tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-355009082024-03-12T18:01:09.758-07:00formerly floyd speaksA narcissistic detailing of things I like to doCecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-53670276500282261272011-02-06T16:06:00.000-08:002011-02-20T21:17:09.075-08:00I Have To Admit, It's Getting Better<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-Qexpl8EqoxZENAJZHLExQlA4z6p8Sr13LBwPVidfp3hE8VyXkW7pAdkapg9zJf4CwX2Sz3-fk-RzV9_fwynJJpXQrHIUtQJChN5G0xbFPgynbYIiCMB3vEEm-Tke7wJf8TtOQ/s1600/Dark+Lot.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-Qexpl8EqoxZENAJZHLExQlA4z6p8Sr13LBwPVidfp3hE8VyXkW7pAdkapg9zJf4CwX2Sz3-fk-RzV9_fwynJJpXQrHIUtQJChN5G0xbFPgynbYIiCMB3vEEm-Tke7wJf8TtOQ/s320/Dark+Lot.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575082466180015906" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It's 6:30 on a cold and damp Saturday morning in February in Newberg, Oregon. The forecast is for rain and temperatures in the mid-40s. And there are at least 30 randonneurs waiting in a hotel parking lot to start riding 200 kilometers (indeed, some plan to ride 300 kilometers). It must be a <a href="http://www.paris-brest-paris.org/pbp2011/index2.php?lang=en&cat=accueil&page=edito">Paris-Brest-Paris</a> year.</div><div><br /></div><div>But that does not explain my presence; Paris-Brest is not on my radar. Unless, of course, we're talking about <a href="http://www.joyofbaking.com/ParisBrest.html"><i>this</i> Paris-Brest</a>. No, I'm standing in that parking lot because I am desperately trying to get back to the point where I can tear off a 200K (or two) without a second thought. Last year's string of injuries, illnesses and work demands had resulted in my lowest mileage year in, well, years. My leg muscles were beginning to disappear and Greg was getting tired of me hanging around the house all weekend moping. So when friend Marcello announced his "First Saturday Series" of brevets extra-early in the season to accommodate PBP aspirants' need for early qualifiers, I took it as a much-needed kick in the pants to get back in the saddle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Marcello's first event was <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2011/01/1-on-1-1-11.html">a bone-chilling 200K on New Year's Day</a>. I managed to finish that one with minimal physical or psychic damage, or at least none that I remember, but it took me at least two hours longer than it should have, and my physical condition had not seemed to improve over the intervening weeks. Less then two weeks previous, <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2011/01/beat-retreat-or-hoo-boy-am-i-out-of.html">a 37-mile jaunt</a> had nearly killed me. But I knew that I'd be riding with <a href="http://lynnerides.blogspot.com/2011/02/hills-have-eyes.html">Lynne</a> and that she would not permit me to give in to any temptation to give up halfway through.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, back to that dark, cold parking lot. For this installment of his series, Marcello had chosen the <a href="http://www.napolitano.it/2011/01/winter-grab-bag/">"Grab Bag 200/300" </a>route; a set of loops that all started and ended in Newberg. At registration a rider could choose to ride two of the loops, or all three (but woe to the rider who chooses to ride all three but only completes two - no 200 for you!). I last rode the Grab Bag back in July 2007, as an organizer. Then I finished all 300K in just over 15 hours. I had no such ambitions this morning. Completing the 200K in less than the maximum 13.5 hours would be just fine by me.</div><div><br /></div><div>As previously noted, the parking lot was awash with riders (given the forecast, aquatic descriptions seem appropriate). There were several riders whom I had not seen since 2007, the last PBP year (yes, you, Nate A.!). There were also a few new faces in the crowd: Taylor, who had just moved to Portland from Bend and was excited to be living in place with so many local brevets. I introduced him to Scott P., who drives over from Bend for almost all of our rides . . .</div><div>Only four women were present: me, Lynne, Susan O. (she was riding the 300K - the only time I would see her was at registration), and another newbie rider, Asta. Asta was practically giddy with excitement about riding her first brevet. She had ridden to the start from Portland and was hinting that she intended to ride home to Portland afterward. I suggested that she wait until the finish to make that decision.</div><div><br /></div><div>After engaging in various rounds of pre-ride faffing, it was time to go. Loop#1 wound northwest from Newberg to Forest Grove before turning back by way of Sherwood. Given my overall out-of-shapedness, I fully expected to be left behind by the pack within the first few miles. Much to my surprise, there were several riders who matched my pace (or were even a tad bit slower). Chalk it up to the "haven't ridden since 2007" effect. At the intersection of Dopp and North Valley Roads, Lynne and I met up with three riders puzzling over their cue sheets; "This way!," we called out as we passed them. </div><div><br /></div><div>By this point the promised rain had set in, and the five of us made our soggy way toward the first contrôle in Forest Grove, discussing the features and benefits of our lighting systems (of the five of us, four had hub generators). As we turned onto Spring Hill Road, I mentioned that one of the dangers of having so many brevet routes in the area is that sometimes I would forget which route we were following and make a wrong turn. Lynne and I promptly demonstrated this "auto-pilot" tendency when we turned right onto Fern Hill Rd to get to Forest Grove, instead of continuing on Spring Hill to Highway 47. Fern Hill gets you Forest Grove; just the OTHER SIDE of Forest Grove from where we actually needed to be. Ooops. Our three companions trustingly followed us, and we rewarded them with a couple bonus miles. Fortunately, we knew how to get over to the side of FG we were supposed to be on without too much trouble. </div><div><br /></div><div>We finally made it to <a href="http://www.maggiesbuns.com/">Maggie's Buns</a>, where we would get out cards signed and, if the lines were not too long, maybe a snack. I love Maggie's, but the service can be slow when they are busy, and so I try not to stop there on timed rides. But we were early enough that there were no big delays, other than the ones we created with our own faffing.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was time to turn back to Newberg. The rain had stopped, but the wind was now in our faces. I was pretty tired, and when Lynne suggested stopping for a little snack after about 10 miles, I happily agreed. It was just what I needed to get me the rest of the way to the next contrôle in Sherwood. When we got to Sherwood, I was pleasantly surprised to see that a branch of <a href="http://sesamedonuts.com/">Sesame Donuts</a> had opened in the Old Town. I could not eat the doughnuts, but they had tasty soy hot cocoa. Granted, as we entered the cafe in all our wet rain-gear glory, we got a round of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3FTkAS15zk">Slaughtered Lamb</a> glares from the other patrons, but we've gotten used to that over the years of riding through small towns. We ignored them and drank our cocoa. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3V43QXcT2hWEtmo-CVzH2LYmy1sa4EyllElRSwHsiOOYbM1xVvXeZtTYaY-4CmfuZIIXwXTDSBBsSbO8RhknpsPcKbHD_LYx5iJcZPXmoXOBGKHCrnAjSk7uYNjF_vrXo90yNA/s1600/Lynne+Eats+Donuts.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:left;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3V43QXcT2hWEtmo-CVzH2LYmy1sa4EyllElRSwHsiOOYbM1xVvXeZtTYaY-4CmfuZIIXwXTDSBBsSbO8RhknpsPcKbHD_LYx5iJcZPXmoXOBGKHCrnAjSk7uYNjF_vrXo90yNA/s400/Lynne+Eats+Donuts.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575083401879669714" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_VS7GzoU5HdgY_OAU2sIQA8JzxXsX_QGrf_STOlUAluoB0jeJv6nBrCiQbIjdZp3IiNtvR0MNsi-JwCJsQzK8eoznXnIJtINiKeBPk13a9W1r4IsKG3N6rRGErXyVZ3IqU32bA/s1600/Bill+and+Ray+at+Sesame+Donuts.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:right;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-_VS7GzoU5HdgY_OAU2sIQA8JzxXsX_QGrf_STOlUAluoB0jeJv6nBrCiQbIjdZp3IiNtvR0MNsi-JwCJsQzK8eoznXnIJtINiKeBPk13a9W1r4IsKG3N6rRGErXyVZ3IqU32bA/s400/Bill+and+Ray+at+Sesame+Donuts.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575082656877113714" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>After again spending far too long sitting around and schmoozing with other riders, we set off for the last leg of the first loop. I had been dreading this point. One unpleasant side-effect of my enforced sloth over the past few months is that I had lost all my hill-climbing strength, and this last leg promised a significantly steep climb. On past rides I'd found it little more than annoying, but today I knew it would be unpleasant.</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/u_cOlMP0KpE?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/u_cOlMP0KpE?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Lynne established her climbing supremacy early on (despite her protestations to the contrary, she's turning into quite the mountain goat), and I watched in dismay as her tail light receded in the distance ahead of me. I eventually lost sight of her as I struggled up Chapman to Leander. Leander is particularly nasty, pitching out at 13% just before the cemetery at the summit. I had to stop to rest twice. TWICE! Oh, the ignominy. When I finally reached the top, Lynne was busy posing for pictures with a grin the size of Montana. Someone get that woman a polka-dot jersey.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotIHMPsMR_Ufn2mS0dY7rEzEnTrCfZ6fdnOnUnXfvzZ7i18iFeJaBt2f4xTDv-0NcqUsoajBxaQj0izqUPJezv0FYOopm45Fu5U7JqukHfqTdJkpwHEqr8_gRd63xBJ7pA9hpBQ/s1600/Giddy+Lynne.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotIHMPsMR_Ufn2mS0dY7rEzEnTrCfZ6fdnOnUnXfvzZ7i18iFeJaBt2f4xTDv-0NcqUsoajBxaQj0izqUPJezv0FYOopm45Fu5U7JqukHfqTdJkpwHEqr8_gRd63xBJ7pA9hpBQ/s400/Giddy+Lynne.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575086638722765698" /></a></div><div><div>But what goes steeply up eventually goes steeply down, and this time Lynne got to watch me disappear into the distance as I rocketed down Bell and Springbrook Roads. I don't need no stinkin' brakes. She finally caught up with me at the last stoplight before the end, and we rode into the hotel lot together.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Back at Chez Travelodge, Marcello and Kathy were serving lunch. Kathy does a lot of volunteer work making meals for homeless and disable people, and so it was not much of a stretch for her to cook up a storm for a bunch of randonneurs. The menu was grilled cheese sandwiches, so I could not partake, but I had come prepared. Because I knew that we would be coming back to the start halfway through, I'd left a Thermos™ of tomato soup and a tasty hummus, baked tofu and avocado sandwich in my car. That and a handful of Lynne's Fritos™ gave me plenty of fuel for at least the first half of the next 65-or-so miles.</div><div><br /></div><div>Again, we faffed far too long, but finally set off for Loop #2. When we reached the first stoplight, we found Michal from Eugene. He was unfamiliar with the route and wanted to know if he could ride with us. "Why, coitantly!"</div><div><br /></div><div>The first ten miles of Loop #2 are unpleasant, there's no two ways about it. It's a straight shot down Highway 99W to Lafayette. The shoulder of the highway are wide, but they are so badly paved and often so filled with debris that a rider sometimes has to move out into the traffic lane. Traffic is heavy, and most of the cars and trucks are traveling well over the speed limit. It gets even worse when the highway passes through the wine town of Dundee, about 2 or 3 miles south of Newberg. The cars slow, but only because the drivers are trying to decide which tasting room to visit first. Rapid, unsignaled turns are the norm. 1:00 on a Saturday afternoon is prime spit and sip hour, so we were on our guard. There are what purport to be bike lines on the highway as it passes through town, but they are invisible under the road debris.</div><div><br /></div><div>We finally reached Lafayette. Again, many OR Rando routes pass through this town, and MOST of the time we would be turning on Bridge Road. Lynne and I both kept reminding ourselves, "Don't turn on Bridge, don't turn on Bridge." Ahead of us we saw a rider in an OR Rando jersey do just that. "Wrong way!," we called out. He heard us and turned back, but we wondered who else may have made that mistake. Unlike our wrong turn earlier in the day, it was not one that would take a rider where he needed to be anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>After passing through Lafayette, we finally turned off of 99W onto Mineral Springs Road and began a long stretch of relentless rollers through some seriously rural territory. Spanish moss on the trees, cranberry bogs, looming black rain clouds. Long stretches of nothing enlivened by slightly shorter stretches of not much. Lynne began to exhibit hitherto hidden "City Mouse" tendencies, freaking out about the isolation and muttering comments about a coming apocalypse. With each turn she became more pessimistic about our survival chances; I don't think anyone has ever been so relieved to see the red roof of the Sheridan Dairy Queen when it hove into view, even if we never were actually "in Sheridan," as she noted with some disappointment.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Uzae_SqbmDE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /><br />To get to the DQ, we first had to cross Highway 18. It seems that in every state, whenever there is a report of a multi-car collision, residents can guess on which road it occurred before being told. In Oregon, that's Highway 18. Crossing it at dusk on a winter day requires a certain amount of intestinal fortitude. More so than even a visit to Dairy Queen requires. To do the one to get to the other is a gut-wrenching free for all.<br /><br />First-time rando Asta and Tomas were at the DQ when we arrived. Asta was STILL filled with first-brevet brio. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBbGlUR6AjA9GYrYHAL3Sx7wj7X_zVGCk45bR8lu_XpOdozuLpeMG9kS_qXn27IsLqapMw9DW9ImWwOjMNoATA73c8cuhFhlkgGjR2fYRZwbP6cs4Ykkr2wbX_VQHRS_F6wTYDw/s1600/Asta.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBbGlUR6AjA9GYrYHAL3Sx7wj7X_zVGCk45bR8lu_XpOdozuLpeMG9kS_qXn27IsLqapMw9DW9ImWwOjMNoATA73c8cuhFhlkgGjR2fYRZwbP6cs4Ykkr2wbX_VQHRS_F6wTYDw/s400/Asta.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575210598388106962" /></a><br /><br />I got some water, Lynne got some coffee, Michal got something but I don't know what, and we settled down for yet another extended faff. Lynne's back was giving her grief, and I was pretty damned tired. Between the relentless rollers and the headwind, I was tired of peddling. And we still had something like 30 miles to go.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEZZ3ppzQCDS-pbHdQ4ifTfLb8wXO3xf51XHnv6sJ9rCG1h2tJC4v8XhyphenhyphenXaTBlmbUcSCh0GfTC4bQQRlsBN-dZk4QiHTaFraw8YmpsKj5ffCmY8LbCdfo8BACnYGmHlznxS2ifg/s1600/Lynne+at+DQ.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYEZZ3ppzQCDS-pbHdQ4ifTfLb8wXO3xf51XHnv6sJ9rCG1h2tJC4v8XhyphenhyphenXaTBlmbUcSCh0GfTC4bQQRlsBN-dZk4QiHTaFraw8YmpsKj5ffCmY8LbCdfo8BACnYGmHlznxS2ifg/s400/Lynne+at+DQ.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575211353035697554" /></a><br /><br />Eventually we acknowledged that Newberg was not going to get any closer while we sat there. Dusk was upon us, so we put on all our reflective gear and turned on any lights that were not already on. We had to ride on Highway 18 for about a mile and a half, which was less than fun, but soon enough we were back on the back roads. The wind was at our backs, and it was still relatively warm, so I was feeling better than I had anticipated feeling at this point. But when Lynne suggested another rest/snack stop in Dayton, I was more than happy to agree. We asked Michal if he minded stopping for a few minutes to eat something. "I would LOVE it if we stopped to eat something."<br /><br />At the Dayton Central Market (often a contrôle, but not this time), I got some pretzels and a Diet Coke (half of which I put in my water bottle for the rest of the ride,) and Lynne and Michal got equally healthy items. As Michal noted, "Grease, sugar and salt: the major food groups." I noted that the three of us sitting on the curb with our crummy food looked like homeless people. Homeless people in expensive, glow-in-the-dark rain jackets.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4sUONBHtBHC-9rss2Oh_nBdv65oBvz1l_XTkQPf13I6QuDv6zKkPiSIxjNRuTreELyLuFIUqHPhJQ_YAneTjd5jMEzeuI4sUq3PgSUjSct5xq60MLqqj41DJY7SODStH6CTSHg/s1600/Diet+Coke.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4sUONBHtBHC-9rss2Oh_nBdv65oBvz1l_XTkQPf13I6QuDv6zKkPiSIxjNRuTreELyLuFIUqHPhJQ_YAneTjd5jMEzeuI4sUq3PgSUjSct5xq60MLqqj41DJY7SODStH6CTSHg/s400/Diet+Coke.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575210821323874594" /></a><br /><br />Fortified, we set out for the last 10 miles. I was exhausted. "Look at it this way," said Lynne, "at least we are only having to get back to Newberg from here, and not Forest Grove." Good point, that. It was truly dark now, and when we once again were forced to ride on HIghway 99W, it was very difficult to see the road debris, even with our super-bright headlights. In fact, I soon learned that if Lynne or Michal was too close behind me, the beam from their headlights gave me such a shadow that it blotted out <i>my</i> headlight. Shifting from side to side helped a little. They probably thought that I was dodging debris, but I was really just trying to <span style="font-style:italic;">see</span> it.</div><div><br /></div><div>11 hours and 10m minutes after we left it for the first time, we arrived back in Newberg, where Kathy was now dishing up lasagna and chicken soup. (Note to other ride organizers: a few bags of tortilla chips and pretzels are just not going to cut it anymore; you've got some big shoes to fill.) But Lynne and I had already made plans to go to the Burgerville next door, a tradition we'd started during our first R-12 when we had rides that were based out of Newberg, so we passed on the meal. We did make use of the shower, however, and I think that Lynne <i>might</i> have taken a wee nap while waiting for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another month, another successful 200K. If I am not careful, I could find myself on the way to another R-12.</div><br />And yes, it was better.<br /><br /><br /><object width="640" height="510"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/y925oc8bnOs?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/y925oc8bnOs?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="510"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-33002024266602759862011-01-23T07:58:00.000-08:002011-01-23T14:31:09.102-08:00Beat the Retreat, or Hoo-Boy!, am I out of shape!<object width="700" height="500"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/MCo5CZvPzwo?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/MCo5CZvPzwo?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="700" height="500"></embed></object><br /><br />I should NOT be tired. I should NOT be winded. I should NOT be thinking of taking a nap. But I am nevertheless all three of those things. And all because I rode a lousy 37 miles, with just a little bit of a hill climb. <div><div><br /></div><div>Today was the <a href="http://www.bta4bikes.org/">Bicycle Transportation Alliance's</a> "Board Retreat." My friend Susan was hosting it at her <a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/">company</a> headquarters in Hillsboro, and I figured I'd ride out there from home, just to get a little exercise in before and after what promised to be many hours of intense discussion (we are formulating a 20-Year Strategic Plan). Susan offered to ride from her home out in Hillsboro to meet me in SE Portland, and then ride all the way back. Friend Lynne, who isn't on the Board, but who is a known ride harlot (<i>i.e.</i>, she'll join a bike ride at the drop of a hat), said she come with us. So we agreed to meet at <a href="http://www.kettlemanbagels.com/">Kettleman's</a> Bagels, my Eastside ride start point of choice, at 6 AM, which would give us about half an hour to scarf down some bagels before we had to leave for Hillsboro at 6:30.</div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier in the week, the weather forecast was for a slight chance of rain. I had ordered some new rain pants from Team Estrogen last weekend and figured I'd have them in plenty of time for the ride. That was, of course, before the USPS decided to ship them from Hillsboro to Portland via Santa Clarita, California. Thus I was glad that by the time Saturday rolled around, the chance of rain had evaporated. (The rain pants are still somewhere between California and Oregon).</div><div><br /></div><div>I had already gotten to Kettleman's and ordered my breakfast (an "everything" bagel with hummus, tomato and cucumber) when Lynne arrived. She'd had a small breakfast at home, but after a 10-mile ride over the hill to town, she was ready for second breakfast. She settled on a bagel with some sort of pinkish cream cheese (I could not tell if it was strawberry or fish; she said it was fish). We munched away and chatted, and wondered aloud where Susan was. I decided that she'd probably delayed her journey so she would not have to watch us eat solid food (she's on an "elimination" diet of some sort), and figured she'd show up right at 6:30. And, lo, at 6:25, she rolled up, ready to turn around and go back.</div><div><br /></div><div>After winding our way through downtown Portland, we tackled the first climb of the day: up to Skyline Blvd by way of NW Lovejoy, Cornell and Thompson. It's about a 4-mile climb, with an average grade of about 4%. I knew I was in trouble when I had to bail into my granny gear before I even got to the point where Lovejoy turns into Cornell. I spent the next 4 miles huffing like a freight train as I tried to keep my speed over 5 mph. Usually I take that climb at between 7 and 8 mph at the steepest parts. When we finally reached the "summit" on Thompson, I really needed to rest, and we'd only ridden 7 miles. Pathetic. </div><div><br /></div><div>From Thompson we rode northwest on Skyline for a few miles. I love riding on Skyline, with its gentle rollers and lovely views. Or what used to be lovely views. Now it's mostly ugly houses blocking the lovely views. I especially love riding on Skyline in the early morning, when there is no traffic, because it is a narrow road with no shoulders and terrible sight lines. Mid-day on a sunny weekend, it can be downright scary with all the sports car drivers pretending to be Steve McQueen at Le Mans.</div><div><br /></div><div>We dropped down to the west side by way of Springville Road. The pavement was wet, and there was a lot of gravel, which made the drop less fun that it might otherwise have been. We detoured over to Susan's house to pick up her change of clothes (I had mine in a pannier; I tried to use that extra weight as an excuse for my suck-tastic performance on the climb). Susan and I then headed for the Board meeting while Lynne rode off to Longbottom's coffee house for a third breakfast, after which she would lead a 40-mile Portland Velo club ride that started at 10 and gloat with smug superiority over the people who got at 9:30 and drove their cars to the start (by the end of the day, Lynne would have put in 80 miles).</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not feel all that tired by the time we got to the meeting, but as the day progressed I could feel my muscles starting to check out. When we were finally done, and I was suiting up to head back over the hills to home, I wondered whether I would even be able to get my legs to move, let alone move fast enough to stay vertical on the bike. I had no choice but to try, however. Once I got going, it did not seem so bad, but I was definitely making use of a gear range that I do not normally need. </div><div><br /></div><div>Up, up up. Huff, puff, puff. Rest, rest, rest. Across, across, across. Down, down down. Home, Sweet Home. Clearly, an hour on the trainer everyday and the occasional morning commute is NOT getting me ready for brevet season.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, this shows the second half of the ride (I sort of messed up the GPS tracking for the first half, but the first half was almost exactly the same except for a detour through downtown Portland). I love the fact that the heart rate and speed charts look like photo-negatives of each other.<br /><br /><iframe width="465" height="548" frameborder="0" src="http://connect.garmin.com:80/activity/embed/64639950"></iframe>Times Two</div><div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-65742152772561851672011-01-03T09:16:00.000-08:002011-01-03T16:05:58.031-08:00#1 on 1-1-11"Did I just see you standing?"<div><br /></div><div>"Um, no. Well, not now . . . ."</div><div><br /></div><div>We had just turned off of Gieger onto Fern Hill Rd. for the first climb of the day, and Lynne had caught me defying doctor's orders. Suitably chastised, I dropped my butt back on my saddle, shifted into the most venerable of my granny gears and spun frustratingly slowly up the hill. It was going to be a very long day.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I get ahead of myself. I can sense you thinking, "Whoa, Nellie! What's this about doctor's orders?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Cast your mind back, Gentle Reader, to mid-October 2010. I had just run my first half-marathon <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2010/10/ive-got-legs-and-i-know-how-to-use-them.html">and was insufferably proud of myself</a>. About a week before the race, I had felt some pain in my hip and a bit of a hitch in my gait, but nothing alarming. During and immediately after the race I felt fine; no more sore than I would have expected for running full out for 13.1 miles. And even when I continued to be sore and, let's face it, <a href="http://youtu.be/t-063MEKgwI">limp like Chester</a> for a few days after the race, I chalked it up to muscle strain and treated accordingly. But when I was <i>still</i> sore six weeks later, I decided that it was time to see a professional. So I got my GP to refer me to the sports clinic, and the Monday after Thanksgiving I hied myself off to Kaiser, trying not to think about the fact that the funny explosive pain I felt in my hip with every footfall was an awful lot like the funny explosive pain I had felt in my ankle when I had stress fractured my fibula eight months earlier. 30 minutes and two dispositive physical tests later, the physiatrist confirmed my suppressed suspicion/fear: "You have a stress fracture in your femur." </div><div><br /></div><div>SHAZBOT!</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, Doc, what do I do now?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Try not to walk on it for a few weeks."</div><div><br /></div><div>Try. Not. To. Walk. Processing . . . processing . . . Nope, that's not registering. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Say again, Doc?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Don't put any weight on it until the end of December."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Um, so I can walk if I don't put any weight on it?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well, you can very short distances - slowly."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Around the office?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Uh-huh"</div><div><br /></div><div>"But not <i>to</i> the office?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"No."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can I ride my bike?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"You can if you spin and stay on the flats."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No hills?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Not for a few weeks."</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt like I was negotiating. I <i>was</i> negotiating. And I am a lousy negotiator (one more reason I gave up trial work). By the end of the appointment I had my marching orders. Or <i>non</i>-marching orders, to be more precise. Until the end of December, I was to put no weight on the leg. If I wanted to walk, I could do so with little tiny baby steps or use crutches. I could swim, I could spin on a trainer, I could aqua jog (and yes, that feels as silly as it looks), and I could ride my bike from my house to the DOJ office in Portland (hauling my crutches behind me on a trailer). Beginning in January, I could ride my bike longer distances as long as I took it easy, and I could begin to walk for exercise, "but not more than two or three times a week." I could forget about running until mid-February at the earliest.</div><div><br /></div><div>Needless to say, my December pretty much sucked. I had already been hobbled by pain for the second half of October and all of November, so we're really talking about 10 weeks of relative sloth by the time the New Year rolled around. And not the cute kind of sloth.</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="853" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/J8b5v4USEWY?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/J8b5v4USEWY?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="853" height="505"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div>Thus, when I learned that my friend Marcello had organized a 200K brevet for New Year's Day, I was tempted to sign up. I was a little concerned about my ability to go the distance, however, because other than a <a href="http://lynnerides.blogspot.com/2010/12/not-epic-bakery-61km.html">flat, slow, cafe-centric ride in mid-December</a> I had not ridden my bike more than 30 miles since, oh, sometime in September. But friend Lynne said she'd ride with me, and the weather report promised a dry (if somewhat chilly) day. There really was nothing to keep me from riding. Except common sense of course, but that never stopped me before.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, then, where were we? Oh yes, Fern Hill Road. Lynne and I were about 14 miles into the ride, which began at Marcello's house in Hillsboro. Check-in time for the ride was 7 AM, with a ride start at 7:30. I'd arrived a bit late, and then had a fight with one of my shoes, so by the time I got over to the start zone, most of the riders had already formed their start mass and had no time to acknowledge my existence, let alone socialize. That was okay, because when I'd looked at the list of preregistered riders, I had recognized very few of the names. There's a lot of turnover in the Oregon rando world; miss a few events and you may as well have dropped off the edge of the planet. I did see friend Susan, looking like a superhero in her form-fitting, matching cold-weather gear. I was, in contrast, downright frumpy in my various layers of whatever of my cycling clothing still fit. </div><div><br /></div><div>Marcello gave the okay to start, and we were on our way. The temperature gauge on my cyclometer read 35° at first, but within minutes had dropped down to 31°. Lynne and I quickly established our position as Les Lanternes Rouges and cemented it (at least for the time being) by making a few early stops for clothing and equipment adjustments. </div><div><br /></div><div>The course of the ride took us southwest from Hillsboro down to Dallas, and then back they way we had come. Although there were lots of rolling hills along the way, there were no *real* hills. Which is good, because if there had been any real hills, I would have been screwed. As it was, I was spending waaaaay more time in my granny gears than ever before, and I have never been shy about bailing and spinning. Lynne beat me to the top of every hill, and I gave her permission to revel in it. When I left home, I had told Greg, "The shape I'm in, and the way I'm feeling, I'm guessing this will take me 12 hours." Well, 12 hours after we left Marcello's house, we were back; cold, hungry and exhausted. The cold and hungry part were quickly allayed with piping hot cups of tea and large bowls of vegan chili. The exhausted part? Well, that stayed with me through Sunday.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would like to say that it was an "epic" ride, because that would make me feel better about how much it took out of me. But it really was not epic. It was cold, <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/12/blow-winds-and-crack-your-cheeks.html">but I've ridden in cold before</a>. There were some headwinds, <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2008/09/in-bickleton-no-one-can-hear-you-scream.html">but I've ridden in wind before</a>. So, no, it was not epic. But it was a challenge, and I have to admit that I loves me a challenge. It was a good day to ride, and it won't be long until I am allowed to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-Pedals-Poetry-Liggett-Cycling/dp/1891369555">dance on my pedals</a> again. Then it will be a <i>very</i> good day to ride.</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="853" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rVELTxKRoHA?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rVELTxKRoHA?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="853" height="505"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-34688682577952113622010-10-17T21:02:00.000-07:002010-10-23T13:04:45.860-07:00From 0 to 13.1 in 10 months (less 3)<iframe width="465" height="548" frameborder="0" src="http://connect.garmin.com:80/activity/embed/53399373"></iframe><br />Some people need to be challenged. Count me among them. Without some ridiculous goal to achieve, I am at loose ends. Last year my goal was to ride my bicycle 1200 kilometers in less than 90 hours. I did it, and came close to killing myself in the process. I learned a couple of things from that experience. One, my capacity for enduring self-inflicted pain is almost limitless. Two, I need to do something other than just ride my bike. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I love riding my bike, and cycling will always be my number one sport. But endurance cycling demands an extraordinary time commitment, and I am at a point in my life where the demands on my time are ever-increasing. So when my best friend Judy began posting on Facebook about running half marathons and, at around the same time, my friend Susan told me about this great half marathon she had run in Vancouver, I thought "Hmm. A half marathon--I wonder if I could do that?'