Bike Route Toasting, Part 1: RASH 400k

Since discovering the bike route toaster, I've gone kind of nuts designing new randonneuring routes in the Portland/Willamette Valley area. If a route goes on quiet roads that add up to a multiple of 100k, I'm all over it. As a result, I've come up with a few promising routes that I'm gung ho about organizing in the next couple of years. So I'm going to share some of my ideas here, to get feedback from folks and to maybe build some enthusiasm for exploring these new areas. First up:

The RASH (Ride Around St. Helens) 400k
(Click the map to go to the bike route toaster interactive version.)

Start in Vancouver, and head east on the old Evergreen Highway, followed by SR 14 to Carson. Up Wind River, and over Old Man Pass and Elk Pass, down to Randle. West on US 12 to Mossyrock, and then backroads to Toledo. South through Castle Rock, Longview, and Woodland on backroads that parallel I-5 back to Vancouver.

The beauty of this route is that it starts off easy, with the traditional tailwind up the Columbia River. Then you get almost all of your climbing done before the halfway point. It's mostly downhill from the top of Elk Pass all the way to Toledo, and gentle rollers back to Vancouver (except for Green Mountain). There are nicely spaced resupply opportunities at Skamania, Carson, Northwoods, Randle, Morton, Toledo, Castle Rock, Longview, Kalama, and Woodland. And the distance works out almost perfectly, coming in at 406 km.

I would like to put on this ride as Oregon Randonneurs' summer 400 next year.

Here is the elevation profile:

I Propose a Toast!

A few days ago, I got an email from the Seattle International Randonneurs' mailing list about their upcoming 400. I didn't really care about the ride, per se, as it starts in frickin' Ephrata, which would make it a bit of a challenge to get to the start, but the online map of the route caught my eye. It was created using a tool called bikeroutetoaster.com. Heavens be praised! This is exactly the kind of tool that I have been hoping for since before the Google Maps Pedometer was created. It contains the following highly awesome features:

* One-click waypoint setting
* Automatic route finding
* Drag & drop waypoint relocation
* Automatically generated cue sheets
* Scroll-wheel zoom
* Easy route archiving
* Automatically generated elevation profile
* GPX import/export

Now, it's not perfect -- the drag and drop waypoint relocation can be a little goofy, especially if you'd trying to revise a really old part of your course. The elevations can be kind of crazy, but that's par for the course with contour map extrapolations. Finally, I've heard that the export to GPX functionality might not be fully implemented yet. But, hey, it's freaking free. And awesome.

Needless to say, I have gone hog-wild designing possible future randonnees over the last few days. I'll be sharing them in this space over the next couple weeks.

New Perms!

Most of the permanent routes in the Portland area start a good long ways out of Portland. As someone with recent ambitions to complete an R-12, I have found myself more interested in this type of randonneuring. However, getting up at some unholy early hour to schlep to Newberg and then riding home 30 miles after a 200k gets old pretty quick. Being a route designer with some imagination, I decided to do something about it. Thus, I have submitted the following three routes to RUSA's permanents coordinator for approval. With luck, these will be options open to future Oregon randonneurs who don't want to drive so that they can ride their bikes.

The UGB 200k

This ride traces the outskirts of the Portland metro area's urban growth boundary. It starts from the parking lot at the east end of the Hawthorne Bridge. You can get your card stamped at OMSI or at the coffee house on Water & Clay. The route takes the Springwater Corridor out to Boring, with a controle at Bell Station to make sure you take the trail. From Boring, the route goes down to Barton and crosses the Clackamas, and then it's up Ridge Road to Highland, over Spangler Hill and down to Canby. From Canby, you go west through Champoeg to Newberg. Then it's up the familiar North Valley, Spring Hill, and Fern Hill Roads to Cornelius, around Hillsboro Airport, and through Helvetia to Rock Creek. The ride finishes up by taking Old Cornelius Pass Road up to Skyline, and following Skyline back into downtown.

The Columbia Foothills 205k
This ride starts at Gateway. The route starts off on the I-205 bike path, taking it across the Columbia into Vancouver. It winds a little through Vancouver before getting on my new favorite road to go north through Clark County, Andresen, which takes you all the way to Daybreak Park on the Lewis River. From there, the route winds northwest to La Center and Woodland. Out of Woodland, you'll climb Green Mountain (there's an info control on top, so no cheating by taking the freeway). Then it's easy rollers into Kalama and Kelso. From Kelso, it's across the Lewis & Clark Bridge back into Oregon. In Rainier, the route goes up Fern Hill Road (different Fern Hill Road) to Apiary, and then down Meissner Road to Deer Island. From there it's a straight shot back into Portland on US 30 (which hopefully will be somewhat redeemed by a tailwind). The path back to Gateway is highlighted by some classic views of the Portland skyline from Mock's Crest and Alameda Ridge.

The Mt. Hood 217k

From Mt. Hood Community College up the gorge to Hood River, then south over Bennett Pass to Government Camp, and back down to Gresham. How is this not already in the route book?

8/20/2007 to 8/24/2007 -- Paris Brest Paris

This is late, I know. I originally wrote it for publication in a magazine that shall remain nameless. I talked with them about writing a piece on my PBP experiences in early 2008, with an eye to publishing the article in the summer. I worked hard on the piece, and met the spring deadline. After submitting the article, I found the editorial staff at this magazine perversely uninterested in working with me. After months of trying to work with them, I gave up. So I'm sharing the result here. I hope you enjoy it. -Michael

Just outside the little town of Corlay, on the Bretagne Peninsula in northwestern France, I stand under the cover of a tree, waiting for the rain to slacken. My friend Philippe Andre is across the road, talking in French with a local man. They chat amiably for a little while before Phil comes back across the road to join me under the branches. The fellow is out in the weather, standing in front of his cottage in the countryside, a spectator to the 16th Paris-Brest-Paris grand randonnée. He has a table with candy bars and snacks for sale, but he offers coffee, juice, and encouragement for free.

The sport of randonneuring adopted Paris-Brest-Paris soon after it began as a 1200 km race in 1891. Today, it has become the equivalent of randonneuring’s Olympic Games. While grand randonnées are now held all over the world, what makes Paris-Brest-Paris unique is the people. The ride attracts thousands of riders from all over the world to share the challenge of pedaling halfway across France and back in less than 90 hours; no other randonneuring event draws so many people from such diverse backgrounds. The non-competitive nature of the event encourages a spirit of cooperation, and the challenge it presents instills a sense of camaraderie in the participants. But in addition to the esprit de corps felt by the riders, the ride is also highlighted by the warmth of the French people who participate as volunteers and spectators. I had pedaled 700 km to Corlay, through dreary fog, dark night, and torrential rain. Out there with me at every corner in every little village there had been one or more French spectators to shout “Allez!” or “Bon courage,” to offer a hot drink, or to point out a tricky turn. There is no better country on Earth in which to hold this event. If you are crazy enough to ride your bike 750 miles to Brest and back in four days, the French will love you for it.

Phil speaks French, and is naturally more outgoing than I am, but even across the language barrier I fully appreciate the material and spiritual support being offered by the man across the road. Phil relays to me some of the details of their conversation. He has been coming out to watch PBP roll by his front door for years, and now he’s selling the candy to raise money for his daughter’s school. We share a candy bar that Phil bought and plot our next move. It’s late in the afternoon, and the weather seems to have transitioned from intermittent showers into something more sustained.

I’d started out in Paris in the sloppy gloom at 9 PM on Monday night, two days earlier. While there had been respites from the rain, they had been of the one-step-forward-and-two-steps-back variety, and by the time I had covered 400 kilometers I was soaked. That’s when I’d met up with Philippe, as we had arranged to before the ride. Last night’s ride with him had been reasonably pleasant, and was followed by a drizzly and atmospheric morning through some of the undomesticated parts of Bretagne near the charming lakeside village of Huelgoat. Just when I’d started wondering if the sun ever shone on France, we broke through into a warm summer day on the descent from Roc Trevezel, 40 kilometers from our turn-around point in Brest.

Of course, Brest was just that: our turn-around point; we had to go back the way we came. All that awful weather that we had punched through to get out to the coast was still between us and Paris. We climbed out of Brest and back up the Roc in sunshine, and we were greeted by a face full of wind and rain at the top. We fought through increasingly persistent showers all the way to Carhaix, took a break, and then pushed on in hopes of hitting the 2/3rd mark at Loudeac before the day was too far gone. We had been riding with a pair of Englishmen for a few kilometers, and when we’d hit Corlay, they’d continued on while Phil and I stopped for shelter and refreshment.

I tell Phil that I think that the damp is just a passing shower, just as we’d experienced ever since the Roc. But the sky is socked in from horizon to horizon and the patches of blue sky we’d seen closer to the coast are just a happy memory. Still, the rain eases after a dramatic entrance. The branches spare us from the worst of it, but it’s obviously not going to stop any time soon. We’re cooling off, and it’s time to get back to business of pedaling.

We set off through the verdant French countryside. Brittany is the land of cream, and Philippe remarks that the abundant cows are easily the healthiest looking animals he’s ever seen. At times, the roads are so smooth that I can feel the imperfections in my front wheel. So in spite of the damp, we manage to maintain a strong pace. We take turns at the front as we traverse the undulating countryside.

Phil and I had only ever ridden together twice before Paris-Brest-Paris, but those two rides totaled 1600 km. We spent most of each of those rides together, sitting on each other’s wheels, drafting each other’s slipstreams. In covering all that distance, we’ve found that we’re well suited to riding together in spite of a host of differences. I’m 33 while Phil is 50. Phil has been randonneuring his whole life, but I did my first brevet just the year before. Phil rides a conventional bike, where I prefer a recumbent. We work well together because our strengths and goals are complementary. Philippe is a very strong rider who stays within himself. A veteran of 3 previous 1200 km randonees, several super randonneur series, and years of racing, he knows himself and his capabilities well enough that he never gets himself into trouble by going anaerobic for too long and blowing up his legs. He’s also opportunistic about finding people of similar strength to share a paceline with. I may be strong, but my record of pacing myself appropriately isn’t as good as Phil’s. I am used to logging long miles solo, which gives me an all-day motor.

As we roll along stone walls and hedgerows, past fields, and through forests, I spend a fair amount of time out front. My Bacchetta Aero recumbent doesn’t push as much air out of the way as a conventional bike does, but Phil’s got a really good aero tuck, and he’s able to make the most of my draft. With my head so far back it’s easy for us to chat, and as an added bonus he can see over me to the scenery ahead pretty easily. Phil takes the lead from time to time to give me a rest, and just naturally gets ahead of me on many climbs, while I pace us through rollers and across flatlands. On prolonged descents, I pull to the front and Phil puts his head down, gets into the bottom of his drops and hangs on tenaciously. We make our way towards the next controle at Loudeac; me taking advantage of Philippe’s experience, and Phil getting the benefit of my young legs.

