I Have To Admit, It's Getting Better

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 Paris-Brest-Paris year.

But that does not explain my presence; Paris-Brest is not on my radar. Unless, of course, we're talking about this Paris-Brest. 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.

Marcello's first event was a bone-chilling 200K on New Year's Day. 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 37-mile jaunt had nearly killed me. But I knew that I'd be riding with Lynne and that she would not permit me to give in to any temptation to give up halfway through.

Anyway, back to that dark, cold parking lot. For this installment of his series, Marcello had chosen the "Grab Bag 200/300" 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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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.

We finally made it to Maggie's Buns, 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.

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 Sesame Donuts 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 Slaughtered Lamb 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

First-time rando Asta and Tomas were at the DQ when we arrived. Asta was STILL filled with first-brevet brio.



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.



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."

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.



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 my headlight. Shifting from side to side helped a little. They probably thought that I was dodging debris, but I was really just trying to see it.

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 might have taken a wee nap while waiting for me.

Another month, another successful 200K. If I am not careful, I could find myself on the way to another R-12.

And yes, it was better.

Beat the Retreat, or Hoo-Boy!, am I out of shape!

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.

Today was the Bicycle Transportation Alliance's "Board Retreat." My friend Susan was hosting it at her company 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.e., she'll join a bike ride at the drop of a hat), said she come with us. So we agreed to meet at Kettleman's 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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

Times Two

#1 on 1-1-11

"Did I just see you standing?"

"Um, no. Well, not now . . . ."

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.

But I get ahead of myself. I can sense you thinking, "Whoa, Nellie! What's this about doctor's orders?"

Cast your mind back, Gentle Reader, to mid-October 2010. I had just run my first half-marathon and was insufferably proud of myself. 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, limp like Chester for a few days after the race, I chalked it up to muscle strain and treated accordingly. But when I was still 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."

SHAZBOT!

"So, Doc, what do I do now?"

"Try not to walk on it for a few weeks."

Try. Not. To. Walk. Processing . . . processing . . . Nope, that's not registering.

"Say again, Doc?"

"Don't put any weight on it until the end of December."

"Um, so I can walk if I don't put any weight on it?"

"Well, you can very short distances - slowly."

"Around the office?"

"Uh-huh"

"But not to the office?"

"No."

"Can I ride my bike?"

"You can if you spin and stay on the flats."

"No hills?"

"Not for a few weeks."

I felt like I was negotiating. I was 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 non-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.

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.

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 flat, slow, cafe-centric ride in mid-December 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.

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.

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.

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.

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, but I've ridden in cold before. There were some headwinds, but I've ridden in wind before. 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 dance on my pedals again. Then it will be a very good day to ride.

From 0 to 13.1 in 10 months (less 3)

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.

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?'

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."

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 "walk/run" program that was developed by a Canadian Sports Council, and it is designed to ease a body into the destructive sport of running without being, well, too destructive.

First step: get a new pair of running shoes. I went to a local running store 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.

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.

The run/walk program is the athletic version of the frog in the frying pan. 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.

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. Biking partner in crime Lynne 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 what the Ploughman Poet had to say about best-laid schemes.

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 peroneal tendonitis. 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.



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.

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 (i.e. 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.

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.

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 10-mile trail run in Tillamook, 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.

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!

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.

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.



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.

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.

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.

Was I happy with my result? Damn straight.



My friends were happy, too.





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):