<br /><br />There was only one slight problem. I've never been much of a runner. There was that one semester of track my sophomore year of high school (I'd moved to a new town and was looking for ways to fit in - silly me) and a 5K charity "run" I've done the last few years, for which I'd start training a couple of weeks ahead of time, and limp around like Captain Ahab for a couple of weeks after, but none of that really counted as running with a capital "R."<br /><br />So I knew that if I were going to get serious about running, I could not just tie on a pair of trainers and pound down the sidewalk. I needed a plan. Fortunately, in this era of the Interwebs, running plans are a dime a dozen. The plan I chose to follow was recommended to me by pal Susan, who swore by it. It is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Beginning-Runners-Handbook-13-Week-Walk-Run/dp/1553650875/ref=tmm_pap_title_0">a "walk/run" program that was developed by a Canadian Sports Council</a>, and it is designed to ease a body into the destructive sport of running without being, well, too destructive.<br /><br />First step: get a new pair of running shoes. I went to <a href="http://www.fitrightnw.com/">a local running store</a> that offers a hands-on (well, actually feet-on) approach to fitting shoes. While I ran barefoot on a treadmill, a sales associate videotaped my gait and foot strike and, based on what she saw, determined what kind of support (or nonsupport) I needed. She then brought out several pairs of shoes from different makers, and I test ran each pair up and down the block outside the store, finally settling on a pair of trainers that felt pretty good.<br /><br />I had my shoes. I had my book. I had almost a year in which to train. It was time to take my first steps toward 13.1 miles worth of such steps.<br /><br />The run/walk program is the athletic version of <a href="http://www.clichesite.com/content.asp?which=tip+2858">the frog in the frying pan</a>. Each session is made up of intervals of walking and running (duh), with early workouts being comprised more of walking than of running. For instance, for the first session, I ran one minute and walked two minutes, repeated 12 times. The idea of the plan is that after 13 weeks, you'll be ready to run a 10K. With that base, you can then train for longer runs, such as a half marathon. Although Susan thought that I would find the first few weeks "too easy" (I think she thinks I am more athletic than I really am), I found the plan to be just right and thoroughly enjoyable, despite the fact that it was November and most of my runs were in the cold, damp dark. I will confess that some days were just TOO cold and damp for me to strap on the shoes, which meant backing up and starting some of the early weeks over, but that was okay, because it just gave me more time to get used to the idea of running on a regular basis. As the weeks passed, my walking intervals got shorter, my running intervals got longer, and the overall session time got longer.<br /><br />When registration opened in January for the Girlfriends' Half, I was far enough into the program that I was confident (okay, sort of confident) that by October I could go the distance, and so I signed up. I also convinced Judy to come up from San Diego for the run. <a href="http://www.lynnerides.blogspot.com/">Biking partner in crime Lynne</a> also decided to go for it. She's been running forever, but mostly short-distance stuff (5Ks, 10Ks). A half would be a new experience for her, too. Susan also signed up, along with her friend Jill. So there I was, 10 months to go to my first half, with plenty of time to prepare. Cue foreshadowing, because we all know <a href="http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_mouse.htm">what the Ploughman Poet had to say about best-laid schemes</a>.<br /><br />January and February were pretty cold and wet, and I missed a few sessions, and so by March I was still at week 11 in the program, even though I had started back in November. At the end of the first week in March, I began to feel some pain in my left ankle as I ran. I self-diagnosed an overuse injury of some sort; perhaps <a href="http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/91344-overview">peroneal tendonitis</a>. To go along with my self-diagnosis, I self-prescribed rest, ice, compression, elevation and lots of ibuprofen. After a week, it felt better, and I decided to try a short run on it. It was a very short run. About 30 seconds in, my ankle exploded. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zEUZPg0oTljk0R8peDiHuGkVbs6zh_cPi288BNp9x6GnJH7PvKGQNoehrDImixVO9OZE8DMEQL5h7VceyiZjqg2w6GQ5oSM-UUx_093p26rgvggYidp1d15PbSP-U47u7Ombvg/s1600/kaboom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zEUZPg0oTljk0R8peDiHuGkVbs6zh_cPi288BNp9x6GnJH7PvKGQNoehrDImixVO9OZE8DMEQL5h7VceyiZjqg2w6GQ5oSM-UUx_093p26rgvggYidp1d15PbSP-U47u7Ombvg/s400/kaboom.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531311033560280050" /></a><br /><br />Yeah, it felt just like that. I could barely make it back to the house. Time to call in the professionals. One MRI later, and I was advised that I was the proud parent of a fibular stress fracture. The cause? The smart money is on catastrophic running shoe failure. An examination revealed that my left shoe had lost almost all its heel rigidity. I later learned that the brand I'd been wearing has a rep for breaking down more quickly than comparable brands, and shoe breakdown can lead to bone breakdown.<br /><br />The stress fracture had me hobbled for a good 12 weeks. And by "good," I mean, of course, "horrendous." Although the doctor had put me in a walking boot, I was instructed not to walk more than absolutely necessary (<span style="font-style:italic;">i.e. </span>from office to bathroom) for the first 4 weeks. After that, I was allowed to swim, but only with a pull buoy; kicking was a no go. After 8 weeks, I was allowed to kick while swimming, walk short distances in the boot, and ride my bike as long as it did not hurt. Still no running, however. Finally, the first week of June I was cleared to start the walk/run program again, but I had to confine myself for the first few weeks at least to the forgiving surface local high school's running track.<br /><br />So, there I was with just about 16 weeks to go before the half marathon, and I was just getting restarted on a plan designed to have me running a 10K in 13 weeks. Hmm. Oh well, in for a penny of pain, in for a pound.<br /><br />First step, procure better running shoes. Said shoes procured, I devoted myself to getting back up to speed. Well, not so much speed as distance. For the first 10 weeks, I stuck to the plan religiously. I ran on the track, I was careful not to overshoot time or distance, and I babied my ankle. After 10 weeks, I continued to follow the set intervals, but I began to add a few more to each session, so as to get used to running for longer periods and longer distances. In August, I tested myself with <a href="http://www.tillamookchamber.org/tbr/tbr_2010_race_info.pdf">a 10-mile trail run in Tillamook</a>, and was pleased to find that I was able to run the entire distance and not be the last one to finish (my only goals). By September I was running between 20 and 24 miles a week, with one run of 10 to 12 miles each week. I no longer worried about being able to finish the half, and was starting to think about how quickly I might finish. On short runs, I averaged between 9.5 to 10 minutes per mile, but I was not sure I could keep that up for 13.1 miles. I decided I'd be happy with a 2.5 hour finish.<br /><br />Flash forward, and it is the week before the race. Time to taper, a concept with which I am completely unfamiliar. Fortunately, I did not have to worry about forcing myself to take it easy, because my body decided to take matters into its own hands. Yup, six days before the longest run of my life, and my right hip decided it no longer wanted to cooperate. I have a chronic piriformis issues related to an injury from a few years back, and at first I assumed that was the culprit. But the pain was slightly different, and there seemed to be some sort of impingement going on in the joint. Shazbat!<br /><br />Rest, ice, ibuprofen. Rummage through medicine cabinet for ancient muscle relaxants. More rest, more ice, more ibuprofen. By Wednesday, I could jog (plod) on without too much pain, but stopping was problematic. If I stopped, my hip would freeze and getting it to move again was excruciatingly painful. More rest, more ice, more ibuprofen. By Friday, I could start and stop and start again without (too much) pain, and figured I'd be okay for the race. But I was back to just hoping to finish, and not thinking about how quickly I might finish.<br /><br />Sunday, race day, dawned clear and COLD. 35 degrees an hour before the start, and Judy and I were freezing, but excited. I busted out the wool arm warmers and warm gloves, but I knew that once I started running I would warm up.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/5091215813/" title="Best Girlfriends Ever by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4092/5091215813_aba52f604a.jpg" width="500" height="494" alt="Best Girlfriends Ever" /></a><br /><br />There were 2300 women registered for the race, and many of them were walking the course. The organizers did a poor job of staging the runners and walkers, however, so the first few miles were a mosh pit. I ended up running what was for me a ridiculously fast first mile, bobbing and weaving around the pack, just to get away from all those people. Once I was clear of the main crowd, I was able to settle down and find a groove. I am one of those runners who likes to have a soundtrack, so I had my iPod with me, set to shuffle. I did not have it turned up so loudly that I could not hear what was going on around me, however, and so was able to hear the woman who ran up next to me to offer unsolicited advice about my breathing. Apparently it was not deep enough for her taste. I thanked her politely and proceeded to ignore her. I've had enough breathing problems over the years to be full aware of my lung capacity and when I've maxed it out. But, hey, she was only trying to help. <br /><br />For the first eight or so miles, I averaged well under 10 minutes per mile. But around Mile 9, the course got a little more difficult. There were some (in retrospect) teeny tiny hills which didn't seem all that teeny tiny at the time, and I was definitely starting to tire. At the end of the tenth mile, there was a slightly longer, slightly steeper hill, and my left knee suddenly decided to complain loudly about its mistreatment (my hip, on the other hand, remained silent throughout. Go figure). But once I reached the top and the course flattened back out, my knee calmed down. Starting at about mile 5, I'd decided to walk for one minute every thirty minutes, in order to choke down an energy gel and some water. I'd trained both with and without gels and had not really noticed a difference in how I felt or performed, but I figured it couldn't hurt to have them this time, because I was putting so much more effort into the run than I had into my training. I also walked through each water station (every 2 miles) in order to get a drink. Between Mile 12 and Mile 13, the temptation to add more walking intervals became stronger and stronger, but I resisted the urge. At this point, despite slowing down significantly after 8 miles, I was on track for a 2 hour 15 minute finish if only I could hold on to my pace. I was not hurting anywhere, but my energy stores were clearly depleted. I began to get cold again, even though the sun was warm, and so I put on my gloves and pulled up my arm warmers. I was not lifting my feet as high as usual, and stubbed my toe a couple of times. But I kept going. I even had enough left for a sprint finish, even though because the course took an uphill turn at the very end my sprint became more of a stumble.<br /><br />Official result: 2 hours, 14 minutes, 59 seconds. It took me a good 4 seconds to get my Garmin to shut of, so it had me pegged at 02:15:03. Whatever.<br /><br />Was I happy with my result? Damn straight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVDGQPV-zmZEoMtu-p-9tXlV8DcMkWRAfbrzLmQzRF-ClDX0cQrrbSwfZ9K1HaOKSSgdmcno21fIarXJ35ZRAULigSL3MR4NuFZx9f17Yj870bkETsUIytJOo1TLcso7aAgckAg/s1600/How+happy+can+one+girl+be%3F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtVDGQPV-zmZEoMtu-p-9tXlV8DcMkWRAfbrzLmQzRF-ClDX0cQrrbSwfZ9K1HaOKSSgdmcno21fIarXJ35ZRAULigSL3MR4NuFZx9f17Yj870bkETsUIytJOo1TLcso7aAgckAg/s400/How+happy+can+one+girl+be%3F.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529234520875872994" /></a><br /><br />My friends were happy, too.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/5091817558/" title="Done! by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4113/5091817558_520d28d36c.jpg" width="500" height="470" alt="Done!" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/5091814462/" title="4 Tired Girlfriends by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4130/5091814462_7f8d67fb4e.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="4 Tired Girlfriends" /></a><br /><br />And in case you were wondering, this is the playlist that got me through it (but not necessarily in this order and some things may be missing - I am working from memory here):<br /><br />Take Me To The River (cover) - Annie Lennox<br />Tu Mens - April March<br />London Calling - The Clash<br />She's Like Heroin to Me - Gun Club<br />Do it Better - Imperial Teen<br />Baby and The Band - Imperial Teen<br />Sick Organism - John Wesley Harding<br />Still Photo - John Wesley Harding<br />The People's Drug - John Wesley Harding<br />What a Life - Juliana Hatfield<br />OK OK - Juliana Hatfield<br />Annie - Elastica<br />Little Sister - Dwight Yoakum<br />Up the Bracket - The Libertines<br />What a Waster - The Libertines<br />Heaven & Back -The Mekons<br />Holy War -Matthew Sweet<br />Cosmic Jive - The Minus 5<br />Lies of the Living Dead - The Minus 5<br />Talk of the Town -The Pretenders<br />Let's Go Crazy (cover) - The Riverboat Gamblers<br />Sugar Cane - Sonic Youth<br />Youth Against Fascism - Sonic Youth<br />Me & Mia - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists<br />Walking to Do - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists<br />The One Who Got Us OUt - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists<br />Teenage Kicks - The Undertones<br />Love Parade - The Undertones<br />Lawyers, Guns & Money - Warren Zevon<br />Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon<br />Mr. Suit - Wire<br />Act of the Apostle - Belle and Sebastian<br />Blues Are Still Blue -Belle and Sebastian<br />One Way or Another - Blondie<br />Armalite Rifle - Gang of Four<br />Man in The Sand - Gordon Gano & The Ryans<br />Johnny Feelgood - Liz Phair<br />Persuasion -Patti Smith<br />Do The Strand -Roxy Music<br />Books Are Burning - XTC<br />Heaven in a Black Leather Jacket - The 6ths<br />Pillow Fight - The 6ths<br /><br />What wasn't on the playlist, but should have been, was this song, because, dammit, it's true.<br /><br /><object width="960" height="745"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6EXXZVdUJ98?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6EXXZVdUJ98?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="960" height="745"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-28594727288146327402010-06-27T07:03:00.000-07:002010-06-27T14:51:52.225-07:00Momma's Got a Brand New Bag . . . and Trailer to Haul it WithA couple of weeks ago, I attended the <a href="http://www.bta4bikes.org/">Bicycle Transportation Alliance</a>'s annual "Alice B. Toeclips" awards dinner and auction. I have a reputation for being a sucker for charity auctions, especially when the bidding at said auctions is facilitated by a hosted bar as was this one.<br /><br />The auction booklet contained a number of interesting items, but one in particular caught my eye. The "Ultimate Bike Commuter" package offered a 3-Speed "city" bike from <a href="http://www.linusbike.com/">Linus</a>, a backpack pannier from <a href="http://northstbags.com/">North St. Bags</a>, and, most enticing of all, <a href="http://www.burley.com/products/cargo-utilities/travoy.cfm">Burley's new Travoy bike trailer</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmYW4zNU6NscvNHhobMyLEncptuVCYoXiNKCw4Ak7sdXthXqz_56DZniH5H7_YEd3VEF-zyKxngwpttuQSrsWSQCoqVLAGpIR3BeWF7Gc9pcwZ2rcG7z3p8JIVLgvAeMPRLxuhg/s1600/travoy_skeleton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmYW4zNU6NscvNHhobMyLEncptuVCYoXiNKCw4Ak7sdXthXqz_56DZniH5H7_YEd3VEF-zyKxngwpttuQSrsWSQCoqVLAGpIR3BeWF7Gc9pcwZ2rcG7z3p8JIVLgvAeMPRLxuhg/s400/travoy_skeleton.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487475775354064386" /></a><br /><br />For the last few years, I have been working on decreasing my dependence on my car for anything but really long trips or really big hauling projects. I know that it is unlikely that I will ever go car free, but I want to get as close to that ideal as possible. As it is, I usually ride my bike twice as many miles in a year as I drive my car, but I would like to see that ratio increase (or is it decrease? I can never keep my math terms straight. But you know what I mean).<br /><br />Anyway, I'd looked at <a href="http://bakfietscargo.blogspot.com/">bakfiets</a> and <a href="http://www.ahearnecycles.com/cycletruck/">other cargo bikes</a>, and I'd looked at <a href="http://www.xtracycle.com/">Xtracycles</a>, but none of them really suited my needs, and they were awfully damn expensive. Then I read a <a href="http://bikeportland.org/2010/05/06/review-burley-travoy-cargo-trailer/">review of the Travoy</a>, and it sure seemed like it would fill the bill. Thus, my excitement when I saw it in the Alice auction catalog.<br /><br />I arrived at the auction with my American Express card in my hand and a number I was willing to go to in my head (and I was NOT going to go above the number, I swear). I really thought the bidding would be hot and heavy for the package, but was surprised when it came down to a battle between me and one other person, who gave up fairly easily (at one point I got confused and bid against myself, but the auctioneer kindly told me I did not have to do that). In short order, I was the proud owner of the Travoy. And yeah, yet another bike. More about the bike later.<br /><br />A few days after the auction, I got to put the Travoy to its first test. I had an oral argument scheduled in the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in downtown Portland, and the file for the case was HUGE. I never would have been able to fit it all in the panniers I usually use for my work commute. But they plopped down into the big black bag that comes standard on the Travoy, no problem. I then threw in my bike locks, my lunch, and my "court" clothes and shoes, and I was ready to go. I had not had a practice run and was hoping that the Travoy would be as agile and stable as advertised. The last thing I needed was to show up in court with road rash. To my amazement, I could not even tell that there was something attached to the back of the bike. I had thought that turns and hills would be a challenge, but Noooooooooooo - there was nothing but sheer awesomeness.<br /><br />At the office, I simply unhooked the Travoy, folded down the attaching arm and rolled right into the building. I then unpacked and changed and headed for court. A more-than-successful "test" run!<br /><br />Next up - Grocery Shopping! In the past, I have relied on my two panniers and <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3156/2602975046_ab484810dc.jpg">a big rear basket</a> for my Trader Joe's runs, but that setup was never very satisfactory. For one, the panniers really did not hold much, and when they and the basket were fully loaded, the bike was pretty unstable; I had to ride very, very slowly to make sure that I did not fall over. Another problem had to to with my own absent mindedness. The basket sides extend a couple of inches beyond the rear rack on either side and, more than once, when I dismounted from the bike I would swing my leg up and into the basket, tumbling it and its contents to the ground.<br /><br />I prepared for my shopping trip by heading over to <a href="http://bikenhike.com/">Bike 'N Hike</a> to pick up a set of the "Market Bags" that Burley offers as accessories. The lower bag is about the size of two standard paper grocery bags sitting side by side, and the upper bag is about the size of a small messenger bag (or really big fanny pack). The lower bag is one large compartment, but the upper bag has a padded pouch for a cell phone or something (I guess), a zipper pouch for things that need to be contained by a zipper, and a rear pouch with a Velcro closure for other small stuff that maybe is not as important as the stuff that needs to be zipped in.<br /><br />Bags installed, it was time to head for the market.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKalxLJ63ADGaZKQKoKLGjPuF9rkWZSSxUsugemYwza7WiDOPt6Qh3HM102JhlfJMXLgpTXCw5ZX3I3UwA266nG9BbqAXfH53nf1RrpEiVMWoVtAWGX7fCjcOlTj_zI8fy_6Rbg/s1600/DSCF3255.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKalxLJ63ADGaZKQKoKLGjPuF9rkWZSSxUsugemYwza7WiDOPt6Qh3HM102JhlfJMXLgpTXCw5ZX3I3UwA266nG9BbqAXfH53nf1RrpEiVMWoVtAWGX7fCjcOlTj_zI8fy_6Rbg/s400/DSCF3255.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487463120070967890" /></a><br /><br />TJ's is uphill from my house, so I figure this would be a really good test of (1) the drag effect of towing a trailer uphill (even though it would be empty, it's still extra weight and size) and (2) the potential daredevil effect of going downhill with a trailer full of groceries. The uphill part turned out to be just fine. I was using the 3-speed, and was able to get up the hill without dropping into granny.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdz_o85DGBw8Q-ZkihPkFvuweqTJlqgPHOGalg_QQ_mltEjziNh1Uo0ekm25i_6JrlqV4DIiTF8GRKgdHiMWB6bLrQY697gUQCApjgWiqFov2ivKVu1FjiFBBrAdeVp_h0bdF0-A/s1600/DSCF3251.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdz_o85DGBw8Q-ZkihPkFvuweqTJlqgPHOGalg_QQ_mltEjziNh1Uo0ekm25i_6JrlqV4DIiTF8GRKgdHiMWB6bLrQY697gUQCApjgWiqFov2ivKVu1FjiFBBrAdeVp_h0bdF0-A/s400/DSCF3251.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487463091425613538" /></a><br /><br />Once again, upon arrival at my destination, I simply unhitched and rolled the Travoy into the market, where it doubled as my shopping cart. I proceeded to go up and down the aisles using hurling products into the bags with abandon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFvd8p5oVNqrlpaeOE7LGQ_Q-lwc2NC7moYafzUAj_QyET3sbAqJBzcrPluZdtVdq9e6HZjOM-EN8ouOqEh-ptkuf_la35yxEh5YWKPmSvmIQCqYJmyDUaLb0zo8ovLagG3UUDQ/s1600/DSCF3257.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFvd8p5oVNqrlpaeOE7LGQ_Q-lwc2NC7moYafzUAj_QyET3sbAqJBzcrPluZdtVdq9e6HZjOM-EN8ouOqEh-ptkuf_la35yxEh5YWKPmSvmIQCqYJmyDUaLb0zo8ovLagG3UUDQ/s400/DSCF3257.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487463108606450130" /></a><br /><br />A watermelon? Sure. ooh, look at that cantaloupe; in it goes. Cereal? Check. Ginormous GLASS bottle of olive oil? Check. Canned beans and marinara sauce? Check. Cereal? Check. Cauliflower, avocados, cherries, bananas, a couple bags of edamame, peanut butter, cherry tomatoes, pasta, dog biscuits? Check, check and check.<br /><br />At the counter, the cashier was duly impressed, especially after I demonstrated all the features and benefits (my former life as a retail seller of furniture and kitchen gadgets coming to the fore). Groceries purchased and re-loaded, it was time to make the return trip home. I rolled on out to the parking lot, rehitched the Travoy to the incredibly convenient seat-post pin, and headed off down the hill.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbuob96fvtgTyFbanQfITKE7zi-ACJzDVZfxJuBv5IjQxAKagy2cJt-YOhVncGszhv-kGAgkoOuQvxATb6vxNQ01mZBeJqXEWkxPon6lzkzmng6PI4ZUyaA20oZM8Hr2ceqmVnw/s1600/DSCF3259.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbuob96fvtgTyFbanQfITKE7zi-ACJzDVZfxJuBv5IjQxAKagy2cJt-YOhVncGszhv-kGAgkoOuQvxATb6vxNQ01mZBeJqXEWkxPon6lzkzmng6PI4ZUyaA20oZM8Hr2ceqmVnw/s400/DSCF3259.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487479650060933554" /></a><br /><br />As previously noted, when shopping with panniers and basket, I always had to take this part of the trip very, very slowly for fear of crashing. Not so with the Travoy. I zipped down the hill with nary a problem. The all-terrain wheels took every pavement deficiency with aplomb. I arrived home intact, as did the groceries (I hadn't even bruised a banana!)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXSrWmwVKjFQfE6WXGZ_jJmdU7jUGqQVtmmzYFVPmt1kvqrsSaCzCLFLDcv3MSC_kI9-IaKxfKzSFn9KMavnLwXdZvmPhUnG_Xjw8hDlMF7QZofTSxBe6lMPC7S1VwsFkrW68oQ/s1600/DSCF3261.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXSrWmwVKjFQfE6WXGZ_jJmdU7jUGqQVtmmzYFVPmt1kvqrsSaCzCLFLDcv3MSC_kI9-IaKxfKzSFn9KMavnLwXdZvmPhUnG_Xjw8hDlMF7QZofTSxBe6lMPC7S1VwsFkrW68oQ/s400/DSCF3261.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487463100704342850" /></a><br /><br />I have since used the Travoy to haul many more court files and groceries and could not be happier. Well, actually, I could be happier. I need the rain shield, because without it things can get awfully wet (so far I have just not gone out in the rain with it), and I could really use a spare seat tube hitch, so I don't have to move the hitch back and forth between bikes (for those hills that are just too steep for the 3-speed).<br /><br />Ah, yes, the 3-speed. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogp0CaDHLCENcbSnQZ_GEySUCnC-1rlL2bojciADtQp_AZtSxXY7RdC5DgN7l0LAPo7Xt8jEa2mwszi2Ozt_DrDc3lhuxIh38wGAc71vFkvLVGGxKRtzn5dYbz3MZVQ0F-fJ1fw/s1600/DSCF3254.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhogp0CaDHLCENcbSnQZ_GEySUCnC-1rlL2bojciADtQp_AZtSxXY7RdC5DgN7l0LAPo7Xt8jEa2mwszi2Ozt_DrDc3lhuxIh38wGAc71vFkvLVGGxKRtzn5dYbz3MZVQ0F-fJ1fw/s400/DSCF3254.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487479655102243698" /></a><br /><br />There was much laughter at our auction table as we tried to figure out a way that I could rationalize coming home with yet another bicycle. And yes, I know that there are many people with more bikes in their garage than I have owned in my entire life who see no need to rationalize their collections, but I have a slightly more sensible husband who does not fall for the "different horses for different courses" excuse. The bike that came with the package was a basic road design, but the BTA representative told me that the bike shop had said that I could get any style of the Linus bike I wanted, including <a href="http://www.linusbike.com/models/mixte/">the mixte</a>. Aaaah, a mixte. I did not have a mixte in my collection, and I sensed an opening. GREG could ride the mixte if he wanted, so it would be a bike for both of us, right? (I chose to ignore the fact that Greg has YET to ride the bicycle that I bought for him last year . . .). So, yes, I have yet another bike. One that Greg will probably never ride. But he COULD if he wanted to. And surprisingly enough, he seems to be okay with it.<br /><br />And, yes, I've got a brand new bag. Sing it!, James . . .<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><object width="1300" height="765"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WxoG9QctVNg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WxoG9QctVNg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="1300" height="765"></embed></object></span></div>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-44083965222994645962010-06-13T07:39:00.000-07:002010-06-13T09:10:26.370-07:00Quick!, Someone Call a Doctor. Oops, Too Late.This is my friend Susan.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj403J2ll15I1-W-jLkPpvn0Wz2kCpuzJxcSyqV0_OwnJCYAKrULqA28m9okfnxsrq4bV5dgk6VmbOUjPU-ma3WVGS-A-qpJMGVfGGzEat-tBLJ50FZTiVizIcehdTEJiotSm0-Wg/s1600/DSCF3277.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj403J2ll15I1-W-jLkPpvn0Wz2kCpuzJxcSyqV0_OwnJCYAKrULqA28m9okfnxsrq4bV5dgk6VmbOUjPU-ma3WVGS-A-qpJMGVfGGzEat-tBLJ50FZTiVizIcehdTEJiotSm0-Wg/s400/DSCF3277.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482268475878826434" /></a><br /><br />Susan used to be a perfectly normal superhuman. She ran half-marathons, entered triathlons, all while running <a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/">her own business</a>. Then something terrible happened. Susan caught Rando Fever. It started innocuously enough (or at least seemingly so). In the last couple of years, Susan joined me and Lynne to ride various populaire courses, the 100-kilometer events that randonneurs use to suck the unsuspecting casual rider into their nefarious cult. The next thing she knew, she was riding a 200. And then a 300. And then last month she rode her first 600.<br /><br />But the sign that she had truly caught the brain fever and made the leap into madness was when Lynne and I received this e-mail last week:<br /><br />"Either of you want to ride a perm on [Saturday] 6/12? I've ridden brevets 3 months in a row now. I can't take a day off work to do the Wine Country on 6/15 (Tuesday), but I *could* do a perm on 6/12."<br /><br />Yes, you read that right. She said she'd "ridden brevets 3 months in a row now," and wanted to do one in June. She's now on the hunt for <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_r12.html">an R-12</a>, something only the truly Rando-sick attempt.<br /><br />As fellow sufferers, Lynne and I were quick to enable Susan's slide into sickness. Susan had suggested a route that follows the covered bridges roads around Scio, but that's a fairly tough route and I am only just now getting back into shape after my forced "vacation." Also, <a href="http://www.kgw.com/news/local/A-months-rain-in-4-days-for-Metro-95627354.html">we had no guarantees about the weather</a>, and in bad weather the Scio route can be a bear. So we opted instead for <a href="http://www.orrandonneurs.org/sftest/perms/ThreePrairiesRoute.pdf">the Three Prairies route</a>, a regular winter perm because it is flat and low-elevation. <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/12/blow-winds-and-crack-your-cheeks.html">Even in craptacular weather it is doable</a>.<br /><br />So we sent in our registration forms and started watching the weather reports to see how much rain gear we would need. On Tuesday, the forecasters started talking about sunshine and temperature in the 80s. I refused to think about it, not wanting to jinx it. But Susan kept sending e-mails with little smiley-faced sunshine graphics from the Weather Channel. It was hard not to get our hopes up. Through Thursday it was still pretty damp, though, and Friday was overcast all day. I was not optimistic. But late Friday evening the clouds began to clear and by the time I woke up Saturday morning the sky was clear and blue. My bag of gear suddenly became significantly lighter. TRFKAF ditched his Showers Pass jacket.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoURaeXPFTbqZI-WwY5iB-v_S6VDH-6i2urHPJ-VNNfLPbyz2vYeYPUA-kYKZ4OEIoJicsb9C501LC07qzpl6T-mtYnKfCMtXu5R5R_gF0OAk54DO5X77PnnRbAw6A31kwW0G2xg/s1600/DSCF3263.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoURaeXPFTbqZI-WwY5iB-v_S6VDH-6i2urHPJ-VNNfLPbyz2vYeYPUA-kYKZ4OEIoJicsb9C501LC07qzpl6T-mtYnKfCMtXu5R5R_gF0OAk54DO5X77PnnRbAw6A31kwW0G2xg/s400/DSCF3263.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482276250490753666" /></a><br /><br />We met up at the public parking lot in Newberg at 6:45 AM. It was about 45 degrees and clear, and there was some discussion of whether we needed to at least start out with limb warmers. We all opted for arm warmers but left our leg warmers in the car. Then it was off to the Thriftway to collect our first time stamp of the day before heading southwest to Dallas by way of Dayton, Amity and Perrydale. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDld5idmmN0jLZusSaZWV2uSpPY9y9a8NKpW9W_GxF0NbxaQdzQd5wRQFe6zRyIOW_6wgM0ajn0T0TjxN-_rpTMTPWiOdaInLTfoJ4bmF722nvVd9loiIfoUFqNgLJQ72vHkXC2w/s1600/DSCF3275.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDld5idmmN0jLZusSaZWV2uSpPY9y9a8NKpW9W_GxF0NbxaQdzQd5wRQFe6zRyIOW_6wgM0ajn0T0TjxN-_rpTMTPWiOdaInLTfoJ4bmF722nvVd9loiIfoUFqNgLJQ72vHkXC2w/s400/DSCF3275.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482279038023529106" /></a><br /><br />We had a pretty good tailwind and so we cruised along at about 19 mph on the flats (much slower on the hills of course) and after a brief stop in Amity to offload fluids, we reached Dallas in what was for us record time. We stopped at the Safeway to get another time stamp and some snacks. It's a good thing that we had arrived with time to spare, because only two cashiers were on duty and the check-out lines were so long that they snaked back into the food aisles. I am thinking that the two management types that were just hanging out chatting in the service center could have maybe, just freaking MAYBE. come over to help out, but noooooooo. But we finally got our food and receipts, slathered on more sunscreen (!!) and turned back north for the return to Newberg.<br /><br />Because we had a wind assist on the way down, we were assuming that we'd be fighting wind on the way back. But it was a quartering headwind, so was not as bad as it could have been. But we did a little pace-line work anyway, and so were able to maintain fairly decent speeds. Not that any of us is really big enough to either block much wind or create much draft. But every little bit helps. We were back in Newberg before we knew it, ready for Loop #2, but not until we'd had some more snacks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m7uPxdxiZ2mhBySUnk9JOw7Tl-XEKnbIR5cWRh0d8HvNDV0KmbHXh674jeFlvWc8G21bQ-nFBz6v1x0A73D3MfVX422EYNPAqgCFZg0ptNLpCtW5r9DUz8XYwENseQI7mAhH1A/s1600/DSCF3282.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2m7uPxdxiZ2mhBySUnk9JOw7Tl-XEKnbIR5cWRh0d8HvNDV0KmbHXh674jeFlvWc8G21bQ-nFBz6v1x0A73D3MfVX422EYNPAqgCFZg0ptNLpCtW5r9DUz8XYwENseQI7mAhH1A/s400/DSCF3282.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482280157481277586" /></a><br /><br />The second loop on the Three Prairies perm heads southeast to Mt. Angel. The winds were picking up, and we were surprised that the seemed to be coming from the east; they should have been coming from the west. But they weren't too bad, and we soon turned out of them. Sort of. We crossed the Willamette River on the HWY 219 bridge, a crossing that I absolutely despise. The pavement is bad, the shoulder is narrow and debris filled, and semi-trailers whip past at 65 mph. I much prefer the I-5 crossing of the river on the Boone Bridge, but that was way out of our way. Just across the river we turned off onto Champoeg Road and made our way toward the St. Paul Highway, which we would take down into the French Prairie (Prairie #2 of the Three) as we eventually wound our way to Mt. Angel.