The fat man's lament and a transformation
Sweating profusely in the soaring heat and spitting out a wide range of colorful expletives, I lugged myself up the easier route, past the higher village of Capileira, and onwards, upwards, until the baking conditions and gradient won over. I had managed to ascent a total of 220 metres, up to 1,540m, during my 40-minute excursion into purgatory. Sitting down in a pool of sweat and dismayed at my lack of fitness and excess blubber, I realised, shockingly. that I'd hardly ascended 10 per cent of the required altitude. I promised myself that I'd be back a year later, in August 2007, fitter and stronger. I would climb the 2,200 vertical metres to Mulhacén in one day, I'd do it via the steeper route and I would fly up it in under 5 hours!! You make some silly declarations of intent when angry; this one was right up there with the best. Thinking about it later, beer in hand, the vertical ascent, ignoring any downhill passages, would mean climbing over 12,000 regular steps: yikes!
Coming back home later that August and poring over geographical maps reinforced the folly of my promise. The steeper route was shorter, sure, but the gradient averaged over 13 per cent, in excess of 10 miles, and cut through forests lining the very side of the mountain. Up above 2,400m I noted there was absolutely no shade from the relentless, cruel sun; the last 1,100 vertical metres would have to be completed with the sun teasing me mercilessly, creating rivers of sweat on every part of my body. Worse still, I realised, the effects of climbing at altitude, on a hot, humid day, meant that the air would be at least 30 per cent thinner at 3,000m than at sea-level. Not only would I be tired, not only would the route be littered with larger and larger rocks that would hamper progress, I would also need to contend with the debilitating physicality of mild hypoxia. Great!
The subsequent months saw me leave the Bubión-Mulhacén trek to the farthest reaches of my mind and concentrate on losing the excess blubber. In September 2006, a 5-day trial at my local gym showed that I produced around 140W, at 150 beats per minute, on a stationary bike - not bad but certainly not great. In my dreams I was more physically-endowed than Miguel Indurain, I was more determined than Lance Armstrong, and I had a greater will to win than Eddy Merckx. The reality was markedly different; my lung capacity was below average and various aches and pains surfaced all too often.
However, I plugged away at the weight loss and kept up a basic cardiovascular routine, interspersed with playing lots of golf - walking 18 holes will enhance stamina, believe me. Fitness never came as fast as I'd hoped, primarily due to the inability to ride a push-bike for lengthy periods, brought on by the onset of back pain over the past few years. I'd have to sit in the gym and sweat it out if Mulhacén was not be doomed as another failed adventure.
A host of business trips dented aerobic progress well into 2007. Still, I'd managed to lose around 15kg of fat from my all-time high, and the scales reported 65kg in late May. I arrived a few days early for Computex 2007 and took the opportunity to gauge my supposedly new-found fitness with a hike up to the Cising Main Peak, on the outskirts of Taipei, which constituted a 555-metre ascent in a little over 2km. It was tough, gruelling work but I managed to peak in around 45 minutes; there was hope for the not-so-fat-man yet.
The promised ascent of Mulhacén slowly surfaced in July 2007 when I booked my week-long Spanish holiday. Sticking to a healthy diet and thrice-weekly one-hour exercise regimen with military focus, I left home weighing 61.5kg and pushing out in excess of 200W, at 150bpm, on the same stationary bike: a tangible gain in performance. My aerobic/lactate threshold was calculated to be around 165bpm, or ~230W. I was a man of numbers and the numbers were good. Now, aged 32, I was ready to fulfill a promise made in abject anger a year before.
Five relaxing days spent in Granada gave me the necessary taper and then it was off to Jose's apartment in Bubión, almost exactly one year after my initial pathetic attempt at making a tortured way up the mountain. A few 30-minute practice hikes up the steepest sections brought welcome news; I was somewhat fitter than I'd anticipated. But I steadfastly reminded myself that the Bubión-Mulhacén ascent was 2,200 metres of climbing in a little over 16km.
Feeling fit, healthy but apprehensive about how the big day was going to pan out, I awoke at 7.30am and checked the route one last time. I'd need to ascend some 1,100 metres in the first 6km, then I'd have an easy-ish 5km stretch that rose just 300m, followed by the final (straight-up) attack on Mulhacén, climbing some 800m in 5km, up to 3,485m, through the worst terrain and oxygen deprivation, making the final push that much harder. The pure ascent from start to finish was akin to climbing Ben Nevis almost twice, with altitude-related exertion thrown in for good measure.
Would a total time of 5 hours be enough, I wondered. I'd then still need to descend 800m down to Alto Del Chorrillo and wait for the minibus to pick me up and make its way down to Capileira. I needed to reach the peak in 5 hours, spend 30 minutes up top, and then descend the aforementioned 800m in 90 minutes, in order to catch the return bus back down. Time was, perhaps, the biggest enemy. I'd promised my friend Jose that it would take two broken legs to stop me from getting to the top. They say that half the battle is won in the mind; I was 50 per cent there already. The next 5 hours would tell if I managed the other 50 per cent....
The lookout from my apartment in Bubión at 8.15am. The surrounding mountain-tops were bathed by the early-morning sun's rays. My 6kg daysack carried everything but the kitchen sink - food, maps, camera, book, mobile phones, plasters, and lots of water - as there would be no opportunity of buying any further provisions for the following 9 hours. I'd also invested in a Garmin Forerunner 205 GPS wristwatch: knowing how much higher you have to climb is real bonus. My trusty Polar heart-rate monitor was employed to ensure that I didn't push it too hard, too early - I'd set an upper limit of 150bpm on the steepest sections; well below my aerobic/lactate threshold.