I mention to Phil how well we work together. “Well, true. But these are long rides,” He responds. “There usually comes a time when maybe you’re feeling good and you want to go on and your riding partner wants to rest, or vice versa. And that’s the time you’ve got to go off and ride your own ride. You’ll know it when the time comes, and of course every randonneur understands it. There’re no hard feelings.” Ultimately, though randonneuring can be a cooperative endeavor, at the end of the day, it is a personal challenge. It’s about what you yourself can bear, and how your own capabilities match up to the task of the long ride.

We’re getting closer to Loudeac, and a pair of Italians overtakes us as we ride along the top of a ridge that seems familiar from the previous night’s outbound leg. These guys are nuts; each is carrying just what will fit in his jersey pockets, neither has fenders, and one’s riding without a helmet. They’re going just a little faster than we are, so we share the road for a while. As the four of us slalom through a tiny hilltop village, the sky opens up. We fly down the hillside as the road becomes a river. At the bottom, the Italians pull away as I soft-pedal, waiting for Phil. The sun goes down as Phil and I cover the last few kilometers into town.

The controle looks like a refugee camp. Riders are everywhere, most moving deliberately; some not moving at all, sleeping under silver foil space blankets. Wadded-up cyclists, discarded to the corners of the cafeteria. The rain has settled thickly on the courtyard, falling on several hundred parked bicycles. A volunteer tells us that it hasn’t really let up since the beginning of the ride, 48 hours ago.

It’s Wednesday night. Even though I haven’t put two hours of sleep together since Saturday, I move with a purpose. My first and most important task is to get my control card stamped, registering my arrival time. If you don’t get your card stamped, or if you lose it, you’re just a lunatic riding through the country. Registering at each checkpoint verifies that you have completed the course as designated and have done so in the allotted time. When I have my card stamped, I visit the cafeteria and purchase a tray full of food: Potatoes, soup, chicken, bananas, rice pudding. And coffee. The French do the best terrible coffee ever. It’s darkly roasted and steeped with the grounds in a stainless steel tray. It’s strong and dark and muscular and caramel sweet, and it’s served in a cereal bowl. You can measure its effectiveness in terms of hundreds of miles pedaled per pint.

The controle holds other delights. In particular, Philippe and I have access to our drop bag here, which means fresh clothes. We greedily root through the sack. I put together two completely fresh sets of riding attire: one for now, and one to go in my bike’s seat bag. Before I change, though, I take advantage of the available showers. It’s not that I’m exactly dying to get under more falling water, but the promise of warmth and getting clean of my accumulated grime and sweat is just too good to pass up. I emerge, and begin packing up my bike, anxious to be on the road. Prior to the ride, I reserved a hotel room in Fougeres (130 kilometers down the road) for this night, and visions of a warm dry bed are dancing in my head. My momentum and sense of purpose are still carrying me, and leave me somewhat insensible.

“Are you getting ready to go?” Phil asks.

“I’m done. I’m going.” I reply. But I’ve mistaken his meaning. I thought he was asking me when I’d be packed up and ready to hit the road. It turns out he’s asking if I’m hell-bent on continuing on right now in the awful weather.

He mistakes my declaration for determination. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it, go on, but I’m staying here. There are some very nice looking dorms, and I’m going to get some sleep.” Sleep. That brings me back to Earth. I look around and think about it. It really is raining. And I am getting tired. I’m going on 86 hours with very little sleep. I could use a lie-down…

Yeah, ok.

As it turns out, Phil saw some other dorms, or something. The dorm we are put in features beat-up old mattresses on the floor of a gymnasium, with the rain hammering down on the sheet-metal roof overhead. This is accompanied by the drone of randonneurs snoring in 12 different languages. But it doesn’t matter. We put in a wake up call for 4 hours later, they lead us to our pallets, and I have scarcely lain down and drawn the blanket up to my chin before I am unconscious.

…

Awake.

Awake, um. (Look at my watch.) One and a half hours later. Okay. I feel pretty rested. Calm. Not worried at all about having woken up. I have another two hours and change until my wakeup call. If I get back to sleep before then, great. Otherwise, I guess I didn’t really need it, did I? I’ll probably get back to sleep, though. It’s peaceful. The snoring has all stopped, so that won’t keep me awake. Heck, I can’t even hear the rain on the roof anymore…

I sit bolt upright. In Loudeac, where it’s rained since the beginning of the event, at 1:30 in the morning, the rain has stopped. And I’m awake and feeling refreshed. This is it: it’s time for me to go. I get up, and silently, purposefully gather my belongings.

I think to Philippe. Should I wake him? No, of course not. Phil has ridden strongly the whole time we’ve been together, but he’d gotten far less sleep during the previous night than he’d planned because of me, and he had reported nearly drowsing off on the bike a couple of times. He needs to let his body tell him when to get up, not me.

Which means that, as Philippe predicted it would be, my ride has been reduced to its most elemental components: me and my bicycle, striving with the road and the weather.

Without a moment to lose, I’m back on the road. I ride quickly, under the premise that if it’s been raining non-stop in Loudeac until this moment, then there’s no telling how long this break will last. I want to put as much distance between me and the town as I can before the deluge resumes.

Even at 2 AM, there are plenty of riders on the road; dozens of red fireflies mark the course ahead of me. But night riding tends to distort ones’ perceptions of space, time, and speed, and this is ground that I am covering at night for the second time. I have few stable points of reference. The kilometers are rolling by; just it’s hard to tell how fast.

I’m halfway through the stage when the rain returns from its coffee break in the form of a steady and annoying drizzle. Then, just as it intensifies, outside of the little town of Illifaut, there’s a sign diverting riders to a community center in a copse of trees. It’s a secret controle, to keep riders honest. I park my bike and go in to get my card stamped.

One of the most difficult parts of really long randonneuring events is going back out, into the rain, wind, or night. On my first overnight brevet, it took a major effort of will to leave a controle at midnight to pedal those dark roads alone. I’ve since learned how to keep moving, though, and how to not let myself transition from riding mode to resting mode. I don’t linger at the controle, staying only long enough to slurp down a cup of pottage before I’m back on my bike.

The rest of the ride into Tinteniac, and the rest of the night, goes slowly. It’s just a matter of grit, and keeping the pedals turning. If I keep pedaling, I will finish, eventually. I pass through Quedillac, where Phil and I had met up a day and a half ago. It took me 16 hours to get here from Paris on the outbound leg, but I’m expecting it to take a lot longer in the reverse direction. I gut out the climb up to Becherel, and on the descent on the other side of town, the thick sky begins to emanate a murky light. I’m in a daze as I pull up to the controle in Tinteniac in what little daylight manages to penetrate the clouds.

I perform my tasks at the controle by rote. Fortunately, I’m well versed in the requirements, and I get through with very little engagement necessary from my brain. The lion’s share of the time I spend is in shoveling the calories I need to keep going into my gullet. Once I’ve wrapped up my business, I take a short pause in hopes that there will be a break in the rain, but without any expectation of it actually happening. I go find my bike and once again, I’m rolling.

Fortunately, with the coming of the day the temperature has risen, and even in spite of the wet, I am comfortable in my wool jersey without a jacket. My recumbent seat provides insulation from my hindquarters to the bottom of my neck, doing a good job of keeping my core warm. This means that I don’t have to choose between being soaked with cold rain or soaked with sweat anymore.

The next leg is a scant 54 kilometers, and it goes by quickly, though it doesn’t feel like it. I’m sluggish, riding off the hangover of having ridden through the previous night (hair of the dog!) I am in a fairly dismal state, certainly not in anything like a comfort zone, but I have found an equilibrium. My energy level is good and I’m not feeling any particular pain, but I am pretty consistently wet and I’m mentally fatigued. It is encouraging to recognize sections from the outbound trip, though – the TGV tracks near Dinge, the river crossing at Vieux-Vy-sur-Couesnon, and the flat, straight section just before Romagne. As the route enters the outskirts of Fougeres, it finds its way along backroads, and then suddenly drops into a creek drainage. I have to go through the painful process of winching my way up out of it again before arriving at the controle.

I take care of my duties in Fougeres, and in the interest of maintaining my all-important momentum, dismiss the idea tempting idea of trying to check into my hotel room for an hour or two. I leave a note for Phil, bidding him good ride and good luck, and I get the mechanics at the controle to apply more lubrication to my chain. That’s one frequently overlooked detail in riding really long rides: you can do enough distance in a single ride to pass maintenance milestones. I often put fresh lube on my chain around every 400 miles, which was 150 rainy miles ago. One could wear a new pair of tires down to the threads on a ride like PBP.

When I set out again, I’m energized. I’ve finally shaken off the exertions of the previous night, the full light of day has chased away my drowsiness, a fresh dose of calories is making its way through my bloodstream, and my drivetrain is once again working at peak efficiency.

My recumbent shines on this leg, eating up the rolling hills and cruising on the flat ground. I find that randonneuring and recumbents are a natural match. A comfortable seat is a must-have on a 100+ mile ride, and the aerodynamic benefit of a low-profile position is maximized in a sport where we spend so much time riding alone. Plus, a heads-up position eliminates the threat of Shermer’s Neck, and offers a first-rate view of the countryside. As randonneurs tend to ride sturdier, better equipped bicycles than racers, the drawback of recumbents’ increased mass over diamond frame bicycles is minimized.

I arrive in Villaines-la-Juhel to a hero’s welcome. The approach to the control winds downhill through the streets of the town, so I’m feeling fast and strong as I complete the stage, and for several blocks before it there are banners, balloons, and barricades holding back cheering spectators. I feel like a Tour de France winner as my arrival is announced by the bombastic fellow with the PA, and this isn’t even the end of the ride.

I can smell the barn at this point, though. I’m hanging on by a thread, but the draw of the finish line continues to carry me. I get a huge plate of noodles in the cafeteria, and chat with a British fellow who encourages me to do London-Edinburgh-London. I nod politely without really considering the idea; this is exactly the wrong time to entertain another 1400 kilometers of riding.

It’s the middle of the afternoon and I set out once again, cranking my bicycle uphill as the road climbs up to a ridge. My energy level is holding, but has fallen somewhat from its previous high. The country around Villaines is less domesticated than I’ve seen to this point, owing to the more mountainous terrain, and I have the road to myself for long stretches at a time. The solitude puts my head in a strange place.