<br /><br />By this time it was HOT. The thermometer on my cyclometer was reading in the upper-80s. That was partly reflected road heat but, as Lynne pointed out, the road heat was reflecting on us. But it was so beautiful out, and such a treat to finally not be wearing ten layers of sopping wet gear, that I really did not mind. I was just hoping my sunscreen would work. In Mt. Angel we all got cold drinks and stood in the shade. We were on target for a 10-hour 200, which would be a personal best time for Lynne (at least that s what she insisted; both Susan and I had thought she'd already had a sub-10 brevet, but she would know best). Anyway, I pushed them to get going because I wanted to ensure that Lynne got that PB, even if it killed her.<br />(yes, Randos are a sick and sometimes cruel tribe).<br /><br />I had not factored in the winds. At this point we were encountering thermal convection, and so the wind was in our face no matter which way we turned. We were also beginning to fade (or at least I was) after riding 100 miles at an average speed of above 16mph. And it was HOT HOT HOT.<br /><br /><object width="660" height="525"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KcIP5w4H6Dw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KcIP5w4H6Dw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="660" height="525"></embed></object><br /><br />But is was also beautiful. Mt. Hood was in full glory, and at one point we could just see the peak of Mt. Jefferson in the distance. As we looped our way back from Mt. Angel to Newberg through Gervais and Butteville, much in-motion photography was being practiced.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwDLzNnlZI9fpVeoWq4Ub8Sod2p8Gqv4KUHrYZg-LGmoGdg1y7wog2_V_WuH98hSQYObFnAO95GXFZ1pHqtVA_kdrkw27LlLzfznu1u1zn6Yh8OsBFyolVM1WIk2dtgkDhxnsTg/s1600/DSCF3295.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIwDLzNnlZI9fpVeoWq4Ub8Sod2p8Gqv4KUHrYZg-LGmoGdg1y7wog2_V_WuH98hSQYObFnAO95GXFZ1pHqtVA_kdrkw27LlLzfznu1u1zn6Yh8OsBFyolVM1WIk2dtgkDhxnsTg/s400/DSCF3295.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482286569523840082" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHBzlbeJnh25QVsa70cT_2W1sj0TENpXfaa7fvnzh8dX72hqxEeRcP_K_lornn9iaLfpv1lt4hx-Ah15qvyIpttLO4dXmHUGo9gPdbYwmIp7NqzcMtGYwS13MuLg55GYFBi6Smw/s1600/DSCF3293.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 385px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHBzlbeJnh25QVsa70cT_2W1sj0TENpXfaa7fvnzh8dX72hqxEeRcP_K_lornn9iaLfpv1lt4hx-Ah15qvyIpttLO4dXmHUGo9gPdbYwmIp7NqzcMtGYwS13MuLg55GYFBi6Smw/s400/DSCF3293.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482286561198323602" /></a><br /><br />Champoeg State Park is about seven miles from the end of the course. I had run low on water, and really needed a cold drink (and some strategically-applied baby powder) and so suggested a pit stop. Lynne and Susan were happy to oblige. At the visitor center shop we got cold pop and a bag of potato chips and sat in the shade for a while watching a mama <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barn_Swallow">barn swallow</a> fly in and out of her nest in the eaves with food for her chick. We were no longer looking at a sub-10 hour time, but no one seemed too upset about it. Chips and soda consumed, and more sunscreen applied, we once again saddled up and rode out.<br /><br />The last six miles to Newberg has some small rollers, and after the river crossing there's a short climb. We were all tiring and so began to slow down and split up a bit. But we nevertheless rolled into the Thriftway parking lot at 5:15, just a quarter hour over that ten-hour goal. Considering the heat and the fact that both Lynne and I are in still in "come back" mode and Susan had both a cold AND allergies, it was not a bad finishing time at all.<br /><br />Lynne and Susan headed over to Burgerville for strawberry milkshakes, but I had a date with Greg for beer at <a href="http://apexbar.com/menu/">the Apex Bar</a> and enormous plates of vegan Mexican food from <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/taqueria-los-gorditos-portland">Los Gorditos</a>. So I made my home, showered, struggled into a pair of compression tights and headed out for dinner and drinks with my man. A great ending to a great day.Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-70719438138946751072010-05-30T17:32:00.000-07:002010-05-30T17:33:32.261-07:00In Case You Were WonderingYes, TRFKAF did finally get his bath<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S-tYwa6p4XLYtK0XVrxuBqIWEW9jJBfPhR8hS_rMms1sXi2GlJFsWczrSVzNjb-bc7xoidRiMQ2l_1hJti6maI3rQAzsYpX_haIlCtPfdg1u3o1_udH60dmB9OW05rl_Y-3rFg/s1600/DSCF3111.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S-tYwa6p4XLYtK0XVrxuBqIWEW9jJBfPhR8hS_rMms1sXi2GlJFsWczrSVzNjb-bc7xoidRiMQ2l_1hJti6maI3rQAzsYpX_haIlCtPfdg1u3o1_udH60dmB9OW05rl_Y-3rFg/s400/DSCF3111.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477225749386719122" /></a>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-2505189119769062232010-05-25T07:08:00.001-07:002010-05-30T17:32:29.070-07:0030% Chance of Rain = 100% Chance of Lunacy("Geez, Cecil, could you be a little MORE heavy handed with the foreshadowing?"<br /><br />"Hmm, I don't think so, no.")<br /><br />Anyhoo, as I was saying, it seemed like a good idea. After <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2010/04/diminished-expectations-and-deferred.html">my forced "rest" period</a>, I needed to start upping my mileage on the bike and I needed to do so pronto. I had not ridden a full century since January, and my quads were starting to look and feel decidedly slack. Given that I had recently celebrated my birthday, and given that <a href="http://www.cyclingsite.com/collected_wisdom/insights/tbb.htm">Team Bag Balm</a> has an informal tradition of "birthday rides," I figured I'd organize one for the weekend of May 22-23. Weather dependent, of course. I chose the "Bridge of the Gods" route because it is a TBB favorite (and one of my personal favorites), and sent out the call to the herd. <a href="http://www.lynnerides.blogspot.com/">The Usual Suspect</a> was, of course, the first to respond. Dave E. chimed in, but the rest of the herd were otherwise occupied. I e-mailed friend Steve, and he quickly signed up, and said he'd bring a friend or two.<br /><br />I still had not decided whether to ride on Saturday or Sunday. The weather the preceding week was less than optimal for riding. Buckets of rain, and howling winds. But by Wednesday all the forecasts were in agreement that Sunday would not be bad. Only a 30% chance of light rain in the morning, cloudy and upper 50s in the afternoon. Heck, for Oregon in May, that's practically sunbathing weather. I made the call: On Sunday we ride.<br /><br />Blast-off time was set for 9:30 Sunday morning from the front entrance of <a href="http://www.mcmenamins.com/54-edgefield-home">the McMenamin brothers' Edgefield complex in Troutdale</a>. Lynne would ride from her house near Beaverton to my house in SE Portland, and together we would ride the 13 miles from my house to Troutdale. That way she would put in 200K for the day, and I would have my century.<br /><br />Saturday evening brought with it multiple e-mail exchanges with Lynne: Which bike: the heavy, fully-fendered randonneuse, or the lighter, fender-free speedster? Bulky rain gear, or lightweight windbreaker? Long johns, knickers or shorts? Winter boats or sandals? Fleece socks or wool?<br /><br />After reviewing multiple weather reports and radar images, I chose the light bike, and the light clothing. No fenders, no extra socks, no extra gloves, and <a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/prodHI_80234.html">the lightest rain jacket I own</a>. The one concession I made to the elements was to pack a pair of Endura waterproof gloves, mainly because they helped fend off <a href="http://www.healthorchid.com/content/consumer/raynauds_phenomenon_w.asp">Raynaud's </a>symptoms on cool mornings. I was feeling lucky.<br /><br /><object width="660" height="525"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tQOJY4NXYzM&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tQOJY4NXYzM&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x3a3a3a&color2=0x999999&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="660" height="525"></embed></object><br /><br />Lynne arrived at my house just before 8:00. She, too, had chosen the non-rando bike and minimal gear. After some last-minute faffing, we rode off toward Troutdale. As if on cue, it immediately began to rain. But it was a very light mist; the kind that it more refreshing than troublesome, so we did not care. We wound our way east on side streets as long as we could, then hopped over to SE Division, 182nd and Halsey. About a mile from Edgefield we rolled over some glass, and I shortly perceived that squishy "yep, I'm going flat" feeling in my rear tire. Dang! Well, I'm pretty good at changing flats. and it was only 9:15, so I was not concerned. I neglected to realize, however, that I had not yet had a flat on this bike (it is less than a year old) and the tire was pretty much welded to the rim after almost 2000 miles of riding. THREE tire levers and a lot of swearing later, I finally popped the tire off the rim and changed out the tube. It was MUCH easier to get the tire back on the rim, and we were soon on our way.<br /><br />We reached the designated meeting point shortly before 9:30, and Dave E., Steve, and Steve's friend Tim joined us shortly thereafter. Steve told us that another rider, Jeff, had said he would join us, but he did not know where Jeff was. He also did not know what Jeff looked like, or what kind of car he drove, because Jeff was actually only a friend of a friend. Steve did have Jeff's cell phone number, however, and so he started calling and leaving messages. Just as he was leaving an "Okay, we're starting out west toward the I-205 bike path if you want to try to catch up with us" message, I saw a rider coming toward us from the lower parking lot.<br /><br />"Are you Jeff?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Great! You can ignore all your voice mail messages!"<br /><br />And then we were six. Giddy-UP!<br /><br />We headed east from Edgefield on Halsey, turned north on Graham toward the Troutdale airport, looped around the airport and headed west on Marine Drive toward the I-205 bridge over the Columbia River, occasionally dropping down to the levee bike path to better avoid heavy truck traffic. We had a wind assist, and clipped along fairly quickly. The I-205 bridge crossing is never fun; the path runs down the center of the freeway and it is loud and dirty. And it's long, over two miles. I am always relieved to drop back down into the woods on the other side. The bridge is a slight hill, so our group separated a bit, but we met up on the other side. Once were all together, it was time to turn back east.<br /><br />The first section of the ride on the Washington side follows Old Highway 14, above the railroad grade and below the present highway. We are talking some truly bad pavement here. Cracked and pitted cement, potholes filled with grass, loose gravel - all sorts of fun. At Camas we turned off the old highway and wound our way through town around the super stinky pulp mill to the new highway, briefly stopping at the local Burgerville first. Okay, not so briefly. Snacking and rest room visits took more time than I thought it would, but we eventually got back on the road.<br /><br />East of Camas we started the first "real" climb of the day: the long slog up to Cape Horn. The weather had so far been cooperating; just a little mist every now and then, nothing to be alarmed about. Our group pulled apart on the climbs as Steve and Jeff zoomed on ahead. Dave and I played leap frog for awhile until I pulled ahead of him, and Tim and Lynne brought up the rear. Because it was Sunday, traffic was light, but every once in while a car or truck would pass too closely and remind me of how narrow the shoulder really was. Somewhere around Washougal we passed a guy sitting out in the median under a tent with a sign "Book for Sale: 'America in Crisis.'" I did not stop. Given the location and sign graphics, I had a pretty good idea that the "crisis" in the title probably had something to do with the New World Order and/or the gold standard. I have to read enough of that junk in the<i> habeas</i> appeals I get at work; no need to go looking for it.<br /><br />As I noted earlier, the weather had so far been cooperating. That ended just as we reached the summit above Cape Horn. One second it was dry, the next second it was raining so hard that I could not see 10 feet ahead. I struggled to pull my jacket out of my Barley bag and haul it on before I got too wet for it to make difference. Lynne and Tim were still climbing the last few hundred yards, but I quickly realized that if I did not start riding again soon, I would turn into a Cecilsicle. So I jumped back on my bike and roared off down the hill. We were a good 15 miles from Cascade Locks and the rain showed no sign of letting up. All we could do was ride. <br /><br />And by "all," I mean "ALL." It was raining so hard that my brakes were non-functional. I could not stop. Fortunately, there are no intersections on the descent from Cape Horn, and no sharp turns. So I just held on tight and hoped for the best. At one point I sailed past Steve, who apparently had been able to slow his bike down. How, I do not know. I was really regretting my lack of fenders, as the water was shooting off my back tire and straight down my pants.<br /><br />Back to the flats, we rode hard past Beacon Rock and North Bonneville toward the bridge and the promise of lunch in Cascade Locks. As we passed the dam, I could hear the "bang" of cracker shells being set off to drive away <a href="http://www.dfw.state.or.us/fish/SeaLion/photos.asp">the sea lions dining at the all-you-can-eat salmon buffet at the base of the fish ladders</a>. When I reached the Washington end of the B of the Gs, I waited for Dave, Lynne and Tim to catch up so that we could cross en masse. Safety in numbers. The metal grid bridge bed is bad on a DRY day, on a wet day it is nerve-wracking. I took some pictures of Dave while we waited for Lynne and Tim, to commemorate his first B of the Gs crossing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oXhKE8g66F36GW78IePBM_YYsY4g9tVRKnhc93eTd8pgm0BgYeEwdbXSfcSOx7bRqtO4tyUQxV9-FxcLrbXwEMo7CyxJRqxyGVnpin8TkUfcD2B9Oswt46KQhb-nTD5_Vyvx-w/s1600/DSCF3100.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oXhKE8g66F36GW78IePBM_YYsY4g9tVRKnhc93eTd8pgm0BgYeEwdbXSfcSOx7bRqtO4tyUQxV9-FxcLrbXwEMo7CyxJRqxyGVnpin8TkUfcD2B9Oswt46KQhb-nTD5_Vyvx-w/s400/DSCF3100.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476537029248861698" /></a><br />Steve and Jeff were waiting for us at the base of the hill on the Oregon side. Steve told us that the deli we usually had lunch at was no longer in business, but they had seen <a href="http://www.pacificcrestpub.com/">a pizza place</a> a little ways down the street. At this point we were so cold and wet, I did not care where we went. I just wanted shelter from the storm.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/z8N6lrDiKuI&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/z8N6lrDiKuI&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object><br /><br />We lined our bikes along the side of the restaurant and ran for cover. None of us had brought a lock, but there was a large table right by the window, so we could watch out for any potential bike thieves. Unfortunately, the table was right by the door, so every time someone came in or out, a cold breeze wafted across our wet bodies. Lynne had developed an interesting case of the shivers, somewhat reminiscent of her one and only DNF to date. In another room there was a faux wood stove that gave off a wee bit of heat. We placed our gloves and hats around it in a vain attempt to dry them out, while we downed cups of cocoa and bowls of chowder. Well, the rest of the group downed cocoa and chowder. Ms. Vegan here had tea and a very strange onion and bell pepper sandwich (my guess is that the version with cheese was less odd). Everywhere we went in the restaurant, we left a trail of water, forcing the wait staff to follow behind with a rag. I don't know about the rest of our party, but I left an ENORMOUS tip.<br /><br />After spending far too long sitting around, we reluctantly concluded that we really had to keep going or we'd still be out after dark. The rain had actually let up while we were in the restaurant, but just as we made ready to pull out, Steve pointed to what lay directly ahead of us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCWX42PEhUbr5KT0W-agS6z1hdDhIGUCfJdjKoetGrAh-bOZaf7L4JCGMR5_jg_5GguBL6rXQ7R4AyLuBoilb6eib4lpmf7cSJ6Wk91mG4ga4YhZm1TOhboNs3gsVV4Fb4Cezxw/s1600/DSCF3102.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBCWX42PEhUbr5KT0W-agS6z1hdDhIGUCfJdjKoetGrAh-bOZaf7L4JCGMR5_jg_5GguBL6rXQ7R4AyLuBoilb6eib4lpmf7cSJ6Wk91mG4ga4YhZm1TOhboNs3gsVV4Fb4Cezxw/s400/DSCF3102.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476750743526990194" /></a><br />"You know," he said, "we could ride to Hood River [20 miles east], and rent a car." Wuss. Jeff suggested going back to the restaurant and waiting the storm out. The rest of us noted that it was 3:00, we still had 35 miles to go, and we had no idea how quickly it would blow over. The majority voted to keep going, and we set out. The first leg of the westbound route is on the GORGEOUS <a href="http://www.hoodriver.org/HRCCC_ArticleTemplate.asp?ArticleINDX=253&CategoryINDX=10">Ruckle Creek Trail</a>, which connects Cascade Locks to Eagle Creek. Very "Middle Earthy" for all you TLOR geeks. The pavement was wet and mossy, so we took it slowly, but that gave us more time to appreciate the trail's beauty (and to get some shelter from the tree canopy).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1Jhn8LZkCjh8GHyvFYqMyq2WeV2aQd_uo5UfH5PXbqSG_wfDNZo1Sf6QLkxlc8NN5nm2JARadXzClObGwHZN4XIQUNo9gaaTOdiciYtJCdLd5b5zL2CDwcaoAEXL6_Jd6zU3FA/s1600/DSCF3105.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif1Jhn8LZkCjh8GHyvFYqMyq2WeV2aQd_uo5UfH5PXbqSG_wfDNZo1Sf6QLkxlc8NN5nm2JARadXzClObGwHZN4XIQUNo9gaaTOdiciYtJCdLd5b5zL2CDwcaoAEXL6_Jd6zU3FA/s400/DSCF3105.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476751712399742786" /></a><br />At Eagle Creek, we connected to the Tanner Creek trail. There were signs warning of trail closure, and lots of signs of construction, but we chose to ignore them, because the only other choice would be to ride on the shoulder of I-84. We'd have to do that shortly enough, but the longer we could stay on the trail, the better. Fortunately, whatever work they were doing did not completely close the path and we managed to go as far as we usually do (the path comes to an abrupt end at an old wooden bridge, so about 100 feet before the bridge we hopped over the guardrail onto the highway shoulder).<br /><br />Because my jacket was the most visible, I rode sweep. Traffic was fairly light, but it was still raining and we got sprayed every time a car passed. After a mile we reached the exit for Warrendale, where we were able to drop back to the old Columbia River Highway. The rain had begun to let up, and most of us had stopped shaking. The group had split fairly far apart; I am pretty sure that Jeff was trying his best to get away from the rest of us. Lynne and I rode along together, tallying up far worse rides that we had done. Of course, on those rides we had the proper bikes and the proper clothing. When we reached Multnomah Falls, we stopped briefly for a group photo, at which time Steve expressed his appreciation of my weather prediction skills, and then continued on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPMDq3Ij2ZA5FXW-QYPIXaOzFqeczKhZy05pUGPzmwjkdWuu-1rgTf-oqPQpNzEAGvF-xTL8NtChC4p-zFeu_ibPgcy0jGLeQIs9XVjOI7ZRfDpZXm0ePbT8tsIRxl0oaoOv6uA/s1600/DSCF3108.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 338px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPMDq3Ij2ZA5FXW-QYPIXaOzFqeczKhZy05pUGPzmwjkdWuu-1rgTf-oqPQpNzEAGvF-xTL8NtChC4p-zFeu_ibPgcy0jGLeQIs9XVjOI7ZRfDpZXm0ePbT8tsIRxl0oaoOv6uA/s400/DSCF3108.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476756332893626274" /></a><br />One benefit of the past month having been one of the wettest Mays in Oregon history is that all the waterfalls in the Gorge were turned on full blast. The beauty of our surroundings helped to ameliorate the misery of our physical beings. At Latourelle Falls, the road took a decided upward cast, and at Shepherd's Dell our second "big" climb of the day began in earnest. At this point I was riding with Tim, who was telling me about several epic rides he had been on. Our conversation was so interesting that before I knew it, we were at Vista House on Crown Point. Jeff and Steve were there waiting for us, as was an unexpected guest: SUNSHINE. Yes, the sun had come out! Glory be.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQc070sgkq9aBr6wIApd7Sk543cYCInol2PutfrlRSB2aG1oN_1K-8KD5khBw381byetaWmE6fJH7bpu-Y2asZahpJfnxDSytV2FoApeUNhDi7g0B38OBeDqOqpHGoEF946N7qQ/s1600/DSCF3110.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQc070sgkq9aBr6wIApd7Sk543cYCInol2PutfrlRSB2aG1oN_1K-8KD5khBw381byetaWmE6fJH7bpu-Y2asZahpJfnxDSytV2FoApeUNhDi7g0B38OBeDqOqpHGoEF946N7qQ/s400/DSCF3110.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476757480316940882" /></a><br />In a few minutes, Lynne appeared around the bend, with Dave following shortly thereafter (I could have sworn I saw Dave first, but Lynne tells me that she was ahead of him by a few minutes). We faffed a while, enjoying the sun and using the facilities. And then it was time for the very last climb of the day, a one-mile hop to the intersection of the highway and Larch Mountain Road. In good weather, this would have been the point in the ride when I would suggest a detour up Larch Mountain. This day I kept my mouth shut.<br /><br />And now we were in the home stretch, a long glide down to Troutdale on the old highway (with a brief detour onto Bell Road, which cuts about 1/4 mile off the total distance but is far less trafficky. It is also far more steep. Not always a good thing when you (and the road) are wet. But my brakes had decided to start working again, so all was good. The rain had returned, and the closer we got to Troutdale, the heavier it began to come down. Just as I made the turn from the highway onto the bridge across the Sandy River, it began to hail. Ouch! That really was completely unnecessary, I thought. <br /><br />The hail did not last long and the final few miles back to Edgefield were completely uneventful. Uneventful until I reached the parking lot, that is, at which point I stupidly decided to try to go around a speed bump rather than over it, and promptly slipped off the edge of the pavement. Rider down. I was able to unclip one foot, but still hit my knee pretty hard. Sheesh. The bike seemed okay, however, and I still assumed that I would be riding the remaining 13 miles to my house. But I was concerned about Lynne, At the restaurant she had never stopped shaking (when we got on our bikes to leave after lunch her whole bike was shaking) and she had another 8 or so miles to go on top of the 13 to my house. Steve and Tim had been offering us a ride home all afternoon, but we were being our usual "we don't give up" selves (an attitude that both pulls us through trouble and gets us into trouble in the first place). Lynne insisted that she was fine, but my knee felt just interesting enough to be problematic, and it was getting late. After some further arm-twisting all around, we agreed to accept the ride. Once in the car, with the heater on full blast, I decided that sometimes it is okay to be a wuss. Lynne also seemed to have accepted our situation with aplomb.<br /><br />Finally home, I made directly for the tub. The bike needed a bath, too, but it could wait. TRFKAF was also in need of a bath. But at least HE had the proper rain gear.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmM00XIHLhosHzxIT95zCNESbvc9LY9vwsOdOtgQSmxdkWJIHIjyhVT639_oJIcXcj4q2dpeGTYGIGcNdskuS6RZ005HgHhbD2IHcu_fGaGkLcQ8CIfidfJTdyld-iiO-4OdvuQ/s1600/DSCF3104.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkmM00XIHLhosHzxIT95zCNESbvc9LY9vwsOdOtgQSmxdkWJIHIjyhVT639_oJIcXcj4q2dpeGTYGIGcNdskuS6RZ005HgHhbD2IHcu_fGaGkLcQ8CIfidfJTdyld-iiO-4OdvuQ/s400/DSCF3104.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476761573354686178" /></a><br /><br />I'm thinking of another ride Memorial Day. The weather looks promising. Only a 30% chance of rain.Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-23546566209446959392010-04-25T19:27:00.000-07:002010-04-25T20:49:42.386-07:00On The Road Again . . ."It's just like riding a bike." Or so goes the cliché employed to encourage someone to try something that the person has not done in a while. But the thing about clichés is that they become clichés in the first place because they contain an element of truth. Thus, I found to my great relief today that, yes, indeed, I did still know how to ride my bike. Perhaps not as speedily or as far as I would like, but certainly more speedily and further than the average rider. Whew.<br /><br />Today was the date set for the Salem Bicycle Club's annual "Monster Cookie" ride. A traditional "first ride" of the NW Oregon cycling season, the MC is a fairly flat 100K ramble through the Willamette Valley. For the past few years, I have gone down to the start in Salem and ridden it as <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/04/double-cookie-double-fun.html">a Double Cookie</a>, riding the circuit twice for a full 200K. This year I knew that, after 6 weeks of enforced rest and with a partially healed fibular stress fracture, a Double Cookie was not in the cards. Plus, to be honest, organized "T-Shirt" rides have lost their charm for me. Too many people, too many potential accidents. So when friend <a href="http://www.lynnerides.blogspot.com/">Lynne</a> mentioned that she and friend <a href="http://bikelovejones1.blogspot.com/">Beth</a> planned to do the MC, I decided that I would ride from home to the MC's half-way point at <a href="http://www.oregonstateparks.org/park_113.php">Champoeg State Park</a> and meet them for lunch. Lynne expected that they would be starting sometime around 8:30, and I figured they'd get to the park sometime between 11:30 and noon. If I left home by 9:00, I'd get there in time. As it was, I was out the door by 8:45. The weather promised to be warm, so I wore regular shorts, my "Why, Yes, I <i>am</i> a bad-ass cyclist" Gold Rush 1200 jersey and, of course, my always-stylish ankle brace.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3NB47UNpnftMmMZNFh9rW8l-DtbppaJwhh4hQ4COQnLNvs96mpwNtyeADHH2rvQlkzw-GmJdiJUeBbyFykdF5rkpsEAqmluLDaKTjp5G0afeSAllbrECCVw4hNPn48YhltSPPg/s1600/DSCF2237.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz3NB47UNpnftMmMZNFh9rW8l-DtbppaJwhh4hQ4COQnLNvs96mpwNtyeADHH2rvQlkzw-GmJdiJUeBbyFykdF5rkpsEAqmluLDaKTjp5G0afeSAllbrECCVw4hNPn48YhltSPPg/s400/DSCF2237.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464287093493672338" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJyFUpuDiMyZfg_Xo-bORnynprgyLx93yCpQ6K1q9TjxReqromAJ-PcB87S0tqw8z9wl9ZsIYLJbkxa4lwQcz1V_UueZ-J61CB9_ls_gHNnUMiTEZbV5u5WdwjtcOitN6Ujl45Q/s1600/DSCF2942.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJyFUpuDiMyZfg_Xo-bORnynprgyLx93yCpQ6K1q9TjxReqromAJ-PcB87S0tqw8z9wl9ZsIYLJbkxa4lwQcz1V_UueZ-J61CB9_ls_gHNnUMiTEZbV5u5WdwjtcOitN6Ujl45Q/s400/DSCF2942.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464286418355419138" /></a><br /><br />There are a lot of ways to get from my house to Champoeg, some more scenic than others. Because I had a deadline, however, and because I wanted to avoid hills, I took <a href="http://www.bikeroutetoaster.com/Course.aspx?course=122650">the most direct--and least scenic--route</a>, which for the most part paralleled Interstate 5 down the Willamette Valley. The first 10 miles was the route I take daily (when I am not broken) from my house to the Barbur Transit Center. But instead of stopping at the TC and locking my bike in a commuter box, I continued southwest on Barbur to Tigard, where I turned south on 72nd Avenue. 72nd Avenue eventually became Boone's Ferry Road, which I took all the to Wilsonville, where my growling stomach suggested that I stop at Starbucks for a soy cocoa and one of the PB&J sammiches I had packed. Everyone else in Wilsonville seemed to have had the same idea; the Starbucks was packed. I finally got my drink and sat outside in the sun with it and my sammich, while the large man at the table next to me talked very loudly to someone who was not there about "mindfulness." I eventually figured out that he was not actually psychotic but instead had one of those teeny-tiny cell phone pickups in his ear. He quickly became much less interesting.<br /><br />Hunger sated, I set off for the most unpleasant segment of the ride: crossing the Willamette River on the Boone Bridge, which just happens to be Interstate 5. This was the fourth time I've crossed on this bridge, and I have decided that I much prefer it to crossing the river via the bridge on Highway 219 to Newberg. The interstate's shoulders are wider and cleaner, and the rail preventing me from falling into the river is much higher. And today I had a strong tailwind, which meant I was over the river and back on the frontage roads in no time.<br /><br /><div><div>Once I crossed the river, it was an easy jaunt to the park. The last two miles were on the park's bike path, which runs along the river and is quite lovely. There were the usual number of oblivious, helmetless 4-year-olds on tricycles, but for the most part the trail users were well behaved.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qHj8aqFwdcyaBrjlYo6pozGt-lYdlS0y_bEYeyuxrBq6oUwO9ngLNSKBA4utlSVuHWJoXpNtPCA3K5-ucHFNHKDA9EMaZJDkuPo2qvXXc31yMi44zMvyvKVxgfogrV9XT5TKzQ/s1600/DSCF2939.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0qHj8aqFwdcyaBrjlYo6pozGt-lYdlS0y_bEYeyuxrBq6oUwO9ngLNSKBA4utlSVuHWJoXpNtPCA3K5-ucHFNHKDA9EMaZJDkuPo2qvXXc31yMi44zMvyvKVxgfogrV9XT5TKzQ/s400/DSCF2939.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464285481946062066" /></a><br /><br />When I arrived at the picnic grove reserved for the MC lunch, the joint was packed! I once again congratulated myself for not taking the regular route. Within a few minutes of arriving, I met up with at least 20 regular riding buddies, all of whom told me that they had seen Lynne and Beth and that they were still out on the road somewhere. I gave Lynne a call on her mobile phone and she said they were about 7 miles out. I figured I'd see them in about half an hour, so I wandered around and talked to people, hydrated and, um, dehydrated.<br /><br />Soon enough, Lynne and Beth rode in. They gathered up their box lunches and we lazed on the grass talking about the usual things: bikes, bike riding, bike clothes, people we know who ride bikes, etc. And Greg says our conversations are boring. Humph! After about 45 minutes, it was time for Beth and Lynne to press on, and for me to head for home. I briefly toyed with the idea of taking a different route back, but all the alternatives involved more hill climbing than I thought would be wise at this stage of my recovery. Cue sarcastic comments about me exercising common sense . . .<br /><br />And so home I went, down the bike path, through Butteville, over the river on the interstate, up Boone's Ferry Road through Tualatin and </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">WHAT THE HELL, THAT SUV JUST RIGHT HOOKED ME!</span></span></span><br /><br />Scream, scream, scream. Slam on brakes. Execute perfectly timed emergency turn. Scream some more, and try not to puke. Look up to see SUV continuing on with no indication that the driver ever saw me.<br /><br />What to do, what to do. Do I chase after said SUV, and risk being shot by some road-raged, roid-raged muscle baby, or do I take a few deep breaths and ride on, grumbling to myself all the way home about asshole SUV drivers? As I pondered my options, I noticed that the van had pulled into a parking lot about a block away. I decided I really needed to say something to the driver. So I rode over to the parking lot, and came up beside the SUV; the driver was a young woman of about 30, and when she rolled her window down at my signal, I could hear her stereo blaring. No wonder she did not hear me screaming.<br /><br />"Did you see me?"<br /><br />"Yes, I saw you."<br /><br />"Really? Because you almost KILLED me!"<br /><br />"What? Wait, do you mean did I see you just now in the parking lot?"<br /><br />"No, back at that light, where you turned right and cut me off."<br /><br />"Oh my God! No, oh my God, no I didn't see you, oh my God, I am so sorry, oh my God please believe me, on my life I didn't see you - oh I can't believe I did that, oh my God, I am so sorry." </div><div><br /></div><div>Etc.<br /><br />The thing is, she really was sincere. But that did not absolve her from almost killing me. But we had a very nice conversation about right hooks that kill cyclists and how to not do that, and what started out as a confrontation turned into what all those annoying media-psychologists like to call "a teachable moment." I still wanted to puke from my adrenaline rush, but I no longer wanted to punch her. And I do think that she will be much more careful from now on. Or at least for the next week or so.<br /><br />We went our separate ways, and soon enough I was back in my "I'm just happy to be riding" mood. Which lasted for all of about 10 minutes, at which point I hit the 12% climb leading up to the intersection of 72nd Avenue and Pacific Highway (99E). Funny, I don't remember the hill being that steep when I went <span style="font-style:italic;">down</span> it. Fortunately, it is a short hill, and I made it to the top without too much pain. Oh, there was pain, alright, but it was bearable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I then proceeded to bonk. 10 miles from home, and I could barely stay upright. It did not help that I had just started the longest climb of the day, or that there was a headwind. So I stopped and ate the not-very-good energy bar that I had packed for emergencies. You know the one--the one that you got free on some ride sometime in the last few years and don't like, but you pack in your bag "just in case"? Yeah, that one. Well, I had reached the "just in case" point. Bleh.