For this week's training ride, I decided to ride out to Pete's Mountain, which is about 25 miles from my house (at least by the roundabout route I take to get there), ride repeat loops up, over and around it, and then ride home. When I told Lynne of this plan, her response was something like, "Have fun with that." She also mentioned something about me being a sick f**k (a Lance Armstrong reference).
I left home at about 8:30, and meandered my way through town to my first climb of the day, SW Terwilliger Boulevard. Terwilliger skirts the side of the hill above town, just below the hospitals and Council Crest, before eventually dropping down to Lake Oswego. My route then took me past the stately McMansions of Lake O (many of which were for sale, with signs reading "Price Reduced"), with just a TAD bit more climbing on Bryant and Childs Roads (to use Lynne's phrase, "winching" myself out of Lake O) to Stafford Road and Johnson before dropping down (literally) into West Linn. I stopped at the West Linn General Store for Gatorade. Mango Gatorade. Weird. I am old enough to remember when Gatorade came in only one flavor. I am also old enough to remember when its main ingredient was not high fructose corn syrup. A quick stop at the ball-field blue room, and it was on to the mountain by way of Turner Road.
Anyone who has ridden Pete's Mountain will know that whether you choose to loop clockwise or counterclockwise makes an enormous difference. CLOCKWISE, the steepest grade is 12-13% for a very brief period. There are a few 9 and 10% bits, but for the most parts the climbs rarely exceed 7%. COUNTERCLOCKWISE is much steeper, with a wicked double hairpin on Pete's Mountain Road that comes closer to 15-17%. I went clockwise. I may be a sick f**k, but I am not a stupid sick f**k.
Full circle from the intersection of Mountain Road and Schaefer is just under 8.5 miles. I was riding as quickly as possible, but not so quickly that I did not notice that at least one out of every three of the McMansions on the mountain were also for sale, also with their prices reduced. I did 5 circuits, stopping to snack at the end of each circuit. As the day wore on, my snacks became progressively less healthy. I started with boiled potatoes and tofu, and ended with a Payday Bar. In between were 2 bananas, a granola bar, and a chocolate chip and fig scone. And did I mention the incredibly weird mango Gatorade?
One-third of the way through my third circuit, three riders passed me going in the other direction. One of them yelled my name -- turns out they were my friends Steve and Michele and their friend, Tim. I had seen them 45 minutes earlier on my second loop, as they struggled up that nasty double hairpin I mentioned earlier, but had not recognized them because I was going down it fast (42 mph!). When he saw me, Steve said that he had seen another rider in a Portland Velo jersey like mine earlier, and had wondered if I was out there too. I told him that the rider he had seen was me, because I was doing repeats. "You sick f**k," he said. I've been hearing that a lot lately . . .
After finishing the fifth loop, I returned home the way I came. By this time, a stiff wind had come up, and the ride home was cold and slow. I knew that I would be getting home with just under 94 miles in, and briefly considered making a detour to bring it up to a full century, but the combination of cold and wind helped me rein in my OCD impulses for once. Three cups of hot tea and a hot shower, with Thai food for dinner. Tomorrow's "bakery ride" with friends will be much less intense (but the snacks will be even more unhealthy).
Here's the route I followed - multiply the circuit by five and then return the same way.
As part of my training for the Gold Rush Randonnée, I am working on increasing my speed, endurance and pain tolerance levels. 750 miles in 90 hours in the middle of summer in the middle of California, with some big-ass climbs in the middle, is going to be quite a test for this old body, and my muscles need to start studying now. Last-minute cramming may have worked for the bar exam, but I am pretty sure that method works only for brain muscles.
This weekend offered me a prime opportunity to assess my present level of fitness and mental instability. I had two very different, but equally challenging, riding opportunities, and Monday was a work holiday so I could, if necessary, take a day to recover from any self-inflicted weekend damage.
Saturday was the second in a series of "endurance" rides that the president of my social cycling club (Portland Velo) has designed. It's not really endurance cycling as I would describe it - none of the planned rides will be over 4 hours in length - but his goal is to ride those routes at a higher pace than I would normally ride a brevet. At the end of the ride, he wants his cyclometer to show an average speed of over 16 mph. I know a lot of Randos that can keep that up for an extended period of time, but I am not one of them. Especially on my bike, which at 32.5 pounds unloaded (give or take an ounce) is definitely built for comfort, and not for speed. But I figured that if I am going to work on speed, there's nothing like trying to keep up with a lot of testosterone-poisoned men on carbon fiber bikes to do the trick. So I signed up. The first ride was on January 31 and it was nothing special. Just under 50 miles on the flats with an average speed of just under 16 mph. I kept up with the pack just fine, and was tired when I got home, but not whipped.
This Saturday, however, was advertised as a hill assault. Hmm. I wasn't TOO worried. Hills are my specialty, after all, and I did just get a new climbing cassette. I knew that I had a 200K scheduled for Sunday (#2 in my quest for another RUSA R-12, or #14 in the quest for an R-24, to be more precise), but that would be a relatively flat course and I was planning on riding it more slowly than usual, anyway. So I figured a little extra exertion the day before would be a good test of my early-season limits.
The weather forecast had been changing throughout the week. On Wednesday, the weekend forecast was for a few light showers on Saturday, followed by a partly-sunny Sunday. By Thursday night, the weather people were talking about snow levels dropping to below 700 feet Friday morning and to the valley floor by Sunday. Joy.
It was still dry (if cold) when I got up Saturday morning, so I bundled up (wool knickers, wool knee socks, L/S wool undershirt, S/S wool jersey, Showers Pass jacket, wool liner cap, wool gloves, winter riding boots, chemical hand and toe warmers), and headed out a little before 7:30 AM. I decided to take the long way to the start, which entailed going through town to Washington Park, up Fairview to Skyline, out on Skyline to Old Cornelius Pass Road and down OCP toward Hillsboro. Up on Skyline (a little over 1000 ft. elevation) I was surprised by a few snow flurries, but they quickly passed. I ended up getting to the start earlier than anticipated, so I did a quick 3-mile out and back to keep warm. Consequently, before the "official" ride began, I already had put in 27 hard miles.
The promised hill ride was a map-free mixed-bag, sort of a "Look for a hill, climb it. Look for another hill, climb it" route. The grades ranged from 2 to 9 percent, with the centerpiece being a 6-mile climb at a steady 4 to 5 percent. The group was large (too large for my taste) and the riding styles and abilities mixed. On the hills, I did not find this a problem, because we naturally spread out. When we got to the flats, however, I quickly realized that it was going to be a challenge to stay with the group and ride safely at the same time. In order to maintain the consistent speeds that were the posted goal, a certain amount of pace lining was required. The pace line was a bit chaotic, however, and it took every ounce of concentration I had to hold my line while dealing with the rubber band effect. Every once in while the line would turn into a messy peloton, especially at traffic-controlled intersections where some people stopped and others did not (as someone who stops at stop signs, I must admit it frustrates me when half the group blows through). Between that mental effort and the physical effort of trying to maintain the 18 mph-plus speed that the group was pushing on the flats, I was feeling pretty spent. About three miles before the end, we turned into the wind and at the point I just gave up - I was tired, the road surface was bad, and the group was steadily speeding up like horses scenting the barn. And did I mention my bike weighs 32.5 pounds unloaded? Not only that, I still had at least 23 miles to go to get home, and some of those miles would be steep climbs. Common sense overpowered herd instinct, and I dropped off the line and poodled back to the start at a leisurely 13 mph. Even so, I ended up with a little over 15 mph average speed for just under 50 miles.
After a brief rest to inhale some gummy oatmeal, I saddled up and headed for home. I decided to go up to Skyline by way of Thompson Road, which is one of the easier approaches to the summit. Four miles, never more than a 6 percent grade. I rarely have trouble on it. Even so, I was a little trepidatious (yes, that's a word) about the climb. Oh, well, I figured I would just bail down to my granny gear and slowly spin my way up. I became more and more concerned, however, as I struggled to clear what I would normally consider the minor rollers on West Union on my way to the West Hills (WU becomes Thompson at the base of the hills). Much to my surprise, however, once I actually started climbing, I was just fine. I stayed in the middle ring of my triple, and maintained a steady 7.5 mph pace from bottom to top. Not Speed Racer, by any means, but not too shabby considering that by this point I was 86 miles into the ride.