I had previously covered this leg in the depths of the first night of riding. The lack of sleep combined with everything that has transpired since has left a gaping hole in my memory where this stretch of road should be. The cocktail of physical exertion and sleep deprivation has left my perception with little chance of finding purchase on some recognizable landmark. And the eerie feeling that this road should contain some measure of familiarity for me and yet it simply doesn’t is deeply unsettling. If sleep plays a role in cementing a day’s experiences in one’s long term memory, then given how little sleep I’ve had, perhaps these hours of my life have dissipated before they could be indexed properly. Now, returning to this place is not the same as the experience of riding the road for the first time; I can feel the contours of the gap in my recollection in much the way that I imagine an amputee might have a sense of where an arm used to be.

I pass through Mamers, a larger town that does inspire a spark of recognition, and as I’m climbing out of it, the clouds thicken ominously. For most of the day, the rain has been holding off – nothing but the occasional drizzle to keep me from getting too complacent. The air is warm enough to have dried me off, and I’ve been enjoying not being clammy for several hours. Then the sky opens up and lets loose a deluge.

“This is what I do for fun!” I tell myself. I begin to wonder what drives me to it. In the previous 2 years, I’ve gone from centuries to 150 mile rides, to a full brevet series, to the Furnace Creek 508 and Race Across Oregon, to the 1000 km Portland-Glacier brevet, to this. In 2006, I rode the most difficult ride I’d ever attempted in September, only to surpass it twice in a month. Am I looking for my limits? And if spending a week in the rain without sleep pedaling 1200 kilometers isn’t more than I can stand, then just what sort of misery will I have to put myself through before I say, “No more!” What could putting myself through that get me?

I am absolutely drowning in the last few kilometers into Mortagne-au-Perche. I don’t stop to put on a jacket because I’m afraid that I’ll cool off if I stop and get out of my seat, and anyway, what good would putting a jacket on over a soggy jersey do? Water is cascading down the road to the town, and riding up it reminds me of a salmon swimming upstream.

I stagger into the controle shell shocked. There are things that I have to do, I know it, but I’m a dripping, sallow eyed zombie. Somehow, my card is stamped, my water bottles refilled. I visit the cafeteria, and they’re running low on food. I change into my last dry set of clothes.

Early in a ride, I have options: I can hit a section hard or back off, I can find a buddy to ride with and spend a little extra energy to stay with him if he’s stronger on the hills, I have sandwiches and cans of Ensure if I need calories on the road. Now, the bag of tricks is empty – no more food in my bag, and no more glycogen in my legs. I have no more cards to play, no more resources except sheer, blind, mule-headed stubbornness.

But that's the nice thing about stubbornness; when you have it, it's the last thing to desert you.

I’ve finished my meal and am staring at my plate, trying to work myself up to go back out on the road. It’s just 140 kilometers to go, now. Not even 85 miles. You’ve left to go on an 85 miler after breakfast and been back home for lunch. C’mon, Michael.

I overhear someone address his friends at the next table, “Did you see outside? Yeah, the rain’s stopped and the sun is shining.”

My fork has not yet hit the table before I’m back on my bike and pedaling.

Nehalem 400k Pre-Ride Report

For the Oregon Randonneurs' late summer 400k, the Nehalem 400, we return to Forest Grove as a start location. Note that we're starting at the Forest Grove Inn, though, and not the usual Grand Lodge. I pre-rode the route this past Sunday to make sure that things would pass smoothly for the riders next week.

A 4:10 wake-up call and some hustle got me downtown and on the MAX in time to get me to Hillsboro by 6. That made my start time from Forest Grove 6:10. I went over familiar streets in Forest Grove to Gales Creek Road, and proceeded north. The stretch between Forest Grove and Vernonia hasn't changed much since the Birkie this spring; more leaves on the deciduous trees. There was an unleashed dog between highway 26 and Vernonia.

I arrived in Vernonia at 8:22 and took a quick break, and then went north on OR 47. The road carried me a couple miles past Pittsburgh, where I turned onto Apiary Road. Apiary is great. It starts off with a gentle climb of about 5.5 miles, and it only gets even remotely steep about 3/4 mile from the top. There terrain right next to the road is pleasantly tree-lined, though clearcuts are visible for quite a bit of the way. After the climb is a long straight descent, and another climb of about 3 miles puts you in Apiary. A few rolling hills, and you're at Old Rainier Road, where you make a hard left turn.

There's some work being done on this stretch of Old Rainier Road, so unfortunately the route detours onto Highway 30 for a mile or so. There's a lot of traffic, but it's flat and there's a huge, relatively clean shoulder so I don't imagine it'll be a problem for anyone. We pick up Old Rainier Road again at the flashing yellow light and head towards Alston and Mayger. Another quarter mile and there's a little country convenience store to refuel at if you need to top of your supplies.

From the store, you'll head north to Mayger. The Mayger Downing Community Church comes in about 5.5 miles, and there's an information control there (I arrived at 11:07), so don't miss it. On the way, there are about 4 rollers followed by a twisty fun descent, as well as some great views of the Columbia River. Past Mayger, there're some more creek sheds that you'll have to climb out of, but around Quincy, the undulations dial way back and you have a smooth, pleasant road into Clatskanie. I encountered an unbound dog on this stretch.

In Clatskanie, there's a market, a Safeway, a Subway, and Hump's Restaurant if you want a sit-down meal. Don't dawdle too much though, because the climb out of town is rather strenuous, and while there can be plenty of shade, you might get a little toasty if the sun is directly overhead. It's 12 miles from Clatskanie to Mist. The first 6 are almost all uphill, though the first mile is probably the steepest. There are rollers until mile 8 (along with some nice views of Rainier, St. Helens, and Adams if it's not too hazy), and then there's almost 4 miles of fast and technical descending. Then you're back on OR 202.

It's 5 miles to Birkenfeld and then another 12 to Jewell. Here's where I have some bad news: the Nehalem 400 has the bad luck to be scheduled for the same day as the Hood to Coast relay. So you'll be sharing the road with that event for these 17 miles. It's a pain in the neck, and I'm sorry for that. For my ride, it was hot and muggy around Birkenfeld, but 12 miles later, it was overcast and sprinkling at Jewell. Bring clothes for a wide temperature range. The country between Birkenfeld and Jewell is quite a bit like the country between Mist and Birkenfeld, but more undulating.

At Jewell, the course turns south onto Fishhawk Falls Highway, past the beautiful new school and following the Nehalem River through a notch between two big coastal mountains. It's a quick run to your next turn, onto Highway 26. The road goes under 26, before turning left up a ramp to the south side of the highway. To get on US 26 westbound, you'll have to make a left across both lanes of traffic. Be very careful! You may want to turn your blinkers on for this section.

Highway 26 is pretty bad. You're on it for 12 miles: 4.5 flat, 3.5 up, and 4 down. For the first 6 miles, the shoulder width varies from 3 to 24 inches. Fortunately, there's a passing lane about a mile into the climbing section, and the shoulder gets a little better, giving you some breathing room. The descent is awesome and partially makes up for the earlier bits: fast, non-technical, with plenty of room. At the bottom is a little gas station/convenience store, and the 3rd control. I got here at 3:22. This store is just past the halfway mark, but realize that the second half of the ride is a lot easier than the first half.

Once you're done doing your control stuff, you'll get back on the bike and turn south, onto OR 53, the Necanicum Highway. It's a mile of flat, 2 miles of easy climbing, and then 14 miles of downhill. This bit is fun and fast. It's twisty at the top, but the surface is smooth and the camber is good. Be careful of uphill traffic, however. Also, when the road straightens out, at least look over and get a glimpse of the really cool moss-covered slot canyon that holds Soapstone Creek. About a mile before you get to Nehalem Bay, you'll turn left onto Foley Creek Road, aka Miami River Road. There's a pain-in-the-neck cimb at the beginning, but it's otherwise a fairly placid road. It's 12 miles long, climbing gently for first 6 and descending gently for the second 6. Other than the occasional clearcut, the scenery is positively Tolkienian. Unfortunately, there were a couple of roaming dogs (wargs?) on this stretch.

The Miami River Road spits you out onto 101 just south of Garibaldi. You'll take 101south through Bay City, where there are a couple rollers.

(Thank you! I'll be here all week!)

Tillamook comes quickly after. The Fred Meyer is open until 11, and the Subway a little further down the road is open until 12. This will probably be your last chance to get food, unless you're quick enough to get to Beaver before 9. When I was riding, the day warmed up again when I arrived in Tillamook, after having been cold and grey since Jewell. The wind in the Tillamook Valley is inscrutable, seemingly blowing in random directions. 101 is straight and flat, and the shoulder is fine. The traffic falls off a couple miles south of town, but the surface gets a little rough as you climb up to Hemlock. Once you pass the junction to Sandlake, the surface is excellent, the shoulder fades away, and it's all downhill to Beaver.

In Beaver, there's a gas station that is the location of the 4th control, which I got to at 7:21 PM. Conveniently enough, it's the place where you'll turn off of 101 to get onto the Nestucca River Road. The first 7 miles of the road take you through familiar coast range pasture land to Blaine, where the environment switches to alder forest. Just past Blaine, there is some road work for the next 4 miles, from milepost 7 to milepost 11. BE CAREFUL on this stretch! There's loose gravel and gravel-filled ruts across the road. Sometimes, it's best to go over into the left lane (just keep an eye out for oncoming traffic!) This is NOT the infamous stretch of gravel road on the Nestucca; that comes later and is actually a much nicer surface. There are 5 campgrounds on this stretch of road, each with water and pit toilets.

From 101 to the top is around 34 miles, depending on how you measure. It's a pretty easy grade for the most part; it basically stair-steps all the way up, only getting steep just below the top. You'll know you're about to start your descent when you get to the reservoir. I'm afraid the descent is pretty disappointing. It's too technical to get much speed up, and you spend an awful lot of time climbing. It dumps you right out in Carlton, the penultimate control. From Carlton, you'll simply get on OR 47 and take that all the way back to OR 8, and the Forest Grove Inn. 47 is fast, flat, and there's a good shoulder the whole way. There should be almost no traffic during the time of when riders are passing through. I finished at 12:01 AM, for a ride time of 17:51.