<br /><br />Bar ingested, I set off again, pedaling slowly up Barbur Boulevard to its crest at Capitol Highway. From there it was a long descent into town (not counting a couple of bumps in Hillsdale), across the river (again!) and home. On my way up Division toward the house, I noticed that <a href="http://apexbar.com/">the new "bike-friendly" pub at SE 12th and Division</a> was open for business. Greg was home, and so after I showered he and I walked down the street for some beer and peanuts. Just what the doctor ordered.<br /><br />All told, I rode just under 63 miles in 4.5 hours (not counting the 1.5 hour lunch break). Five hours later, I feel fine, but the ankle could use some ice. I need to work on my endurance, I guess. I never thought I'd have to say THAT.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qdYP0lxps88&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qdYP0lxps88&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object></div></div>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-29824110427472748362010-04-06T05:25:00.000-07:002010-04-06T19:30:57.685-07:00Diminished Expectations and Deferred GratificationI had me some plans this season, yes indeed I did. After last year's epic mileage (just under 10,000) and equally epic near-death experiences, I was set to mix it up a little and add running to the athletic stew that is my life.<br /><br />Well, once again, my best-laid plans went and ganged aglay.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSIOYrn1EBG7_CVN7g0XXRWe3lbUEGRBSOgVDQYXDrIDtiDPyyUvMt7S2MkHq46E5apnI3SeXIYOGGr2gA26jeLLv80kHGVPaNuVjFv4_HNegHd4bU-e9B9BRFYQxhVJCoyp0PA/s1600/DSCF2863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSIOYrn1EBG7_CVN7g0XXRWe3lbUEGRBSOgVDQYXDrIDtiDPyyUvMt7S2MkHq46E5apnI3SeXIYOGGr2gA26jeLLv80kHGVPaNuVjFv4_HNegHd4bU-e9B9BRFYQxhVJCoyp0PA/s400/DSCF2863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457000389002526690" /></a><br /><br />Yes, I know I am recycling the same photo from my last post, but what can I say - not much has happened since then. Actually, that's not quite true. At least now I have a diagnosis. "Distal fibular stress fracture" and tendonitis in the peroneal tendons that go around the fibula. Fun times.<br /><br />What does this mean? Well, I can kiss off the triathlon I planned for May 8. And the 5K I planned to run on June 19 does not look so great, either. That half-marathon in October? Yeah, I'll probably be able to do that, but probably very slowly.<br /><br />"But what about riding?," you ask. Good question. Maybe, just maybe, I'll still be able to do a full SR series, but the Or Rando summer series is notoriously tough, and I will have lost at least 3 months of serious training. But I continue to hold out hope.<br /><br />Until I heal, I'll just keep singing my new theme song.<br /><br /><br /><object width="873" height="525"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uJAWLfdkapQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uJAWLfdkapQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="873" height="525"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-59518306848405432582010-03-28T14:36:00.001-07:002010-03-28T14:42:25.510-07:00Poor, Poor, Poor Me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGyhyp25n9RAQYH3JVVrmscjSd6-0p8CIK6SusIZyf32Jl_ZitNkU6xq1aDNfD-kwvqb0tVID2FSWpvodHSfFkkYDF4MbzqEFfECuhRpND_q8MwMDDLbOQnIOnLBo5tDYm01_og/s1600/DSCF2863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGyhyp25n9RAQYH3JVVrmscjSd6-0p8CIK6SusIZyf32Jl_ZitNkU6xq1aDNfD-kwvqb0tVID2FSWpvodHSfFkkYDF4MbzqEFfECuhRpND_q8MwMDDLbOQnIOnLBo5tDYm01_og/s400/DSCF2863.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453802267737441618" /></a><br />Welcome to my self pity wallow. It's wide, and it's deep. And yes, yes, I know that there are people worse off in the world. As my mother used to say, "At least you have all your arms and legs - some people don't."<br /><br />Yeah, well, one of my legs is not working so well right now, and I am down right grumpy about it. A month into the "official" randonneuring season, and I can't ride more than 12 flat miles without pain. And I don't even want to talk about how it feels to try to run or even walk. So, yes, I am feeling sorry for myself. Time to sing along with Linda:<br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KKv_vJks2gM&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KKv_vJks2gM&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-44388188826352714372010-02-25T20:55:00.000-08:002010-02-25T21:09:05.962-08:00Rumors of My Demise Have Been ExaggeratedYes, yes, I know that we are almost two entire months into February and I have not updated this blog. And it will most likely be a while before I do add a substantive post. "Why?," you may ask. Well, mainly because I really do not have anything of interest to write about. I have not ridden my bike much beyond my daily commute, and when I have gotten out on the weekends it has only been for 40 or 50 mile excursions around the Greater Portland Metro Area. Big whoop. <br /><br />As for the rest of my life, it can be summed up thus: work, work out, eat, sleep, go back to work. Again, not exactly worth blogging about.<br /><br />Check back in a few months; rando season will have started and I might have something of interest to report. Then again, perhaps not.<br /><br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FVZobzVJrSo&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FVZobzVJrSo&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-64932938585729821682009-12-31T14:59:00.000-08:002009-12-31T22:06:31.284-08:00My Year in CyclingWell, it's New Year's Eve, and it's pouring rain, so I think it is safe to say that I have done all the riding I am going to do in 2009. Thus, it's retrospective time, complete with ridiculous statistics.<br /><br />This was the year in which I set myself a BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal, for those readers fortunate enough to have avoided attended the kinds of meetings where people talk about "stakeholders" and "envisioned futures"). Anyhoo, my BHAG was the Gold Rush Randonée, a 1200 km painfest held every four years in Northern California. I met that goal, <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/07/harry-callahan-was-right.html">and it damn near killed me</a>. Whether it made me stronger is still up for debate.<br /><br />This is what else I did:<br /><br />Miles ridden: <a href="http://www.bikejournal.com/journal.asp?quarter=all&jyear=2009">9407</a><br />Hours in the saddle: 717-ish<br />RUSA Awards: <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_sr.html">Super Randonneur</a>; 5000 km <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_rd.html">distance</a>; <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_r12.html">R-12</a><br />Calories Burned: I have no idea<br />Calories Ingested: Again, I have no idea, but enough to gain 8 pounds despite all that riding<br /><br />Here's to 2010, and not living up to past accomplishments . . . .<br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ef16R6L24BA&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ef16R6L24BA&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-64142469741499152872009-12-23T19:59:00.000-08:002009-12-23T19:59:17.455-08:00And Miles To Go Before I SleepIt started, as most things seem to do these days, with a Facebook status update: "Sunday night Solstice Ride ... Redmond-North Bend-Leschi-Redmond. Ride all night to greet the winter solstice on Monday morning. How could anyone pass that up? Like Mark says - 'Leave good sense at home. Won't be helpful.'"<br /><br />I had already planned to take a vacation day on Monday and never being one to pass up on a bike ride, especially one that involves leaving my good sense at home, I immediately signed on. As it was, I not only left my good sense at home, but I bound it with duct tape and chains and locked it in the basement.<br /><br />The plan was to begin riding at 9:00 PM. Redmond is a good three-hour drive from my Portland home, and I would need some faffing time once there, so I figured I would need to leave home by 5:00 PM. We had tickets to a holiday concert on Sunday afternoon, but I figured it would be over by 4:00, leaving me plenty of time to make myself a good pre-drive, pre-ride dinner, load the bike in the car and get going. I spent Saturday afternoon cleaning and prepping my bike -- an astonishing amount of road grit had built up inside the fenders --and packing gear bags. I went to bed at about 10:00 PM, and woke up at 2:30 AM. I lay in bed for three hours before giving up on getting back to sleep. I should have taken it as a portent, but instead I just got up and started to do chores. Sleep deficit, thy name is rando.<br /><br />The concert was scheduled to begin at 2:00 PM, but it was 2:15 before the Chorus took the stage. The late start, a longer-than-usual program, and a whole lot of speechifying meant that we did not leave the venue until after 4:30. Cripes. By the time I got home and packed the car, I was able only to choke down a cup of left-over plain couscous. Not exactly fortifying. I promised myself I would stop somewhere along the way to Redmond for a "real" dinner. That, of course, was not destined to happen. But you, dear reader, knew that. After all, what news value would there be to my telling you about how I prepared for a bike ride by getting ample sleep and sufficient fuel? On second thought, I guess that <span style="font-style:italic;">would</span> be newsworthy in a "man bites dog" sort of way, wouldn't it?<br /><br />The drive to Redmond was uneventful, but slow. I had budgeted three hours, but the rain had other plans for me and I arrived at the designated start (Peet's Coffee, near Whole Foods) a little before 8:30, not having any chance to stop for food along the way. Five or six riders were already inside the shop enjoying hot drinks, and more arrived as I was gathering my gear from my car. I was starving, so I trotted over to Whole Foods and snagged the first suitable portable edibles I could find: a banana and two vegan doughnuts. Back at Peet's I asked the barista to put some hot water in my thermos and made some tea, to which I added some Gatorade powder. By this time the rest of the riders had arrived. I never made an official count, but I think we started with 14, maybe 13.<br /><br />Our friend Vincent was running late, so we faffed around outside the coffee shop for a while waiting for him, remarking on the fact that it was not actually raining on us at that moment and wondering if the dry break would last. I felt a little chilled as we were standing around, and I began to worry that I had not worn enough layers. Oh well, there was not much I could do about it at that point. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4204391649/" title="Randos at the Start by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2734/4204391649_ddf1dba501.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Randos at the Start" /></a><br /><br />Vincent finally arrived and we took off as a group a few minutes after 9:00 PM. All the Seattle riders seemed familiar with the route, so my goal was to try to keep up with at least one other rider so that I would not have to resort to trying to read my cue sheet in the dark. At first this was not a problem, as we rode on some flat city streets. Our pack began to split up, however, as we started with a grinding climb up through Redmond Ridge (at least I think that's what it is called) to Novelty Hill Road. The stronger riders surged on ahead. I did my best to keep up, but the bandanna I'd put on under my helmet started to slip down my forehead, threatening to obliterate whatever slight vision I had, so I had to stop to make adjustments.<br /><br />As we started down Novelty Hill, I glimpsed a traffic sign that appeared to state that there was a 15% grade. I told myself "Naw, it said <span style="font-weight:bold;">5</span>%, not <span style="font-weight:bold;">15</span>% - 15% would be SILLY," and settled in to enjoy a nice, fast, 5% descent, passing some of the other riders who appeared to be more cautious about hills. As I sped past Mark Thomas, he called out to me that the road could be pretty steep.<br /><br />Boy, was it. Let's just say it's a VERY, VERY good thing that I had taken the time on Saturday top replace my worn-out rear brake pads. Not only was it steep, but there were some nifty tight hairpins. It would be a tough descent on a dry, daylight ride; on wet night, it was a jaw (and other parts) clincher. Even with working brakes, I came very close to running off the edge of the road more than once. When I finally reached the bottom, I turned to Mark and said, "So, that sign back there really did say '15%,' didn't it?" "Yep."<br /><br />It was raining again by this time, and I realized that not being able to read my cue sheet was going to be the least of my problems. My glasses were fogged from my exertions and also covered with rain drops, and the refraction of the lights on our bicycles and bodies was practically hallucinatory. <br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b1CDCOPD7uQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b1CDCOPD7uQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br /><br />I was also feeling particularly poorly fueled. In my bag I had a few boiled potatoes, a small amount of smoked tofu, the doughnuts and an energy bar, but none of that appealed to me. I was regretting not having stopped somewhere for a pre-ride burrito. It is not a good sign when less than 10 miles into a ride I am already bonking.<br /><br />The first thirty miles took us through what I think were farmlands (I could smell manure) and up to <a href="http://www.snoqualmiefalls.com/">Snoqualmie Falls</a> (I could hear the rushing water). By the time I reached the Falls I had been dropped by all but one of the group -- Steve Davis was just ahead of me, and he must have been reading my mind, because he pulled over for a rest at the lookout. I happily joined him, pulled out a doughnut and practically inhaled it. We were less than ten miles from a grocery store control in North Bend, but at the pace I was riding, that 10 miles was going to take close to an hour. <br /><br />After a few minutes of rest and another half a doughnut, I was ready to move on. Steve told me that he had just ridden this part of the route the other day, but that there was a tricky point where we might miss a turn. Sure enough, we missed it, but realized that we had before it was too late (right after we missed the turn, we started going downhill-- have you ever noticed that whenever you go the wrong way on a bike, going back requires going uphill?). Anyway, we were quickly back on route and eventually found our way to the North Bend QFC, where I got a banana and a Diet Coke, which I promptly forgot to drink. My receipt showed my arrival time as 12:01 AM. Everyone else was back by the (closed) coffee station, dripping. It would play out thusly for the rest of the night. The fast riders would reach a control and stand around waiting for the slower riders (um, that would be me) to show up. We would all then start out on the next leg, I would fall behind and meet up with them again at the next control. Kind of like a big <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slinky">Slinky</a> made out of people and bikes. I was never completely alone, however. The aforementioned Steve rode with me for a while, as did my new pals Dan and Dominique.<br /><br />From North Bend, we wended our way through Snoqualmie, Fall City, and Issaquah to the next control in Newcastle. It had stopped raining (briefly) and I was warming up. All the trees in the town parks had been strung with holiday lights, and it made for some quite beautiful sights, none of which I took a picture of. Dominique played tour guide for me, explaining that this used to be a big coal mining region (hence naming a town Newcastle). I bought yet another banana and ate some potatoes. I still had some hot tea, which was quite welcome. Indeed, other riders were coveting my <a href="http://www.sweetmarias.com/prod.travelmugs-bottles.php">thermal bottle</a>.<br /><br />From Newcastle we rode to Maple Valley, where there was an info control. About 5 miles from the control I bonked big-time. Dan and Lyn were ahead of me, and I called out to them to keep going, I was just stopping for a snack. Dan stayed to wait for me, anyway. In addition to the bonk, my lungs were starting to act up and I developed a hacking cough. I was also having difficulty swallowing. The result was that great deal of smoked tofu ended up being sprayed onto the road instead of getting to my tummy. It occurred to me that I had forgotten to take my preemptive Benadryl. This was not good. I have noted that ever since the Gold Rush, <a href="http://www.aafp.org/afp/2001/1015/p1367.html">my bizarre allergic reaction to exertion</a> has manifested earlier and earlier into a ride. Fortunately, I had some Benadryl with me. When I got to the Maple Valley control, I took some (after Dominique opened the pill box for me, since my cold and wet fingers were not working properly).<br /><br />I had assumed that everyone else had reached the Maple Valley control before me, but we quickly realized that Lyn was nowhere to be seen. Vincent, Dominique and Robin volunteered to backtrack and look for her. It turned out that she'd flatted not far from where I had bonked; Dan and I must have ridden right past her without realizing it (sorry, Lyn!!). Vincent reported back (cell phones - concept!) that they were fixing the flat and would soon rejoin us. The rest of us decided that we should take off, because we were all starting to shiver a little (or a lot). We figured, correctly, that they would catch up to us once Lyn had two working tires.<br /><br />At Maple Valley we crossed onto the first of two multi-use paths on the route. This one was the <a href="http://www.kingcounty.gov/recreation/parks/trails/regionaltrailssystem/cedarriver.aspx">Cedar River Trail</a>, a lovely, wide, well-paved and, at 3:00 AM, empty path that we would follow for just over 10 miles to Renton. From Renton we made our way north along Lake Washington toward the next control in the Leschi neighborhood of Seattle. I was bonking again, and wondering how I was going to find another 30 miles in my legs. The sky was beginning to lighten, but the rain kept coming back to remind me that I was miserable (in that happy miserable way that can only be understood by other randos). I am thinking that on a warm, sunny day, the scenery would have been very nice. All I really remember is a lot of gray.<br /><br />The Leschi control was a Starbucks. I really, really wanted to take a nap. Instead, I drank TWO large soy cocoas and gnawed on a surprisingly tasty eight-grain roll (after asking the counter guy to let me read the ingredients list). As I ate, I eavesdropped on the conversation of two extremely conservative middle-aged men sitting at the next table. Actually, "eavesdropping" would suggest that I had to make an effort to hear them. That would not be the case. They were talking loudly enough for everyone to hear. Their topic of choice: how pleased they were that health care reform might not pass. They do not know how lucky they were that I was too tired to lift my cup of cocoa high enough to accidentally spill it on them. Plus, I couldn't spare the calories.<br /><br />All to soon it was time to go. Dominique had started from Leschi the night before, and so he split off. Something about a dental appointment. The rest of us swarmed through back streets and alleys toward UW, at which point we picked up the <a href="http://www.seattle.gov/PARKS/BurkeGilman/bgtrail.htm">Burke-Gilman Trail</a>, our second MUP of the ride. I was very grateful that Geoff S., the ride's organizer (instigator?), stayed with me to give me turn-by-turn instructions. Otherwise I would have gotten hopelessly lost. Once on the BGT, I began to recognize some landmarks from my past RSVP rides. I realized at one point that I was less then a mile from my brother's house. I fought back the temptation to detour for a nap. The rain was alternating between mist and downpour, but lightening up more and more as time passed. We began to pass, and be passed by, bike commuters. many looking quite grim. At one point we were overtaken by a guy on a training ride who was anxious to get past our little peleton. Robin and Vincent decided to chase him down, just for the heck of it. They gave him a good run for his money until, BAM!, Vincent's rear tire decided it was not interested in racing anymore. Fortunately, he had a spare tire with him. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4204391965/" title="Vincent and Robin by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2797/4204391965_088b195d93.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Vincent and Robin" /></a><br /><br />It was still raining, so it took a little longer to change than otherwise. I didn't mind, I needed the rest. We stood around and supervised the tire change, and took the opportunity to wring out our soggy garments. It occurred to us that perhaps there was a use for all that stored water.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4204394239/" title="Now, THAT'S Rando by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2765/4204394239_0a5e91a2e7.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Now, THAT'S Rando" /></a><br /><br />No. He did not drink it. Then again, no one double-dog dared him to, either.<br /><br />And then we were off once again, this time cutting over to the Lake Sammammish Trail (not to be confused with Lake Sam-I-Am-ish, where they stock the green eggs and salmon), which would take us back to the start in Redmond. Toward the end, we detoured around some road construction, which resulted in cutting off some distance. Consequently, we later took an extremely random circuit around the shopping center while Geoff watched his odometer. Finally, 12 hours and 19 minutes after we started the ride, we returned to our point of departure. I am sure the Peet's Coffee employees were overjoyed to see a dozen or so soaking wet cyclists slosh into their shop; even more so when they saw what their restroom looked like after we used all the paper towels to dry ourselves off.<br /><br />I was beat. I was also starving. I had made arrangements to meet <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/10/30/travel/escapes/1031-AMERICAN_3.html">my brother</a> for breakfast at <a href="http://www.waywardvegancafe.com/">a vegan cafe</a> he had found near his house. I changed into my dry clothes, loaded the bike in the car and called Kev to let him know I'd be at the restaurant in about 30 minutes. He and I pulled up in front of the place at exactly the same time - a weird sort of sibling connection at work once again. I had the "Seitan on a Shingle": herb biscuits with sauteed seitan and mushroom gravy. It was fabulous! All too soon it was time for me to start the long drive home. I was pretty tired, but felt alert enough. Nevertheless, I found that I had to slap myself hard on the face repeatedly to complete the stretch from Tacoma to Olympia without passing out. From there on, I stopped at every rest stop, got out of the car and did jumping jacks to wake myself up. I finally reached home at about 2:30 PM. Greg helped me unload the car, because I was pretty much useless. I stumbled to the bedroom, crawled under the covers and passed out. Three hours later, I got up and made dinner--pasta with broccolie raab and soyrizo followed by TWO pieces of cake -- and then passed out again. Two days later, my wet clothes are still in a pile on the bathroom floor, and I am preparing the bike for another ride. This time only 100 kilometers, though. During the day. Without rain.<br /><br />Happy Solstice, Everyone - from now on the days can only get longer, sunnier and drier!<br /><br /><object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6qcPS-J0HTg&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6qcPS-J0HTg&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x234900&color2=0x4e9e00&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-13855660023339877182009-12-23T10:30:00.001-08:002009-12-23T10:32:14.403-08:00My First, and Perhaps Last, 1200 km Medal<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4207479498/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2565/4207479498_71596cce1b_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style=" margin-top: 0px;font-size:0.9em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4207479498/">Evidence of My Participation</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/cecilanne_r-s/">cecilanne</a></span> <p>I am trying to finish my blog post about my very wet Solstice Ride, but in the meantime you can enjoy this picture of the medal I earned for <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/07/harry-callahan-was-right.html">completing the Gold Rush Randonnée</a> in July. The medal arrived yesterday, along with my completed brevet card. Was it worth a trip to the emergency room? Oddly, yes.</p>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-91920988246645724882009-12-10T04:51:00.000-08:002009-12-13T11:08:40.083-08:00Blow, Winds, and Crack Your Cheeks!I am not sure which of we two was the Mad King, and which the Fool, but on Sunday last my friend <a href="http://spokesong.blogspot.com/">Vincent Muoneke</a> and I demonstrated that neither of us has the common sense that the gods gave a goose. Naturally enough, our folly involved a bike ride. This time it was 202 kilometers in sub-freezing temperatures and gale force winds. Okay, maybe not gale force, but strong enough to knock me across the road more than once, and steady enough to drop the wind chill down to the low teens for the entire day. That may be old news to randonneurs in Saskatchewan, but we Pacific Northwesterners are more used to being waterlogged than frostbitten. For those who care, here is how the story unfolded.<br /><br />As regular readers will know, I have been chasing my second consecutive <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_r12.html">R-12</a>. I needed one more - December's - to complete the streak. My calendar being a bit crowded these days, it appeared that the 6th was going to be the only day in which I could afford to be on the road for 12 or so hours. So I e-mailed a few friends to see if they would join me. In addition to Vincent, Joanne H., Elise R., Ray O., Ken M. all signed on, and so it looked to be quite a party.<br /><br />This time of year the weather is less than predictable. Not that PNW weather is ever completely predictable. At the beginning of the week, the forecast was for partly cloudy skies, with temperatures in the low 30s. Not bad. As the week progressed, however, the meteorologists started muttering things about "arctic cold fronts" and "Canadian wind chills." <a href="http://www.wunderground.com/">Weather Underground</a> forecast steady NE winds of 15 mph, with occasional gusts of 25 mph plus. I started inventorying my wool layers. Luckily, the annual Bike Craft show was being held on Saturday, and I was able to pick up a new pair of <a href="http://www.sweetpeabicycles.com/blog/2007/12/01/smittens-now-available-for-cold-fingies/">S'Mittens</a> from Natalie and a matching pair of <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/gigishandywork">Helmuffs</a>.<br /><br />When I woke up at 4:00 on Sunday morning, I could hear the wind whooshing through the cedars in my back yard. I looked out the window to see them bending in the wind. Mind you, these are ENORMOUS cedars. If they were bending, then I can guarantee the wind was stiffer than 15 mph. I checked the thermometer outside the kitchen window. 27 degrees. Nice. I ate an extra serving of oatmeal, and filled my <a href="http://www.sweetmarias.com/prod.travelmugs-bottles.php">thermal carafe</a> (fits in a bottle cage!) with a mix of hot tea and Gatorade powder. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4170246283/" title="Life Saver by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2794/4170246283_04edffcbc1.jpg" width="366" height="500" alt="Life Saver" /></a><br /><br /><br />I then proceeded to dress myself for a bike ride of <a href="http://www.kodak.com/US/en/corp/features/endurance/">Shackletonian</a> proportions. Starting from my toes and heading upward:<br /><br />Wool socks<br /><a href="http://www.warmers.com/">chemical toe warmers</a><br /><a href="http://www.sierratradingpost.com/p/4289,2261T_Pearl-Izumi-X-Alp-Gore-Tex-MTB-Cycling-Shoes-SPD-Waterproof-For-Women.html">Pearl Izumi Gore-Tex winter boots</a><br /><a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/prodIB_7087.html">Ibex wool knickers</a><br />GoreWear leg warmers<br /><a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/prodSB_2576.html">Shebeest capris</a><br /><a href="http://www.teamestrogen.com/prodIB_0127_0.html">Ibex wool camisole</a><br /><a href="http://www.icebreaker.com/site/icebreaker_woman_nature200_scoop.html?thumb_value=Dark%20Dusk%20-%20Kowhai">Icebreaker L/S wool undershirt</a><br />S/S wool jersey (felted)<br />L/S Craft winter jacket<br /><a href="http://bontrager.com/model/07262">Bontrager wind vest</a><br /><a href="http://www.specialized.com/cn/en/bc/SBCEqProduct.jsp?spid=31709&menuItemId=9101&eid=0">Specialized "Equinox" gloves</a><br />Wool S'Mittens<br /><a href="http://www.warmers.com/">chemical hand warmer</a>s<br /><a href="http://www.sierratradingpost.com/p/224,56672_SmartWool-Beanie-Hat-For-Men-and-Women.html">Smartwool beanie</a><br />Wool helmuffs<br /><br />It's a wonder I was able to move my limbs freely enough to walk, let alone ride my bike.<br /><br />Having suited up, there was nothing left to do but load the car and head for the ride start in Newberg. I had chosen the <a href="http://www.orrandonneurs.org/sftest/perms/ThreePrairiesRoute.pdf">"Three Prairies"</a> permanent route, which is usually a pretty safe bet for a winter ride. It is a double-loop course with very little elevation gain, and the roads are familiar to me. Unfortunately, because it is on the flats of the Willamette Valley, it is not the best route choice when the wind is up. And the wind was most definitely up. I could feel it buffeting my little car as I drove south.<br /><br />We planned to start riding at 7:00. I got to Newberg by 6:30, and saw two trucks in the parking lot with bicycles in the back. One was Ray's, and I guessed the other one was Vincent's. I could see Ray sitting in the front seat of his truck, but there was no sign of Vincent. I got out of my car and walked over toward his truck, and saw through the rear window a form huddled in the back seat. He was taking a nap. He told me later that he had done the same thing a few hours earlier in a rest stop near Winlock.<br /><br />It was freaking freezing, so after saying "Hi" to Ray, I got back in my car to try to warm up. I took the opportunity to install my chemical digit warmers, not that I was too optimistic that they would work. It felt about 5 degrees colder in Newberg than it had been in Portland. I drank some tea. That helped. I had brought a heavy wool sweater with me to put on after the ride, and decided that perhaps I should bring it along, so I bungee-strapped to my rear rack.<br /><br />A few minutes later, Joanne drove up. She got out of her van, walked over and said, "I'm not riding in this." Elise had already bailed, and Joanne did not want to fight the wind. Ken did not show, and Ray began to equivocate about riding, as well. He made it as far the Thriftway on 1st Street, our traditional opening contrôle (a distance of 4 blocks), before deciding that he was not going to ride after all. And so it was down to me and Vincent. Well, that's one more than has been on my last few rides, and I was happy for the company. <div><br /></div><div>I was also happy that my company was Vincent, who is living proof that there are people crazier than I. You question that? Well, consider this: the day before our ride, Vincent had ridden an icy 200K in Seattle with quite a few certifiable <a href="http://www.seattlerandonneur.org/">SIR</a> members, and less than a week before that he was riding <a href="http://audax.org.au/public/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=344&Itemid=347">a 1200K in freaking AUSTRALIA</a>. The jet lag alone would have kept me from riding in perfect weather, never mind the gale that we were setting off into this day.<br /><br />Despite the sub-freezing temperatures (25 degrees at 7:00), the first segment of the ride was surpisingly pleasant, because the wind was at our backs. We rode southwest out of Newberg through the Red Prairie to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dallas,_Oregon">Dallas</a>, passing through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dayton,_Oregon">Dayton</a> (stopping briefly at the weigh station outside of Dayton to weigh ourselves on the truck scales), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amity,_Oregon">Amity</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perrydale,_Oregon">Perrydale</a> along the way. <br /><br />Our average speed from Newberg to Dallas was well over 18 mph, even though this was the section with the most climbing (fabulous rollers between Perrydale and Dallas!). We made it to Dallas so early that they were still serving breakfast at McDonald's, where we stopped to get receipts and nourishment. Vincent astonished me by drinking a milkshake. Brr. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4170246969/" title="Milkshake #1 by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2525/4170246969_165934eee5.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Milkshake #1" /></a><br /><br />I augmented my peanut butter sandwich with some hash browns, thus demonstrating why I do not lose weight on bike rides.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4171005952/" title="Healthy, Meet Not So Healthy by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2596/4171005952_b43ea92dd2.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Healthy, Meet Not So Healthy" /></a><br /><br />We spent more time than we should have at the Dallas contrôle, and our core temperatures that had been so nicely raised by cycling had dropped. In addition, we were now turning into the wind for the return trip to Newberg. What a difference! Not only we were suddenly riding much more slowly (single-digit speeds), but the wind chill was almost intolerable. Both Vincent and I suffer from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raynaud's_phenomenon">Raynaud's phenomenon (primary)</a>, and the cold wind on our hands quickly became painful. My hands eventually became numb, making shifting and braking difficult. I prefer the numbness to the pain, however. For most of the trip back to Newberg, the wind was directly in our face. But every once in a while we would hit it crosswise. More than once a cross gust blasted me into the traffic lanes. Fortunately, traffic was light. We stopped for a few minutes in Amity to catch our breath and get out of the wind; in protected spots, the sun was quite warm, even if the air was chilly.