed."

Beyond the ridge past Shaver Lake we find the fun of that fast descent to Big Creek. Power towers parallel the road. The crackle of gazilliwatts of power comes from hot wires coursing through bracelets of ceramic insulators. The sound seems to resonate with the snapping crackle you wish to feel in your quadriceps. You visualize the blocky quads of Lance. It's the sound and feel of raw wattage flowing into the sink of gravity.

A sag is parked in front of a brown pickup truck on the left shoulder. A volunteer stops me before the scene of a crash. She motions for one-way traffic to come bye. Strange, there are no cyclists in sight. Strange, the person being given attention appears to be the driver of the truck who is weeping inconsolably but does not appear injured. A volunteer past the truck motions me to proceed. Alone, I pass the truck to the place where a rider lays completely motionless, face-down on the left side of the centerline. Strange, no one is assisting the victim. A blanket covers the upper body. The volunteer stands silently over the body. He's not looking at me. He's not looking at the victim. He's just a hovering sentinel waving traffic away with arms that are the wings of a guardian.

Silent and entirely solo I proceed to the water stop at Big Creek. Here volunteers and riders seem hushed, serious, meditative. One guy is just staring wide eyed at people as if transmitting shock from face to face. It's impossible to think of anything affirmative, distracting, or cheerful to say. We press on.

Disconcerting is the view of that raw, fire-ravaged, sunburnt escarpment over Big Creek. The zagged line of a road cut makes perfect double ZZ scars across the exposed flank. Awe becomes shock when we realize that we must go up there.

Christine and Don have been dipping in the creek and getting ice cream at Big Creek village. I'm happy to join them as we begin our rigor on the wending grade. Don coaches, "OK, Guy goes first, Christine second." I get into the double granny and take my place with my pace. But whoa, Christine interprets my move as a challenge. She and Don have warmed-up for this climb by doing it yesterday from their camp at Shaver Lake. Soon she's around me and so's Don. Soon they're out of sight around a switchback and I'm hanging lonesome on the mountain. This always happens when I climb with Christine. She lacks the mass to hold-down her climbing pace. (This theory does not explain how Donny climbs like that.)

Lunch by Huntington Lake is fine repast with several of our group. We're up to 7000 feet now, so the shady air seems cool. Don gets into the lake. Rob Vermillion sits with me and quietly discusses the importance of keeping ever in control and ever on the right side of the line. "This is a message for you, Guy." I commit to control and to life.

The jaunt up to the pass is copasetic. I'm accompanied by Paul Greene, Art, and Ray. Ahead are several riders who dismount to walk their bikes. Strange, they seem to be walking at my riding pace. The air thins, cools, and freshens. Above 8000', the alpine vegetation grows lush and tall. Giant black-eyed susans spike fist-size blooms, six feet into the air.

A crowd of volunteers cheers and applauds as we summit. We flop into rows of chairs under a canopy. We're an audience in a grandstand to cheer the performers as they arrive. Now comes Ken Koach. A valet takes his bike and Ken comes over to us. He carries water bottles in each hand and staggers side-to-side as if the empty bottles are heavy bricks of gold. He's got the paradoxical looks of absolute exhaustion and sublime satisfaction on his face. You'd say he looks dopey, but so must we.

Now we realize it's taken ten hours to go 77.5 miles. Now we have 4 hours to return. OK, that's just about 20 mph x 4… Bomb time. I join Robbie and his buddy, Bruce in most of the descent. The heat comes up as we go down. Oblique sunglow fades from orange to infrared. Sunbaked granite blushes from pink to ruddy. Blocks of granite can maintain a temperature that's up to 11 degrees warmer than atmosphere. Solar radiation strikes us on the left. It is reradiated from the rock wall to strike us on the right. The cyclist is in a crossfire of radiation and heat. We swoop-up onto Auberry Road without changing gears.

At Millerton we take our final rest. A volunteer hands me two popsicles. The ice-towel maiden dispenses relief for the brow and neck. Bruce notices I've taken-off my shoes and propped my feet on a chair. "My feet are burning hot", says he. "Ask the towel fairy to wrap your feet, Bruce", say I. We're overheard and when the ice angel appears with a pair of towels, I must consent. She wraps white towels around my black ACTC socks- the ones John Mazzella gave me after the 2002 Tierra Bella. The pedal relief lasts for the rest of the ride.

Christine and Donald have come to greet us at the Veterans' Hall at the end of the ride. They look so fresh and happy. After a shower, I feel relatively fresh, very happy, and entirely ravenous. Mister Stu leads me to a steakhouse where I enjoy the company of Lew Mason and Paul Vlasveld and the taste of sirloin with garlic potatoes.

Another best part of this CtK experience is breakfast with many of our friends on Sunday morning. Twelve of us are seated al fresco at a fine diner in old Clovis. We enjoy reconstitution with food, juice, and pitchers of coffee and ice water. In turn, each tells a highlight ride story. I cannot recount each tale here. So next time you ride with Ken, ask him what he was smoking in his room. Ask Stuart about the best gearing for a climbing bike. Ask David what he does if he wants to go on a ride that takes all day. Ask Donny how many lakes and dunkable streams there are on the CtK. Ask Christine if she's fast- or is it that fast Rock Lobster or fast Camero. Ask Dennis how to do crossword puzzles in a hot tub. Ask Pam what girls can do with chunks of ice that boys can't (without cross-dressing). Ask me about the Fresno necrophilia case. Ask Art how to set-off a smoke detector at a motel. Ask Paul Vlasveld about training for the Paris-Brest-Paris event. Ask Lew about the tricyclist on Highway 168, and ask Deborah which valley is most cool. You'll find that riding with these heroes and sharing this fun is a wonderful way to get yourself to a greater pace and a higher place.