Services:
Vernonia
Alston
Clatskanie
Birkenfeld
Camp 18
Necanicum Junction (until 9)
Tillamook (Fred Meyer until 11, Subway until 12)
Beaver (until 9)

6/28/2008 to 7/1/2008 -- The Cascade 1200

At the end of the first day of the Cascade 1200, I didn’t know what to do. I was rolling down a river grade towards Naches, the first overnight control. The first day had been hard – really hard: tough climbs in brutal, brutal heat, and sheer distance. And there was plenty more climbing, heat, and distance promised. I was finishing up the first day okay, in good time (it was just after nightfall) and feeling reasonably strong. But three more days of that kind of effort, of climbing mountain passes in the desert in triple figure heat, simply wasn’t in the cards. How was I going to “solve” this ride? What strategy could I take to avoid riding in misery for 3 days, or worse, DNFing? I didn’t know what to do.

I did have resources at my disposal. I had access to my drop bag in a few miles, my Bacchetta Aero is comfortable, fast and has good lights. I was well ahead of schedule, and the next 100 miles were populated enough to provide good services. By the time I rolled into Naches, I had an idea.

I approached Bob Brudvik, who was signing riders in. “I’m going back out there,” I said.

“You are?” His eyes said, “Oh, really?”

“Yep. It’s cool out there; it’s actually a nice temperature to ride in right now. Why waste that? I’m going to eat, clean up, and change clothes, and then I’m riding on.”

“A bold plan. The route comes right by here again; you can have breakfast when you get back.”

So back on the road I went, with some trepidation. I’ve done plenty of night rides, but it still takes a bit of nerving up to leave a control at midnight to ride until the sun comes up and beyond. I tried to talk the other riders into joining me, but while they saw the merit in it, none would brave the dark with me. So I pressed on alone. I would ride through the night, finish the second day early, sleep during the heat of the day, and then get up for the third day while it was still cool, and so avoid riding with the sun at its height as much as possible.

It was a good plan. I caught up with Micah Fritzinger, and we rode up to Lodgepole together to visit Mark Thomas, manning the control there in the moonless night like a mysterious, grizzled oracle. I rode down alone, because the recumbent descends like a rocket sled and Micah simply couldn’t hang on, and I arrived back at Naches with the sunrise. That let me get breakfast from the control, and press on before the day warmed up too much. I covered a lot of ground that morning, and it wasn’t until I was through the Rattlesnake Hills, just outside of Hanford, that the almost thirty hours straight of riding and the heat of the day caught up with me. I limped into the Vernita rest area, with 55 miles to go in the hottest part of the day. It was a good plan, and it almost worked.

In Vernita, I ate my last sandwich and refilled my empty water bottles. I really needed the nap I had been putting off to keep pedaling while the day wasn’t at its hottest. Now, it was just too hot and too bright to sleep. Albert Meerscheidt gave me a Gatorade and a pat on the back, and I was off.

I crawled over the next 15 miles to the control at Mattawa. The irrigated farmland around the Columbia River on a 100 degree day is a working definition of hell if you’re on a bicycle. In order to keep their crops from just drying up and blowing away, the farmers there dump lots of water on them. In the hot air, much of that water quickly evaporates. All that evaporated water stays in the air, raising the humidity, and making life absolutely miserable for creatures like randonneurs who count on evaporative cooling to keep from dying.

I sat in the control in Mattawa for a good long time, contemplating my fate. Just the 15 miles from Vernita had left my water bottles almost completely dry and taken almost an hour and a half. With no services for at least the next 30 miles and the day only heating up, I had no idea how I was going to make it the rest of the way to Quincy. I took in some much-needed calories and tried not to think about it.

Finally, when I could procrastinate no longer, I said to hell with it, and got back on my bike. My refreshed ice sock would be completely melted in 8 miles, and even with 3 water bottles, I would probably be out of drinking water before George. But I wasn’t getting any closer to the overnight control just sitting there, and sometimes you just have to take that leap of faith.

The furnace outside sapped my will to live. I thought about what my ride-through-the-night gambit had gotten me. Even at my current snail’s pace I’d get into Quincy early enough. But the area beyond was not conducive to another night ride – there were almost no services there beyond what SIR were providing. So I was limited as to how early a start I could get the next morning. While I had 55 miles of misery today, I was looking at double that for tomorrow.

All the while, I grew increasingly anxious as the water levels in my bottles plummeted and their temperatures skyrocketed. I was maybe halfway to George, just past the first climb on Burke-Beverly Road. Finally, luckily, an angel of an SIR volunteer drove by and pulled ahead to see if I needed anything. With a fresh ice in the sock and refilled bottles, I limped into Quincy.

And none too soon. I was a grumpy, crabby mess. The heat had stewed my brain for 4 hours in equations whose conclusion was that the next day would be a day of torture. I didn’t see any way that I was going to finish this thing, even though I was in a position that almost every other rider on the course would envy. I needed to cool down, I needed to eat, I needed to clean up, I needed to change clothes. Most of all, I needed to sleep.

In the control, I vented, and made kind of a jerk of myself.

I showered and changed.

I ate something.

I checked into a hotel, and went to sleep at 7:30 PM and woke up at 3 AM. Seven and a half hours. The best night’s sleep I’ve had in 2 years.

The ride the next day went a lot better than I had imagined it would. And I realized that I had forgotten the cardinal rule of ultra-distance riding: things never just get worse. These events are so long, you always go through peaks and valleys. And just because you’ve been suffering for a while, that does not mean that you will only continue to suffer. The hill will end, the wind will shift, that Payday bar will hit your bloodstream, or you’ll take a rest, and you will feel better.

I arrived in Mazama in the early evening, the fifth rider in, to applause. My first words as I rolled up were, “THAT was more the hell like it!”



I didn't take either picture shown here. Thanks are due to the lovely people who did.

Now I'm It, Apparently

Michael tagged me.


If you could have any one – and only one – bike in the world, what would it be?

Do you already have that coveted dream bike? If so, is it everything you hoped it would be? If not, are you working toward getting it? If you’re not working toward getting it, why not?

I own eight bikes, currently. I love bicycling, and whatever I'm going to do, I will find some way to do it on a bicycle. So specialization is the reason for that high number of bikes. Because there are always trade-offs in bicycle design (e.g., a bike built lightly and responsively enough to race probably won't carry a load very well), the first question is basically asking me what I would stop doing on a bike.

Having said that, if I had to live with just a single bike (...with just a single limb), I would choose my Ti Bacchetta Aero. It is the best tool for facilitating the type of riding that is the distillation of what I love best about it: exploring remote, quiet, and beautiful roads. The aero features a sublime combination of speed and comfort. It is equipped to protect me from rain (with fenders) and dark of night (with Schmidt hub and E6 lights). I can load it down with enough baggage to undertake short tours without complaint. There is not another bike made that I would rather ride.

If you had to choose one – and only one – bike route to do every day for the rest of your life, what would it be, and why?

This is a working definition of hell. Riding for me is, at its best, about exploration. Pedaling through an area that I was previously unacquainted with exposes me, unmediated, not only to its sights, but its sounds and smells. The fact that I'm being conveyed by my own muscle power communicates to me exactly what the terrain feels like. I absolutely crave that kind of intimate introduction to the world around me. They say that you never step in the same river twice, and that's fine when you're talking about rivers. It's bullshit as far as roads go, though. If I could only ride one ride every day for the rest of my life, I'd quit riding -- might as well be on a stationary.

What kind of sick person would force another person to ride one and only one bike ride to do for the rest of her / his life?

Well, that's my sentiment exactly. What kind of person are you, oh mysterious interlocutor?

Do you ride both road and mountain bikes? If both, which do you prefer and why? If only one or the other, why are you so narrowminded?

Ostensibly, I ride both. However, the Santa Cruz doesn't see much action these days. Being car-free in Portland is a fine thing, but it definitely limits your opportunities to enjoy good single track.

Have you ever ridden a recumbent? If so, why? If not, describe the circumstances under which you would ride a recumbent.

Up until about 3 months ago, I liked to kid my diamond frame riding brothers by asking, "Can those things go downhill? It seems like you'd catch a lot of wind." Now I have a road racing bike of my own and my respect for folks who can ride them fast and far has gone through the roof. Riding an upright is hard work. It's a fun toy, but it'll never be my chief conveyance. I certainly won't be doing anything longer than a 100k populaire on it.

If it ain't bent, it's broken.

Have you ever raced a triathlon? If so, have you also ever tried strangling yourself with dental floss?

No, I've never raced a triathlon. I also grew frustrated with neopolitan ice cream at an early age: why dilute perfectly good chocolate ice cream by adding bland strawberry and boring vanilla?

My overindulgence of choice is in ultra-cycling.

Suppose you were forced to either give up ice cream or bicycles for the rest of your life. Which would you give up, and why?

My my, you're all about limiting options, aren't you? If you're so diabolically clever as to be able to conceive of and implement a scenario where I would be forced to give up either ice cream or bicycles for the rest of my life, why not use your awesome powers for good, rather than to make me miserable?

Oh, if you must know, I'd give up ice cream over bicycles. Obviously. But what would I put on my pie? Tri-flow?

What is a question you think this questionnaire should have asked, but has not? Also, answer it.

In what part of your bicycle enthusiasm would you say that you are the most "faddish"?

Well, I don't race cyclocross, and I don't ride a fixie or a single-speed. I guess it would have to be my general BOBish-ness. I like wool, wide tires, Carradice bags, and Brooks saddles. It's amazing the extent to which all that has permeated hipster bike culture, at least in Portland. It's also ironic, because Grant Peterson started the whole thing as a sort of "anti-fad" response to carbon fiber, integrated shifting, and suspension forks. It'll be fun to see how it all plays out.

You’re riding your bike in the wilderness (if you’re a roadie, you’re on a road, but otherwise the surroundings are quite wilderness-like) and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?

I'd start singing. "The other day... I met a bear... a great big bear..." If it joined in, I'd know I was in trouble, because then it would have known to bring its tennis shoes.

Now, tag three biking bloggers. List them below.

Nah. If you're a biking blogger and you're reading this, go ahead and answer if you want. Or if you're procrastinating (like I am.)

Silver Falls 300k Pre-Ride Report

I'm awake at 3:30 in the morning, an hour and a half before my alarm was set to go off. I'm not getting back to sleep, so if I'm awake, I might as well be pedaling. I hit the road from my house in Southeast Portland at 4:30, and point my bike in the direction of Canby.

Canby is where the Silver Falls 300k starts, and I get there at 6. The Thriftway right by the start has just opened, so I go in to get a chocolate milk and have a pit stop. I'm rolling again by 6:30, heading south on Ivy. Across 99E, and my left turn on Township Road follows quickly.