<br /><br />We got back to Newberg at about 13:30. I usually use the Thriftway as my Newberg contrôle, but Vincent voiced a preference for a "sit-down" restaurant. <a href="http://www.coffeecottagecafe.net/">The Coffee Cottage</a> is very nice, but it is a time-sucking vortex, so we settled on the Dairy Queen (don't tell Rickey that I was in a DQ!). Vincent got another milkshake, and I got french fries to go along with the other half of my peanut butter sandwich. We were a little worried about our time, because the winds had depressed our speeds so much, so after a shorter rest than we would have like we saddled up for the second loop, which would take us out through the French and Howell Prairies to <a href="http://www.mtangel.org/">Mt. Angel</a> and back.<br /><br />I had thought that we would still be riding into the wind on the way to Mt. Angel, and so was pleasantly surprised to find that we had a tailwind from Newberg until well past <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Champoeg,_Oregon">Champoeg</a>. At least the surprise was pleasant until I realized that meant that we would be riding into the wind on the way back. In the dark. In colder temperatures. Rats. But we were over 70 miles into the ride, and I was not about to give up. Vincent was inspiring. He had to have been exhausted, yet he kept plugging alone. Indeed, the fact that he was exhausted was the only thing that allowed me to stay with him. He is normally a much faster rider than I am on the flats (I can beat him up a hill, but only because he outweighs me by 70 pounds- at last according to the truck scale).<br /><br />With the help of the wind, we made it to Mt. Angel by 16:00. The sun was starting to set, and the temperature was dropping. Vincent switched from milkshakes to hot chocolate, and I inhaled a bag of Fritos. The Mt. Angel market has a large Hispanic clientele, and had a number of <a href="http://www.sabritas.com.mx/index2.html">snack chips</a> in flavors that I had not seen before. But I'd already had my Fritos and could not justify trying the <a href="http://www.sabritas.com.mx/marcas_sabritones_sabritones.php">Sabritones con chile y limón</a>.<br /><br />The sun went down while we dilly-dallied in Mt. Angel, and the temperature plummeted. I pulled on my wool sweater under my reflective vest (which barely zipped up over all my layers) and inserted a new set of warmers in between my gloves and S'Mittens. Once again we were off into the wind. I tried to breath through my nose as much as possible, but my lungs were beginning to react to the cold and I developed an unpleasant hacking cough. My hands began to hurt again, and then became numb. They would be numb for the rest of the trip. Whenever I wanted to shift, I had to look down to make sure that my fingers were actually on the shifter and moving. I was worried that I might push too hard and end up riding a fixie.<br /><br />The last 28 miles were brutal. Vincent and I rode in silence, concentrating our energies on staying warm and staying awake. The miles clicked by ever so slowly, and all I could think about was how happy I would be to see my car. We rolled into Newberg just before 19:00, and made our way past houses brightly lit with holiday lights to the Thriftway. Vincent's hands were killing him, and so we sat inside the warm store for a while, chatting about how cold and tired we were. But happy, too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Indeed, I was ecstatic. Another R-12 was in the bag, and I could take a rest for a while.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsFvnL7e1cE&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lsFvnL7e1cE&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-23831604880288940732009-11-14T18:12:00.000-08:002009-11-17T20:04:58.269-08:00Eleven the Hard Way<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz3CcDbI_VQ3-a9BA5MnUmpt-QMAsMJKkaaEqFyGzRDSWsjfazlsAplX3OPDCZtf2IIVCaYIhqtNpg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />As regular readers know, I am working my way toward my second consecutive <a href="http://www.rusa.org/award_r12.html">"R-12" award</a> from <a href="http://www.rusa.org/">Randonneurs USA</a>. The R-12 program is designed to recognize those hardy or, to be more precise, FOOLhardy souls that ride at least one approved 200K brevet each month for 12 consecutive months. From March through October, it is pretty easy for me to fulfill the one-a-month requirement by riding a scheduled "event" brevet put on by either the <a href="http://www.orrandonneurs.org/">Oregon Randonneurs</a> or the <a href="http://www.seattlerandonneur.org/">Seattle International Randonneurs</a>. From November through February, I must make do with "permanent" routes, which are routes that another randonneur has designed and which can be ridden at any time.<br /><br />For November, I decided to try <a href="http://www.napolitano.it/?p=298">a route that my friend Marcello created</a>. It was an "out and back" that started from his home in Hillsboro, and wended its way southwest through the Willamette Valley to Dallas, and then back to HIllsboro. (Note to self: start creating routes that start at front door of home). An appealing aspect of the route is that the posted elevation gain was under 2000 feet. After October, climbing routes become a little less appealing, especially once the snow levels start dropping. Not that I expected snow. Indeed, after a rather wet week, the forecast for November 1 was relatively encouraging. Only a 10% chance of showers.<br /><br />My friends John and Joanne were also on a quest for an R-12, so I invited them to come along. Two other occasional randonneurs, Elise and Kevin, also signed up. Kevin also invited a couple of non-randos from his "social" bike group--Peter and Doak.<br /><br />Sunday morning was foggy and cold as we gathered at Marcello's house. Our announced starting time was 7:00, and we managed to get rolling by 7:05, but only after I rather bitchily pointed out that "Hey, we're on a timed ride here, folks . . . ." The first section of the route was not very scenic. We rode through a quasi-commercial/residential area of Hillsboro toward the Tualatin Valley Highway, passing under <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Main_Street_Bridge_(Hillsboro,_Oregon)">Hillsboro's version</a> of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gateway_Arch">the Gateway Arch</a> along the way. The fog was thick and cold, and most of us rode at a fairly relaxed pace. Kevin, still fresh from competing in the Furnace Creek 508, was still in race mode apparently, because he quickly pulled ahead of the group. There were quite a few traffic signals along this part, and at one of them Kevin pulled ahead of us for good. I would not see him again for another 4 hours, when he would pass me outside of Dallas on his way back to Hillsboro. As it turned out, Kevin missed all the fun.<br /><br />And by "fun," I mean "disaster." Hence the video with which this post led off. Less than 6 miles into to ride, my friend John lost a fight with his cleat at a stoplight, and ended up taking a slow-motion but nevertheless significant fall. As soon as he hit the ground, he knew it was bad. When we asked if he was okay, he very calmly replied that he had broken his ankle. Cue multiple rider freak out. While Joanne called 911, the rest of us tried to figure out how to keep John comfortable (a losing proposition) and how to keep cars from hitting him. He was in a traffic lane, and we were reluctant to shift him too much because we were not sure what else might be broken. A passing driver stopped to help. He was a retired firefighter and he took charge of the situation. The cops and EMTs arrived shortly thereafter and proceeded to load John into an ambulance (and his bike onto the fire truck). The process of treating John was complicated by the fact that none of the EMTs were cyclists, and they were baffled by his Sidi shoes. I was no more help, because my fingers were too cold and stiff to work the ratchet fastenings. Joanne finally managed to get the shoes off him.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4072039292/" title="John gets a lift by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2729/4072039292_340258e44a.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="John gets a lift" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4071277231/" title="Emergency response by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2793/4071277231_e4626f0665.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Emergency response" /></a><br /><br />So there we were, 6 miles in. One rider down for the count. Joanne was headed for the hospital with John, and Elise was going along to lend support. Kevin was miles ahead, oblivious to the ongoing ruckus. That left me, and the two non-rando riders, both of whom were looking at me with puppy eyes and saying how much they wanted to keep going. "Do either of you have cue sheets?" "No." Crap. "Well, this is a timed ride, and so if you are going to ride with me you need to understand that." "Okay." And so we were off, me and two guys I did not know from Adam's off ox. Not exactly my idea of a good time. I fervently hoped that at some time Kevin would notice that we were not catching up to him and would circle back, so as to allow me to return his friends to his care.<br /><br />Less than a half of a mile later, Doak got a flat tire. Ten minutes later, as we were still standing at the side of the road while he attempted to inflate a tube that resisted inflating, I'd had enough. "Look, I've got to go. I can't wait here with you." I felt terrible, but I was not the one who had invited him on the ride. Hell, I did not even know him. Peter still wanted to ride along with me, however, and I wasn't feeling quite bitchy enough to tell him no. As it was, I had already missed the time cut off for the first control in Forest Grove by more than 15 minutes. I figured that I could probably get a papal dispensation for that because of the accident, but I needed to make up that time for the remaining controls. I told Peter that we would need to sprint the next 30 miles. Fortunately, the weather was improving and I was on <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/sets/72157619323852033/detail/">the "light bike."</a>. Peter was game. So from Forest Grove we turned south and hit the gas. Figuratively speaking, of course.<br /><br />The next control was in Dayton. To get there, we rode on roads that have become so familiar to me that I could ride them in my sleep (although as <a href="http://www.lynnerides.blogspot.com/">Lynne</a> would tell you, I sometimes forget that I know them, perhaps because I was asleep when we were on them). Fern Hill Road, Spring Hill Road, North Valley Road, Ribbon Ridge, SR 240, Kuehne Road, Abbey Road . . . the traffic was low, the sun was coming out, and we had a tailwind. My mood began to improve. My mood improved even more when I saw that the slippery wooden one-lane bridge on North Valley Road had finally been replaced with a two-lane concrete structure. Ever since I took a spill on the old bridge in the rain, in the dark, with oncoming traffic, I've been a little leery of it.<br /><br />We reached the Dayton control with time to spare. I checked in at the market on 8th street and discovered that we could now use the restroom there. No more having to go across the street to the ball-field blue room! The cash register guy was in a joking mood; he kept asking if Peter was taking a nap in the bathroom. I didn't think he was in there THAT long. Receipt in hand, Peter and I set off for Dallas. Again, the route was familiar. From Dayton we made our way to Amity, where we stopped for bananas and water, and then continued over rolling hills to Perrydale. I was relaxing my pace a little at this point, because the sprint to Dayton had given us a cushion.<br /><br />Most of the climbing on the route is between Perrydale and Dallas. No real grinding climbs, but lots of rollers. I kept expecting to encounter Kevin as he returned from Dallas, but so far he was nowhere to be seen. As we climbed the last hill before Dallas, I saw a large group of cyclists heading toward us from the other direction. As they passed, one of them yelled out, "Cecil!" It was not Kevin, however. I spent the rest of my ride trying to figure out who it was. I later learned it was a friend from high school who now lives in Keizer, with whom I've been in contact through the Internet (marvelous thing, the Internet). I was amazed that he recognized me - it must have been the bike.<br /><br />Shortly thereafter, we encountered Kevin. He was riding quickly. He waved and kept going, and did not notice that I was trying to flag him down. Peter and I exchanged shrugs and rode down into Dallas. Here, I got a little confused. According to the cue sheet, we needed to ride through downtown and go to a market on the other side. The cue sheet also seemed to indicate that the leg through town was 3 miles long, however. Suffice it to say that we got some bonus miles before I figured out which market I was supposed to go to.<br /><br />It was lunchtime and we were starving. We went to the Subway, because I knew I could get a vegan sandwich there. Peter got a large meatball sub. I was impressed. Even if I ate meat, I could not imagine riding 62 miles after eating a foot-long meatball sub. A couple hours later, Peter admitted that it probably had not been the best choice.<br /><br />Lunch downed, we saddled up and made our way back the way we came. Peter was starting to struggle. He was cramping up, so I fed him some Endurolytes. I dropped him a few times, but tried to at least keep him in sight distance. At some point here, he confessed to me that he had never ridden more than 100 miles at a go, and that only a few times. I have to give him props for hanging in. In Perrydale, I stopped to give him time to catch up, and goofed around taking pictures of the train engine there.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4071277933/" title="Old School and Faux-ld School by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2668/4071277933_6005e17b0a.jpg" width="500" height="366" alt="Old School and Faux-ld School" /></a><br /><br />The tailwind that had assisted us to Dallas was now a headwind doing its best to sap our will. The eight miles from Amity to Dayton were quite possibly the longest eight miles I had ever ridden. It does not help that there is a stretch of road where the distance signs are whacked; you pass one that says "Dayton 3 miles," and then, a mile later, pass another one that says "Dayton 3 miles." It is the same way in the other direction, except the repeating sign says "Amity 5 miles." Sigh.<br /><br />Back at the Dayton market, the jokey cash register guy wanted to know if we needed to nap in the bathroom again. Maybe next time. It was getting dark and cold, and I was ready to be done. Back through the wetlands to Forest Grove, where I stopped for an ATM receipt, and then through the residential maze of Hillsboro to Marcello's home.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/4071279139/" title="And the moon rose over an open field by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2752/4071279139_884b107624.jpg" width="500" height="292" alt="And the moon rose over an open field" /></a><br /><br />By the time I was done, my mood was much improved. I was still ticked at Kevin (and let him know it), and was very upset about John's leg, but I was happy to have #11 in the bag and that I had never had to put on rain pants.<br /><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EbVKWCpNFhY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EbVKWCpNFhY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-14624977101998243082009-11-06T16:50:00.000-08:002009-11-06T20:08:23.557-08:00Bikenfest (Belated)In my ongoing game of blogging "catch up," I present you with a report of a ride I did more than a month ago. Let's see how my memory cells have held up, shall we?<br /><br />"Bikenfest" is my friend John Kramer's annual contribution to the Oregon Randonneurs' brevet season. For the last 4 years he has run it on the first Saturday of October, and for the last three years I have faithfully attended. The first year that I participated, the course was <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2007/10/bingen-bikenfest-blow-me-down.html">a windblown tour of south-central Washington</a>. Last year, the course was still in Washington, but <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2008/10/bingening-in-rain.html">we traded the wind for hills</a>. And rain. Lots of rain. Cold rain.<br /><br />This year, John designed a course that started in Oregon, but crossed back over the Columbia to Washington. We had wind, hills AND rain. What more could any rando desire?<br /><br />The ride started in Hood River. Greg and I decided to make a weekend of it, so we put the dogs in boarding and booked a room at the Oak Street Hotel. The hotel was two blocks from the start line. That is the only good thing can say about it. It was ridiculously over-priced. They like to say that it is "just like home." Well, in MY home, the bathroom has a door.<br /><br />Hood River is a goofy town. It's a bit like a SoCal beach town has been plucked up and plopped into the Gorge. But it is also still a pretty unsophisticated small Western town. Lots and lots of restaurants, none of which are very good. I mean, I am sure they are good compared with a diner in, say, Pasco. But don't go looking for anything much more sophisticated than edamame appetizers. There is, however, very good beer and the fried tofu at the Big Horse brewpub was quite tasty. So I carbo loaded on beer, fried tofu and sweet potato fries, and went to bed early.<br /><br />The weather report had been dicey all week. I'd finally decided to bring the regular rando bike, with its fenders and fatter tires. When I woke up Saturday morning, it was dry but I could tell that it had rained overnight. The skies looked iffy, so I decked out in rain gear. The it was off to locate some breakfast. Fortunately, Hood River does breakfast well; just down the street was a diner with early hours and excellent hash browns.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3981342883/" title="Breakfast by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2510/3981342883_e2258fbc4a.jpg" width="500" height="452" alt="Breakfast" /></a><br /><br />Well-sated with grease and salt, I headed off to sign in and faff around with my fellow riders. I had misread the start time, and so was early. It was chilly, so I decided to ride my bike around town for a while, just to keep my blood moving. Finally it was time to register, so I returned to the start line. About 11 other riders had arrived, and we all stood around shivering, waiting to get the signal to go.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3982106970/" title="Ian, Josh, Heather and Peg (riding) by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2627/3982106970_df4f61a94e.jpg" width="500" height="385" alt="Ian, Josh, Heather and Peg (riding)" /></a><br /><br />At last it was time. It would not be a Kramer ride if it did not begin with a climb. This time it was not so bad, however. We road up the hill through town, to the entrance to the Twin Tunnels section of the Historic Columbia River Highway. This section of the highway is open only to cyclists and pedestrians (and maybe horses, I am not sure). I was riding with my friends Lesli, Tom and Peg at this point; we would ride together off and on for the first 45 miles or so.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3981347483/" title="Lesli and Tom by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2553/3981347483_b40cf89e35.jpg" width="500" height="317" alt="Lesli and Tom" /></a><br /><br />For just under 5 miles, we rolled along a lovely wide paved multi-use path and through renovated historic tunnels. Less than a month before, there had been a large forest fire in the area (<a href="http://www.inciweb.org/incident/1866/">the "Microwave Fire"</a> - makes me think that it was started by someone who was not paying attention to their popcorn or something), and the smell of wet burned wood was almost overwhelming at times.<br /><br />The Twin Tunnels trail ends in Mosier, where we immediately started climbing again, this time up the aptly (and accurately) named "Seven Mile Hill." John had mentioned that there would be extended points on the climb where the slope exceeded 6%. What he neglected to mention was that by "exceed," he meant a double-digit incline. Hurray for triple-cranks and extended rear-cog gear ranges.<br /><br />We stopped at the hill's summit to answer the question on the control card and to admire a llama with Exorcist-like head turning abilities. Then it was a fast drop down into The Dalles. The road through The Dalles was a fairly busy road, and it was also apparently a killing field for family pets. I passed two dead house cats and one dead dog. The dog had clearly been recently killed, but whoever ht it was long gone. I stopped to check to see if it had tags; I know that if it had been my dog I would have wanted someone to call me. Sadly, although it had a collar, it had no ID. Sadly, I returned to my bike and rode on.<br /><br />The route passed through The Dalles and headed southeast for a loop through Petersburg, Fairbanks and Emerson. Around this time it started to rain. Hard. Although I had on rain gear, I still was soaked and cold. Sigh. I'd left Peg, Lesli and Tom behind at this point, and had caught up to another rider whose name I have forgotten but whose "International Orange" jersey, helmet cover and booties are hard to forget.<br /><br />There was an information control at Old Moody Road in Fairbanks, but none of the roads I passed were marked as that. After riding down the road a while, looking everywhere for a sign, I asked a passing driver if she knew where the road was. Of course, it was back about 3 miles. Another sigh. I turned back to go find it. About two miles into my return trip I encountered Peg, Lesli and Tom, who advised me that the road sign was not visible from the direction in which we had come, but that they had managed to locate it anyway.<br /><br />The four of us rode together for a few more miles, but I left them again as they undertook some wardrobe adjustments in Emerson. Soon I was back in The Dalles, where I stopped at a mini-mart for some snacks before crossing over the river into Washington. Herr Kramer arrived at the market while I was there to fill up some coffee carafes for the next control, which was staffed by Paul Whitney, who had driven west from the Tri Cities to check riders in at Maryhill.<br /><br />After crossing the river, I headed east toward Maryhill. The landscape in this section of the Gorge is pretty blasted looking. Sometimes literally blasted - I came across the remnants of a tree that appeared to have been struck by lightening recently.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3981350715/" title="Lightning Rod Tree by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3571/3981350715_ce37e48f56.jpg" width="458" height="500" alt="Lightning Rod Tree" /></a><br /><br />The wind was at my back, so I made good time to Maryhill, where I was greeted by lots of curious peacocks, Kramer, and Paul, who offered me some tasty homemade vegan banana bread. On the way to Maryhill, I had encountered several randos who had already been there and who were on thir way back to The Dalles. Paul told me that I was smack dab in the middle of the pack.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3982114240/" title="Juno and the Paycock by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2570/3982114240_e0973ec411.jpg" width="500" height="445" alt="Juno and the Paycock" /></a><br /><br />At this point I was beginning to feel kind of sick, in a respiratory, flu-ish way. When I mentioned it, Kramer offered to drive me back to Hood River, but I was not feeling so sick that I would accept a DNF. I had plenty of time left, and figured I could always stop and rest every few miles if I had to. Of course, I was not factoring the head wind that would hamper my progress west. More heavy sighing.<br /><br />And then it was back over the river, and back through the Dalles (again!) to Mosier, but this time by way of Rowena Crest. Did I mention that Kramer likes hills? The view from Rowena was, as always, spectacular.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3981360547/" title="Lil HW Jr at Rowena Crest by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2448/3981360547_2b2b2bc7cd.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Lil HW Jr at Rowena Crest" /></a><br /><br />I had a little trouble finding the entrance to the Twin Tunnels path from the Mosier side. I ended up at a trailhead a little further up the road, but that gave me a chance to use a restroom, so it turned out okay. It was starting to get dark just as I exited the trail on the Hood River end, but still light enough to allow me to speed down the double switchback into town. One more brevet on the books, one more notch in the R-12 belt. Fun times.<br /><br />The rest of my pictures are <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/sets/72157622516957750/">here</a>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-70530000217731892032009-10-10T13:27:00.000-07:002009-10-17T11:37:42.643-07:00I'm baaaaaaacckkk! Sort of.It has been suggested that I have been remiss in my postings; that there are people out there who look forward to reading about the various stupid things that I do on my bicycle, if only so that they might congratulate themselves on their comparatively greater stores of common sense. <br /><br />Yes. Well. Here's the thing. As unlikely as it may sometimes seem, I actually happen to have a life apart from cycling. That life includes a workday that, multi-modal commute included, stretches from 5:30 AM to 7:00 PM. It also includes a neglected but still productive garden, meals that must be cooked and clothing that must be washed. And, of course, a husband, two dogs and three neurotic cats. Actually, two neurotic cats and one certifiably psychotic one. So, as you might imagine, when somethings got to give, the blog is high up there on the list of what gives (along with housecleaning). I'm still riding (if not as much as earlier in the year), I just haven't been writing about it. <br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mC4jCjLjnPU&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mC4jCjLjnPU&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Until today. Luckily for those impatient readers, if not necessarily for myself, I've managed to come down with what bears all indications of being a mild case of the flu. "Mild" in that it is enough to keep me off the bike, out of the garden and in the house, but not so bad as to keep me confined to bed. So I figured that I might as well catch up on the ol' bike blog. Not that I have much to write about. Since <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/07/harry-callahan-was-right.html">my epic 1200K in July</a>, I've done very little in the way of bloggable riding (I am fairly certain that no one is interested in my daily commute or errands around town). But I do have two rides of some note to report on. The first was back in August (yes, yes, I know, August is soooo two months ago now), the second just last week. After a short break for some coughing, I will proceed directly to relate my August (if not august) Adventure.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SpPA73SZJYE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SpPA73SZJYE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Okay. Where was I? Oh, yes. August. For the past 28 years, Seattle's <a href="http://www.cascade.org/Home/">Cascade Bicycle Club</a>has hosted a multi-day ride from Seattle to Vancouver B.C. It was originally a three-day ride, and involved Vancouver Island, as well, <a href="http://www.cascade.org/EandR/rsvp/RSVP_About.cfm">but after some fits and starts it eventually got pared down to the more manageable two-day version now in place</a>. I participated in RSVP, as the ride is known (Ride from Seattle to Vancouver and Party) for the first time in 2007. It was a memorable, <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2007/08/oh-canada.html">and bloggable</a>, experience. I had to miss last year's edition, courtesy of some really crappy flight scheduling by Delta Airlines (an airline with which I shall never fly again), and so was really looking forward to riding this year - so much so that when on-line registration opened up on January 1, I was ready with my credit card (but not as ready as riding buddy Lynne, who I think signed up at 12:01 AM . . .).<br /><br />By the time August rolled around, however, I was beginning to wonder if I was yet again going to have to skip the ride. I was still feeling a little under the weather from my brush with <a href="http://dermatology.about.com/cs/hives/a/exana.htm">exertion-induced anaphylaxis</a> after the Gold Rush, and my friends Lynne and Jason were not going to be able to join me. But after a little waffling, I decided to pull up my big girl pants, invest in a large package of Benadryl and go on the ride alone. <br /><br />The ride started on Friday, August 14, from Magnuson Park in Seattle. Luckily for me, my brother had just moved into his new house less than 2 miles from the park, so I was able to stay there on Thursday, leave my car in his driveway, and ride my bike to the start. Earlier in the week, the weather forecast had been promising, and I had debated bring the "light" bike (i.e., the one with no fenders), but by Thursday afternoon it was obvious that we might get a little bit wet. So I defaulted to Lil' HW and <a href="http://store.somafab.com/tabrtrfe.html">her beautiful brass fenders</a>. As I drove up to Seattle Thursday afternoon, it started raining quite hard, and I congratulated myself on the choice. I had plenty of time to congratulate myself, because traffic was backed up from Olympia through downtown Seattle by multiple car crashes. I am always amazed by how poorly Oregonians and Washingtonians drive in the rain. You'd think they'd had enough practice by now . . .<br /><br />Friday dawned cool and cloudy, but not wet. As it turned out, over the two days we would have just a few sprinkles; enough to make me appreciate my fenders (and stay far back from those riders who did not have fenders) but not enough that I actually had to put on any rain gear. Along with about 1999 other riders, I set off up the Burke-Gilman trail, dodging joggers, dogs, tree roots and oncoming bike traffic. Unlike the 2007 ride, I noted that my fellow riders were being much more polite to other trail users. Perhaps it was the multiple warnings from ride organizers that riders caught practicing poor trail manners would not be allowed to ride RSVP ever again . . .<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831158848/" title="Early Morning on the Burke-Gilman Trail by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3569/3831158848_53bc9049fb.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="Early Morning on the Burke-Gilman Trail" /></a><br /><br />RSVP is a semi-supported ride. It has sag wagons, and each day has one "mini" rest stop and one full-size rest stop, but for the most part riders are on their own for nourishment. That's fine with me. After three years of randonneuring, I have become far less enamored of rides that have a full rest stop every 10-12 miles. Of course, the self-nourishment requirement meant that whenever the route passed a coffee shop, it was pretty much guaranteed that a flock of riders would be surrounding it. The first big coffee stop occurred in Snohomish, a town with a main street almost too cute for its own good.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830368319/" title="Bikers Invade Snohomish by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2520/3830368319_a066d9d60a.jpg" width="500" height="257" alt="Bikers Invade Snohomish" /></a><br /><br />Just outside of Snohomish, I detoured onto the Centennial Trail. The regular route would follow the main roads for a few more miles before moving onto the CT, but I preferred the quiet of the multi-use path and so moved onto it at my first opportunity. When I finally reached the portion where the ride route joined up with the CT, I was dismayed to see several emergency vehicles, a single crashed bicycle and a rider sitting on a stretcher holding something to his head. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831173202/" title="Ouch! by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3527/3831173202_3c75f63c8f.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Ouch!" /></a><br /><br />From the placement of the bike on the trail, I knew that the accident had not involved a motor vehicle, and there were no "bollards of death" near by, so I was at a loss to understand what had happened. And I never did find out; I assume if the cyclist had been badly hurt, it would have been the talk of the tour, so I am hoping that the fact that I heard nothing about it meant that he ended up fine.<br /><br />The first day's route is really quite lovely. There were a few trafficky sections between Seattle and Snohomish, but the roads were otherwise pretty quiet. Lots of rolling hills, but nothing too demanding. In the morning we had a couple of long climbs outsde of Woodinville and Arlington, just enough to build up an appetite for lunch.<br /><br />The "traditional" lunch stop on RSVP is the town of Arlington, where the main street is lined with diners. When RSVP rolls in, the town takes on the look of a bicycle equivalent of <a href="http://www.sturgis.com/">Sturgis</a>. At the time of my last visit to Arlington, I had not yet moved all the way over into Veganland, and so had not paid much attention to whether it was possible to get an animal-free meal there. This time around, it became obvious that the immediately recognizable restaurants were oriented more toward carnivores. I rode up and down the main drag looking at menus and noting the heavy emphasis on bacon. I finally stopped a woman who looked like a local and asked her, with little real hope, if she knew of any place in town with a meat-free menu. Much to my surprise, she immediately directed me to a honest-to-gosh vegan-friendly cafe, complete with LOTR decor and multiply-pierced servers. Yippie! (well, for the food, at least, not so much for the Gandalf candles).