When I reached the summit, I realized that I would get home with just about 98.5 miles on the odometer. MY OCD impulses immediately kicked in, and I took a slight route detour at the bottom of the hill so I could run the cyclometer over 100 miles. It's amazing how mental illness can override commen sense. I finally reached home a little after 4:00 PM, ready for a hot bath, a cold beer, and enormous amounts of food. Day One was in the bag. I checked the weather report for Sunday's ride (70% chance of rain, high of 38 degrees, steady NE winds of 10 to 15 mph), ate dinner, watched a movie, rubbed arnica ointment onto my legs, and went to bed.
Needless to say (but saying it anyway), Sunday morning came down way too soon. I cranked open my eyes at the first beep of my alarm, and listened for rain. Silence. Well, not exactly silence - the dogs were whining, a cat was meowing in the basement, and Greg was snoring - but no sound of water on the roof. Not that I would have turned over and gone back to sleep if I had heard rain, but not hearing rain made it a lot easier to get up. I got out of bed and peeked out the window. The pavement was dry and the thermometer showed 39 degrees. Not bad for 4:00 AM.
This day's ride started and ended in Newberg. Again. I am getting very bored with the Newberg routes, I must say. But the Newberg routes are the flat routes, and in the winter I prefer flat routes. Anyway, because the ride was out of Newberg, I had to drive to the start. Otherwise I would be tacking 24 miles and 2 hours on to each end, which may be fine in August, but not in February. That meant I had to take extra time to strap the rack on the car, strap the bike on the rack, throw everything that I thought I might need in my giant blue Ikea bag, and throw that in the car. Then I choked down some oatmeal, covered my mildly complaining legs with more arnica ointment and Tiger Balm, threw on my clothes (regular shorts, Craft "Storm" pants, LS wool undershirt, SS wool jersey, etc. etc. etc.), tossed some energy bars and a packet of Cytomax mix in my front bag and hit the road. At which point I immediately noticed I was almost out of gas. I knew there was something I was supposed to have done Saturday night. Fortunately, I discovered that the station down the road is now open 24/7. Whew.
Newberg is about 24 miles southwest of Portland. As I headed south on I-5, drops of rain began to fall on the windshield. By the time I reached the Newberg exit, it was raining heavily. Rats. Lynne's van was in the parking lot when I pulled in, but no one else had arrived yet. We were supposed to start at 7:00 AM, and it was already 6:45. I set a land speed record for changing into my cycling shoes and water resistant booties, de-racked the bike, locked up the car, and headed off to the Thriftway that has become our regular Newberg contrôle. By that time the rest of the group had arrived: the usual R-12 suspects--John, Joanne, and Bill, as well as our friend Kevin, whom we have sucked into randonneuring. It was still raining, but not too heavily, as we left town and rode south toward Dallas. We had a tailwind, which was nice but which we knew we would pay for later. The rain stopped within half an hour after we started, never to return. I began to feel better about the day's prospects.
I was surprised, and pleased, to discover that I was not all that sore from Saturday's ride. Tired, yes, but sore, not so much. Lynne and I were quickly dumped by the other four, however, because they were intent on getting done before nightfall. The two of us were just hoping to be done within the 13.5 hour time limit.
The first 35 miles went by relatively quickly, thanks to the tailwind. We arrived at the Dallas contrôle by 9:45, go some hot chocolate from McDonald's (along with a salty greasy hash brown), and turned back toward Newberg. At this point we were hit full in the face by the wind. Where our cruising speed from Newberg to Dallas had been in the comfortable mid-teens, from Dallas to Newberg we struggled to stay in the double digits. We were not stressed about time, because we had plenty of cushion from our quick trip out, but riding into a never-ending wind is simply demoralizing. I would have preferred the rain.
We finally got back to Newberg, checked in at the Thriftway and took some time to eat more food. I had been eating pretty much constantly while riding, testing my new theory that I will bonk less if I eat more (concept, huh?), but Lynne had not been able to access her snacks as easily as I could get to mine (she's still waiting for her new front bag to arrive). I waited while she choked down some fig bars, boiled eggs, chili & lime almonds, and chocolate milk (hmm, in retrospect that doesn't sound very appetizing, does it? At the time it seemed like a perfectly normal meal). I helped her with the almonds. They were quite tasty.
Lunch over, we set out for the second, shorter, loop of the ride: 55 miles to Mt. Angel and back, by way of French Prairei, Gervais and Champoeg. We once again had the wind at our back for the first half of the loop, and did our best to take advantage of it. The sun was fully out and temperature was steadily climbing. We began removing layers of clothes, but soon ran out of luggage room and had to keep our long pants on. But we could at least roll up the legs and expose our pale calves to the elements. Lynne even scaled down to fingerless gloves, but I wasn't quite that warm yet.
The 27 miles to Mt. Angel passed pleasantly enough. About 5 miles out of Mt. Angel, just after Lynne had expressed surprise that we hadn't seen any of the other riders (given that the route was essentially an out and back, we would have expected to see them coming while we were going), who should we see approaching but Bill. He waved cheerily as he passed, and was followed shortly by John and Joanne. They asked if we'd seen Kevin. We hadn't, so assumed he must have already passed the cross-over point before we got there - which would mean that he had really been putting the speed in (which, apparently, he was).
We finally reached Mt. Angel, stopped briefly at the Damen and Herren public restroom and then headed for the Mt. Angel Market for Gatorade and salty snacks (Smartfood popcorn for me, some sort of bread-based Chex-mix-like substance for Lynne). The sun was setting and the temperature was dropping, so we put on the clothes we had previously shed and headed back into the wind for the last leg of the journey.
I had always believed that winds died down at sunset. Wrong! At least wrong this time. If anything, the wind had increased in power. I struggled to maintain 10 mph on the flats, and was happy to break 15 mph on descents on which I would normally register speeds of 20+ mph. Much sighing, groaning and cursing ensued. To make matters worse, I was finally beginning to feel both the physical and mental toll of Saturday's hard ride. My quads ached, I had a funny pain in my back just above my right kidney, and I was having trouble staying awake. We still were in no danger of running out of time, but I was definitely at risk of running off the road. Fortunately, I have done the stretch from Mt. Angel to Newberg so often that I no longer need a cue sheet and could focus all my energy on staying awake rather than navigating.
By the time we reached the Willamette River crossing, it was completely dark. We had all our reflective gear on, as well as many forms of tail and head light, but the narrow shoulder on that bridge and the great big semis passing within inches still made me nervous. Added to that misery, on the Newberg side of the bridge is a honking steep hill that we had to, as Lynne would put it, "winch ourselves up." Every stretch of road seemed much longer than usual, and the last two miles went on forever. We both cheered when we pulled into the Thriftway parking lot. We rolled our bike right into the store (they've come to know us quite well there) and got our cards signed. After faffing at the store for quite a while, we headed back to the parking lot, loaded up the cars and went for dinner at Burgerville (it appears to have become a tradition). I was so tired that I worried about the drive home, but after eating I felt a little more alert. Fortunately, traffic was light and the weather still good, so I was able to get home safely despite my weariness. Back home, I proceeded to eat three more dinners' worth of food before going to bed. Tired, sore, but not dying. I wasn't sure what the morning would bring, though . . .
Woke up this morning and cautiously stretched first one leg, then the other. No immediate cramping or bolts of pain. So far, so good. Sat up. Still good. Got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Still good. Walked down stairs the basement. Still good. Walked up the stairs. Ow! Well, now I know what an inflamed Achilles tendon feels like. Good thing I recently refilled my Ibuprofen prescription (the big-ass 800 mg pills). I had contemplated joining some friends for a short mellow bike ride, but decided to bail on that. I did ride up the hill to Trader Joes's and Limbo for groceries, and that was more than enough to make my quads complain. The true test will be tomorrow morning's commute to the transit center. 10 miles. Uphill.
Last year was a pretty big cycling year for me. Not only did I complete an R-12 (about which my readers are probably sick to death of hearing), but I also completed my first "Super Randonneur" (or in my case, Super Randonneuse) series. But for the fact of my baby brother's ill-timed wedding, I would have completed TWO series, but I won't hold that against him. Much. I also managed to clock over 5000 kilometers in "official" randonnées, and just over 7,600 total miles (including commutes).