Take Me To The River (cover) - Annie Lennox
Tu Mens - April March
London Calling - The Clash
She's Like Heroin to Me - Gun Club
Do it Better - Imperial Teen
Baby and The Band - Imperial Teen
Sick Organism - John Wesley Harding
Still Photo - John Wesley Harding
The People's Drug - John Wesley Harding
What a Life - Juliana Hatfield
OK OK - Juliana Hatfield
Annie - Elastica
Little Sister - Dwight Yoakum
Up the Bracket - The Libertines
What a Waster - The Libertines
Heaven & Back -The Mekons
Holy War -Matthew Sweet
Cosmic Jive - The Minus 5
Lies of the Living Dead - The Minus 5
Talk of the Town -The Pretenders
Let's Go Crazy (cover) - The Riverboat Gamblers
Sugar Cane - Sonic Youth
Youth Against Fascism - Sonic Youth
Me & Mia - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
Walking to Do - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
The One Who Got Us OUt - Ted Leo & The Pharmacists
Teenage Kicks - The Undertones
Love Parade - The Undertones
Lawyers, Guns & Money - Warren Zevon
Werewolves of London - Warren Zevon
Mr. Suit - Wire
Act of the Apostle - Belle and Sebastian
Blues Are Still Blue -Belle and Sebastian
One Way or Another - Blondie
Armalite Rifle - Gang of Four
Man in The Sand - Gordon Gano & The Ryans
Johnny Feelgood - Liz Phair
Persuasion -Patti Smith
Do The Strand -Roxy Music
Books Are Burning - XTC
Heaven in a Black Leather Jacket - The 6ths
Pillow Fight - The 6ths

What wasn't on the playlist, but should have been, was this song, because, dammit, it's true.

Momma's Got a Brand New Bag . . . and Trailer to Haul it With

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the Bicycle Transportation Alliance'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.

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 Linus, a backpack pannier from North St. Bags, and, most enticing of all, Burley's new Travoy bike trailer.



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).

Anyway, I'd looked at bakfiets and other cargo bikes, and I'd looked at Xtracycles, but none of them really suited my needs, and they were awfully damn expensive. Then I read a review of the Travoy, and it sure seemed like it would fill the bill. Thus, my excitement when I saw it in the Alice auction catalog.

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.

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.

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!

Next up - Grocery Shopping! In the past, I have relied on my two panniers and a big rear basket 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.

I prepared for my shopping trip by heading over to Bike 'N Hike 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.

Bags installed, it was time to head for the market.



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.



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.



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.

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.



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!)



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).

Ah, yes, the 3-speed.



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 the mixte. 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.

And, yes, I've got a brand new bag. Sing it!, James . . .

Quick!, Someone Call a Doctor. Oops, Too Late.

This is my friend Susan.



Susan used to be a perfectly normal superhuman. She ran half-marathons, entered triathlons, all while running her own business. 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.

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:

"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."

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 an R-12, something only the truly Rando-sick attempt.

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, we had no guarantees about the weather, and in bad weather the Scio route can be a bear. So we opted instead for the Three Prairies route, a regular winter perm because it is flat and low-elevation. Even in craptacular weather it is doable.

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.



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.



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.

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.



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.

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.
(yes, Randos are a sick and sometimes cruel tribe).

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.



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.





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 barn swallow 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.

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.

Lynne and Susan headed over to Burgerville for strawberry milkshakes, but I had a date with Greg for beer at the Apex Bar and enormous plates of vegan Mexican food from Los Gorditos. 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.

In Case You Were Wondering

Yes, TRFKAF did finally get his bath

30% Chance of Rain = 100% Chance of Lunacy

("Geez, Cecil, could you be a little MORE heavy handed with the foreshadowing?"

"Hmm, I don't think so, no.")

Anyhoo, as I was saying, it seemed like a good idea. After my forced "rest" period, 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 Team Bag Balm 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. The Usual Suspect 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.

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.

Blast-off time was set for 9:30 Sunday morning from the front entrance of the McMenamin brothers' Edgefield complex in Troutdale. 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.

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?

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 the lightest rain jacket I own. The one concession I made to the elements was to pack a pair of Endura waterproof gloves, mainly because they helped fend off Raynaud's symptoms on cool mornings. I was feeling lucky.



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.

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.

"Are you Jeff?"

"Yes."

"Great! You can ignore all your voice mail messages!"

And then we were six. Giddy-UP!

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.

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.

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 habeas appeals I get at work; no need to go looking for it.

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.

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.

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 the sea lions dining at the all-you-can-eat salmon buffet at the base of the fish ladders. 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.


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 pizza place 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.



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.

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.


"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 Ruckle Creek Trail, 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).


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).

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.



I'm thinking of another ride Memorial Day. The weather looks promising. Only a 30% chance of rain.