<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831176680/" title="All Items Can Be Made Vegan! by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3489/3831176680_5336eb133b.jpg" width="500" height="316" alt="All Items Can Be Made Vegan!" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830378743/" title="Lunch! by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2595/3830378743_6f7c190198.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Lunch!" /></a><br /><br />After scarfing down a delightful vegan "gyro," I saddled up and continued the journey north. From Arlington to Bow, the ride was pretty much uneventful. A few sprinkles to make me appreciate my fenders, and a strange encounter with a cramping rider who told me that he'd gone through EIGHT 30-ounce bottles of water in a little over 4 hours. I gave him a handful of Endurolytes and told him to look up "hyponatremia" in the dictionary when he got home. In Bow, I stopped for a good 20 minutes to watch some sheep dog training and play with puppies.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830720927/" title="Away to Me, Pig by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2597/3830720927_3db114f45d.jpg" width="500" height="405" alt="Away to Me, Pig" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831517882/" title="Oh! For a Larger Pannier . . . by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2663/3831517882_dd5e3c4d5d.jpg" width="500" height="460" alt="Oh! For a Larger Pannier . . ." /></a><br /><br />The last stretch of the day was the long (but gentle) climb up Chuckanut Drive, followed by the not-quite-so-long drop down into Bellingham, Washington, where we would spend the night. On the way up Chuckanut, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Susun (yes, two "U"s), who was riding the most incredible orange custom steel bike - a Boedie, I believe. I'd see Susun on and off for the rest of the weekend - it was hard to miss that bike!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831520208/" title="Suusan on "Pumpkin" by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2480/3831520208_92679c2e93.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Suusan on "Pumpkin"" /></a><br /><br />Upon arriving in Bellingham, I made my way to Western Washington University, where I had reserved a dorm room for the night. The room turned out to be on the 4th floor of a building with no elevators, which made me take back some of my earlier self-congratrulations for having decided to go with the "heavy" bike for the weekend. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830728939/" title="Fairhaven College by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2530/3830728939_bb8998d7b8.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Fairhaven College" /></a><br /><br />But I managed to haul myself and my gear up the stairs and after a nice long hot shower I headed back out to town for an early dinner. More specifically, I headed over to the Boundary Bay Brewpub, which brews vegan beer and has at least three vegan dinner items, which is three more than most brewpubs (salads and french fries do not count, I am talking about actual meals). <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830857597/" title="TRFKAF's IPA by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3550/3830857597_1137ba4113.jpg" width="404" height="500" alt="TRFKAF's IPA" /></a><br /><br />Unfortunately, the first sandwich I ordered did not match its menu description - it was supposed to be a faux BLT made with tempeh (yum) but when it arrived I learned that it had instead been made with <a href="http://www.lightlife.com/product_detail.jsp?p=smartbacon">Smart Bacon</a>, which is, in a word, horrid. It is what gives meat substitutes a bad name. It is pink cardboard. In short, it was NOT what I wanted for dinner. I am happy to report, however, that the server was responsive to my complaint and brought me a baked tofu sandwich, instead, which was quite delicious.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831655236/" title="Dinner, Day One by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2570/3831655236_c55680dfe7.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Dinner, Day One" /></a><br /><br />After dinner, I strolled back through the WWU campus to the dorm. WWU has an AMAZING sculpture collection, much of which appears to have been donated by a single patron. Serra. Noguchi. Naumann. All the big stuff big shots are represented.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3830868111/" title="Naumann - Stadium Piece by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2582/3830868111_50ec57c911.jpg" width="500" height="236" alt="Naumann - Stadium Piece" /></a><br /><br />I was up early the next morning, and hungry. The student running the check out desk was not sure if any restaurants in town would be open, but suggested I check out the school dining commons: All you can eat for $7. It turned out that I could eat a large bagel smeared with peanut butter, two bowls of oatmeal, a bowl of fruit, a plate of tater tots and 3 cups of tea with soy milk. Oink! As I rode out of town, I noticed that there were quite a few breakfast places open, all packed with cyclists. Maybe next year I'll try one of those.<br /><br />Less than an hour and half after eating breakfast, I was crossing the border into Canada. There was a special line just for cyclists. A guy a couple of places ahead of me was pulled out of line and told that he needed to go to the "special" section (ruh-roh). Later I heard a couple other riders saying something about him having to explain a DUII on his record. He may have regretted choosing to wear the Deschutes Brewery jersey that day. I, on the other hand, somehow managed to get through. Apparently I am not as much of a threat to World Order as I pretend to be.<br /><br />For me, the second day of RSVP is really more about getting to Vancouver than it is about sightseeing along the way. Partly this is because the route is not quite as scenic as on Day 1. The roads are busier, the surroundings more suburban than rural. But that does not mean that there was nothing to see. Indeed, since 2007, the route had undergone a major change in order to take advantage of the Golden Ears Bridge to cross the Fraser River from Langley to Maple Ridge. In the past we had to take the ferry, which, although quite fun, added a lot of standing-around waiting time to the day. The bridge is magnificent - the longest <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Extradosed_bridge">extradosed bridge</a> in North America. On first approach it did not seem all that special, because we were going through construction zones. But once we wheeled up the spiral access ramp, its fantastic cable-stays topped with golden eagles became visible.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831979408/" title="Golden Ears Bridge by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3544/3831979408_7771631cb3.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="Golden Ears Bridge" /></a><br /><br />Once over the bridge, the route became increasingly urban. I skipped all the rest stops, because I was anxious to get to Vancouver, aka the world's coolest city. I could see the skyline long before I was anywhere close; first I needed to transverse Burnaby, by way of the Francis/Union and Adanac Bike Routes. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831187381/" title="The Vancouver Skyline, as seen from Burnaby by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3450/3831187381_3b73038599.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="The Vancouver Skyline, as seen from Burnaby" /></a><br /><br />Once in the city, I picked my way through Chinatown and Gastown and worked my way over to the hotel that served as the finish line. My many walking adventures in Vancouver served me well here, because the route had not been marked with Dan Henry's (or if it was, they were no longer visible) and I'd lost the page of the route booklet that covered downtown. So I just rode the way I would have walked, and got there just fine.<br /><br />At the finish line party, there were no vegan options; if I wanted just a handful of potato chips, I would have still had to pay for a full meal. So I had a beer, relaxed on the grass, watched a baby raccoon navigate some nearby stairs, and then headed out to look for a real meal.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831981974/" title="TRFKAF at the Finish by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3425/3831981974_fa773dac4e.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="TRFKAF at the Finish" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831189037/" title="Dinner-Day Two by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2496/3831189037_89b108a345.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Dinner-Day Two" /></a><br /><br />On the way to the hostel where I had booked a room, I came across a couple of guys decked out like Ash from Evil Dead. Apparently there had been a zombie "flash mob" that had just broken up. I soon started to spot zombies everywhere, as well as bloody hand prints that showed where zombies had recently been. <br /><br /> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831983458/" title="Shop Smart: Shop S-Mart by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2638/3831983458_bdaeaa035d.jpg" width="417" height="500" alt="Shop Smart: Shop S-Mart" /></a><br /><br />After two days of riding, I was feeling a bit zombified myself, but still took time to wander all over town. I stopped for a beer in Yaletown, ate some tasty frites, admired the urban garden on Davie Street, and then heaed over to English Bay for the sunset. It was a perfect end to an almost-perfect weekend. The absence of Lynne and Jason prevented sheer perfection, but otherwise it was a great ride.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3831198037/" title="Sunset Over English Bay by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2532/3831198037_82155a635c.jpg" width="500" height="250" alt="Sunset Over English Bay" /></a><br /><br />The rest of my photos are <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/sets/72157622066541570/">here</a>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-41044032974872468092009-10-02T09:02:00.000-07:002009-10-02T12:13:48.241-07:00A Fine and Private Place - Emphasis on the "Private"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIN1n-Vh6r_WBYPhLURiOjIOIbPz4Utsz-duJfA4XgShb2USXAnSGc0mPi39JRofuCnwp_c-2GOdE3f201o0VanAKnVQrlp-E_bmkD7_2wbUIzkhQVtUfZmx5MYJzqdjNg3C2eLw/s1600-h/DSCF1611.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIN1n-Vh6r_WBYPhLURiOjIOIbPz4Utsz-duJfA4XgShb2USXAnSGc0mPi39JRofuCnwp_c-2GOdE3f201o0VanAKnVQrlp-E_bmkD7_2wbUIzkhQVtUfZmx5MYJzqdjNg3C2eLw/s400/DSCF1611.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348884779580124786" /></a><br /><br />I actually started this post back in June. At that time I was simply planning on talking about a part of my daily commute, for lack of anything more interesting. Then I got caught up in things, and this post got pushed to the side and forgotten. Recent developments reminded me about it, however, so I am dusting it off and putting it out for all to see.<br /><br />Here in Portland, we've got lots of great places to ride our bikes, either as commuters or as weekend road warriors. Riverview Cemetery is one such place. Almost every weekday morning I ride my bike up the hill from the Willamette River through the cemetery to get to the transit center where I board the commuter bus to Salem. The ride through Riverview is the highlight of my day. A mile and half of quiet roads winding through old tombs (cool!) and new flat gravestones (boring!). The grade is a gentle (mostly) 4% or so, with the occasional 11% pitch, and at 6:00 AM the only traffic is other cyclists and the random deer or coyote.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPo_6o_CFNM89_1gMLTOwES1HJX7huDjqIJlDDdkeDEUkoyh7iV0-Rx47-sc6Np7v7jzzQqOyt-jEGOV6cqP62jw4MYg5PJ0YFA9q-LPDXJa9CAd2_u7jH58lNAQp9WfLgblSiA/s1600-h/DSCF1615.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkPo_6o_CFNM89_1gMLTOwES1HJX7huDjqIJlDDdkeDEUkoyh7iV0-Rx47-sc6Np7v7jzzQqOyt-jEGOV6cqP62jw4MYg5PJ0YFA9q-LPDXJa9CAd2_u7jH58lNAQp9WfLgblSiA/s400/DSCF1615.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348886730959267874" /></a><br /><br />Most mornings on my way up the hill, I meet up with Lee Rogers, the cemetery's supervisor, as he makes his morning rounds. If I have time, I'll stop, and we'll chat about the weather and whatever critters we've seen that morning. Lee thinks it's great that cyclists use the cemetery, because the only other option for getting up the hill is a steep, winding road with no shoulder and lots of car traffic. Lee and I have also talked a lot about certain cyclists who are not content with a leisurely ride through the quiet cemetery hills but, rather, used the cemetery as their own private time-trial course, barreling through funeral processions and cussing out mourners who had the temerity to park their cars in the road. Worse yet are the cyclists that think that graves make good cyclo-cross hazards. Fortunately, the inconsiderate riders are in the minority. Unfortunately, they are ruining it for the rest of us.<br /><br />Lee had told me months ago that the cemetery management was being pressured by plot owners and mourners to close the roads to bicyclists. Management has resisted those calls so far, but last week they took a step toward controlling speeding cyclists by installing speed bumps in three places. Unfortunately, the execution of this plan was not very well thought out. The bumps are higher and less rounded than your typical speed bump, and for at least one day they were unpainted and had no warning marks. That led to several bike crashes, <a href="http://bikeportland.org/2009/09/23/new-speed-bumps-on-popular-cemetery-route-necessarily-dangerous/#comments">and an extremely vigorous debate on a local cycling blog</a>. Now the cemetery management is once again considering an all-out closure. Needless to say, that would be a huge loss to Portland cyclists. But I can understand the cemetery's position. It is, after all, private property, and we are trespassers upon it. And even though 90% of us are respectful of both the primary purpose of the land and of the extreme graciousness the owners have shown in allowing us to use their roads, it only takes one moron using a child's grave as a mogul to ruin it for the rest of us. And, sadly, just as in every other population subgroup, there are a lot of moron cyclists out there who treat Riverview as their own private Idaho. Thanks for nothing, guys.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/n7t7cGwN7_0&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/n7t7cGwN7_0&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-18739459673312698602009-09-08T19:52:00.000-07:002009-09-08T20:02:26.305-07:00Well, Yes, Yes, I am a Cycling Diva.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasxOT64EJ5gkfHEzhAE5nTP8dpDs9h_dN9AXiRP4T6q-bysR6gzKTnuOQ1WqT-1bwEBBT1kFVtLk6ClvfP-7bumgQbVOV3IQq8lHIlFd8JRut4tFCbb49DYPjLaG2HMVcwvmAJA/s1600-h/DSCF2216.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasxOT64EJ5gkfHEzhAE5nTP8dpDs9h_dN9AXiRP4T6q-bysR6gzKTnuOQ1WqT-1bwEBBT1kFVtLk6ClvfP-7bumgQbVOV3IQq8lHIlFd8JRut4tFCbb49DYPjLaG2HMVcwvmAJA/s400/DSCF2216.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379295611066028898" /></a><br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6fZRssq7UlM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6fZRssq7UlM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-38239757589291821632009-07-24T20:11:00.000-07:002009-07-25T21:51:04.902-07:00Aside From That, Mrs. Lincoln, How Did You Like the Play? Being Part Two of The Story of Cecil's Great Gold Rush Adventure.(This post is a continuation of <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/07/harry-callahan-was-right.html">a previous pos</a>t - you might want to read that first, or this will make little sense)<br /><br />And so I was on my way home. The wind was at my back. Sadly, so was a honking huge semi. Not 10 minutes after I left the Davis Creek turnaround, in a scene straight out of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MtAMc4i8OA">Duel</a>, a truck loaded with lumber came speeding up behind me. The driver started blasting his horn and revving his engine and then began to deliberately crowd me off the road. How do I know it was deliberate? First, because there was no oncoming traffic so he could have moved over into the other lane to pass me. Second, because once he pulled up beside me, he slowed until he was pacing me, waited there until I ran off the pavement onto the shoulder, and then accelerated and sped off, with another horn blast to make sure I got his point. I was too busy being terrified and trying to stay vertical to get his license plate number, but when I encountered a CHP officer a few more miles down the road, I gave him a full description of the truck and the incident, just in case the driver should do the same thing to other riders (I learned later that he had indeed crowded another group of riders, but not quite as closely as he had crowded me). What I didn’t say was that the driver could probably be identified by what I had to assume was an astonishingly small penis, because he was so clearly compensating for it by terrorizing female cyclists. On the bright side, I did not crash and the adrenaline rush woke me up and kept me awake all the way back to Alturas.<br /><br />In Alturas, I made good on my promise to visit the nap room, but I had barely reached semi-consciousness when a loud “Bang!” from nearby, followed by a rush of voices, startled me awake again. I briefly considered getting up to investigate, but that would have involved, well, getting up. Which I just did not feel like doing right then. I figured that if there were some real emergency, they’d come get me. When, half an hour later, I finally dragged myself back to the land of the upright, the volunteers on duty told me that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dust_devil">a dust devil</a> had blown through town, knocking all sorts of things over. Great. Apparently I was now going to have to deal not only with aggressive drivers, but with whirlwinds. Good thing I’d gotten that nap.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721073980/" title="Napping in Alturas by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2583/3721073980_3f832f22ab.jpg" width="500" height="446" alt="Napping in Alturas" /></a><br /><br />The stretch from Alturas back to Adin was singularly uneventful. The expansion cracks on the road did not seem as bad in this direction, but perhaps that was just because I was in a better mood. After turning off Centerville Road in Canby, I made a short detour to the mini-mart for a soda and some popcorn. I chatted with the clerk about the weather—a dust devil had destroyed their sign the day before—and the ride. Another customer came in to ask me why there were so many bicyclists on the roads; he’d been seeing them all day long. When I explained what we were doing, I got the usual “You’re crazy” response. Usually, I respond to such comments by protesting that I am quite sane, but at this point I did not think that I could credibly make that assertion. So I just smiled and shrugged. The other customer, a man who appeared to be in his 60s, then asked “So, you’re mostly college students?” Flatterer. I laughed and told him that most randonneurs were likely to have children in college (or even grandchildren), than be in college themselves.<br /><br />From Canby, I climbed back up and over Adin Pass and onto the flats, which were as demoralizing in the late afternoon as they were in the morning. The wind had shifted and was once again in my face and despite my efforts the turn off the highway into town was not getting any closer. My average speed had dropped significantly, most likely the result of fatigue and a severe calorie deficit. I’d been snacking on Clif Shots (Margarita flavored) and Gu (Orange-Vanilla “Roctane”), but I really needed solid food. I was hoping there’d be more of the veggie pasta left from the night before (I’d given up on getting any tofu).<br /><br />I arrived back in Adin just after 6:00 PM, which meant that I had covered 450 miles in 48 hours, for an overall average speed of 9.375 mph. Although that was well under the overall average of 12 mph that I strive to maintain on the shorter brevets, it was still fast enough to ensure that I would complete the 1200 within the 90-hour time limit. This time around, the contrôle was nearly deserted. There was only one rider asleep on a cot, and another eating dinner. Two more were leaving as I arrived. I had my pick of cots and, even better, one of the volunteers had gone out and purchased some hummus for me! Sweet! That, my drop-bag avocado, some tomatoes and a pita bread quickly became the best sandwich I’d ever eaten. While I was eating, another volunteer went out to his car and brought in a sleeping pad and sheet to make my cot more comfy. Sometimes being a slow rider has its perks—I was definitely getting red carpet treatment despite my red lantern-esque pace. After eating my fill of hummus, I washed my hair in the sink, changed into my pajamas and settled down for my first extended sleep (REM state and everything) in three days. Of course, by “extended” I mean two hours. But, oh, what a lovely two hours of oblivion. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720264851/" title="Napping in Adin by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3454/3720264851_d8a9989c9a.jpg" width="500" height="171" alt="Napping in Adin" /></a><br /><br />But nothing good lasts forever and the persistent beeping of my watch alarm finally forced me back into consciousness. While I had been sleeping, the other slow riders had come in (and some had already gone out) and it was apparent that the volunteers were just waiting for the rest of us to get going so that they could clean up and go home. I changed into yet another clean pair of shorts, jersey and socks, brushed my teeth, applied my various creams, unguents, lotions and goops, and was on my way.<br /><br />It was just a little before 9:30 PM, and the bright and full moon of the previous night(s) had given way to a not-quite-so bright and full moon. The previously crystal-clear skies had clouded a bit, as well, and so it was darker and the road less easy to follow. I did not mind the clouds, because they would help to keep the day’s heat from radiating away into the ether. As it was, I did not need my arm or leg warmers yet, especially because we had to climb for quite a while to get out of Adin and the exertion was quite warming.<br /><br />I was once again alone, but as I began the first of the night’s steep climbs, I noticed what appeared to be a bicycle’s red tail light not too far ahead of me. I had not recalled anyone leaving the contrôle ahead of me, so I was wondering who it might be. I then noted that the light did not appear to be moving and thought that perhaps the rider was having mechanical difficulties. When I finally reached the source of the mystery light, I discovered a single cyclist, standing astride his bike in the center of the lane, fumbling with a camera. “Look at the mooooooon,” he said,"‘isn’t it organic-looking?” Um, okay. I’m not sure “organic” was the word that immediately sprang to mind. He went on to tell me, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ozk7fnKilU">in a “have you ever really looked at your hand” sort of way</a>, about all the shapes he was seeing in the clouds as they passed over the face of the moon. I gave him a quick once over. Physically he seemed fine. He was wearing a jersey from <a href="http://www.londonedinburghlondon.co.uk/">the London-Edinburgh-London 1400K</a>, so I knew he had experience in these kinds of rides. As he started back riding, I could tell that he was steady on the bike because the beam of his headlight was tracking well and not waving all over the road. We rode together for a while, but he kept stopping to look at the moon and, frankly, I was not getting the same thrill out of it as he was. So when he dropped back on the next hill, I did not wait. We were not far from the Grasshopper water stop, and there was at least one sag van driving the route, and so I figured he’d be fine.<br /><br />When I got to the Grasshopper station, I told Lois and Bill that there was another rider coming, and described what he had been doing. Based on my description (including his dawdling to moon gaze), they said they knew exactly who it was, and did not seem at all concerned about him. That made me feel better about leaving him on his own. I did not spend a whole lot of time at Grasshopper on this pass, but was there long enough to eat what was quite possibly the tastiest instant oatmeal ever. I then grabbed a bag of pretzels for the road and was on my way. The skies had cleared and it was beginning to get cold. I was worried that if I rested too long I would stiffen up.<br /><br />From Grasshopper, the road descended steeply to Eagle Lake. I had put on my arm and leg warmers earlier, but even so I was a Cecil-Sicle by the time I reached the bottom. I was so cold that I did not warm up even when I began to climb back to Antelope Summit. I was again exhausted, which I expect is one reason I was more susceptible to the cold because, to be honest, it was only cold by California standards. But I was shivering nevertheless. I was also becoming very unsteady on the bike—my headlights were waving all over the place, proving that even though I felt like I was in control of my bike, I clearly was not. By this time I had reached the end of the long plateau that preceded the drop back down to Susanville and I was in no shape for that descent. It was time for drastic measures. I found a wide spot of shoulder, lay my bike down between me and the road (hey, I love my bike, but if a car were to veer onto the shoulder, I would rather it hit the bike than me), pulled my space blanket out of my bag, wrapped it around my shoulders and had myself a little sit down. About five minutes later, a sag van pulled up and the driver asked if I were okay. Yes, I told him, I just decided I needed to get off the road for a while. He wished me well and drove on. I gave myself a few more minutes and then moved on as well.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/v9XO2jCwLak&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/v9XO2jCwLak&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />I reached the outskirts of Susanville just after 4:30 AM. The sun was barely rising as I picked my way through the back streets to the Armory. When I finally reached the contrôle, I was surprised by how many riders were still there, including many that I had thought were significantly further ahead of me. Granted, many of them were on their way out as I arrived, but there were still quite a few in the hall eating, sleeping or otherwise faffing. I think that one or two of them may have been riders that had decided to quit, but most of the others appeared simply to be resting before the next leg.<br /><br />I once again perused the food options. It appeared that my best (and only) bet in the "hot food" category was a pot of spaghetti with tomato sauce that had a little Post-It note on it that read “Meatless.” There were also some cold roasted potatoes with olive oil and rosemary (yum!) and, of course, peanut butter. After a couple helpings of spaghetti and potatoes, I gathered up my toiletries and proceeded to take a much-needed shower. After almost 60 hours on the road, and despite frequent changes of shorts and jerseys, I reeked. The showers were in the men’s bathroom, so I had to wait until the coast was clear and then set up a little barricade outside the door. Because it was a National Guard Armory, the shower set up was your basic “long wall with multiple shower heads” set up; I hate to think what kinds of bacteria were growing on the floor. Fortunately, I’d packed shower shoes.<br /><br />After showering, I changed into fresh pajamas (drop bags are wonderful things) and lay down on a cot for another lovely nap. I was awakened by someone yelling something about sprinklers. Apparently, the spot where we had all place our bikes was being soaked by automatic sprinklers. As I started to get up to rescue Lil HW, Jr. (and TRFKAF) from the deluge, another rider who was already up told me not to worry, he knew what my bike looked like and would go get her for me. He shortly returned and pointed to the inside wall where he had leant her and showed me the towels he’d used to dry her off. What a nice guy –I wish I could remember who he was. I felt bad for TRFKAF, who had gotten drenched, but at least <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/03/no-more-ny-times-bags-for-this-bunny.html">he was wearing his Showers Pass jacket</a>.<br /><br />I had been in Susanville for more than two hours and it was once again time for me to get moving. Ahead of me lay the Janesville Grade, which I had so much enjoyed descending two days previous, knowing even then that I would pay for that joy later in sweat (if not blood or tears). But first I had to get through Janesville, which required a short trip on the very busy Highway 395, and then a stretch of rollers between the highway and Main Street. I stopped at the store for a soda, because I was feeling caffeine deprived and because, I’ll admit it, I was not quite ready to begin the climb up the grade.<br /><br />I went to the restroom, where I had an unpleasant surprise.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"> WARNING</span>: <span style="font-weight:bold;">Readers who are put off by discussions of the mysteries of women’s health would do well to skip this paragraph. </span><br /><br />As I mentioned at the beginning of my story, I am 48 years old. For about a year, I have not had a period. My doctor is not convinced that I have reached what Archie Bunker would call “mental pause,” but considers it possible. She is more inclined to believe that my periods have been put on hold by the stress I put on my body through cycling. Well, if endurance riding was the cause of my missed periods, then there is clearly a tipping point, because I was definitely having a period. It was a good thing that I was wearing the shorts with a dark chamois. It was also a good thing that I happened to be in a market that sold tampons. One unanticipated purchase later, and I was ready to tackle the Grade.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Okay, squeamish ones, you can start reading again. . . .</span><br /><br />I had delayed my ascent of the Janesville Grade as long as feasible. Waiting was not going to make it any less steep. Once I started the ascent, I realized that it really was not so bad. Granted, at points it had certain wall-like qualities, and there was one short portion where I had to get off my bike and walk for about 100 yards, but I chalk that up more to my general fatigue. Although there were rumors that sections of the Grade’s incline exceeded 20%, I don’t think it was ever any worse than any other hill that I have encountered. Indeed, I think that the upper portion of the second roller on Cole School Road is probably worse than anything on the Janesville Grade. But then again, I was more exhausted at this point than I’ve been on any other ride, and so any slope was magnified. As it was, my average speed up the hill was about 4 mph - not the slowest I've ever gone on my bike, but close. I even managed to pass a couple of other riders on my way up. I also took the time to look for my lost GPS but, sadly, I never found it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721076442/" title="Looking Down the Janesville Grade by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3423/3721076442_bd17cd3f47.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Looking Down the Janesville Grade" /></a><br /><br />I reached the top in much shorter order than I had anticipated. Of course, the "top" was that endless series of badly paved rollers I'd been so annoyed by on the way out. They were just as annoying inbound, but at least this time my path trended downhill. It was almost noon, and it was getting hot. And did I mention that I was tired? I eventually made it to the Boulder Creek Work Center, where I caught up with a few other riders, including fellow Or Rando rider Marcello Napolitano<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721077764/" title="Marcello at Boulder Creek by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3512/3721077764_0fd7c045b9.jpg" width="500" height="500" alt="Marcello at Boulder Creek" /></a><br /><br />I filled my water bottle, applied more sunscreen, ate some chips and set off around Antelope Lake and down the hill, through the burnt trees and rabbit tobacco, and back into Indian Valley.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720265401/" title="Rabbit Tobacco Regrowth by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2505/3720265401_458ffe6bd4.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="Rabbit Tobacco Regrowth" /></a><br /><br />I was jonesing for a Diet Coke, and was hoping that the Genessee store, which had been closed when I passed through two days earlier, would be open. As I approached the store, my hopes were raised by the sight of Marcello on the porch—I thought that he had been shopping. But no, the store was closed, and he had merely been resting on the porch. He rode with me for a while, but I was simply too tired to keep up with him, and he dropped me about five miles out from Taylorsville. I poodled along at my own slow pace, knowing that I'd get there when I got there and that when I got there it would be there. Yes, 900 kilometers into the ride and I apparently had turned into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ram_Dass">Ram Dass</a>.<br /><br />I finally reached the contrôle, where the volunteers were busy frying up bacon, eggs and potatoes for the 5 or 6 other riders already there. They had recently replaced the floor of the Grange Hall with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sprung_floor">a sprung hardwood floor</a>, so every time someone trod heavily upon it the whole floor bounced undulated. I started to get seasick. One rider started to try to deliberately make it happen, and I am afraid I snapped at him to stop it. He looked startled by my vehemence and backed slowly away.