So now what? Another year has begun, and last year's accomplishments are, well, so 2008. In this new era of hope and possibility, it seems only right that I should set my sights higher. Sure, there's that whole "Why not do back-to-back R-12s" goal, but at this point that's what we in the law like to describe as de minimis. In other words, that's my baseline. The question is, what do I do in addition to that?
The third running of the Davis Bike Club's Gold Rush Randonnée. 1200 kilometers with slightly under 30,000' elevation gain in 90 hours. In July. In North Central California. What could be more fun? Yes, that was a rhetorical question.
On December 6, 2008, I completed an RUSA R-12. It was quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself. Not many people have done it, although judging by the number of people I know personally who have done it, the list is growing exponentially. Nothing like the challenge of riding at least one randonnée of at least 200 km in length every month for 12 consecutive months to get those OCD gears implanted in most randonneurs' brains grinding.
Some people--saner people, people with lives outside of cycling, people who are properly medicated--okay, MOST people, would chalk up the feat, check it off their list, and move on to healthier pursuits. I don't know any of those people. I know randonneurs. And the randonneurs I know all gathered in a parking lot in Newberg, Oregon at 6:30 AM on a January morning with temperatures hovering just above freezing to embark on R-12 Year 2, or R-24. Our friend Sal, who completed an R-24 the day I completed my R-12, declined to join us. He knew that if he rode in January he would feel compelled to go for an R-36 and that's just too sick.
The weather forecast earlier in the week had been iffy, at best. The chance of rain hovered between 30 and 60%, and there were some mutterings about more snow. But by Friday, the forecast had improved--Saturday would be overcast, with a slight chance of rain late in the evening. Ever pessimistic, I packed a bag full of rain gear nonetheless. I figured if nothing else I could leave it in the car and pick it up for the second loop of the route if I needed it.
My friend Michael wanted to join us. He does not have a car, so I told him I could drive him to the start. He typically finishes a brevet at least 4 hours ahead of me, so he planned to ride home from Newberg afterward. It's not a bad ride from Newberg to Portland, he just didn't want to have to add it on to both ends of the brevet. In addition to Michael, our group at the start included our usual R-12 gang: Lynne, Bill, the Kramer, Vincent, John Henry and Joanne. Our friends Sandy, Elsie, David, and Kevin also joined us, but not as officially registered riders. That meant that they could not help us with flats or mechanicals. They pointed out that we could still help them, however. Yeah, right.
Michael and I arrived very early. One symptom of my particular obsessiveness is a pronounced fear of being late; as a result I am ALWAYS early and spend a lot of time messing around before the start. Amazingly, even with all that extra time, I inevitably forget to do something before starting (resetting cyclometer, turning on GPS tracker, etc). Sigh.
We had chosen the Prairies and Wetlands route, a Figure 8 that starts and ends in Newberg. The first loop goes southeast to the town of Mt. Angel and back, and the second loop goes northwest to Forest Grove and back. The first loop is ever so slightly longer than the second, but the second loop contains two endless stretches of road that makes it SEEM longer. One of those stretches is a 22-mile grind on State Highway 47. Not my favorite stretch of road. Not as bad as Highway 99 between Newberg and Dundee (the most loathsome road ever), but still pretty bad. The last time I did this route was under less than optimal conditions. I was looking forward to a better day this time around.
We started at 7 AM from the Thriftway. They have come to know us well there. They have the "Here's your receipt, where do I sign your card" drill down pat. We were all riding together at first, but Michael quickly sped off the front. I was riding along with David when suddenly his front bag decided to jump ship. Literally. It flew off the front of his bike and landed upside-down in the road. I stopped to help him pick it up, and the rest of the group passed us by. I caught up with them all again before we crossed the Willamette, however. I passed Lynne just before the bridge, and that was the last I saw of her for the day. I caught up with Bill after the bridge, and rode with him for a few miles before he dropped back, and then I did not see him for the rest of the day either. I spent most of the ride with John Henry, Joanne, Kevin, Sandy and Elsie. They were all pushing pretty hard, and there were many times when I was struggling to keep up, but I managed to do well enough to at least catch up with them at all the contrôles.
The morning ride was uneventful and we reached the first loop's turnaround at Mt. Angel in less than 3 hours. Kevin and David were in and out of the contrôle in mere minutes, but the rest of us spent a little extra time eating and drinking before moving on. On the way back, I was beginning to fall off the end of our small (now smaller) group, but they took some time to stop in Gervais to look at Elsie's new landscaping and I took the opportunity to get ahead enough that I could relax until they caught up with me again. Which they did, on Butteville Road, just outside of Donald. Shortly thereafter, we caught up with Kevin. He had stopped for a snack and David had kept going. We did not see David for the rest of the ride.
Back in Newberg, we stopped at the Coffee Cottage for lunch. On a timed ride, it is generally not a good idea to put yourself at the mercy of a "sit-down" restaurant, but we had a pretty good time cushion going for us. The remarkably slow service at the CC chewed away much of that cushion, however. Joanne left a little after the rest of us, and as she was leaving she saw Lynne and "a gang" pulling into town. So we figured they would be about half an hour behind us.
Then it was back to the parking lot to refresh our supplies and making clothing adjustments for Loop #2. That loop begins with the dreaded Newberg-Dundee section of Highway 99W. This time around the road was even more loathsome, because the shoulders were filled with gravel and debris from the late-December snow storms. And there was a LOT of traffic. ON the way into Dundee, I rode over the scale at the ODOT Weigh Station. 200 pounds! I am guessing the scale was a wee bit off, because after subtracting for my weight (fully clothed), that still left at least 60 pounds of bike and gear. My bike is very heavy, but I don't think it is THAT heavy. But it does give me a good excuse for why I was having trouble keeping up with the others in my group. In Dundee I had my only close call of the day, when I was almost right hooked by a driver who forgot we were there as soon as he passed us. Bad driver. Bad, bad driver. After another mile or so of hell, we were finally through Dundee and it was on to Dayton and Lafayette before hooking onto Highway 47 for what seemed like an eternity. The shoulders on 47 range from wide to non-existent, but like those on the 99, this time around they were filled with debris, forcing us to ride on the highway at times.
By this point, I had given up all hope of staying with the faster riders. All but Kevin pulled ahead and disappeared in the distance. Kevin hung back with me because, as he put it, "Two of us are more visible than one, and I don't like riding this road alone." I appreciated that, especially because it meant that he had to drop his speed at least 3 miles an hour to do it.
We reached Forest Grove just before 3 PM. Maggie's Buns was still open and we ran in for some sustenance. After some more remarkably slow service (but remarkably good macaroni and cheese), it was time to take on the last 25 miles back to Newberg. I was excited to be riding this section in daylight hours. By my calculations, even at the slower pace I had settled to, I could get to Newberg without having to put on my reflective gear or turn on my headlights! I told the others to go on ahead and not worry. I knew this stretch of road by heart, and was content to ride alone. They did not argue. Like horses who could sense the barn, they clearly were in the mood to set a record for the return. I was not planning on being a slug, but I could afford to just poodle along at this point. So poodle I did.
A few miles in, I came across Kevin by the side of the road. He had stopped for a snack. I kept on going, assuming he would catch up with me (and pass me) soon enough. He never did. I started to worry that something had happened to him, but didn't worry enough to turn around and look for him. As it turns out, he was okay, he had just gotten a little too bonky to catch up.
I reached Newberg at about 5:15, but took a little detour through the unpaved section of town and added some time onto my finish. Okay, I took a wrong turn. You'd think by now I would know what that stupid "240 turns into Main, turn left on Main" cue really means. I stopped at an ATM to get a time-stamp (5:22 PM), loaded the bike on the car and went over to the Coffee Cottage where the rest of "my" group had gathered. Turns out they were only about 15 minutes ahead of me. I got a soy cocoa (tepid) and a biscotti (tasteless) and headed for home, a hot bath and piles of leftover sizzling eggplant and tofu.
Time to start planning February's ride. Or perhaps it's just time to take some more pills.
Oh, and there are no pictures because I did not see anything that warranted pulling out the camera. Perhaps a sign that I have become bored with a route, Or perhaps just a little less obsessive about one aspect of my rides. Yeah, right.