The first section of the ride, from Canby to Estacada, involves crossing 4 (roughly, depending on how you count) big drainages. The climbs involved are bigger than rollers, but smaller than mountain passes. Most are between .5 miles and 1.5 miles long, and they can be steep. Township has a few regular sized rollers before it T's at Central Point road, a left and a right puts you on Carus Road. Another quick right and you're diving down Casto Road, and then just as quickly you're winching your way up out of the first drainage. This pattern repeats a couple times in this part of the course

The scenery for this section is lovely. A mixture of pastoral landscape, interspersed with fir forests -- very much the picture of rural Oregon in the foothills of the Cascades. The volcanoes -- Hood, Adams, and St. Helens -- are visible as silhouettes in the distance in the overcast morning. Just after I turn from Lower Highland Road onto Ridge Road, I look off to the left and see downtown Portland far distant, which takes me by surprise, because it's easily 20 miles away as the crow flies. The roads are all well paved and quiet early on this Saturday morning.

Finally, I crest Redland Road just past Viola, and turn right on Jubb Road. From here it's a flat mile or two on Springwater Road before I bomb down to Estacada on Hayden Road and Highway 211. I arrive in Estacada in 8:12 and eat a banana.

I leave Estacada on Highway 224, going up the Clackamas River. Just a mile out of town, I turn right onto Faraday Road (PGE's Westside Hydro Project) to bypass the big hill and enjoy a couple quiet miles with the road to myself. The route gets back onto 224 in a few miles, but past Promontory Park, the traffic thins out to almost nothing. People who were on the Timothy 200 will already be acquainted with this stretch of road, and those who were not are in for a treat. River grade until just before Ripplebrook should provide a nice opportunity to get your legs back after the Canby-Estacada section.

I get to Ripplebrook and fill my bottles from the hose bib, which offers the last potable water until Detroit, to the left of the store entrance. The store is open from 9 to 5, and is also the last chance to buy calories before Detroit. I buy a Dr. Pepper to have with my sandwich, and sit in the sun. The day is still cool, and simply perfect for a good pedal. The forest and river provide a nice buffer to keep the temperature mild.

Leaving the ranger station, I pedal through the rollers over the next few miles to the intersection with NFD 63. Right at the junction is Riverford Campground, which is the very last official campground for at least the next 35 miles. Beyond that, the road continues at river grade, but it's a rather aggressive river grade. I feel slow in this section, but it's just that it's steeper than it looks. Over the flood plains of the Clackamas, I make my way with the hill on my left, and alder stands intermittently standing between me and the river on my right. The river is less and less in evidence, and by the time I reach the junction with NFD 42, I've seen the last of it. It's long corridors of fir trees for miles and miles.

The climb to the summit above the Breitenbush River creeps up on me. The Clackamas River grade early on is steep, but intermittent. Sometimes the road flattens out, or the grade slackens enough that it feels flat for a while, only to pick up again. In this way, the road stair-steps up towards the summit. About 21 miles from Ripplebrook, someone has painted a sign on the pavement pointing towards the turnoff to Ollalie Lake, and just beyond that point the climb stops messing around and really hits me with everything. Fortunately, I've got enough elevation in the bank by this point that it's not too much further to the top. At the top there is no elevation marker, alas. There is a mile or so of rollers before I come around a corner and get a spectacular (if slightly occluded) view of Mt. Jefferson, followed shortly by a truck on a triangle that indicates that I'm due for a much-deserved descent.

The top is fast, there's a U-turn to the right, and then rest of the descent is brake-free. I soft pedal on the way down to Detroit, as I'm feeling the effects of my exertions on the climb. The descent is cool and sweet, but not exactly rip-roaring, as the afternoon wind has picked up and it's blowing upriver. Just before I get to the reservoir, I notice a car stopped in the oncoming lane. He's waiting for a family of geese to cross; goose, gander, and goslings all in a row. I'm just about to swoon from the cuteness.

I arrive at Detroit at 1:02, and take another break at the gas station at the intersection with OR 22. I eat my second sandwich accompanied by an incredible raspberry milkshake that I get there. Their deli-restaurant has an extensive menu that you kind of have to read in 360 degrees.

There is a good amount of traffic around the reservoir (as befits a lovely summer weekend), but not as much as one might expect. The shoulder is mostly good, but it does disappear at times. I don't encounter any impatient or overly aggressive drivers. The terrain around the reservoir is rolling for several miles before the road passes the dam and drops away. A mile of screaming descent brings me to the edge of another reservoir. Another drop, and a few more easy miles down the Santiam River and I'm in Gates.

In Gates, I turn off of OR 22 and onto back roads. There's a short steep climb near Gates school, but beyond that I enjoy cycling on quiet, flat country roads from Gates to Mill City to Lyons (with services available in all three.) I arrive in Lyons at 3:08 and take a break to have a V8. Then it's back on the bike, across the Santiam River, onto Ferry Road, and Old Mehama Road not long after. I'm in Stayton at 3:50.

I take a break at the Safeway, imbibing a Dr. Pepper and an Odwalla to buffer the Dr. Pepper. I call Allison to check in, and then I saddle up again, turning north. On my way out of town, I note the Dairy Queen just before I cross OR 22, which would make a nice control checkpoint for randonneurs next week. I go through Sublimity, and on the other side make my right turn onto Triumph Road. Triumph Road has some pretty tough rollers, but also some amazingly hued earth, gold and green, and some black where grass farmers have recently burned. The surface is chipseal, and slightly rough, but the road is very quiet. Right in the middle, there's a roller that rivals the ones on Cole School Road. In a few miles, I meet up with Silver Falls Highway, OR 214, and begin the climb up to the park.

OR 214 isn't a bad road. The traffic picks up over the back roads that I've been on for much of the day, but the surface is good and the grade is middle ring stuff. It is long, however, and the views out over the neighboring hills and valleys are dramatic. After winching myself up over several miles I reach the top of the hill, where there's viewpoint/parking lot with a sign indicating the entrance to the park. I pull myself over the top, and let gravity do its thing.

Silver Falls State Park is densely forested, and the air in the hollow is delightfully cool. The descent is like biting into a York Peppermint Patty. The road nicely layed out, a slalom of 40 mph curves: to the right, to the left, etc. I pull in to the day lodge at 5:22.

One last leg to go, with a net elevation loss. First, though, I have to climb up out of the park. As it turns out, it's a pretty simple proposition: the terrain is uphill, but not steep, and rolling. I reach the park boundary without too much trouble, but the road still trends up for a while. Finally, around 6 miles from the day lodge, the road begins to go downhill. The descent is mildly disappointing, but right near Silverton Reservoir there are two gorgeously engineered switchbacks, with smooth tarmac and the most beautiful camber I have ever seen. Carving through those corners is exhilerating. I roll into Silverton and take one last break, getting a panini and (what else?) a Dr. Pepper at Roth's.

I'm in the home stretch now. Between me and the finish, I'm on Hobart, Meridian, and Lone Elder roads; roads that I cut my teeth on as a distance cyclist. My first century was the Portland Wheelmen's Pioneer Century, which spent time on all three. I've always enjoyed riding them, especially Meridian, which is pretty flat, with just enough undulation to stay interesting; and pretty straight, but with just enough turns to keep you awake. It might be the quality of the atmosphere or the time of day, but the green hues in the fields of Elliott Prairie are the greenest that I've ever seen in this area. The miles fly by, and I'm back in Canby at 8:28, with a finishing time of 13:58.

Now all I have to do is pedal home. *sigh*

Timothy 200k Pre-Ride Report

Lynne and Cecil picked me up early Sunday morning, with perfect timing. I had just finished my cereal, yoghurt, and nectarine breakfast; I had constructed my sandwiches for the outing, and had not yet drunk my coffee. Lacking a travel mug for the brew, I put it into a jam jar and screwed down the lid, to be drunk later. We then loaded up the car and chatted amiably as we drove out to the ride start at the edge of the Cascade foothills, far to the southeast of Portland.

We assembled our bikes in the parking lot of PGE’s West Side Hydro Project. I took the chance to admire Cecil’s custom HW Jr. and Lynne’s very pretty Bleriot. I got my own steed put together, outfitted myself appropriately for the weather, and I was ready to go. There was a small amount of faffing, to be sure.

We rolled around the gate onto Faraday road, along the reservoirs on this part of the Clackamas, under grey skies. It was unseasonably cool, and I worried about what things would be like as we gained elevation, and about the possibility of rain. Fortunately, my concern was unfounded: the cool start was a blessing, and by noon the weather had warmed up nicely without becoming oppressive.

We rolled along at a convivial pace, and took a quick bathroom break at Promontory Park, about 7 miles from the start. Cecil and Lynne took advantage of the gentle river grade to take some snapshots from the saddle. We passed forest service facilities like Lazy Bend, Big Eddy, Carter Bridge, Lochaby, Armstrong, and Roaring River. Roaring River really does roar. Finally, I took a break near Indian Henry to shed a layer and let the women continue on.

Past Indian Henry is the first point where the road climbs so that you’d feel it, about a mile and a half up. Then there’s some fun rollers through the woods and you’re at Ripplebrook Ranger Station. There’s a store there, but it doesn’t open until 9 AM, so most riders will have passed through. We took an 8 AM start, so we were able to poke our noses in and see what they had available. Chips, soda, candy, and hotdogs, basically. There’s also a hose-bib to the left of the front door. It’s a good idea to top off your bottles here, as there’s no more public water before High Rock.

We did this ourselves. The sky was blue and sunny by this point, so we adjusted our clothing accordingly, and applied sunscreen. Some of us took advantage of the nearby outhouse. Finally, we rolled on.

There was a quick downhill and a sweeper to the right, and it was time to turn left off of OR 224 and onto NFD 57. This quiet road climbs away from the main highway along the Oak Grove Fork of the Clackamas River, at a grade that both Cecil and I described as “humane”. It’s definitely a climb, and you’ll notice it, but it won’t break you. It’s also nicely shaded, low in traffic, and blessed with a good surface. It starts off at its steepest, and then levels off as you proceed, before descending back down to river level. It had been closed to cars because of a slide for several years, but appears to have been reconstructed in the last year or so.

Once we were back at river level, we crossed the Oak Grove Fork. We then rolled along next to some tall stands of trees and “dispersed camping” sites for a mile or so before we arrived at our next junction, with NFD 58. NFD 57 turns to gravel here before starting the climb in earnest up to Timothy Lake, so we turned left and started the 7 mile climb up to High Rock.