<br /><br />The woman I had spoken with on my first pass through was still there and she had saved me an avocado, some pasta and some great vegetable soup. I was starving, and quickly inhaled everything she brought me. After eating, I found my drop bag (this was the last of the drop-bag contrôles on the inbound route) and pulled out yet another clean pair of shorts and jersey. Thanks to frequent changes of shorts and Lantiseptic applications, I was remarkably unchafed and free of saddle sores and I wanted to keep it that way. It was starting to get very hot, so I took the ragged towel I'd brought in my drop bag and tore a square out of it, soaked it in water and put it under my helmet so that it draped down the back of my neck. Then, having somehow frittered away another hour, I worked my way back up and out of the valley toward Tobin,<br /><br />Once out of the valley, the route turned back onto CA-70 with its narrow shoulders and speeding log trucks. Apparently no one ever educated the log truck drivers on <a href="http://www.leginfo.ca.gov/cgi-bin/displaycode?section=veh&group=21001-22000&file=21750-21759">safe passing laws</a>. To add to my discomfort, I was having a negative reaction to the sunscreen I had applied in Taylorsville—my face felt like it was on fire, and no amount of wiping would relieve it. I was also becoming increasingly aware that the shorts that I had changed into at Taylorsville were not going to help me maintain my sore-free status. They were too big and the chamois would not stay in place. The friction was, well, it was not pleasant. Fortunately, I had a pair of shorts in my rear bag that I had worn a couple days earlier that were my best shorts. I turned off the road at the Twain Store, washed them out in the bathroom sink <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2527/3721171118_67212e8beb_b.jpg">and strapped them to my rear rack</a>. I figured they'd dry quickly enough in the day's heat that I could change back into them before disaster struck. I also checked to see if the store there had a different sunscreen, but they were fresh out, so I was going to have to just risk a sunburn. But at least I got a break from the Mr. Toad-like truck drivers.<br /><br />Apart from the log trucks, CA-70 is an incredibly scenic road. It runs along the North Fork of the Feather River and there are many cool things like <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3496/3721168366_1c811183ca_b.jpg">bridges, trains</a>, <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2547/3721167932_ffc15fcf4c_b.jpg">stamp mills</a> and <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2496/3720352361_53c5ccd17d_b.jpg">poisoned springs</a> to look at.<br /><br />Finally I reached the Tobin cotrôle, which I will say right now wins the prize for the best contrôle for slow riders. At all the other contrôles, the food options available for the slower riders had been, well, sort of picked over. It seemed as if they put out all the foods they had early on, so that when the fast riders descended like locusts, all the best stuff got eaten and we slower folks got the orts. But in Tobin the crew boss had deliberately held back portions of every menu item, so that slow riders got all the same food choices as fats riders. So in addition to the chips and peanut butter, there was pasta, rice, chicken, chili, vegetables and an AMAZING lentil-bean soup.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720356163/" title="Lentil Bean Soup at Tobin by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2470/3720356163_a159c55754.jpg" width="500" height="369" alt="Lentil Bean Soup at Tobin" /></a><br /><br />But as good as the soup was, I had to get going. I still had a long climb on CA-70 up through the Jarbo Gap that I wanted to do in daylight. So I ate one more bowl of soup, changed into my now-dry better shorts, and once again started down the road. Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was still beating down and the road was very exposed, so I was riding more slowly than usual in order not to overheat. I'd soaked my helmet towel before I left Tobin, but it dried out quickly. Of course, the fact that I had now been traveling for 74 hours with little real sleep may have contributed somewhat to my <a href="http://meanderthal.typepad.com/dope/images/banana_slug.jpg">slug-like</a> pace. The climb also seemed to go on for much longer than I remembered from my outward journey. But I finally made it to the top and, after a brief weird detour to check out a dome-shaped grocery store that appeared to be run by meth addicts, I was on the downhill run to Oroville.<br /><br />Outside of Oroville, I turned off the highway onto Table Mountain Road, which sort of paralleled the highway and sort of didn't. To my right I could see the lights of the highway and, eventually, of town, but the road I was on was itself strangely deserted. I knew that it was the correct road, because it was the same one we had followed to leave Oroville on the the outbound leg, but it was nevertheless disorienting to seem to be ridding away from civilization. Then, suddenly, I was in town and road traffic picked up considerably. After a brief detour to a 7-11 to pick up some batteries for my dimming tail lights, I reached the Oroville contrôle at about 10:30.<br /><br />As with all the other contrôles I'd hit on my inbound journey, Oroville was not nearly as crowded as it had been when I was thereon the outbound leg. But it was still pretty busy. The food tables had been pretty well picked over, but I rustled up a bagel and peanut butter, as well as some grapes and strawberries, and grabbed a Coke from the cooler. BUt just as I settled down to eat, I noticed that there was a massage table set up in the corner and a sign that said "FREE 15-minute massage." Food good wait, I was going to get me a rub-down! I was not sore or cramping, but I figured a massage could help to dissuade any leg cramps that might be developing. I did feel a little sorry for the masseuse, who had spent her entire day rubbing sweaty biker bodies, but not sorry enough not to force her to work on one more. Fifteen minutes later, feeling much more relaxed, I ate my bagel and fruit and then curled up in a comfy chair for yet another cat nap.<br /><br />I finally left Oroville shortly before midnight. I had 12 hours left on the ride clock and just under 93 miles to go. Although I was fatigued, I otherwise felt great. No cramps or muscle pain, no joint pain, and, surprisingly, no saddle sores or chafing. I briefly considered applying more Lantiseptic, but realized I had no more with me. Cue <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLAYvjaGGqM">ominous music</a> . . .<br /><br />Getting out of Oroville was itself an adventure. The streets were not well-lit or well-marked, and the turns were not intuitive. It was too dark to see the Dan Henry's, and I could not really on my cyclometer because I had accidentally reset it three separate times as I was trying to use its "navigator" function. Consequently, I kept having to stop and get my bearings, thus slowing my exit from town considerably. But out of Oroville I finally got, and I slowly picked my way through the dark along roads I barely remembered from my passage down them three days previous.<br /><br />I was in a zone somewhere between meditation and sleep as I passed through Gridley. I was snapped out of my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fugue_state">fugue state</a> by the loud growling of a dog that burst out of the bushes beside the road and came tearing after me. It was one of the dogs from the attacks earlier in the week. I began to scream at it to "Go home!," and pedaled like hell to get away. I knew that the authorities had been told about the previous attacks; I was very displeased that neither they nor the dogs' owner had seen fit to prevent further attacks.<br /><br />The adrenaline rush woke me up for the next few miles; long enough to get to the gas station/mini-mart that served as a "receipt contrôle." I purchased a soda and a snack, and because I was the 95th or so rider that the clerk had seen so far, I did not even have to ask for the receipt—the clerk automatically handed it to me. He then went outside and found me a milk crate to sit on while I dined. Three more riders arrived as I sat there, looking slightly worse for wear. I suppose I didn't look all that fresh, either. They were still eating as I left, but I was pretty sure I would see them again.<br /><br />I had less than 55 miles to go, and it was at this point that my body began to rebel. My stomach, which had been unusually calm throughout, started to churn, and my left Achilles' Tendon began to feel tender. More distressing, though, was that my nether parts were suddenly beginning to feel sore. It was only now that I appreciated the true magical qualities of Lantiseptic; just 40 miles without it and the skin over my sit bones had burst into flame. No matter how I positioned myself, I could not get comfortable. Then, as the icing on an already over-frosted cake, I fell asleep on my bike. At least I think I did. All I know is that one minute I was at one point on the road and the next I was many yards further down, on the wrong side of the road, without remembering how I got there. How I managed to stay upright and pedaling, and not crash, is beyond me. It was once again time for drastic measures. I rode along for a few more yards until I came to a spot where the shoulder extended into a flat space covered with soft wood chips. I set my watch for 30 minutes, pulled out my space blanket, rolled myself up like a <a href="http://sanfrancisco.grubstreet.com/super_burrito.jpg">giant burrito</a>, and settled in for the traditional randonneuring roadside ditch nap. Or as much of a nap as was possible when every passing driver stopped and woke me up to see if I was okay.<br /><br />My alarm went off, and I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started all over again. By this point my space blanket was shredded, so rather than try to refold it I just wadded it up and stuffed it in my pack. The sun had risen and that helped to revive my spirits. A few miles down the road, I caught up with a group of riders that had passed me while I was sleeping. I was very happy to have companions for a while. Talking helped the time and distance go by faster, plus it helped me to stay awake.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721295750/" title="Red Lantern Peloton by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2654/3721295750_683b592a2e.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Red Lantern Peloton" /></a><br /><br />Together we pedaled past the rice paddies on Reclamation and Kirksville Roads, where I spotted not only a snowy egret but also a small flock of what appeared to be cormorants. As we reached the levee, we came upon another "secret" contrôle (actually a fairly poorly-kept secret, since its existence, if not its exact location, had been the subject of numerous announcements). Three volunteers had set up a tent and were dispensing coffee and more snacks. I stopped briefly to use the blue room and eat some raisin bran, but was anxious to keep going and so did not stay to socialize.<br /><br />After leaving the secret contrôle, I turned left onto the levee road and immediately posted off my saddle in pain. The pavement on the road was atrocious and the vibration was more than my bottom could bear. I quickly realized that there was no way that I was going to be able to stay seated. So I stood. For the next 28 miles. Because it was not just the levee road that sucked, but also the road through Knight's Landing at the end of the levee, and the road from Knight's Landing to Woodland, and the road from Woodland to Davis. So there I was, pedaling standing as long as I could, and then, still standing, bracing my leg against the seat to coast. Pedal, brace, coast. Pedal, brace, coast. Pedal, brace, coast. For 28 fucking miles.<br />I did not burst into tears at any point, but came damn close. <br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bww2prhAWEA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bww2prhAWEA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />Two miles from the end, I sucked it up and sat for a final sprint. Those were the longest two miles of my life. When I reached the final contrôle at Tandem Properties, I could not even muster a weak smile. As I turned my card in for the final validation, one of the workers asked if I was elated to be done. Um, yeah, elated. That's the word I was looking for. No, I was not elated. I was too tired and too saddle sore to be elated. But I was done. Elation would have to come later.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720483509/" title="1200 kilometers in 87 hours, 30 minutes by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2657/3720483509_4e147244f4_b.jpg" width="1024" height="482" alt="1200 kilometers in 87 hours, 30 minutes" /></a><br /><br />And so my adventure was over. I'd ridden 1200 kilometers in 87.5 hours, with no lasting damage. Or so I thought. Cue <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sSRJvq4Wd48">more ominous music . . .</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">DENOUEMENT:</span><br /><br />My friend Lisa had driven out from San Francisco with Greg to pick me up at the finish, and my Dad came out from Sacramento. The four of us went to the post-ride lunch, but did not stay for the festivities because I was starting to fade. I was also starting to lose my voice. I chalked that up to four days of sucking dry high-desert air and the occasional screaming at dogs. My legs were doing their usual post-ride swelling, a phenomena I had noted over the years but which my family doctor had been at a loss to explain. So we decided to bag on the party and head back to the City. Greg drove out car and we followed Lisa to her house in the Sunset District. As the day wore on, I found it more and more difficult to talk, and my stomach, diaphragm and chest felt oddly compressed. But I had been eating a lot of starches and figured I'd just over-stuffed myself. I went to bed and fell asleep quickly.<br /><br />The next morning I woke up, went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror and almost screamed. My face had turned into a balloon: all the tissues were swollen as if filled with water. When I tried to talk, my voice was completely gone. Yikes! My legs were still swollen, and so were my hands. Double yikes! I had a massage scheduled, so I asked the masseuse to see if she could get the swelling down. She managed to get my legs and arms in better shape, but could not do anything about my face. So I went back to the house and lay down with a bag of ice over my eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncujCK-WI4q-BShhoTANCXFdNkUmBO_GDxp47SigriD8FDnHYDdfnkaKUhEyfGjrbZmG3ddF1n-9qDLpsZEsRUwZthMKKS7_hQ-YGkrQtJY2GJWYPPO55vMrxGv_0ojW0biUTlw/s1600-h/DSCF1840.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncujCK-WI4q-BShhoTANCXFdNkUmBO_GDxp47SigriD8FDnHYDdfnkaKUhEyfGjrbZmG3ddF1n-9qDLpsZEsRUwZthMKKS7_hQ-YGkrQtJY2GJWYPPO55vMrxGv_0ojW0biUTlw/s320/DSCF1840.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362616808367376626" /></a><br /><br />That seemed to help a little. At least I could open my eyes. So after a short nap, I got up and we all went out to lunch and to see a show by the <a href="http://www.sfmt.org/index.php">SF Mime Troupe</a> in Golden Gate Park. I was starting to feel weird again, though, so when we went back to the house I tried to take another nap. But I could not sleep because I was finding it harder and harder to breath. I felt as if all my internal organs were being squashed. After some discussion, we decided that I really should go to the local Kaiser ER/Urgent Care. Greg and I were supposed to start the drive back to Oregon the next day, and I was clearly in no shape to drive.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KEYXOlUBtn8&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KEYXOlUBtn8&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />When we got to the ER, I explained to the triage nurse that I had just completed a very long bike ride in the mountains and was now having a hard time breathing. Within minutes I was on a gurney, hooked up to an EEG machine and having several tubes of blood extracted from my arm, as a steady stream of hospital personnel came in to see the freak who had just ridden her bike 750 miles in less than four days. After the EEG, I was whipped down the hall to X-Ray for a lung picture. Then it was back to ER, where they hooked me up to a heart rate monitor (the alarm on which was promptly triggered because my resting heart rate is 44, and the alarm sounds if the patient's heart rate drops below 50). A few minutes later, the ER doctor came in and said "<a href="http://resources.metapress.com/pdf-preview.axd?code=v05444g288236546&size=largest">exertion-induced angioedema</a>." Say what? "Your body is having what, in laymens' terms, could be described as an allergic reaction to exercise." I'm allergic to exercise? "You're allergic to <span style="font-style:italic;">extreme</span> exercise." So what do I do? "Well, you might start by avoiding extreme exercise. And take Benadryl."<br /><br />So they gave me some Benadryl, and eventually I could breathe again. Talking was still impossible; at best I could get the random sentence out. But I was cleared to drive. It took quite a few days for the facial swelling to subside, and my voice was raspy for almost a week. But now I know what was causing my legs to swell on my "shorter" rides; it just took a 1200K to bring the condition to a head. And that means no more 1200K's. I love long-distance riding, but it's not worth the risk of anaphylactic shock. Am I sad that I won't be doing PBP in 2011 after all? Damn straight I am. But I can't "always have Paris" if I'm dead.<br /><br />So that's it. I now know my limitations. But at least I can say I've done one 1200K, and it was a hell of a ride.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PJgDhD0qjts&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PJgDhD0qjts&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-23397477659448329572009-07-22T17:40:00.000-07:002009-07-28T04:44:35.222-07:00Harry Callahan Was RightSome people just never learn. I am one of those people. At 48, I simply assume that I can still do anything that I did at 18—an assumption that holds up as long as I don't actually test it. For instance, I am pretty sure I can still do a front handspring, but I am not about to try it any time soon. One thing I do know now, however, is that I can ride my bike a distance of 1200 kilometers (that's just under 750 miles for the metrically-impaired) in less than 90 hours. The following is the story of that latest experiment to discover my limitations.<br /><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cZNlraF0xec&hl=" fs="1&color1=" color2="0xcd311b" width="480" height="385" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed><br /><br />It’s been twelve days since I peeled myself off the seat of Lil’ HW Jr. at the finish line of the 2009 Gold Rush Randonnée, and I still have not decided how I feel about my accomplishment.Was it the most awesome thing that I had ever done, or the dumbest? And how does the fact that, 36 hours after crossing the finish line, I found myself in a hospital ER with a face like a pumpkin, hooked up to a heart monitor and gasping for breath factor in to the answer to that question? And (with apologies to Chris Carmichael) how sick a f**k am I that, even then, I took pride in the ER personnel’s astonishment at my cycling abilities? Anyway, without further ado, here is the latest installment of that ongoing series, “Stupid Shit I’ve Done on My Bike.”<br /><br />For the uninitiated, the Gold Rush Randonnée is a 1200-kilometer endurance ride that is put on by the Davis Bike Club, an organization known for its penchant for inflicting pain in the form of extreme cycling challenges. The term "randonnée" loosely translates as a ramble, at least when used to described a walking tour. A "randonnée à vélo," on the other hand, is a long bike ride that may or may not have time contrôles. This particular randonnée was of the timed variety—riders would have 90 hours to complete the course.<br /><br />The GRR route begins in Davis, California and heads northeast through the Sierra Nevada to Davis Creek, California (someone in the DBC clearly has a sense of geographical humor), within spitting distance of Oregon (although Oregonians are more likely to spit on California than vice versa, I suppose). In addition to extreme distance, the course has a few hills. Okay, a lot of hills. As an added plus, most of the riding is at altitudes exceeding 4500 feet. Factor in the notorious heat of the North Central California summer and the 90-hour time limit and you have all the ingredients for an epic painfest. So of course I signed up for it as soon as I learned that registration was open.<br /><br />There was a method to my madness, however. You see, I’ve had this whacked idea that in 2011 I would fly to France to ride the Paris-Brest-Paris Randonnée, the grand-père of all randonnées à vélo (as my French co-worker said, “The PBP? Why, that is the most famous of all amateur cycling events!”). Anyway, I thought that before I shelled out a zillion Euros to kill myself on the roads of Normandy, I’d better be sure I could go the distance on a course a little closer to home. So I signed up for the GRR and began riding my a** off in preparation. I extended the mileage of my morning commute, and found all the steepest hills between home and the transit center. More important, I completed a full series of sanctioned brevets (200, 300, 400 and 600 kilometers), the necessary prerequisite to ride the GRR. <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-am-not-dead-therefore-i-must-be.html">The 600</a> was itself an epic painfest and, indeed, ended up being the perfect training for the GRR.<br /><br />The months flew by and before I knew it (and well before I was ready to accept it), the GRR was upon me. Although I did not have to actually start pedaling until 6:00 PM on July 6, my ride preparations started at least two weeks earlier. First, I dropped Lil’ HW, Jr. off at the mechanics for a new front wheel and a complete physical and any necessary repairs. At the pace I ride, I cannot afford any mechanical failures. Next, I obtained a “packing list” from my friend <a href="http://readytoride.biz/">David Rowe</a>, who is a regular treasure trove of long-distance riding information. The list was one he had developed over several 1200Ks and detailed what he carried on his bike, on his person, and in his drop bags. One less wheel for me to reinvent! I went down the list and packed (and shopped) accordingly. I was more concerned than usual about carrying too much weight on the bike (or my person) than usual. On a 600K or shorter, an extra pound or two may not make much of a difference, but I assumed my fatigue with each added 100K would magnify any excess weight. I decided to carry less “Cecil-specific” food (no boiled potatoes, no tofu jerky) in the hopes that the ride organizers would have heeded my e-mails about making sure the contrôle food pantries were stocked with vegan options. I also decided to forgo rain pants, heavy gloves and booties. I figured that if it did rain, it would be in the form of brief mountain thunderstorms that would soak me before I was able to suit up, anyway. I did pack a light jacket, more to ward off evening chill than rain. Having collected all the appropriate gear, I obsessively packed and repacked until I was positive that I could not possibly need (or carry) anything more.<br /><br /><a title="Drop Bags, etc. by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720867464/"><img height="322" alt="Drop Bags, etc." src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2507/3720867464_4315ecaa02.jpg" width="500" /></a><br /><br />And then it was time to go. Saturday, July 4, we packed up the car, strapped Lil’ HW Jr. to the rack, and headed south.<br /><br /><a title="Gold Rush or Bust by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720867808/"><img height="305" alt="Gold Rush or Bust" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3535/3720867808_0c20a5da35.jpg" width="500" /></a><br /><br />We spent the first night in <a href="http://latinolikeme.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/marijuana.jpg">Weed</a>, California (really, how could we not?) and arrived in Davis late Sunday afternoon. I’d booked a room at the Hallmark Inn, which was about two miles from the ride start and which was offering steep discounts to GRR riders and, perhaps even more enticing, free alcohol from 5:00 to 7:00 every night. Consequently, there were more than a few riders already there when we arrived, including a gentleman named John Evans from Australia, who had flown in on the spur of the moment to do the ride, without having pre-registered. To add to his craziness, he intended to do the course on a fixed-gear bike. I was impressed by his nerve. I was even more impressed by his “Super Grover” jersey because, as anyone who knows me knows, I am the world’s greatest Grover fan. What I did not know at the time, but which (now knowing it) impresses me even more, is that he was not any “John Evans,” but was (is?) THE John Evans, former keyboard player for Jethro Tull. For his sake, he’s probably lucky I did not know it, because I would have inevitably subjected him to some really annoying fan-girl questions about Ian Anderson's penchant for codpieces. It does, however, partly explain how he can afford to fly halfway around the world on a whim to ride his bike. His fixed-gear bike. Sheese. Clearly he's no <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5wiSWhPzdl8">Aqualung</a>.<br /><br /><a title="Crazy Aussie by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720057785/"><img height="465" alt="Crazy Aussie" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2515/3720057785_f992bc1a91.jpg" width="500" /></a><br /><br />My father, who lives nearby in Sacramento, came out to meet us on Sunday evening for dinner. He brought me some delicious figs from his tree at home, which he intended that I put in my drop bags but all of which I managed to eat within three hours of his arrival. I justified my gluttony with the excuse that they were far too tender to survive the rough treatment the drop bags would most likely receive in the loading and unloading process. After dinner, Dad headed back to his home and Greg and I dropped into the hotel bar for a beer with the other riders gathered there. I only had one, and then hied myself up to our room for an early bedtime. I hoped to sleep in on Monday, but was up at dawn as usual. Damn those circadian rhythms. It was going to be a long day. I figured I might as well go down and check out the free breakfast bar; after all, I was in calorie-loading mode. Oatmeal with cranberries and orange juice? Sure! (Don't knock it until you've tried it). Bagel with peanut butter? Okay! Fresh fruit salad? Don't mind if I do! I shared a table with a couple of the other women riders (there were about 14 of us signed up) who proceeded to alienate me with their vows to complete the ride in less than 75 hours. More power to 'em, I guess, but that just ain't my style . . . to ride that quickly, I'd have to stop taking so many pictures, for one thing. Stuffed, I went back to the room, checked through my drop bags one more time, and pretended to nap long enough to fool myself into actually falling asleep. I got up shortly before noon, and gathered my gear together to ride over to the start line for the mandatory equipment inspection. Greg followed me in the car with my drop bags, which I would be leaving there for delivery to their respective contrôles. I'd never had a pre-ride bike inspection before, and so I was not sure what to expect. It turned out to be a couple of guys in white gloves check to see that nothing rattled on the bike, that we had all the required lighting systems and no obvious hazards.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720871858/" title="Pre-Ride Bike Inspection by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3434/3720871858_8571aebb2a.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="Pre-Ride Bike Inspection" /></a><br /><br />They were a little concerned about <a href="http://www.twofish.biz/pdf/StainlessCages.pdf">the third water bottle cage that was fastened to my top tube with a velcro strap</a>, but okayed it when I assured them that I was not planning on trying to get the water bottle out of that particular cage while the bike was in motion. They were very impressed with Lil' HW Jr. ("That's a beautifully-constructed bicycle." "Why, yes, I know."). I got my card stamped to show that I had passed inspection and turned it back in. I would get it back that evening when I returned for the start. I retrieved my swag bag—t-shirt, cool leg reflectors, rider number and bike/helmet stickers—and headed back to the hotel. I still had five hours to go before the start, and I was restless. I tried to nap again, but no go. So Greg and I took a stroll around town, found a quasi-vegan cafe where I had some lovely curried rice, and fooled around with the public art.<br /><br /><a title="Fun with Street Art by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720871060/"><img height="500" alt="Fun with Street Art" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2559/3720871060_45aebbe982.jpg" width="290" /></a><br /><br />Then I went back to the hotel, took a short swim in the pool and made another futile stab at napping. Finally, 5:00 PM rolled around, the time I had designated to leave the hotel for the start line. Greg bade me farewell at the hotel, because he knew that once I got to the start I would be no fun to be around; apparently hanging out in the hot sun with an anxious cyclist-wife in full-OCD mode is not his idea of a good time. Sensible man.<br /><br />The start area was already crowded when I arrived. I recognized a few friends from Oregon and Washington (five of us had come down from Oregon, and there were at least another five from Washington), and met up with a couple California riders that had come up to Oregon for rides. One rider came up and asked if I was one of "the famous Oregon Randonneurs." I was not sure what gave me away, because I was not wearing any OrRando gear. It must have been the moss behind my ears. Either that or my wool jersey and fully-fendered bike. It turns out that he had come up for our very soggy "Hot Springs and Dunes" 300/600 in 2007. He had been impressed by our riders' implacability in the face of unceasing rain.<br /><br />Earlier in the day I had met <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2518/3720871496_4bd27cc669_b.jpg">Edward Robinson</a>, a rider and RUSA Board member from Texas. I'd recently been nominated for a seat on the Board (Vote for Me!), and after hearing someone say my name during the bike inspection he had come over to introduce himself. Now at the start we met up again; he wanted to know if I was ready. "As ready as I'll ever be."<br /><br /><a title="Happy at the Start by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720105559/"><img height="442" alt="Happy at the Start" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2565/3720105559_4d377cd4fe.jpg" width="500" /></a><br /><br />And then it was time. After some rule announcements, instructions in the proper use of an ice sock, warnings about road hazards and introductions of returning riders, we gathered at the "blue line" and waited for the signal to start. It was the largest mass start I'd done, and I was a little concerned about the crowding. I found a place at the rear of the pack; after all, I'd be there sooner or later, I might as well get used to it. And then we were off. 105 anxious riders, a clear warm evening, and 750 miles of pavement stretching before us. It was, as my friend David would say, time for <a href="http://www.rideofyourlife.biz/">The Ride of My Life</a>™. I gave TRFKAF a pat for good luck, clipped in, and pedaled away. My goal was to get to the contrôle in Adin, 500 kilometers away, before taking any extended rest. In theory, if I did not screw around too much at the intermediate contrôles, I could get there in 30 hours. By then I would NEED an extended rest.<br /><br />For the first 20 mile or so, we zigged and zagged around the outskirts of Davis on county roads that bordered fields of sunflowers and what appeared to be a variety of Roma tomatoes. LOTS of sunflowers. LOTS of tomatoes.<br /><br /><a title="Sunflowers by cecilanne, on Flickr" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720918240/"><img height="491" alt="Sunflowers" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2438/3720918240_5e3d1f9470.jpg" width="500" /></a><br /><br />Also lots of chip seal and gravel. Shades of home. Not to long into the ride we were flagged down for a "secret contrôle." Apparently there were some short cuts that local riders may have been tempted to take; the secret contrôle was a way of, well, controlling that. It was around this point that the main pack pulled away from me for good and I settled into my familiar routine of "rando à solo": not fast enough to hang with the main group, but not quite la lanterne rouge, either. I did not mind. It was a pleasant evening—warm, but not too warm; breezy, but not too breezy. I poodled along at about 17 miles an hour, a comfortable pace that would keep well within the time limits. I knew that there would inevitably come a time when I would be enjoying the ride quite so much, so I milked this moment for all it was worth.<br /><br />At Mile 30, the route turned onto the levee bordering the Sacramento River. The pavement took a turn for the terrible, and the mosquitoes swarmed around the street lamps. But not around me. Perhaps it was the Lantiseptic. Large swaths of the grass on the levee’s sides had recently been burned, and there was still a strong order of smoke in the air. I held my breath as much as was possible while engaged in aerobic activity, and got past it without too much discomfort. At the end of the levee road, the course turned east. This time the bordering fields weren’t fields at all but, rather, rice paddies. The moon was rising, and promised to be full and bright. I had caught up with a few riders who had slacked off their earlier fast pace, perhaps realizing that, with over 700 miles still to go, there was no point in burning themselves out.