This year's present from the Solstice Bear was a Garmin eTrex Vista GPS unit. It will take me months to master all its features, but today I took it for a basic tracking test run on my club ride. I had my VDO cyclometer, as well, so I could to a side-by-side comparison. Well, not exactly side-by-side--the VDO was mounted in its usual place on the handlebar and the GPS was in my front bag. But I digress.
For a basic cyclometer, the VDO provides a wealth of information. Too much information, some of my friends would say, given my post-acquisition habit of calling out the grade of whatever monster hill we were climbing. Did we REALLY need to know that Cole School Rd is 18%? (That's a rhetorical question--of COURSE we needed to know that. How else could we later brag about conquering it?). But because its data output is based on things like how well I measured my wheel size and how accurately I calculated my starting altitude, I was never quite positive that it was giving me the right information. Plus, it was no use to me if I got lost and needed a map. Enter the Garmin.
I purposely did not get a bicycle-specific Garmin. One, they are very expensive. Two, they have really poor battery life. Three, they are no good on a snowshoeing expedition (ditto there for the VDO). Several of my friends use the eTrex Vista and on their recommendation, that's what I went for. It was far less expensive and has a far longer battery life. Plus, I can plug in a topo card and hit the trail(s).
So how do the two compare? Well, as far the basic stats go, there was not much of a difference.
VDO:
Mileage 78.71 Max Speed 34 Average Speed 13.7 Elevation Gain 3841' (measured by barometric pressure) Max Elevation 1215'
Garmin:
Mileage 77.9 Max Speed 34.1 Average Speed 13.6 Elevation Gain 3952' (measured by satellite) Max Elevation 1173'
The VDO was able to tell me the temperature (31 degrees when I left home at 7:30 AM, 36 degrees when I returned home at 3:00 PM), which the Garmin could not. Unlike the Garmin, however, the VDO could not direct me to the nearest restaurant, bowling alley or geocache.
More importantly, the VDO could not let me come home and do this
It's nice to have talented friends. Lynne knew that TRFKAF had pretty much given up on that teeny, tiny Showers Pass jacket he had his little stuffed heart set on, so she knitted him a most stunning sweater in colors to match my bike.
I was going to do some sort of elaborate cross-referencing post in which I discuss all my various rides with links back to the original posts, and insert representative photos to pique readers' curiosity, but then I decided that would take too long and I've still got to cook our beans and greens for New Year's luck, and the links to all my earlier posts are right there to your left - so, instead, I offer a dry perusal of statistics . . .
Miles ridden: 7,621 Single-day rides over 100 miles: 23 Single-day rides over 200 miles: 5 Randonneuring Awards: R-12, Super Randonneur, 5000 K Distance
Miles ridden in less-than-optimum conditions: most of them . . . .
A few snapshots from our snow event of the past few weeks, with sound . . .
(for the best experience, first activate the "soundtrack" link, then activate the gallery, click on the icon in the lower right hand corner for full-screen mode, and press the play icon in the far left hand lower corner):
I've been tagged by my friend Beth to make some sort of statement about cycling out of 2008 and into 2009. To be specific, she has challenged me to answer two questions:
What didn't you do with your bike that you'd like to in 2009?
What did you do with your bike that you'd like to cut back on, or do differently?
I can answer the first question easily: A 1200 km brevet. Or at least 1000. Preferably 1200. Preferably the Gold Rush Randonnee.
The second question, on the other hand, is not so easy. There really was not anything that I did with my bike that I would cut back on, or do differently. I must admit to being smugly satisfied with my biking this year, and the rest of my life is working out pretty dang nicely, as well. . . .
So, what is my velo-resolution? Just to keep on keeping on, and to have as much fun doing it as possible.
Right after I grabbed this pair of Kako Ultra Ice Trekkers (and another for Greg) from the rack, the buyer from the Portland Police Bureau came in and snatched up the rest. He looked covetously at mine, and I turned my back and ran for the register before he could commandeer them. That's two officers that will just have to shuffle more carefully after the bad guys, I guess . . .
...WINTER STORM WATCH NOW IN EFFECT FROM THIS EVENING THROUGH SUNDAY EVENING FOR THE GREATER PORTLAND METRO AREA...AS WELL AS THE LOWER COLUMBIA AND INTERSTATE 5 CORRIDOR OF SOUTHERN WASHINGTON...
THE WINTER STORM WATCH FOR SNOW IS NOW IN EFFECT FROM THIS EVENING THROUGH SUNDAY EVENING.
COLDER AIR WILL CONTINUE TO USHER INTO THE FORECAST AREA TODAY...DROPPING TEMPERATURES TO AT OR BELOW THE FREEZING MARK BY SUNDAY MORNING. WITH THIS COLD AIR MASS IN PLACE...A LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM DROPPING DOWN THE COAST WILL BEGIN TO PUSH MOISTURE INTO THE AREA. THIS PATTERN HAS GREAT POTENTIAL TO GENERATE SIGNIFICANT SNOWFALL ACCUMULATIONS DOWN TO THE WILLAMETTE VALLEY FLOOR.
MOST AREAS WILL LIKELY SEE ACCUMULATING SNOW...AND THERE IS A STRONG POSSIBILITY OF AREAS OF 4 TO 8 INCHES OF ACCUMULATION...HOWEVER...THESE LOCATIONS WILL BE HARD TO DETERMINE UNTIL MORE IS KNOWN ABOUT THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE LOW.
A WINTER STORM WATCH MEANS THERE IS A POTENTIAL FOR SIGNIFICANT SNOW...SLEET...OR ICE ACCUMULATIONS THAT MAY IMPACT TRAVEL.
CONTINUE TO MONITOR THE LATEST FORECASTS.
On the other hand, we could just end up with a lovely Marshmallow World . . .
As in R-12: A 200 km or longer brevet every month for 12 consecutive months. A goal I have been working toward, well, all year. To be more precise, it is a goal I have been working toward for more than a year, but I sort of got sidetracked the first time around. Yesterday, I reached that goal and could not have picked a better day or better company in which to do so.
I'd been stressing about the ride since Veteran's Day, when Lynne, Bill and I completed our eleventh ride in the series. That day we had endured over twelve and one-half hours of incessant rain and I was not looking forward to what could be even worse weather on December 6, the day we had chosen for Ride #12 (we picked the first weekend in the month on the theory that if we had to DNF, we still had three more weekends in which to complete a ride). So about a week out, I started obsessing over the weather forecasts.
On November 30, the seven-day forecast called for a wet week, with some clearing by the weekend. Susan France, our RBA, sent an e-mail warning that the route we had chosen crossed a flood plain. Sigh. By Wednesday, December 3, however, the forecast was for Saturday to be sunny and cold. Sunny and cold, I can do. Rainy and cold, I can also do, but I don't enjoy it. On Thursday, the forecast began to deteriorate again, calling for light rain in the afternoon. Well, maybe if we rode really quickly, we could beat the rain. Yeah, right. I started to collect my rain gear. Fortunately, we had chosen a route that looped back to the start point midway, so I could take all sorts of gear that I might need for the predicted afternoon rains and leave it in the car.
Friday night I gathered all my riding clothes, equipment, and food together and bagged it up. I put together another bag of dry non-cycling clothes to change into after the ride. I checked the bike and noted that my tires seemed a bit soft, so I pumped them up. By this time it was getting late and I needed to get some sleep. Our start time was 7:30, and it takes me about 45 minutes to drive to Newberg (no riding to the ride this time - I had too much junk to bring along). Adding in another 30 minutes for pre-ride faffing in the parking lot meant that I needed to leave home by 6:15. I usually need an hour or so to gather my thoughts and pull myself together in the morning, so that meant getting up by 5:15. Add in some at-home faffing with the bike, and we are looking at a 4:30 AM wake-up call. So I set my alarm for 4:30, took some Valerian and went to bed.
When my alarm went off, I lay in bed for awhile contemplating just how many times I could push the snooze button and still get everything I needed to do done. I eventually decided I really needed to get up.