I had only ever been on this road a couple times before, and had never climbed the whole thing on my bike. Fortunately, it was not as steep going up it as it looked like it was when I came down it. There was also occasional shade, although the sun was high enough in the sky at this point that shelter from it was unlikely. I passed the time by identifying wildflowers: I noted columbine, beargrass, lupine, trilliums, paintbrush, penstemon, tiger lilies and others. About a half mile before the top, the grade really did get a bit steep, but then before I knew it I was at the crest, with High Rock standing right there in front of me.

As I waited for Lynne and Cecil, a couple of riders arrived coming the opposite direction. They asked for directions for the “35 mile loop” around Timothy Lake. I asked if they meant the one with the 7 mile section of gravel. That was kind of a shock to them.

Cecil and Lynne showed up not long after, and we took a break to eat some lunch. I told them that I recalled there being a mile or so of flat or light climbing, and then it was largely downhill to Timothy Lake. When we got moving again, the facts bore out my recollection. We were treated to wonderful views of Mt. Jefferson and Timothy Lake below us before beginning a downhill rollercoaster of a fast descent followed by a short bump to climb over, which was in turn followed by another fast descent, and so on. The pavement was solid but uneven for this stretch, and the sight lines weren’t great, so I kept a reign on my speed.

We regrouped near the entrance to one of Timothy Lake’s campgrounds (where water should be available) before going the last couple miles to our next turn, a right onto NFD 42. In the opposite direction, NFD 42 is one of the main roads back up to Highway 26, so there was a bit more traffic here than on any of the roads we’d been on yet, but even so, it was pretty light. 4 miles of rollers brought us to a pretty meadow and the junction with the other end of NFD 57. We bore left to stay on NFD 42, and arrived at the Historic Cascade Lakes Ranger Station a couple hundred feet down the road.

The site of the ranger station is interesting. There are some interpretive signs, there’s a staging area for firefighters, and there is a really nifty cabin for rent. Water is available, and there is even a bathroom with a genuine flush toilet. There’s also a view of the beautiful meadow across the road. We took a short break there, and contemplated all the climbing we’d done so far.

We set out again on NFD 42, down a corridor of fir trees. Had the sun not been so high, we’d have had plenty of lovely shade, but as it was, it beat down on us a little bit. The road started off flat, but after a mile or so began to climb again, stair-stepping back up to an altitude of 4000’. At the top, we reached the junction with Peavine Road, which the route was supposed to follow.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Peavine Road looked bombed out and depleted. An SUV came lumbering down it. I asked the occupants if the road was paved further up, and they responded very much in the negative.

Fortunately, by the time Cecil and Lynne caught up, I had come up with a plan. While I was staring at the map looking for roads to use on this route, I had entertained several possibilities. There was nothing to stop us from simply proceeding on NFD 42 to where it rejoined NFD 46 (which in turn becomes OR 224). It would be a little more mileage, but the route featured an out-and-back to Bagby that we could shave some distance off to balance things out. No problem. My two companions took the revised plan in stride, and we set off again, chased off by mosquitoes.

The fantastic downhill on NFD 42 from the junction with Peavine didn’t hurt my case any. We roared down the road, the forest air cooling us off as we slipped through it. We regrouped a couple miles later, where Oregon Skyline road separates from NFD 42 and goes off to Olallie Lake, and then again in .7 miles, where NFD 42 makes a hard left at a junction. This was just a glorious stretch of road, mostly descending, no difficult climbs, nicely engineered turns, and really good, smooth tarmac. There were some clearcuts at the top, but also some really beautiful woods at the bottom. We did encounter several vehicles on their way up the road, so when you’re descending, in the case of a blind corner, be sure to always assume that someone will be in the oncoming lane.

I was first to the bottom. Cecil followed shortly after, with arms upraised as though she had just won a tour stage, and Lynne not far behind. Lynne proclaimed the descent very “Lynne-friendly”. Good times.

Most of the rest of the ride we would be following the Clackamas River downstream, and almost all of it would be downhill. Unfortunately, the hours in the saddle and the climbing had taken their toll, and the afternoon upriver wind had picked up. I was doing okay on my bent, but Lynne and Cecil had a hard time of it, pushing against the breeze. We pushed down the river to the junction with NFD 63, and did our out-and-back below the cliffs on the Collawash River. Then we tackled the rollers between us and Ripplebrook, and, arriving there, refilled our bottles.

The last miles back to the start went quickly enough for me. I was starting to bonk, though, so paradoxically I was having trouble staying back with my riding partners. When I’m out of food and hungry, my overriding impulse is to get to food as quickly as I can. Nevertheless, I did stop and wait for my friends several times to make sure they were doing okay. We stopped at the market at Promontory Park a few miles from the car to get some provisions that would take the edge off. Then we finished up by finding our way back onto Faraday Road, went past the car, and into Estacada and back again to round out the mileage.

Bicycles: Toys, Tools, or...?

Alan Bernard over at the Recumbent Blog has taken a stab at the age-old question of bicycles as toys vs. tools. Now, I ride a bike every day for transportation. I have ridden to work, to school, to visit friends, to go shopping -- everywhere -- my whole life. I do so in all kinds of weather -- sun, rain, wind, or snow -- and in the day or at night. My bikes are outfitted to let me do so as comfortably as possible. I have bags and racks to let me carry loads, I have fenders to keep the rain and snow off of my back and legs, I have good lights to let me ride safely after the sun goes down. So it may surprise you to hear that I don't come down entirely on Alan's side in this one.

The thing is, I do all of the riding I described above, and yet "utility" cycling still only constitutes maybe 1/4 of the miles I do in a year. When I think about the place cycling occupies in my life, it is the rides out to the coast, or up the Columbia River, or around Mt. Hood that figure most prominently. And while racks, lights, and fenders give a bike an air of Sam the Eagle seriousness, racks carry camping equipment as well as groceries, lights are just as necessary for riding a fleche as they are for commuting in winter, and fenders are just a good idea for whatever kind of riding you do here in the northwest, be it serious or frivolous. I use my bikes that are equipped thusly for both purposes. And here's the dirty secret: I have fun whenever I ride my bike, even if I'm ostensibly doing it for some practical purpose. So, if a reasonable definition of a toy is an object that facilitates fun, in what meaningful way are my bikes distinguishable from toys? If most of my riding is done for recreation, if even my supposedly "practical" riding puts a smile on my face, where is the distinction?

Sure, it's useful to be able to respond to the occasional curmudgeonly motorist who accuses cyclists of clogging up the roadways frivolously. But these people are singling us out because we're easily identified as "others", not because they have a leg to stand on. At any given time, lots of motorists are on the road for recreational purposes, and the congestion they cause is far worse than that caused by cyclists' miniscule presence in public rights-of-way. However, while I will deny to my dying day the part of the charge that says that I am clogging the roadways, I must throw myself on their mercy for the part that says that I am out there frivolously. Am I having fun? You bet. You might be, too, if you were pedaling.

In his post, Alan goes through the most common phyla of bikes you'll find in a bike store, and dismisses them all: "I’d volunteer that all of these bikes are only marginally useful as anything other than toys." Well, I'd like to take a different view. There isn't a bike in any store that can't accept any light made, from budget-priced Planet Bike LED's to top-line Night Rider HID lights to generator powered Busch & Mueller halogens. Fenders are often standard equipment on the cruisers that Mr. Bernard mentions, and the commonly available "Race Blade" design can be fitted to even the most race-oriented road frame. Cargo presents a bit more of a challenge, but seat- and handlebar-bags have been available for years, messenger bags are commonly available, and for many, the humble backpack serves just fine.

Most importantly, all bicycles provide movement -- it's the whole point -- and mobility is inherently practical. I've ridden both my skinny-tired, unfendered race bike and my knobby-tired full-suspension mountain bike to work. Conversely, I don't think anyone who was otherwise predisposed to ride a bike for practical purposes was dissuaded from doing so because their equipment limited them, at least not long term. If you are the type of person who might actually ride in the rain, you will get fenders eventually. The bicycle is such an awesome, flexible design that I believe that the way it is used pretty accurately reflects the desires of the people who use it. If manufacturers make more commuter bikes, it doesn't follow that they will make more commuters.

The point is, bicycles are fun. I want people to enjoy their bicycles. That is the best way to get people to ride them more. Then the market will provide them with the tools to do the type of riding they want to do.

Blogroll Update

I still have 3 major bike adventures from the end of the summer and 3 minor bike adventures from the beginning of the summer to chronicle. That'll, uh... that'll get done. Eventually.

In the meantime, I have new links! I culled some old ones, and added some new favorites. Please welcome, Beth Hamon's Bikelovejones, John Kramer's The Kramer Blog, and Cecil Anne Reniche-Smith's Formerly Floyd Speaks. All are good friends, good riders, and good writers, so go give their blogs a look. It'll certainly be a better use of your time than waiting for me to get my PBP write-up done. I just hope the three of them are prepared for the tidal wave of traffic that this will inevitably send their way!

7/21/2007 to 7/22/2007 -- Race Across Oregon

There will never be a book written on my ultra-racing exploits. But if there was, George Thomas and Terri Gooch's Race Across Oregon would have to feature prominently. It's hard to believe that, a little over three years ago, I thought it crazy to attempt it as part of a four-man team. My how things change: last year, when I was looking for my next challenge after riding in the Furnace Creek 508, and after the memories of the pain and fatigue had dissipated, the race that starts right out my backdoor suggested itself as an entirely reasonable (ha!) proposition. I already knew the course intimately, transportation of myself and my bike to the start line wasn't a problem, and it couldn't be *that* much harder than the 508, right?

That first factor was more of a positive than you might think. Race Across Oregon features a tough, tough course, and it would seem that in knowing it so well, I should know better. But it is also true beyond any doubt that cycling over ground that you know well simply feels easier and faster than riding a course that you've never seen, and that's an advantage not to be underestimated. Having done much of the RAO course 3 times, I knew the location of every turn and the length of every climb; I could visualize the whole thing. And besides, I had been designated climber for OHPV's relay teams the past two years, so all I was adding to the stuff that I had done before were the downhills (heh!)

I was also lucky to be able to draw from a pool of experienced crew members who had helped with the relays for my support team. Edna Van Gundy, Bruce Parker, Lonnie Morse, and Mandy Achterman stepped up and did a bang-up job keeping me moving down the road, and Edna's husband Dave also helped in relief. They were unfailingly cheerful and responsive in tending to my needs, which is critical because on an ultra race, I need to devote as much time and energy as I possibly can to just pushing the pedals. The more of the other stuff they can take off my plate, the better race I'll have.