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720107627/" title="Riders and Moon by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2563/3720107627_076b12d3cb.jpg" width="500" height="458" alt="Riders and Moon" /></a><br /><br />At Mile 45, there was a stop that was marked on the cue sheet as “water only.” By that they meant that only that it was not a timed contrôle—there was actually much more than water available for hungry and thirsty riders. There were some snacks of the basic pretzel, chip, gorp, Clif bar variety, as well as coolers full of soda. I grabbed a Coke (a “real” Coke, not Diet Coke—some readers had pointed out the incongruity of my sticking to diet soda on extended rides and so I thought I’d give the high fructose corn syrup version a try) and gnawed on a Clif bar. Edward Robinson was there, he had been about to leave when I arrived, but he stuck around long enough for me to finish my snack so that we could ride together for a while. I knew that this required him to slow his pace considerably, so I appreciated that. It was getting dark and although I am not afraid to ride alone at night, it is sometimes fun to have someone else around. Especially when I am in unfamiliar territory and have forgotten to flip my cue sheet to the next page; Edward helpfully called out each turn well in advance so I did not have to worry about getting lost.<br /><br />We were still in the flats, and would be for another 50 miles or so, so we set a pretty good pace (for me, at least). We twisted and turned through the towns of Sutter (another secret controle!) and Gridley. On East Gridley Road (I think), we were attacked by two large dogs that bolted out of a yard on the roadside with murder in their eyes. Edward and I had just been talking about our own dogs and we both employed our best dog command voices to yell at these curs to get the hell away and go home. I could hear what sounded like their owner whistling for them, but did not see him (or her) make any attempt to actually come out and corral the canine terrorists. We escaped unscathed, but another rider was not so lucky—we encountered him a few hundred yards further up the road, where he and his companions had stopped to inspect the bite wounds he’d received. He did not want to lose time, so was not stopping; but confirmed that he would report the incident to the proper authorities as soon as he reached the next contrôle. <br /><br />The next contrôle was in Oroville, where the organizers had taken over the local sports club. There was food and drink a-plenty, as well as showers for the overly fastidious. Edward and I had been discussing “control efficiency,” which is not my strong suit, and our goal was to get in and out of Oroville with a minimum of fuss. Of course, my concept of minimal fuss still involves an excessive amount of fussing and faffing, so it still took me almost 15 minutes to get going again. I changed shorts, reapplied various unguents, drank some juice of a variety I cannot recall, ate half a bagel and some watermelon, and was finally ready to go. It was well and truly night by now, but the moon was so bright that, if it weren’t against the rules, we could have ridden without headlights. <br /><br />Within a few miles of leaving Oroville, we turned onto CA-70 and the route took a turn for “up.” It also took a turn for nerve-wracking, as we entered into a prolonged session of “log truck dodge-em.” Apparently, CA-70 is a major artery for the logging industry and, despite the late hour, we were forced to share the road with a seemingly endless procession of speeding log carriers. They were all empty, so they must have been heading for the cutting zones to gather logs. More than a few of them were completely covered in lights, as if trying out for the Paul Bunyan float in Disneyland’s Electrical Parade. It made for a pretty sight that I probably would have appreciated more if I were not so terrified of being run over. We were pretty well lit up ourselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720920434/" title="Night Riders by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2634/3720920434_4f38ddf478.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Night Riders" /></a><br /><br />Our first long climb of the ride was up through the Jarbo Gap, a long and gentle ascent followed by an even longer but equally gentle descent. Edward and I caught up with some other riders here: Jeff Loomis, who had come down from Seattle, and “locals” Kim and Jack. Kim explained that she had done a 1200 before, but not since 1999. What she didn’t tell me, but what Jeff was quick to point out, is that she had ridden PBP three times. I was suitably impressed. The good company made the climb go quickly, but I eventually pulled ahead and was again on my own for a while. I can’t help it—give me a long enough climb and I can lose most of my riding companions. We all met up again at the next contrôle in Tobin, however. At Tobin, the volunteers were cooking up breakfast. Most of the offerings were decidedly non-vegan friendly, but there was a large pot of oatmeal, which, after ensuring that no milk was used in the cooking, I happily tucked into. <br /><br />I had ridden 144 miles, and at a pretty good pace. My “In” time for Tobin was 4:59 AM, which meant that my overall average speed was 13.5 mph, well over the overall average necessary to complete the ride in the time allotted (slightly under 8.5 mph). I was well ahead of the closing time for the controle, and so I decided to reward myself with a short rest in a comfy chair. I figured I could spare 45 minutes. Edward wanted to keep going, so I thanked him for his earlier company and settled down for a quasi-nap. I was too wired to actually sleep, but I at least closed my eyes. Sharing the cushy chair area with me was fellow Or Rando rider Sam Huffman. Sam was not having a good day. Early in the ride he had wiped out on some gravel and ripped up his hands and legs—he’d kept riding, but was in a lot of pain. At the time I saw him, he was planning on continuing, but I later learned that he had opted to DNF after all.<br /><br />Even allowing myself the 45-minute sit down, I was still up and out of Tobin in less than an hour. The sun was up, and time was a-wasting. From Tobin it was another 50 miles or so to the next contrôle in Taylorsville. Taylorsville was the first of our three “bag-drop” controles, and I was looking forward to picking up a fresh pair of shorts, a clean jersey, and a new supply of Lantiseptic packets. I was also looking forward to munching on the avocados in my drop bag. To get to Taylorsville, I first had to endure another 26 miles of log truck intimidation on CA-70, though. Between the absent shoulder and aggressive truckers, it was more like Terror Alley than I would have liked. At least it was daylight. <br /><br />Finally I turned off CA-70 and onto Highway 89 toward Greenville, down in the Indian Valley, where I would find the only information contrôle on the ride. I had been playing leapfrog with Kim and Jack between Tobin and Greenville, and caught up to them again as they were filling in the answer to the controle question on their cards. Both Kim and I were in need of water. A woman was sitting on the front porch of a nearby house, and Kim asked her if she had a hose or something we could fill up at; she let us go into her kitchen and get water from the tap. Kim and Jack then moved on, while I took time to apply yet another layer of sunscreen. There was no cloud cover and we were above 4000 feet, which meant that, delicate Northern European flower that I am, I was at risk for some serious burning. Suitably slathered, I saddled up and rode on. From Greenville, I continued to circumnavigate the Indian Valley toward Taylorsville, where the Grange Hall served as the location of the next contrôle. Greg, who has a weird fascination with grange halls, would have approved. Once again, there was plenty of food, but most of it was not vegan friendly. I did find some instant miso soup to augment my drop-bag avocado, and had the usual handful of chips. On of the volunteers did locate some tofu, but it was the silken variety that is best used as a base for dips and sauces—as a main dish, its texture is kind of well, icky. I declined it, and the volunteer told me that she’d see what they could rustle up for when I returned on the inbound portion of my journey. She was quite impressed with my avocado option, noting that not only did it pack a heck of a lot of nutrients per serving, but was one of the most easily-digestible foods available. Not like I needed any further rationalization for eating a whole avocado. After eating, I grabbed a fresh jersey (wool, of course), shorts, and socks from my drop bag, changed clothes, washed my face, brushed my teeth, replenished my front bag’s supply of snacks and potions, and was on my way. All told, I’d spent about 40 minutes at the controle. I still had another 200 kilometers to ride to get to the Adin contrôle; if I was going to achieve my goal of reaching Adin by midnight, I needed to step on it. Not only was time passing, but the next 200 kilometers contained some of the most (if not the most) significant climbing of the course, which meant my pace was going to decrease considerably. <br /><br />Not long after leaving Taylorsville, I bid farewell to the relative flatness of the Indian Valley and began the long climb up Indian Creek Road to Antelope Lake. It was now early afternoon and starting to get quite warm. Shade was at a premium, primarily because most of the trees along this stretch of the route had burned four years previous, just after the last running of the GRR. Regrowth was well underway, but it was mostly low stuff, like wildflowers and rabbit tobacco. Indeed, there was so much rabbit tobacco that I suspected that the 2005 fire must have been caused by bunnies smoking in bed. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720110911/" title="Riding Through the Burn by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3425/3720110911_b7858c0b6a.jpg" width="500" height="253" alt="Riding Through the Burn" /></a><br /><br />The road finally flattened out at the Antelope Dam. By “flattened out” I mean, of course, that the steep pitches of the climb gave way to more forgiving rollers. It was never actually “flat.” I circled the lake until I came to another “water-only” stop, this time at the Boulder Creek Work Center. Again, there was much more on offer than just water. I scarfed down some grapes and dried apricots, a few more handfuls of chips and a couple of wheat crackers. The volunteer there was impressed by my chain ring tattoo, and even more impressed when he realized it really WAS a tattoo. He insisted on taking a picture of it to show his daughter. I once again met up with Kim and Jack, and we three set out together for the next leg, which included the climb to the “Top of the GRR and a promised swift descent down the infamous Janesville Grade. More than 20 hours and 200 miles into my journey, I was still making good time, all things considered, and feeling strong. It may have had something to do with the caffeine pill I had just taken, but I felt positively chipper.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721038086/" title="Antelope Lake by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2526/3721038086_3aa0ed77b9.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Antelope Lake" /></a><br /><br />According to the cue sheet, we crested the “Top of the GRR” at Mile 227.3. Most. Anticlimactic. Summit. Ever. Not only were there no signs, balloons, or cheering crowds with sirens and cowbells, but according to both my cyclometer and my GPS unit (not to mention the stress on my quads) we continued to climb for several miles past that mark. Granted, there were some lovely Kodak moments along the way.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721038666/" title="The View from the Top by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2545/3721038666_eb3de5e56f.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="The View from the Top" /></a><br /><br />Just when I thought the endless grind past the “Top” would never end, the road took a sharp dip down and to the right; the next thing I knew I was flying down the Janesville Grade at 40 mph. Whoo-hoo! Deep in my lizard brain I knew that I would have to come back UP this thrill ride in a day or so, but I refused to let that knowledge spoil my fun. I let it all hang out in my quest for maximum velocity, which in my case topped out somewhere around 46 mph. ZOOMA ZOOMA ZOOM!<br /><br />Whump. I was about a third of the way down when I hit a bump and felt something thump against my chest. It was not a hard enough hit to distract me or slow me down, though, so I did not think much of it. The wind had been playing with the reflective harness I was wearing, and I assumed it had just been that smacking against me. I immediately put it out my mind. After a few more breathtaking minutes of flight, I reached the flats and the turn on the Janesville’s main street (such as it was—Janesville is not exactly a bustling metropolis). I looked down to check the map display on my eTrex, only to see that my eTrex was no longer with me. All that was left to show its previous existence was a sheared-off handlebar mounting pin. Well, that would explain the “Whump” on the downhill; it was my eTrex literally flying off its handle. I could see that I was going to have some ‘splaining to do when I got home. I turned around and started back up the hill to look for it, but quickly realized that I did not have either the time or the energy to climb back up the Grade. So I reluctantly resumed course. I figured I could look for it when I returned on the inbound leg, and could ask other riders to look for it as well. The chances of finding it were ridiculously slim; at the speed I was traveling, its ricochet off my chest could have sent it flying well off the road and into the woods. I stopped at the Janesville store to comfort myself with a Coke and popcorn. There I caught up with Kim and Jack, and we three rode together into Susanville.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720227317/" title="Susanville Contrôle by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3505/3720227317_01200da7c3.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Susanville Contrôle" /></a><br /><br />Susanville was another bag-drop contrôle, set up in the town armory. In addition to tables of food, the hall contained a number of cots for people who wanted to get more than just a few minutes’ rest. At this point we had ridden 400 kilometers, which is a point where many people choose to extend their stops to include novelties like sleeping and showering. There were still some cots available, but I was still intent on reaching Adin before indulging in such luxuries. So I changed my shorts and jersey, ate an avocado and some chips, replenished my on-bike supplies of snacks and potions, and headed out. Even so, I was at Susanville more than an hour—my contrôle efficiency was, well, not very efficient. I was clearly beginning to tire.<br /><br />The distance between Susanville and Adin was less than 70 miles, with another “water-only” stop at the midpoint, but just outside of Susanville the course again took a turn upward. Actually, it took a few turns upward, as the road followed a series of grinding switchbacks to reach the top of Antelope Pass, after which it meandered across a high plateau before eventually dropping down toward Eagle Lake. It was somewhere on this plateau that I had my first “I can’t do this” moment. Physically, I felt fine. I had no muscle or joint pains no hand or foot numbness, no saddle sores, or any aches of any kind. But I was exhausted, and although time seemed to be passing quickly, the miles simply were not ticking away on my cyclometer the way I thought that they should. And here is where I made the best decision I made the whole ride. I decided to stop looking at my cyclometer. At this point, the course was pretty intuitive; there were not that many turns to keep track of, and wherever there was any doubt, the organizers had painted Dan Henry’s on the pavement. Instead, I set my watch to go off every 15 minutes. When it went off, I would stop, drink some water, reset the timer, and start riding again. Every fourth time it went off, I would eat a bit of energy bar, or suck on some Clif Blox. My speed did not increase, but my anxiety level dropped considerably.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SPm8AcfOZhA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SPm8AcfOZhA&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x402061&color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />The sun set while I was on the plateau, and the dark descent down to the shores of Eagle Lake was somewhat dreamlike. Or perhaps that was simply because I was half-asleep. When I first saw the lake, I mistook it for a fogbank because the moonshine on it made it glow white. Then I saw a campfire that someone had built on the shore, and realized that what I had thought was fog was actually water. Lots of water. The road hugged the lake shore for a while and then, once again, turned uphill. About halfway up this climb was the “Grasshopper” water stop, staffed by current-RUSA president Lois Springsteen and former RUSA president Bill Bryant. Lois was not there when I arrived; another rider was having medical issues and she had taken him to the hospital. But Bill was a genial host, pointing out all the snack options and apologizing for the lack of “official” restrooms. They did have lots of toilet paper, however, and he promised not to look when I went out to the bushes. There were plenty of comfy camp chairs, as well, but what excited me the most was the cooler filled with individual-serving cartons of chocolate soy milk. I drank three.<br /><br />I was very tired, and it was tempting to hang out at Grasshopper drinking soy milk and chatting with Bill and the others, but time was passing and Adin awaited. I had given up on my stated goal of getting there by midnight, but if I got on the stick I could still get there by 1:30 AM. But I would not get there unless I started riding. As Jeff Loomis, who was at Grasshopper as I arrived, put it, Adin was not getting any closer while we sat there. As an additional incentive to keep moving, the temperature had noticeably plummeted. So much so that I took out an extra pair of socks to layer over the ones I had one, with chemical toe warmers between the layers. My hands were starting to feel stiff, so I pulled on a pair of stretch gloves over my riding gloves and stuffed chemical warmers between them, as well. Then I heaved myself up out of the comfy chair and onto my slightly less comfortable bike. Jeff and another rider left at about the same time.<br /><br />Although we were only 30 miles from Adin, we still had what Bill described as “1 and 1/2 climbs” to go before we reached the contrôle, and those 30 miles seemed to take forever. At some points I could not even tell if I was climbing or descending. I had been leapfrogging with Jeff and the other ride, but at some point they both pulled ahead of me, perhaps during one of my “15 minute” breaks, and I was once again alone, in the dark, tired and, yes, bored. I was ready for a nap. According to the course profile, we had a long sleigh ride of a descent into Adin. I sure don’t remember it; perhaps I was already asleep. If so, it was a good thing, because when I reached the Adin contrôle itself it became clear that any sleep I would get there would be less than restful. <br /><br />The contrôle was bustling. Picture the bicycle equivalent of Grand Central Station, except that Grand Central has more space for sleeping. Although the route organizers had encouraged riders to try to reach Adin before sleeping, there were very few cots available for riders that took that advice. What few cots there were all were occupied by sleepers, as was just about every inch of floor space not otherwise devoted to the tables at which those riders not sleeping were eating. I began to regret my decision not to stay in Susanville. But c’est la vie, I’d made my proverbial bed and now I must try to sleep in it. At least I’d had the sense to include a sleeping bag and pillow in my Adin drop bag—some riders did not even have that.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720228347/" title="Adin Contrôle by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2551/3720228347_b758d156ca.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Adin Contrôle" /></a><br /><br />But before I could sleep, I really needed something more substantial in my belly than potato chips. I foraged through the food offerings: lots of meat and dairy, some fruit, no tofu. There was peanut butter, of course, and bagels, a combination which I had once thought would be all I’d ever need to be happily fueled, but after 300 miles in which peanut butter was my only protein option it was becoming pretty unappetizing. For hot food there was pasta, and the volunteers had cooked up a really tasty vegetable sauce, and I happily ate that, but some beans or tofu would have really been nice. But it was not to be. So I ate some more pasta, and some more peanut butter, and then changed into my jammies, set my watch for two hours, stuffed ear plugs in my ears, lay down on the hard linoleum floor and closed my eyes. It soon became apparent that sleep would be elusive, so I opted for yoga, instead. Specifically, a two-hour “corpse” pose. I may have dozed off now and then, but never achieved REM state, which is necessary for real rest. At least that’s what they tell me.<br /><br />My alarm went off and it was time to get moving. I was hungry again. The volunteers were cooking up bacon and eggs, but managed to find some leftover veggie pasta for me. After eating, I washed my face and hair in the bathroom sink, changed into fresh shorts, socks and jersey, and headed out. Although I’d been in Adin for three and a half hours, I still had a large cushion of time. I suppose I could have stayed there longer, but with sleep being impossible I really had no excuse not to ride.<br /><br />The sun was coming up as I left town. After about five miles, I once again began to question my ability to keep going. I was tired, I was hungry, I was lonely, and I still had almost 400 miles to go. I began to pick out landmarks, telling myself, “If I can make it to that barn, I’ll be okay”; “If I can make it past those trees, I’ll be okay.” Thus, I picked my way from point to point through the valley until I reached the base of the next climb, which would take me to Adin Pass. And here I experienced the miracle of the hill. It’s no secret that climbing is my strength. What I realized now is that not only am I good at climbing, but that the pleasure I get from spinning up a hill is enough to pull me through almost any slough of despond (as long as the weather is cooperating, at least—the triple-digit temperatures on the XTR a month earlier had done an extremely good job of killing my hill buzz). At least this morning, the miracle was working. The more the slope of the road increased, the more my spirits rose to meet it. By the time I reached the top, I was positively giddy. Okay, lack of sleep and hypoxia could have had something to do with that, as well, but I was not about to question the cure.<br /><br />Sadly, the giddiness did not last long. After dropping back down a few hundred feet, the road devolved into a seemingly endless series of expansion cracks on bad chipseal and the headwind picked up strength. My skill at climbing is equaled only by my absolute mediocrity on the flats, especially on bad pavement into the wind (oddly, the GRR route description describes this road as “smooth.” Ha!). But I knew that with each pedal stroke I was another foot or so closer to the turnaround, and so I kept on going. It was definitely “Little Engine That Could” time, and I was in full “I think I can” mode.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3720263495/" title="What's worse the chip seal? by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2614/3720263495_89c991f82d.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="What's worse the chip seal?" /></a><br /><br />Finally, I reached Alturas, a shabby but cute little town (I was too tired to take pictures, so you'll have to take my word for it). The Alturas contrôle was in the Elks Lodge, an old adobe building that from a distance looked like a mission. Alturas is less than 20 miles from Davis Creek, the endpoint of the outbound portion of the route. Although I was very tired, I stopped only long enough to use the bathroom, apply some more Lantiseptic, and eat some dry Raisin Bran. I noted the presence of a “nap room,” and made a promise to myself that I would become better acquainted with it when I returned in another four hours or so. And then I was off to Davis Creek. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721041748/" title="I Can See Oregon From Here by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2611/3721041748_57aede2075.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="I Can See Oregon From Here" /></a><br /><br />More chipseal, more expansion cracks, and more desolate agricultural scenery. The fields next to the roads were filled with small scurrying rodents and their relatively large burrows. I think they might have been <a href="http://digitalcommons.unl.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1014&context=vpc5">Oregon ground squirrels</a>. I would see a few critters standing guard outside the large holes they’d dug, but as soon as I got within 10 yards of them, they’d bolt. More than a few also bolted across the road in front of me, and from the flatter, less lively versions of them that I also saw on the road, I deduced that they often bolted in front of larger, faster, more deadly vehicles as well. I also saw many cyclists, all heading back to Alturas and, eventually, the finish line. They all smiled and waved. I waved back, and tried to smile, but I am guessing it came across as more of a grimace.<br /><br />I knew that I was nearing the Oregon border and, therefore the end of the outbound journey, when I passed the agricultural products inspection station, where the drivers of all vehicles entering California must declare their vegetal holdings. Four days earlier, when entering California on I-5, Greg and I had set an unofficial world record for speed-eating blueberries and watermelon after I realized, less than a mile from the inspection station, that we still had a cooler full of fruit. By the time we got to the station we could truthfully say we had no fresh fruit in the car (it’s not fresh if it’s being digested), but I think we both felt a little ill. But I digress.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilanne_r-s/3721042460/" title="Border Signage by cecilanne, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2649/3721042460_d6edc9448a.jpg" width="500" height="423" alt="Border Signage" /></a><br /><br />I finally reached the Davis Creek Mercantile, site of the final outbound contrôle. I mustered a small “Hurrah” as I presented my card for validation. I then proceeded to waste almost an hour with unproductive faffing. The only food left was a few sorry packets of potato chips and some tangerines, so I did not spend much time eating. There was no Diet Coke to be had (the real stuff had turned my stomach—the HFCS was more than I could handle), so I did not spend much time drinking, either. Indeed, apart from applying sunscreen and Lantiseptic, I am not entirely sure what I was doing for an hour, but that’s how long the official spreadsheets says I was there and spreadsheets don’t lie, do they? But I finally saddled up and set out for the return trip to Davis, a little over 360 miles to the southwest. Although the course was an out and back, a little map jiggering resulted in the outbound leg being about 24 miles longer than the inbound leg. In other words, I was more than halfway through and I was homeward bound.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/U6K8wfyzAJQ&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/U6K8wfyzAJQ&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xe1600f&color2=0xfebd01" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/07/aside-from-that-mrs-lincoln-how-did-you.html">TO BE CONTINUED</a> . . . . . . . </span>. Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-4546355199465253412009-07-18T08:22:00.000-07:002009-07-18T08:27:54.962-07:00Patience, GrasshopperMany readers (okay, two) have asked when the heck my ride report for the Gold Rush Randonnée is going to appear. Patience, children, patience. All good things will come to those who wait.<br /><br />In the interim, enjoy this little clip from one of my all-time favorite TV series . . .<br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mhrCCpGQYyc&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mhrCCpGQYyc&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35500908.post-45726820952006081302009-06-28T06:36:00.000-07:002009-06-28T10:13:27.073-07:00Science DietOn-bike nutrition has become my new obsession. For the past 30 years of biking I have been a staunch advocate of "real" food on my rides--the idea of relying on nothing but energy bars, Ensure and salt pills was anathema. "Eschew the Goo!" has been my rallying cry. "Vive les pommes de terre! Vive le sandwich au beurre d'arachide!" My dismissal of Science Diet was also partially informed by the fact that my first experience in trying Clif Shots and Heed resulted in a scene familiar to anyone who has seen <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-emQAsGMeQ">The Exorcist</a>.<br /><br />So while other riders packed Clif Shots and Hammer Gels, and downed gallons of Heed , Perpetuem, and Spizz, I packed my bags with boiled potatoes, baked tofu, PB & banana sandwiches, muffins, and trail mix (and, in the pre-vegan days, I also brought boiled eggs). I did make the exception for the occasional Clif Bar; at least those give a person something to CHEW. The closest I would get to Science Diet was Clif Shot Blox (aka Gummi Bears for cyclists).<br /><br />Yes. Well. That was all well and good when the longest ride I did was less than 200 miles and when I was not racing a clock. The extra weight that "real" food added to the bike load did not concern me, and I always had time to unpack and repack complicated concoctions. And last year, when I did two 600-kilometer rides (approx. 375 miles), I continued to pack "real" food with no obvious detriment, but I did begin to question whether I could afford to be pushing the extra weight and taking the time to pack and unpack on the longer rides. It may have only slowed me down a little, but was it possible that without the extra weight I would have been the minimal increment faster that would allow me more than a couple hours of sleep on a 40-hour ride?<br /><br />And then last month I rode <a href="http://formerlyfloyd.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-am-not-dead-therefore-i-must-be.html">the 600 XTR</a>. In my front bag I had some tofu, some licorice, a few apricot bars, a few packs of Shot Blox, some trail mix and cashews. I decided not to bring potatoes and sandwiches, figuring I'd also be foraging along the way.<br />What I did not factor in was that the extreme heat on the ride would switch off my hunger switch. It was not so much that I could not eat what I had with me, it was more that it simply wasn't something I thought much about. As a result, I finished the ride with almost as much food in my bag as I started with; I hauled it for 376.1 miles and took it back home with me. And since I was trying not to spend too much time at controls, I also was not purchasing mch food or taking time to eat it. When I tallied up what I had eaten over the 38 and a half hours it took for me to complete the ride, I realized that I had taken in somewhere around 5,000 calories. I had probably expended twice that many. Not good.<br /><br />Now I am preparing to ride <span style="font-style:italic;">twice</span> that distance - something I have never done before - and the terrain and temperature will be equally unforgiving. So I have begun thinking about Science Diet again. Factoring into the consideration is that Hammer Nutrition is supplying the riders on the Gold Rush with gels, Perpetuem and Endurolytes, gratis. But I did not want to just show up in Davis and start ingesting any of those products without seeing if I could tolerate them. I did not want a repeat of the Heed/Clif Shots experience. Since I was signed up to lead a long, hilly climb for Portland Velo this past Saturday, and with the ride to the start and back would have almost a century in, I decided I would use that ride as my test run.<br /><br />First I investigated the liquid supplements. I've had good luck with Cytomax, but it is not a complete supplement. Obviously, anything dairy-based was right out, so no Ensure, Boost, Spizz or Accelerade. That left Perpetuem. I picked up a pack of the Orange-Vanilla. I also collected a variety of gels - Hammer Chocolate, Apple Cinnamon and Rasperry; Gu Orange Roctane and Blueberry-Pomegranate. I also picked up a packet of the Gu gummies. <div><br /></div>Saturday morning I mixed up a bottle of Perpetuem and gave it a taste test. It <span style="font-style:italic;">tasted</span> okay, but the texture was less than appealing. In fact it was downright nasty. Like drinking silty river water. Dreamsicle-flavored silty river water. Oh well, I thought, perhaps if I am thirsty enough and drink it quickly enough, it will be alright. NOT. On the one hand, it did not make me hurl. On the other hand, it made me <span style="font-style:italic;">want</span> to hurl. So I am skipping the liquid nutrition concept and going with water and Endurolytes.<br /><br />I had better luck with the gels. The Hammer Chocolate was like thin pudding or thick syrup, and the Raspberry was sweet but not too sweet. Lynne had not been very enthused about the Apple-Cinnamon, but it wasn't that bad. I don't think I'd want a steady diet of it, though. The hand-down winner, however, was the Gu Orange Roctane. It tasted good, and I could definitely feel a difference shortly after downing it. And none of them made me hurl. So I'll be packing some gel this time around, just in case.<br /><br />I don't think I would try to do any ride on just gels and Endurolytes. I will still pack some light and calorie-dense foods (Trader Joe's flattened bananas, perhaps), and I'll throw some avocados in my drop bags. I've been in contact with the ride organizers and they are making an effort to ensure that there will be vegan-friendly items at the food-controls (I just hope the faster riders don't eat it all before I get there!). Now I just need to remember to eat.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="505"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zRfRWfmlfNM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zRfRWfmlfNM&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"></embed></object>Cecil Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01453500503870729401noreply@blogger.com8