And it's a good thing I did, because when I went to the basement to retrieve my bike, I saw that the rear tire had gone flat overnight. Rats! The last time I had changed that tire it had taken me half an hour just to get it off the rim! Note: Ruffy Tuffies are great tires and can go thousands of miles without a flat, but they are not easy to change. Oh well, there was nothing to do but get to work and hope I had gotten better at it. I was able to get the tire off the rim more easily this time, and yanked out the tube. I could not see any obvious defects, and a scrub of the inner casing of the tire did not reveal anything. When I tried to put air in the tube to find the leak source, I could not get any air to go or stay in. I decided it must be the valve, so I just put new tube in, powered the tire back on the rim and jimmied the wheel back on the bike. The last bit is actually the most difficult - the position of the derailleur hanger and the shape of the skewer cap on the wheel make for a tight fit. Unless everything is perfectly aligned, the wheel will not pop in place. The fates were kind to me this time around, however, and I completed the whole task in less than 20 minutes. Not a bad time in a warm basement, but on a cold wet road that that would be pushing the outside of the comfort envelope, so I prayed that the problem had indeed been the tube's valve and not something in the tire or rim that I had missed!
And cold it was. The thermometer outside my kitchen window showed 32 degrees. It would be at least 5 degrees colder in Newberg. I decided to add a second wool undershirt to my clothing mix. It was also very, very clear (hence the cold). I decided to take all my rain gear with me, anyway. If anything, it would serve as a sort of homeopathic charm against rain.
I reached Newberg a little before 7:00. My friends John, Joanne, John Kramer, Vincent and Kevin had already arrived at the library parking lot where we would be leaving our cars. I had met Vincent for the first time at the Bingen Bikenfest, and had not known that he was coming down for this ride, so that was a pleasant surprise. It was also a pleasant surprise to see Kevin, who is not yet a randonneur, but should be. He thinks he won't fit in because he doesn't have a generator hub. He does not realize that he has already been infected with rando fever. We'll convert him yet; it's just a matter of time.
Lynne arrived shortly thereafter, but there was still no sign of Sal or Bill, both of whom had also signed up (but both of whom were notorious for arriving late to starts). It was getting close to 7:30, so we decided to make our way over to the market that we had chosen as our opening control, assuming that Sal and Bill would find us there. We like the market because it is open 24 hours and has a clean bathroom, both things that are greatly appreciated by endurance riders.
Bill pulled into the library parking lot just as we were riding out, and Sal was a few minutes behind him. We waited for them at the market, posed for a group photo, and headed out for the first loop of the day, a 70-mile jaunt south to Dallas and back.
The route to Dallas from Newberg begins with a 6.5 (or so) mile run down HIghway 99W. I loathe that stretch of 99W. I despise that stretch of 99W. I ride as fast as possible to get off that stretch of 99W. In addition, it was so cold (28 degrees at this point) that the circulation had stopped to my hands and I needed to get my heart rate accelerated to force the blood back into my fingers. Consequently, I ended up out in front of the pack by a few minutes, and spent much of that segment riding alone. Once I got off the 99W, I was able to relax, and wait for the gang to catch up with me in Dayton, where I stopped to admire the town's minimal approach to holiday decorations. Kevin had dropped off the pack with a flat tire, but he's a fast rider and we figured he'd catch up with us soon enough.
From Dayton we rode toward Amity, where we eventually got back on the 99W. In this area, the highway is much more pleasant, however, and so I did not need to go back into rabbit mode. After a few more miles on the 99W, we turned off on Bethel Road, toward Perrydale. The Bethel/Perrydale Roads stretch of the route is my favorite. The road rolls past farms and Victorian homes, and there is little traffic. Thanks to a Polk County bond measure, the roads are also well-paved.
On Perrydale Road, about 10 miles outside of Dallas, Vincent and I were flagged down by an old man who stepped into the road to block our travel. I thought that he must have some sort of emergency, but it quickly became apparent that all he wanted to do was engage us in an anti-bike argument. He began by asking us what we would think of a law that would require cyclists to ride in the opposite direction of motor vehicles. We told him it would be a stupid and dangerous law. He then told us about an incident when he was driving on some narrow country road and had gone around a blind curve only to discover a cyclist in "his" lane, forcing him to slow down. "Your lane?!," responded Vincent, "It was his lane, too!" "I paid for that lane," was the old man's response. Ah, yes, that old "cyclists don't pay road taxes" canard. I am sick to death of it. First, I pay taxes, and I can guarantee I pay more taxes than that Cranky Old Man (and almost any other anti-cyclist blowhard that makes that argument). Second, those particular roads had been improved through a bond measure, not vehicle taxes. But I digress. Cranky Old Man then went into a diatribe about how he hates the fact that he can't simply turn right across a bike lane but must first wait for cyclists who are going straight to pass. Apparently we, the lesser vehicles, should be waiting for him . . .
At this point I was beginning to lose my ability to be a civil and diplomatic representative of the cycling community, so I politely told Cranky Old Man that I was on a timed ride and simply must get going. As I fumed my way up the hill, I rehearsed all the things I would have liked to say to him if I had more time and patience, but I know that my words would have fallen on deaf ears. He was not interested in a real conversation about sharing the road; he just wanted to complain.
Our first control was in Dallas. In the past, I have stopped at the McDonalds there because I knew it would have a clean restroom, but I don't like to buy McDonalds' food so I was pleased to spot a sign for a Subway restaurant. Unfortunately, I spotted it after I had already committed to turn left toward the McDonalds, so getting to the Subway involved a bit of parking lot and sidewalk cross-country riding. Not exactly good cyclist citizenship there, I know. In my defense, I did feel badly about it. Fortunately, there were no pedestrians for me to inconvenience, but I still should not have done it. (And hold your comments about it being legal to ride on the sidewalk; I know it is; it's just not best practice and should be avoided when possible). At this point I was riding with John, Joanne, Kramer and Vincent, so we had a little Subway lunch party.
Lynne, Sal and Bill were behind us by a few minutes. As we passed the McDonalds on our way out of town, we saw Lynne getting ready to leave from there. We had not seen Kevin since he got his flat outside of Newberg, but as we pedaled down Ellendale Road toward Rickreall, we saw a rider approaching from the opposite direction who looked a lot like Kevin. It WAS Kevin. He turned around and caught up to us, and explained that he had had another flat, and had taken a different route in the assumption that he would meet up with us as we returned. A few minutes after he caught up to us, he got another flat (#3). John and Joanne stayed with him, and I kept on going. Kramer and Vincent had put on their speedy shoes and were already well ahead of us.
To get back to Newberg from Dallas, we headed northeast(ish) through Rickreall and back onto the 99W toward Amity. In Amity I had two unpleasant encounters with motorists who must belong to the same club as the Cranky Old Man On Perrydale Road. First, I was passed by a carload of inbred twenty-somethings (or was it twenty-something inbreds? The car was awfully full) and as they passed me, the front seat passenger opened his door and swung it out at me as if to knock me off my bike, yelling some misogynist comment or other at the same time. Nice. Shortly thereafter, I was right-hooked by an old man in a very large car who came up from behind me (and, therefore, would have seen me if he had been paying any attention to the road at all) and started to turn right before he had even passed me. I howled. Really loud. He hit his brakes. I hit my brakes. My front wheel was practically touching his passenger side door. He looked at me with utter confusion, straightened out his car and drove forward to the next road where he proceeded to turn right. Without signaling,of course. Ah, Amity. Whatever amistad it may have, it ain't directed at cyclists.
John, Joanne and Kevin had not yet caught up to me and I was on my own for most of the way from Rickreall to Dayton. Bill caught up with me after I stopped in Dayton to eat a sandwich. He then passed me on the 99W (again the loathsome stretch, but at least this time I had the pleasure of passing hundreds of cars stuck in the weekly Dundee-Newberg wine-tasting traffic jam). We stopped at the market in Newberg for our second lunch.
The weather was still spectacular with not a cloud to be seen anywhere. The temperature had climbed to 45 degrees and, if we stood in the sun, it was quite pleasant. If we stood around too long, however, our sweaty wool-clad bodies did start to chill up, so after a few more minutes of chewing and faffing, we set off across the Willamette River for the second, shorter, loop out to Mt. Angel and back.
It was on the way to Mt. Angel that we had our most exciting (and potentially tragic) experience of the day. Just past the Gervais cemetery, a dog (a blue heeler with tan points, to be precise) came charging out into the road at us, intent on attack. At that very same instance, an SUV that had been behind us had pulled over into the oncoming lane in order to pass us. What had been an example of polite vehicle behavior almost resulted in disaster as the dog ran directly in front of the SUV. The driver managed to brake in time and swerve around the dog (and away from us), and the dog continued forward straight for Joanne's leg. My ear-piercing screams of terror and the near-miss with the SUV had not dissuaded it from its mission. Joanne yelled and kicked out at it as John pedaled their tandem furiously to get away. Luckily, the dog was unable to get Joanne in his teeth and we rode on. We stopped a little way up the road to call Lynne and Sal on their cell phones to warn them about the dog. Lynne's voice mail was not behaving but John left a message for Sal. As it turned out, they didn't get the message and they too were attacked. Sal ended up actually hitting the dog with his bike! He was going slowly, however, so neither he nor the dog were injured.
