(Some reasons not to go all the way up Pikes Peak.)
In January we went to Colorado Springs. The day I got sick, my wife decided to drive up Pikes Peak. The first reason not to go all the way to the top is when the road is closed. In January, it is likely to be closed because of snow and ice. I believe she got to about mile 12 or mile 15 before they made her turn back. On the trip last week she pointed out the scariest parts of the switchback. It was bad enough driving that with dry roads; I can't imagine doing it on snow.
This past week in July we tried to drive up with our son, his wife, and our new grandson. A sign at the entrance requested no babies under 4 months, but Tyler's doctor had cleared him, so up we went. Until somewhere between mile 15 and mile 16, when the engine temp went into the red zone. We had a busted coolant overflow tank and had lost too much coolant. Down we went, using more brakes than we would have otherwise. We bought coolant at the point they check your brake temp (we were in the safe zone, but just barely), and made it down still using too much brake, twice having to turn the heater on to help pull heat from the coolant. Car trouble is another reason not to drive all the way up.
The final reason? Acrophobia. An unreasoning fear of heights.
Part of it is probably that I grew up in the desert. I think our 1st story roof was the highest I normally went. Except for the odd drive in the mountains. Normally these bugged me, but not horribly. Then, at the age of 7 or 8, on a trip to Cloudcroft, New Mexico, on a narrow, two lane, no shoulders or guard rails, savagely twisty mountain road, my sister Sharon (2 1/2 years younger) and I looked down. And down. And down. Down about an 80 degree or steeper slope. With the overgrown, rusting hulks of cars a long way down, clearly victims of the curves at speed.
About that time, a fully loaded tractor trailer (one of several that trip) came flying around a blind curve, partly into our lane, probably doing the speed limit (70 MPH). Certainly we were going the speed limit. Dad hugged the edge of the road. I'm pretty sure the tires were half way off the edge. The car was shimmying, the semi was practically scraping paint, and the ghosts in the cars below were planning a welcome party for us. Sharon and I spent the rest of the trip to the top, and most of the trip down a few days later, in fetal positions on the floor of the car. Our insane younger siblings, Kathleen and Bill, gleefully looked out the windows and described what they saw. We'd have killed them, but that would have required opening our eyes.
The first part of the drive up Pikes Peak is through lush peaks and valleys, with the occasional steep bank covered in trees. The view down is in the distance, a pleasant buffer of vegetation hiding the nearby horrors. Once past the tree line, you are suddenly aware of the steep, steep drop offs and distance to the bottom. But the road is wide, often has guardrails, and a good bit of time the drop off is on the left. Space between you and the fall zone helps a lot.
But farther up, you spend a lot of time (with no guardrails! What idiot forgot the guardrails?) with the drop off much closer... on the right. At times the road is dirt, not asphalt (what fool forgot the paving?) Then the serious switchbacks start (often still dirt, and mostly without the guardrails (what MORON forgot those???)) and you are obviously higher up, it's soooo far down, and if you mess up even the teeniest bit, you will fall, fall, fall, and it's just a question of whether you'll die before the car explodes or after. Which draws your eye to the terrible, terrible edge of the road, the oh, so clear line between safety and driving off into space...
I recall vividly how I learned from motorcycling that your natural tendency is to go where you're looking. In this case, that's the edge. So far down. There's a little bit of a shoulder; between that and how steep the mountain is, you can't tell if there are rusting hulks of cars below, ghosts waiting for you to join them... And all I want to do is curl up in the fetal position on the floor.
I "joke" about that with my family. My wife and son both ask if I want them to drive. "No, I'm fine, Sharon can drive back down so I can look around." But that's just me trying to cope, trying not to give in to the Fear. I'm terrified. I'm determined to do this. I don't think I can do it. I pray, desperately, for strength.
The car overheats. Answered prayer? Serendipity? Chance? I don't believe in chance, and it wasn't what I asked for. But it's a gift horse, and I don't look it in the mouth; there might be a slope in there. We let the engine cool, and I drive back down. Why did I keep driving? I couldn't tell you. Machismo? Maybe. Psychopathic fixation and reasoning shutdown? More likely. I'm pretty sure we made it down safely.
I'd still like to see the view from the top. But unless I can afford a helicopter ride (and NOT a bubble helicopter!) I just don't see it happening.
PS: Today I went off the high dive. From underneath, it's 10 to 12 feet high. From on top, that makes it 16 to 18 feet eyeball level. But it's easily twice that inside my head. But I jumped. Three times. I would have gone again, but I was at a party, and it was piñata time. I've come a long way being able to do that. I won't give up fighting my fear of heights. But I think Pike's Peak, for me, is just over the top.
PPS: I don't believe in ghosts. But that's how things seemed at the time.
