Cycling to Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park

The Slack notification arrived on a Friday night, a digital beacon cutting through the ordinary. "Glacier Point Rd OPEN to cyclists ONLY!" Vlad's message crackled with excitement. As a hiker with a deep love for Yosemite, this car-free window was an opportunity I couldn't miss. I fired off messages to my usual ride-or-die crew. Jerome, buried under the tyranny of work, was a no-go. Same story for Pascal. Thankfully, Xavier and Lucas were down for the adventure. Bruce, the maverick, would be leaving from a different location and meet us there.

Monday morning, bleary-eyed but buzzing, Xavier and Lucas rolled up. Google Maps promised a breezy 3-hour drive. As we neared the south entrance, the cruel joke unfolded. The wait time stretched like taffy – 5 minutes ballooning to 30, then a soul-crushing hour crawling the last two miles. Finally, at 12:30, we reached Wawona, a sigh escaping our lips as we unloaded the bikes.

Bruce had a head start, already chasing the horizon. The sky was a flawless blue canvas, a single white cloud the only blemish. The forecast mocked us with sunshine and a playful mention of afternoon thunderstorms. We scoffed – a tiny cloud, a laughable threat.

12:45 sharp, and we were finally hurtling down the road. Xavier, ever the leader, spearheaded the charge. But our car-free paradise was short-lived. The designated lane felt more like a highway, overflowing with a surprising number of four-wheeled companions. Lucas, with the enthusiasm of a runaway train, shot past the turn to Glacier Point Rd, vanishing into the horizon. No signal on our phones sealed our fate. We waited for fifteen agonizing minutes, hope dwindling with each tick of the clock. With a heavy heart, we decided to press on, leaving Lucas to his own two-wheeled adventure.

Glacier Point Road – a ribbon of new asphalt unfurling just for us. The landscape was a dramatic mosaic, scarred by a recent fire. We passed a young couple, Jason and Leah, their legs pumping with youthful vigor. I took the lead, soon falling into an easy rhythm with Jason. He spilled the beans on his plan – a grand proposal on this epic ride, a five-year anniversary marked with two wheels and a ring.

Badger Pass loomed, and Jason peeled off to wait for Leah. I continued, the sky morphing into a villainous scene. Dark, heavy clouds massed over the granite giants. Descending cyclists had faces etched with urgency. Then, a welcome sight – Bruce and his friend Tom. We greeted each others and a quick selfie. Raindrops began to fall, the sky a growing menace. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

As we chatted, Xavier caught up. We bid farewell to Bruce and Tom, determined to reach Glacier Point before the storm's fury. The final turn revealed Half Dome in all its glory, the heavy clouds adding a touch of drama. This usually bustling spot was eerily empty. We soaked in the view for a glorious thirty minutes.

Jason and Leah arrived, and with a nervous grin, Jason popped the question. In that moment, surrounded by the storm's brewing fury, love took center stage.

Five pm. The forecast wasn't entirely wrong. The storm intensified, raindrops morphing into a relentless downpour. We donned windbreakers and began our descent. The rain and thunder raged, soaking us to the bone. My body temperature plummeted with every pedal stroke. Twenty-seven miles to go, and I could feel the tremors begin. The rain turned to hail, stinging my exposed skin. I sought refuge in a roadside bathroom hut, desperately hoping the storm would relent. A flash of lightning illuminated the dark scene, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. We were well and truly in the heart of the storm.

Pushing on, I battled the cold and the shaking in my body. The hail stopped, a small mercy. Fifteen miles down Glacier Point Road, a couple of cyclists, oblivious to the conditions, greeted us with smiles. We were too cold and focused to return the gesture. My initial plan to reach Yosemite Valley and snap a picture at Tunnel View was abandoned. Survival became the priority.

Back in Wawona, the final five miles were mercifully dry. We were a shivering, soaked mess, greeted by a surprised Lucas. He'd arrived five minutes earlier, having realized his missed turn too late. He'd reached Yosemite Valley, attempted to catch up, but turned back as the storm hit.

Six pm. Dry clothes, greasy sandwiches, and the car heater became our sanctuaries. As we drove back to Mountain View, the day replayed in our minds – a car-free conquest of Glacier Point, a love story sealed with a ring, and a daring escape from the clutches of a brewing storm. Yosemite, in all its wild glory, had served up an adventure we wouldn't soon forget.

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