All of us except Bill stopped at the market in Mt. Angel for more snacks. We saw Bill getting a receipt from the local bank ATM, but he must have then turned back to Newberg to get as much riding in while it was still light. Between brevets and my occasional commutes home from Salem, I have stopped at this market so many times in the past few months that the cashier knows me well. He always asks how far I am riding that day, and is always impressed.We were all craving salt and so Chex Mix was the food of choice.
The sun was starting to set (Damn you, Daylight Saving Time!), so we all took the time to don our required reflective gear. We all admired Kramer's vest, with its bicycle graphic and many, many pockets. As Lynne noted, "Just think how much better I would eat on rides if I had all those pockets to hold food!" I foresee a bulk order . . .
Up to this point, we had all been making incredible time. I was on target for a ten-hour finish, but figured that I would start to slow down once it got dark. In any event, I figured I could get done in ten and a half hours, give or take. I knew that John, Joanne, Kramer, Bill and Vincent would finish well before me, and Lynne and Sal would probably be a few minutes behind, but we were all on track to finish somewhere between nine and one-half and eleven hours. That would leave plenty of time for our planned celebratory meal at Burgerville and still be home at a reasonable hour. We did, however, lose some time taking pictures of the sunset.
Ten hours and thirty-three minutes later, I was getting my card signed by Sherry at the Newberg Thriftway. Sherry has been on duty the last three perms that Lynne and I have done out of Newberg. She still thinks that we are nuts, but she is beginning to understand our madness.
I would have been done sooner, but I was delayed by an absolutely obscene excess of Christmas lighting on 4th Avenue. Of course, my camera was not up to the task of recording it, and I wasted precious minutes trying to capture it.
After much parking lot rejoicing at being done, we repaired to the Burgerville for massive plates of sweet potato fries and endless rounds of self-congratulation. Kramer and Vincent had to go back to Washington, but Kevin joined us - as it turns out he'd had FIVE flats for the day, but still got in 107 miles. He'll be a rando yet.
At 6:32 PM, just north of The Chart House on Terwilliger Boulevard, Li'l HW Jr. rolled over her 5000th mile. Not bad, considering I only took delivery of her in April. In the intervening months, I have tested her mettle (and metal) on epic brevets and quotidian commutes. I've subjected her to wind, rain, and a little (very little) snow. She's not quite as shiny as she was on Day One, but I love her now more than ever.
Monday night, November 10 - the message light on my phone is blinking. It's Lynne. "Call me," she says. She doesn't sound happy.
Ring, ring . . . "Hello?" She still doesn't sound happy.
"Hey, Lynne, what's up?"
"Have you seen the weather report? Tomorrow is supposed to be the worst day ever."
"Well, I saw one weather report that said that. But I saw another one that said that WEDNESDAY would be the worst day ever, and that tomorrow would just be, well, wet."
This mattered, you see, because the next day Lynne and I, along with our friend Bill, were scheduled to ride #11 in our series of 12 monthly 200K-plus brevets in our ongoing quest for an R-12. Yep, #11 on 11-11. Nothing like a little numerical alliteration to appeal to the OCD crowd. Not that cyclists have a higher proportion of OCD diagnoses than other groups. Yeah, right. It's a wonder any of us can finish a ride we spend so much time double-checking things.
But I digress. Back to Monday night's conversation.
I really did not want to have to reschedule the ride, because my schedule is pretty complicated these days and it's not like the weather improves as the year gets older. I also really did not want to ride in a monsoon. So as we talked, I surfed around the Net checking the various weather pages. All the ones I looked at guaranteed rain and wind (100% chance of rain, winds of 10-20 mph) but not a LOT of rain and wind. Lynne's websites were more dire. Weather Underground didn't look so bad, though, (don't tell Sarah Palin!) and after much hemming and hawing we decided that we would at least go out to the start and decide then if the weather was too bad to go through with it. After I hung up the phone, Greg asked if we were riding - he couldn't tell which direction the conversation was going. "Oh, we're riding," I said, knowing full well that once we have our gear on we rarely turn back. More brawn than brains, sometimes.
We had chosen the "Prairies and Wetlands" permanent, which starts in Newberg, about 45 minutes (by car) southwest of Portland. As Lynne pointed out, if the more dire weather reports were correct, the "wetlands" part of the route could get interesting. In order to maximize daylight, we decided to start at 6:00 AM. In theory that would mean we would have about 1 hour of darkness at each end. Of course, in theory, the day would not be overcast.
I was up at 3:30, and could hear the rain pounding on the roof. Sigh. But by 4:30 it had slacked off to a drizzle, and it's not like I haven't ridden in drizzle before. So I put the bike in the car, checked that I had all my various water-resistant layers, and headed out the door. As I drove south on the freeway, the rain stopped for a brief period but started up again shortly after I turned off on the exit to Newberg. Not too hard, though. I could still see where I was going. Sort of.
I had discovered on our last ride out of Newberg that the Thriftway there was open 24/7 and that it is has an adequate restroom (which would be more than adequate if it weren't quite so hidden away and if the stalls actually had doors on them, but it's clean and warm, which is more than I can say for many of the blue rooms I've used on rides). It also has a hot chocolate machine, fresh-baked bran muffins and friendly check-out clerks. All told, this makes for a very convenient control. So, as agreed, we met in the public parking lot by the library shortly before 6:00 AM, geared up and headed the few blocks to the Thriftway to get our first receipts and signatures on our cards.
It was dark. It was wet. It was also relatively warm. Almost too warm; we were in danger of getting as soaked from sweat as from rain. I was wearing wool S'mittens under my not-at-all waterproof rain mitts from Mountain Laurel Designs (DIGRESSIVE PSA -- DO NOT BUY THE MLD OVERMITTS - THEY ARE AWFUL) and my fingers, although damp, were toasty. I did have to wring the S'mittens out on occasion, but they never got as heavy or cold as my other winter gloves have in the past.
The first loop of the route was the "Prairie" part - a meandering journey through French and Howell Prairies to Mt. Angel, with a stop at the Gallon House covered bridge, followed by a more direct return across Howell Prairie to Newberg. For the first 40 miles or so we battled not only the rain but a stiff headwind. That's par for the course out on Howell Prairie (or as my friend Ray calls it "HOWL Prairie") - no matter which way you go, it's into the wind. I began to despair of ever seeing a double-digit speed again, and we reached the Mt. Angel control with very little time to spare.
In Mt. Angel we found some shelter out of the wind and rain, and ate our lunch. Bill and I had our traditional PB & J sandwiches on Dave's Killer Bread, and Lynne had something rolled up in a tortilla. She was experimenting to see if tortilla wraps were more easily chewed and digested. I never learned how that experiment turned out.
On our way back to Newberg we were disappointed to realize that the wind that had appeared to be in our face all the way out to Mt. Angel was not at our backs but, rather, more of a crosswind. But at least we were not battling it directly, and our average speed had improved from 11.4 mph to 12.1 mph by the time we reached the midpoint control (once again, the Thriftway). A diet soda, 2 small bananas and some cheap cookies from the bulk bin served as a second lunch, after which we repaired to our cars to refill our water bottles and get dry gloves.
The day was winding on, and we still had 60 miles or so to go; the first six of which were on Highway 99W through Dundee, quite possibly the least-enjoyable section of road on which to cycle in the entire state of Oregon. The road surface is crap, and the traffic is terrible. Add to that the fact that a significant percentage of the drivers on that section of road have been wine "tasting" (more like wine-guzzling), and even on a good weather day it's a treacherous ride. In fact, on a good day it's even MORE treacherous, because the sun brings out more wine drinkers and drivers. Needless to say, I try to ride that stretch as quickly as possible.