The morning of the race came, and as usual, the night before I slept very little. Edna arrived just after 4 to take me to the airport Holiday Inn for my 5 am start. It was an unseasonably dark and dismal morning, which, in fact was a blessing. I would get past the rain after I crested the summit of Mount Hood, and the forecast over the rest of the course was for really lovely, mild temperatures. In spite of the drizzle, I made a game-time decision to just start off in a long sleeve wool jersey and my knee-length cycling shorts. The wool jersey did a great job of keeping me quite comfortable, even as the drizzle accumulated on it.

We rolled down the familiar Marine Drive in a parade start, and just before we got to Troutdale and the official start of competition, I got a flat. I hoped that this was just me getting my issues out of the way early, rather than an omen of things to come. I fixed the tire quickly, we proceeded on to Troutdale, and then turn right, up the wall that is Buxton Hill, and the race began.

A few riders made it to the top before me, but me and my Aero shined on the rollers around Orient. I was pushing a little, maybe getting too competitive this early in the race, but it really just felt like I was getting warmed up and settling into a groove. I got to Boring, and then Sandy at the front of the pack.

I made it through Sandy, and then disaster struck; though I didn't know it at the time. I was waiting at the last traffic light in town, it turned green, and I accelerated through it, when I heard a pop, and it felt like the drive-side seat stay had slipped. I assumed that I hadn't sufficiently tightened down the clamps on them, cursed, and pulled over to tighten them down. I cursed my luck as four riders passed me while I was making my adjustment. The clamps hadn't seemed that loose, though, and the bike still felt wonky as I reeled in several of the riders who had passed me on the descent to the Sandy River valley.

I caught the lead rider again, and took a quick break near Zig Zag to empty my bladder and change to a lighter jersey. Starting off again, I heard another pop, and again, it felt like my seat stay had slipped. At this point, I torqued my left knee trying to unclip to catch myself. I called my crew over, but again, we could not detect any lack of tightness in the seat clamps, so I pedaled on.

The bike felt like a noodle at that point. Then, just past Rhodedendron, I got another pop, and I knew something was seriously wrong, and it wasn't the seat stay. I motioned for my crew to pull over immediately. I told them that there was something dangerously wrong with the bike, and I didn't know what it was. Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring my trusty titanium Aero as a backup bike. Unfortunately, since it was the backup, I hadn't been quite as diligent in dialing it in in my pre-race maintenance. I switched bikes as quickly as I could, and pushed on up over Mount Hood, but the the brake pads were giving me serious rub on the rims the whole way. Degree of difficulty, man -- it seems to be just a part of my life sometimes.

The difficulty that I had with the climb, coupled with the loss of my first-line bike and my distance behind the leaders put me in kind of a low place. I had really thought that with all my hard work this year, that I had a chance to win the whole race. But given how much trouble I was having so early, I felt like I had already been beaten. Not a good place to be, mentally, when you're facing another 475 miles and 37,000 feet of climbing.

I got over Summit pass and the drizzle slackened. Then I crested Barlow and Bennett passes, and the sky lightened, and it warmed up. Following that, I got a screaming downhill on highway 35, and I saw my friend Nate, who was camping near the course, and who was there by the side of the road with his friends to ring cowbells and shout encouragement. All of which added up to raise my spirits. I decided I wasn't out of this thing yet. I motioned my crew over at the bottom of forest service road 44, and we opened my brake calipers wide, to get rid of the rub, and then I pushed on up over Surveryor's Ridge towards Dufur. On that climb -- perhaps my favorite of the whole course -- I finally found a good rhythm. I passed two or three riders on that road, and screamed past Dufur, and up the broad desert climb of US 197 to the top of Tygh Ridge. I was right back in that thing.

At that point, I confered with my crew. They wanted to go ahead now and fuel up in Maupin, so that they could give me lots of support on Bakeoven Road (which is every bit as hot and desolate as the image that its name conjures). I okayed this, even though my instincts screamed no, that this was too early, and that they were leaving me alone for too long. My head was totally in the race, and I didn't have the mental faculties to put up an argument. The van zoomed ahead.

I roared down into Tygh Valley, across the bottom, and up the other side. On the climb to the plateau above Maupin, I clawed my way into 3rd place or so. But just before the top, I heard the ineveitable hiss as my bike's handling on the rear end went all flat-fishy. I walked my bike the last couple hundred feet to the top of the hill, where a couple course marshals were observing things. I made a couple snarky remarks about how this just wasn't me day, and they were sympathetic.

I fell into a low place, all the lower for having come so close to bouncing back and rejoining the elite. My knee was starting to act up from having been twisted on the other side of the mountain. And I was standing by the side of the road in the middle of a desert, walking in a bike race. The letters D, N, and F came into my head. Not to say that I wanted to throw in the towel, but my head was considering the possibility.

And at that moment, I thought about James Yee. How, during the Glacier ride, he kept plugging along, carefully managing his time to pedal 1000 kilometers without the benefit of more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep. Often passing people who had hours earlier decided to DNF because they thought didn't have enough time to get to the next control. You can argue about how much success I've had as a distance rider and ultra racer, but however much I've had, it'd come easy for me to that point. My toughness had never been tested the way James Yee's has, or the way Patty-Jo Struve's has. I decided right then and there that this was my challenge. I wasn't shooting for the podium anymore. Boo-frickin'-hoo. There was plenty of time left on the clock, and I was still capable of pedalling. I made up my mind, I was in this thing until I finished or they dragged me off the bike.

My friends Keith and Alex showed up in their red Prius. I told them the situation, and they tore off to find my crew. Then a couple minutes later, my crew appeared in the distance. They pulled up to me and threw a new wheel on the bike, and I took off down the road. I had gotten maybe a half mile away when my front wheel went flat. I could still see the van. I waited a few minutes before they pulled back onto the road to catch me, and then we swapped out that wheel, too. I decided this second flat, following so closely on the heels of the first was the universe's sophomoric idea of a joke, which only made me more determined to press on.

Back onto the bike, across the rest of the desert plateau, and down the slalom into Maupin. Through town, across the river, and a hard left into a brick wall. Or, more precisely, the steep switchbacks of Bakeoven Road. Same difference. The day was heating up, my knee was bugging me, and the hill was tough. In spite of that, there's nothing like forward progress to raise one's spirits.

I winched my way up the hill, grinding up the steep initial 4 miles out of the canyon. My water supply started getting low right when I needed some extra to dump over my head to quell the midday sun, and I wondered where my crew was. Fortunately, it wasn't long before Keith and Alex were there to top off my bottles. I made it to the rim of the canyon, and regrouped with the van. Then it was time to tackle the most desolate section of the course, the desert rollers and steep climb up to Shaniko. Not a single tree nor a speck of green was anywhere to be seen, not one bit of shade to be found for the next 20 miles. I made it to the base of the climb up to 97 in fairly good shape, but my feet were starting to get the numb-hot sensation that presaged my biggest obstacle in ultraracing. I gritted my way up the hill and into Shaniko, but by the time I got there, my feet were in agony.

I took a rest stop at the gas station in that little ghost town, and had a V8. I switched the inserts in my shoes, too, in the hope that that would alleviate the foot problems for a little while. While I rested, a couple of the relay teams caught and passed me. Then it was time to get back on the bike to do the gentle climb up out of town, which I shared with the women's Hammershark team rider for a couple miles. I told her that there was an awesome technical descent down into Antelope coming up that she'd love, and not long after that, I got to do it myself.

I roared down through Antelope, and began to climb up along the creek bed on the other side. The climb out of Antelope is moderately difficult, but I've always had a great deal of affection for it. It winds up the hillside next to a creek drainage, and as the road carries you around its corners, the dry landscape unfolds in a series of gorgeous vistas. I've always felt that this part of the course was most like a tour stage on some imaginary Col in Provence. In years before, it felt all the more so because the Speedwagon team would usually catch a few riders there, and seeing the cyclists and their support ahead and behind on the winding road really put me in mind of the fact that this was a real race. This time, Keith conjured the illusion by dancing around on the side of the road with his shirt off like some kind of cycling hooligan.

The most spectacular vista was reserved for the top of the hill, though. As I crested it, I saw the basalt crenelations around the John Day River for miles to the north and south, with the patchy clouds of the sky breaking up its brilliant blue. I knew it was coming, but it still took my breath away, as it has every time I've cycled this course. I scarcely had time to take in the scene before gravity took me by the tether and I was doing 45 mph, with the moderately technical curves in the road demanding my full attention.

Before I knew it, I was at the river and sailing up the mile climb on the other side, then down the other side to the John Day Fossil Beds. There, the parched vegetation below the dramatic rock formations gave the landscape an alien quality. I wended my way up the canyon amidst those formerly distant crenelations, on a road grade that started off gentle but which gradually steepened. Finally I reached Pine Creek and knew that it was all business all the way to the top. My feet were bothering me again and the next five miles were a slog. But I kept pedaling, and when you keep pedaling, eventually you get there. I made it to the top and easily rolled down into time station 2, the town of Fossil.

At Fossil, I realized that I needed a break and that I needed to make some changes. The Perpetuem just wasn't doing it for me -- I was taking it in as fast as I could, but I simply wasn't getting any energy from it. I felt enervated, and my mouth was starting to get some painful sores. I changed my nutrition plan as much as I could with what I had to work with, asking my crew to emphasize variety as much as possible. Stuart Kronenberg, crewing for Team Falcon, was a huge help in donating two precious bottles of Ensure from their stores. I also changed insoles again, to get my feet back on track. While I was recovering, Adam Garmon showed up and took a rest on the bench next to me. He looked in a bad way, but I encouraged him as much as I could, reassuring him that he could look forward to things getting much better. I hope that he took some comfort from what I said, and was gratified to see that he successfully finished the race.

It was a profound discovery for me when I realized that your condition doesn't just go downhill at these events. It has been a huge source of strength for me to know that just because things are bad now does not mean that they will only get worse. You'll have good times and bad times, and then more good times. And when you're having one of those bad times, it's just a huge mental advantage to know that it's temporary. That is just the way of things when you're doing 500 miles. A century, sure, your condition might just go downhill, but an ultra event leaves plenty of time for fluctuations.

Knowing the course, though, I knew that both Adam and I were due for a good spell. The first 200 miles of Race Across Oregon has an elevation profile that looks like a saw blade. Once you get to Zig Zag, the only stretch between there and Fossil that lays off the climbing long enough to really be considered a rest is the descent down into Dufur. Everywhere else, you're either climbing or "reseting" for your next climb. But once you've gotten to Fossil, the course has done its worst. Before each of the next three steep climbs you get a long, relatively flat section that lets you recover and stay loose, so it's much easier to tackle each of those climbs as a single piece. It's the one-two combination that's really brutal.