We stopped in Dayton for another information control, and then rolled on through Lafayette to the longest single stretch of road on the route - 22 miles on Highway 47. The last time I rode this route, we had a significant headwind on Highway 47; this time we had a tailwind, but not much of one. Highway 47 is a very busy road, and there is not always a lot of shoulder room, but it was not nearly as bad as Highway 99W. We rolled through Carlton, Yamhill and Gaston, past many more wineries; a new one seems to pop up each week. How many bottles of pinot noir can this world accommodate? I was beginning to fantasize about the pizza parlor in Forest Grove. I was also beginning to bonk. This was surprising, because I had been eating and drinking more than usual. I think that fighting the wind and rain was taking more out of me than I had expected. If I didn't get something more substantial than an energy bar to eat soon, I was in danger of fainting. I really hoped the pizza joint would be open.
We were not quite sure where to turn off of Highway 47 to get to downtown Forest Grove, and ended up turning one street too soon. Fortunately, that road ended up connecting with the road we were supposed to be on, and soon enough we were leaning our bikes up against the sheltered window of the open (hurrah!) pizza parlor. We dripped our way in, and my glasses immediately fogged up from the warmth of the ovens. I debated getting two giant slices of pizza, but settled for one pretty big slice, a small salad, and a ginormous sugar cookie, instead. I think I took less than 5 minutes to inhale the entire meal.
We had made up some more time on the 47, and were on track to finish the ride in about 12.5 hours if we could keep the same pace, but it was getting dark and we knew we would ride more slowly in the dark. It was hard to leave the warmth (and dryth) of the restaurant, but we had less than 25 miles to go and had dry clothes waiting for us, so we pulled ourselves up, hauled on our wet gloves, and once again hit the road. The temperatures seemed to have dropped slightly, or maybe it was just because the restaurant had been so warm, but either way I was chilled. Fortunately, the next 25 miles or so involved just enough climbing to warm me back up, without being too arduous.
It was getting darker, and I could no longer see Lynne behind me, so I called out to her to switch her head light on. She had been avoiding using it because the additional drag from the generator hub would slow her down. We had a very slight wind assist, however, so switching it on was not as much of a problem as usual. I had left mine on all day, but I don't notice the drag as much, apparently.
It was raining harder now, and there was a lot of oncoming traffic. Many of the cars refused to turn their brights down for us, and so I was often riding blind. I tried staring down at the white fog line, but sometimes it would be covered in mud or leaves, and then it was hard to know where the edge of the road was. The roads we were on were all familiar from other rides, but I still was hesitant at some intersections. Fortunately, Lynne always had a good sense of where we were. Spring Hill Road seemed to go on forever, and when we finally got to our turn-off onto North Valley Road, there was so much oncoming traffic that I could not see the intersection. So I just stopped and waited for all the cars to go away before moving over for the left turn.
There is a one-lane bridge on North Valley Road, with a stop sign at each end. Vehicles are supposed to stop before crossing the bridge, but I have yet to see a car do so unless oncoming traffic is right on top of it. When we got to the bridge, I could see a car coming in the other direction. It was still quite far from the bridge, and so I started to cross over (after stopping first, of course). I was about halfway across the bridge when the car reached the stop sign on the other side and, of course, continued through - I yelled to the driver to stop and she did, but in the meantime I lost my tire grip on the slippery wooden bed of the bridge and hit the ridge in the middle -- the next thing I knew I was going down hard. I managed to unclip, and I didn't hit my head, but I smacked my elbow. Damn! That hurt!
The good thing is that my bike fell on its pannier side, so it was a little bit cushioned. I scooped myself up and hobbled over to the side. My chain was off, and the derailleur wasn't completely cooperating, but with a little help from Bill I managed to get rolling again. Everything seemed to be in working order. We continued on and very shortly thereafter were working our way through a counter intuitive series of confusing turns that would takes us from the Newberg town limits back to the parking lot where we had left our cars. I know that there has to be a more direct route from Tangen Road to the intersection of Blaine and Hancock Streets, but apparently not a shorter route, and in randonneuring it's always the shortest distance between the controls that counts. So we turned left, and then right, and then left again, and then left again, and voila, we were back to where we started. We hit the Thriftway control one more time - Lynne went through the checkout line with the same checker we'd had for our October perm, who thought we were nuts (they usually do). I, on the other hand, had a checker who did not think we were nuts at all. Of course, he told me that he runs marathons, which I think is nuts.
We'd all brought dry clothes with us, and agreed to repair to the local Burgerville to change and chow down on overpriced but tasty fast food. I monopolized the women's restroom and peeled off layer after layer of wet clothing, and checked my elbow - a small set of scrapes, but nothing to worry much about. No bruising at all (and still no bruising as I write this two days later). Warmer, drier, and more presentable, I ordered my meal and it appeared in extremely short order. I ate it in even shorter order. Sweet potato french fries . . . mmmmmm. I should not have gotten the ice cold soda, though. After drinking it, I developed a set of shakes that required an infusion of hot cocoa to cure.
11 down, one to go. Then I can relax. Until January.
Postscript - there are no pictures because my camera finally died after being dropped from the bike one too many times. I have a new one on order . . .
And yes, I realize that I used a Dylan clip the last time I wrote about riding this route. What's frightening is that I did not realize that I had done so until I went back to read that write-up after I had already finished this one! What can I say; the man is a topical genius.
Well, the rains are upon us and the randonneuring season is beginning to wind down. On November 1, we held our penultimate ride of the year, the perennially popular Verboort populaire (try saying THAT three times fast). This ride is timed to coincide with the annual sausage and sauerkraut festival in Verboort, Oregon, a small (VERY small) town in Washington County. Despite a weather forecast that promised rain, 33 riders showed up at the ride start at the Grand Lodge in Forest Grove. Sausage always seems to draw a crowd.
I broke my rule of "ride to the ride" so that I could give my friend Beth a lift to the start. The ride started at 9:00 AM, but registration began at 8:00 and I had a sign that I needed to deliver to the organizer. So I told Beth that I'd pick her up at 7:00 AM, and she gave me directions to her house. Directions that I promptly put in a place where I could not find them when I needed them. So at 6:55 AM, I was meandering around North Portland (where the street signs are few, hidden, and poorly lit), looking for Saratoga Street. Fortunately, I have some sense of that area, and so did not take too long to find it and arrived shortly after 7:00 (although Beth later told me that her partner was worried I was not coming . . . ). We quickly loaded Beth's bike onto the rack, and then Beth directed me through the maze of streets leading to the freeway. The rain had been holding off, but it started to drizzle as we headed up and over the West Hills toward Forest Grove.
We reached the Grand Lodge just as the ride organizer was setting up shop. Other riders arrived in quick procession, and the pre-ride faffing was soon in full swing. In addition to the general ride prep, there is always the need to check out what everyone else is riding. Mike Johnson showed up with a new bike (a Rivendell model, of course), and so much time was spent inspecting it.
Then, of course, there were the unicycles . . .
We also spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what to wear. The drizzle had stopped, but the sky looked pretty grey. It was also warm, however, which meant that dressing for rain could result in overheating if the rain held off. I decided to ditch the leg warmers, but put on rain booties over my winter riding shoes. On top I had a long-sleeve wool jersey over a thin wool camisole and, of course, my Showers Pass rain jacket.
Thus clad, I was ready to roll. We still had a few minutes before the official start, however, so I trotted on over to the hotel to score a cup of hot tea from the hospitality room (I figure I spend enough money there over the year that one cup of tea is okay) and to make one last use of the public facilities . . .
And then we were off. Full disclosure requires explaining that Verboort and Forest Grove are right next to each other, and the site of the festival is less than 2 miles from the Grand Lodge. But this was a 100K populaire. That meant that we had to find another 60 miles somewhere. We did so by riding first to Hillsboro, then to Snooseville, from Snooseville to Banks and then back to Verboort by way of Cedar Canyon.
The first control, then, was in Hillsboro, at Longbottom Coffee Roasters, which also happens to be where Portland Velo begins its Saturday rides. Because this first control was only about 12 miles into the route, most of the riders were still fairly close together in time and so we descended en masse, creating a little bit of a kerfuffle for the control worker.
I had hoped to get a scone or muffin, because my oatmeal breakfast would soon wear off, but the line at the cash register was too long and I was on a mission to finish the ride in less than 4.5 hours. I figured that there might be snacks at the Snooseville control, as there had in years past, so saddled up and rode on.
To get to Snooseville, we backtracked for a couple miles on Evergreen Parkway and then turned north, toward the town of North Plains. The route took us past farms, fields, and groves of trees in full fall foliage display. In the hills I could see smoke from a fire - it was raining at this point but apparently not hard enough to put out the flames - I was able to watch it spread as we rode along.
Just before we reached North Plains, I reached down for my water bottle and grabbed air. Whoops. Even with all that time at the start, I had managed to leave the bottle in my car. Fortunately, there is nice market in North Plains where I stopped and bought a bottle of water that would fit in the cage. I took the opportunity to powder my nose, as well. The group I had been riding with went on without me, but I knew I'd catch up to them at the next control.
Snooseville is at the end of a long, deceptive climb up Dairy Creek Road. The road LOOKS flat, but has a slight grade. The first time I rode on it, I could not figure out why my speed had dropped precipitously. I quickly figured it out when I turned around at end of the road, and sailed back down. I have since ridden on DCR many times, but the grade still surprises me.
I reached the Snooseville control to discover that there was water to be had, but no snacks. Bummer. At this point we had less than 30 miles to go, however, and I was not feeling any hunger pangs. I figured I'd just ride faster, get done sooner, and get some cookies on the way home (I doubted that there would be any soy sausage at the festival).
The Snooseville section of the route is an "out and back," so on the way to the next control I passed a number of riders who were taking the course more slowly (just as I had been passed by those riders who were taking the course more swiftly).
From Snooseville we rode on to Banks, which required us to cross Highway 26 at Frogger Junction, as my friend Jason so aptly calls the intersection. On this day, however, traffic on the highway was light and we made it across without any wait. In Banks, we turned onto Cedar Canyon Road, which is one of my favorite cycling roads. It has a bit of a climb, followed by a long, smooth descent, and passes a beautiful wetland and fields that, in the spring, are covered in crimson clover. This time of year, the clover is gone, but the leaves on the trees are fluorescent. The wetland was very wet - I could see a number of geese, ducks, and at least one heron hanging out enjoying waterfowl weather.
One more info control (a couple of throughly bedraggled yellow pom-poms left over from February's Snooseville Populaire (which followed pretty much the same route), and then it was onto the final 10-mile leg. We had one more hill to climb, at which point I dropped my fellow riders, and then a mostly flat section. Of course, that mostly flat section ended up being directly into the wind. Dang. But it wasn't raining, the scenery was lovely, and I was enjoying myself, so for once I did not mind the wind. I just geared down and poodled along, admiring the blazing blueberry bushes along the way.
Just outside Verboort, the traffic got heavy, but there were plenty of people in Hi-Vis yellow vests making the trucks and SUVs slow down, and I was able to work my way around without too much hassle. I located the final control and checked in. Four hours, nineteen minutes. Not bad. Not bad at all.
There is only one more "official" ride of the season, the Wine Country populaire on November 22, but I will still be riding brevets in my quest for an R-12, so my season is not ending - just getting a little less intense . . . .
More pictures here Beth's report here Bill Alsup's report here
I confess, I have been dilatory in my blog postings. I decided that I really did need to spend some time on something other than my bike saddle and computer chair. So instead of blogging last weekend's ride while it was fresh, I spent time cleaning out the raised beds and planting the winter crops, cleaning my house and doing laundry. Oh, and spending time with Greg, who was wondering what I looked like these days. . .
But Greg is out of town this weekend, it is raining too hard to garden, the laundry is done, and so, without further ado, it's time to play catch up.
It had been a while since more than three members of Team Bag Balm had managed to get together to ride - more than four months, in fact. The last time we'd gotten a herdlet together was late June. So when Richard suggested another bakery ride, the response was immediate and enthusiastic. After some calendar viewing, it was decided that we'd ride on Sunday, October 26 - rain or shine, but we hoped for shine.
Sunday dawned bright, warm, and a little bit windy. I decided to ride the Bianchi and took nothing more than a tiny tool bag. After so many thousands of miles on the fully-loaded Sweetpea, I felt like a dancer who had shed her lead shoes. As a result, I wildly overestimated how long it would take me to get to St. Cupcake in NW Portland, our agreed-upon starting point. The idea was that we would meet there when it opened at 10 AM, scarf down some cupcakes and head off in search of more baked goods in other parts of town. I got there at 9:40, and spent the next 20 minutes riding "laps" from NW 18th and Everett to Thurman, and back on NW 19th. By the time 10:00 rolled around, I was ready for a cupcake!
The glorious weather brought out a record number of riders, some of whom I hadn't ridden with in years. We ate cupcakes, gathered for a group photo, and set off. Our next scheduled stop was Pastry Cat in the St. Johns neighborhood in the north end of the city on the east side of the river. About half of us took a route that involved a foray into the west hills and back down to the St. Johns Bridge by way of Cornell, Thompson, Skyline and Germantown Road. The other half opted for a flatter, faster, route straight down Highway 30 to the bridge.
I was in the "hill" group, of course. As we headed up, I noticed that it seemed awfully easy. I then noticed that leaves were coming off the trees in prodigious quantities. Tailwind! The result was one of the easiest climbs to Skyline I've done in ages. The falling leaves made the ride almost magical, as they fluttered and swirled around us. Because I was having such an easy time of the climb, I decided to take a short detour from Cornell onto 53rd Street, which would eventually connect back to Thompson but would give me some extra climbing in the interim so as to justify more pastries.
When I popped back out on Thompson, I met up with Nora, and shortly thereafter we met up with the rest of the climbers at the intersection with Skyline. We then cruised north on Skyline, with the wind still assisting us, to Germantown Road, where we again regrouped before a swift, sharp and technical descent to the bridge.
While we were waiting at the top of the hill, we got a call from one of the riders who had opted for the flat route; Pastrycat was closed, and so they would meet us at the Little Red Bike Cafe. I had heard of the LRB, but had not yet been there, so I was not too upset about missing out on Pastrycat.
So it was over the river, and through the strip malls, to the LRB we went. When we arrived, we saw that we were not the only cyclists out enjoying the day and seeking tasty food. Fortunately, the LRB staff are quite efficient. Table space was at a premium, though.
From St. Johns, we took the Peninsula Crossing Trail to Marine Drive, and turned east toward the I-205 Bike Path. We also turned into the wind. Ouch. And here I had been worried that I wouldn't be working off the giant bagel I'd chosen for lunch. We quickly realized that the only way to survive would be to paceline; somehow Richard and Nancy got conned into pulling the line with their tandem the entire way. Even with a line, it was a tough go. Cyclists heading the other direction were using their jackets - I hated them.
The wind was so strong that even the kite boarders gave up.
We finally made it to the end of the Marine Drive path, and turned south onto the I-205 path. The wind was no longer a factor, and we were able to maintain a normal pace. At this point there were 17 of us, spread out over about a mile. The plan was to take the path to SE Division, and then head west on Division to our next bakery stop - Petit Provence, at SE 48th and Division. But you know what they say about plans - the best laid ones aft gang agley.
Our plan ganged agley just east of the intersection of SE Division and 87th, when a careless, thoughtless, brainless driver "right hooked" Richard and Nancy. Because they were the last riders in our line, none of us saw it happen; another driver flagged us down to tell us to turn back. We turned around and blasted back down the sidewalk (no time to cross over to the street path) to the scene. When we arrived, we found Nancy lying on the ground and Richard up and walking, but in shock. The driver and her passenger were still there, as were witnesses who saw the whole thing. Susan O. took charge, calling 911 and making sure that everyone stayed at the scene. Soon we were joined by an ambulance, a fire truck, and two patrol cars.
The EMTs talked with Nancy for a while, took her blood pressure, and decided she should go to the hospital, just as a precaution. Richard would go with her, and their tandem would go home in a friend's truck. The rest of us would continue on to the bakery to catch those riders who had been so far ahead that they missed the excitement (we'd called them to let them know what had happened). We were all quite sad that the ride had taken such a bad turn, but were happy that Richard and Nancy weren't more badly hurt. We would learn later that Richard had a fractured finger, and they were both bruised and sore, but we all agreed it could have been so much worse. None of us could understand how the driver could not have seen the large, bright-red tandem and its even more brightly-clad riders. Another instance of willful blindness to cyclists, no doubt. At least she had insurance!
On the bright side, before the incident, we had managed to get in 40 miles of great riding in glorious weather with good friends.