Well, time to get back on the bike. A pretty, wooded stretch through pastures, with an easy climb up to Butte Creek Pass followed Fossil. And on the other side of the pass, a supersonic, 11 mile non-technical descent down to Service Creek and the John Day River again. We took a quick stop at Service Creek to buy some fruit and fruit juice to bring some variety to my diet, and then I settled into a groove as I pedaled along at river grade for the next 40 miles. I made Spray by nightfall, which made me feel good (the Speedwagon teams only got a bit further before dark), my feet were feeling fine in the cooling evening air, and I had plenty of energy when I got to Monument.

The flat section up to Monument is something of a mixed blessing. It gives you time to recover, but it also gives you plenty of time to contemplate what lies beyond. And that is a steep, winding, brutal 11 mile climb. As I have said before, it's the kind of road that makes you wonder what would possess someone to build a road there, rather than choosing some cheaper, easier option. Like on-demand helicopter service to shuttle people between the top and bottom of the hill, for instance. It's beautiful country, but it's the kind of road that one should not be on if one is prone to vertigo, so it was good to tackle it at night.

As I gained altitude, the air took on a biting chill. My knee started to remind me that I was not at 100%. The road snaked up and around switchbacks, and onto the tops of ridges. Just past Hamilton, the route tracked along a stream cut up to the plateau at the peak. Then, finally, I crested the top, and flew down the other side to get a running start on the rolling hills that come after the major climb. I still had enough oomph in the legs to power through, and before I knew it, I was sailing down into Long Creek, the third time station and the furthest out point on the course.

It was time for a nap. The need to sleep was starting to wash over me like the incoming tide. I took a seat in the van, and told my crew to wake me up in 15 minutes. I closed my eyes, and let unconsciousness take me over. The next thing I knew, I heard my breath catch slightly, and I roused myself. It had been 10 minutes, and I was ready to go again.

Up out of Long Creek I pursued Bruce Carroll to the highest point on the course until Timberline. I caught him at the top as he paused to bundle up, and plummetted into the gloom down to the ghost town of Fox. After a gentle but extended climb I reached Bear Creek Summit. Then the fun began.

From Bear Creek Summit, it's 16 miles of consistent creek grade downhill to Mt. Vernon, where the course makes a right turn onto Highway 26. Highway 26 spends another 35 or 40 miles tracking the John Day River with a downhill grade of maybe a half percent. It's a fast, fast section; not like a downhill, but in a way better. It's a flat that makes you feel strong. And boy, did it make me feel strong. I got to Mt. Vernon and passed the psychic wreckage of a couple of my fellow racers who were on the verge of throwing in the towel. Then I wound up the cranks and simply did not let up. I had to pee, but I just was not going to stop. The bike flew low as the highway snaked back and forth across the river valley. I found myself passing through Dayville, and then not much later, arriving at the entrance to the Picture Canyon. I allowed myself a quick stop there, just as the sky was starting to show the first glimmers of the breaking day. I was encouraged by my progress, calculating that I would be on Ochoco Pass before things got too hot.

The river to this point had followed the track that one expects of a conventional river. The John Day runs through a broad, flat valley, with hills on either side. At the Picture Canyon, though, the river goes crazy and just up and flows right into one of the walls that had bordered it to that point. The water takes a path into a severe, vertical notch with a tidy shelf that is just big enough to hold the highway comfortably. We plunged into the rock with the road and the river, and followed US 26 up Rock Creek to begin the long, gentle ascent to Keyes Creek Summit. A few miles in, I needed another catnap, so my crew and I took another break.

I hadn't seen this stretch of road since my reconnaissance tour with Carolyn, two and a half years ago. The scenery is quite captivating, and features several distinct sections as you follow the creek to its headwaters. As I was climbing, I got my first indication that John Schlitter and Sarah Kay Carrell's team was catching up to me when I saw their crew go by. Before the riders also caught me, I reached the top and flew down the steep drop past Mitchell, the town with the caged bear at the gas station.

Mitchell was a blur, and beyond it the road once again put me on an uphill creek grade, which this time was steeper and longer than I remembered. I slogged along, and kept thinking I was closer to the main event than I actually was. Then I finally got to the base of Ochoco Pass just as John Schlitter caught me. I wasn't feeling particularly strong, and my knee was talking to me, but when John went by I somehow tapped into my Ochoco Pass mojo and kept him within sight, just as I had kept Gerry's Kids within striking distance back in 2005. It didn't go by easily, but over the course of my four ascents of Ochoco the climb and I have developed a healthy respect for each other, and it succumbed after I put in the necessary work. Towards the top, John fell off the pace and I edged him for the polka-dot jersey, but he returned the favor on the downhill and I didn't see him again.

The descent from the pass to Prineville is much more dramatic than the grade from Mt. Vernon to Dayville, but a headwind made it more work, even in the midst of the lush pine forests and twisty canyons on that side of the mountains. At least it felt like more work. To be honest, I was pretty out of it for this stretch. Don't tell my crew, but I was on the verge of nodding off again near the reservoir. The uptick in traffic as I got closer to Prineville jolted me back into the present, though, and by the time I reached time station 4, I was pretty alert again, if somewhat shellacked.

I rolled into Prineville and took a long breather on 25 square feet of green grass in the gas station parking lot. I was once again feeling a lack of calories; the Perpetuem was becoming less and less sufficient. I was stalled, basically. I determined to take a rest and try to get some more calories into me, and to get as much off the pure liquid as I possibly could.

The crew took a rest too, but being as it was full daylight again, their close attention was once again no longer mandatory, so I took off while they were still getting reorganized. I headed out of town and across the rollers around the Crooked River Grassland still feeling kind of enervated. But then the food kicked in, and I got some really enthusiastic and timely encouragement from some of the teams and crews that passed me, and my pace picked up. In this stretch, Dave Van Gundy brought Mandy Achterman as a relief pitcher for Bruce Parker, and their energy and perspective were a big help, too.

Madras came, and I pulled up to the flatlands above town, though there was not enough of a tailwind for me to take the hill in my big ring as I had last year. A few flat miles across the irrigated plateau, and then the world fell away and the road ribboned down a ledge on the canyon wall to the Deschutes River. I asked Mandy to keep the cars from passing me too closely by following me down, which she did. At the bottom, they zipped off to find a place to let me leap frog. I was low on water, and after passing one perfectly good pull out after another, I was getting pretty nervous about my hydration and my tires. One team crew on the roadside gave me cheery encouragement, to which I responded with a panicked "where the **** is my crew??" Finally, I caught up with them at the turn off to Kah Nee Ta, and I got my water.

At the turn off, I made a mistake. As you leave US 26 to head north into the reservation, the road climbs rather steeply. Well, I was feeling pretty good, and felt like I was starting the home stretch, so I hit the hill pretty aggressively. My knee really didn't like that, and let me know in no uncertain terms. I backed way off on the next couple climbs. Also, the day was really heating up, and there's nowhere on the course that you feel the day's heat more than on the reservation. Correspondingly, my feet, which had been so trouble-free in the cool night and morning air, started to hurt again.

I took it easy on the ridiculous technical descent down to the junction to Kah Nee Ta, and took it easy going up the other side, winching my way up the ridiculous climb from Kah Nee Ta to Simnasho. I was really starting to boil under the sun, and I had to stop halfway up that steep, switchback filled hill. Over the top, on the flat section to the village, there was none of the hoped-for tailwind (as we'd had in previous years) and there were several miles of abysmal chip seal. Past the village the road improved, and I did the rollers and the last climb out of the reservation. I knew the descent to Wapinitia very well, and just let the bike roll through its twisty turns.

Then I turned west. That just left me with one more hill: Mt. Hood. I truly was in the home stretch now. I just needed one more break in Pine Grove. I raided the van for whatever actual, real food I could find. I even grabbed some food from my crew's stores that they had been saving for themselves, which they very generously offered. Thus fortified, I stayed on the bike the rest of the way.

Pulling myself up 216, 26, 43, and 48 was an exercise in perseverence. My energy was low, my knee had devolved since I had stupidly pushed too hard on it in Warm Springs, and I was physically tired and mentally exhausted. I was out of tricks. I had no more cards to play, no more resources except sheer, blind, mule-headed determination. But that's the nice thing about stubborness; when you have it, it's the last thing to desert you.

I got to the start of forest service road 43 at around 7, which I thought was quite respectably early. I zipped down to forest service road 48, and hummed along that road up to highway 35. I was almost cheery again as Edna passed me pieces of orange from the car window. We got several spectacular views of the mountain with a cloud draped over it in the waning daylight. Then I regained the ground that I had covered in the other direction the day before, and soon found myself at the bottom of the climb up to Timberline.

I've done lots of climbs in this state. I've done just about all of them on the course, most several times. Before this year's Race Across Oregon, however, I'd never done the 6 miles from Government Camp up to Timberline in their entirety. I had mastered Ochoco Pass, I had figured out the Monument climb. The steep pitches on either side of Clarno on the John Day River were friends of mine and Bakeoven held no fear for me. Timberline was still an unknown, though. I truly was in the home stretch now, so I attacked it. Judging from the parts of it that I had done, when I'm fresh, I should be able to do it without even needing my little chainring.

I was decidedly not fresh.

I covered the first mile quite strongly before my knee started complaining and I could simply no longer sustain the energy. I settled into a slightly slower, but still steady pace, and resigned myself to a weak debut time for this hill. Things went fine until I was 2.5 miles from the top, when my knee decided to stop working altogether. I could no longer exert any force with my left leg on the pedals without experiencing excruciating pain. I bellowed in pain and frustration.

I signaled my crew to pull over, and they helped me off the bike. We tried a number of things, including walking and a little rest, but I couldn't go far at all before the knee flared up again. Finally, Mandy made me down a fistful of ibuprofen, and Lonnie strapped an icepack to my knee. If this didn't work, then I would just walk the rest of the way -- as much admiration and respect as I have for the guy, there was absolutely no way I was going to join the John Spurgeon club, and I had plenty of time. Fortunately, there was no need. The NSAIDs and ice pack did the trick, and I -- gingerly -- winched myself the rest of the way up the hill, in the dark, to Timberline Lodge, where George and Terri and my father and my best friend were all waiting. I came around the last corner to a cheer, and crossed the finish line before collapsing on the ground.