Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Why East

I arose at eight on Saturday, bathed til nine, and arrived in Troutdale at ten.  Almost the entire trip there is made up of bike paths, empty except for the odd roadie or dog walker.

I meet Scott and Luke and we continue east, along the Sandy River.  We head south into Bull Run.  A short stop at Waterworks and we're climbing again.

Then Shipley, and Marmot.  Those names are like a poem to me; a poem that recalls the start to so many adventures and triggers each rider to tell their eastbound tale.  Shipley's pavement is shitty, but that's ok.  It's quick to Marmot and my favorite meadows just west of Mount Hood.

"Wy'east!" I like to yell when I first see the mountain.  I slaughter the Indian fable to the Texan, but he doesn't seem to mind.  The mountain hides behind some trees that seem too small to hide a mountain.  Flirtatiously at first, then boldly, she shows herself to us.

A roadie in a green Belgium jersey zips by silently on vintage Mercx.  I would've been annoyed but some people are just naturally fast and there's nothing for it.

Brightwood is a bustling little two corners in the woods that features both a tavern and a store.  We learn there that the man in green, Eric, is training for his first one day Seattle To Portland.  Well, he climbed more hills Saturday than there are in six STPs.

Like unwinding a tensioned spring, we spend the afternoon undoing our morning miles.  Back to Marmot.  Down Shipley.  The ti bike feels like tailwinds all the time.  Even so, some of these hills begged me to walk them.  I refuse give in, except to stop twice and shove some candy in or change the song to a faster beat.

My riding partners, strong and stylish gents both, gave me the gift of wait; each time denying they had been there long.  This is a skill I long to practice, but rarely get the chance.  Everyone is just so blazingly fast.

We descend into the Sandy River Valley, along the new french toast route, over the Stark Street Bridge and back to the car at Otto Miller Park, which felt a lot like cheating.  Until our leader opened the trunk to reveal a cooler of finish line beer.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Oh La La French Toast

When last we visited, dear reader, your authoress had waffled over riding more permanents.  And, since then, the idea that nothing is permanent has been reinforced by a sudden change of scenery.

But, alas, like so many things that seem bad at first, change just serves as a reminder of the temporary nature of life and possessions.  And a reminder to me of what's really important: bike rides and the people that enjoy them.

Eight such people came to my house recently and ate some french toast.  We took a small journey eastward, one of my favorite directions, on an easy forty mile fiesta.  Playing plays a large part in happiness, and this day didn't skimp on it.

Six ladies and three men: a rare and novel gender ratio.  Fast riders and medium-paced riders.  All wearing smiles all day.  It felt like a tailwinds all day. 

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Sun Sets

I don't care to complain.
Or echo negativity.
I won't live a vindictive life.

My passion is pedaling.
And spreading it. 
My goal: fun.

I've been bullied before,
By better bullies,
They are their own victims.

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Our Won

Everything started out fine.  Oatmeal.  Coffee.  It was a bit chillier in Eugene than it had been in Portland in the days leading up to this second attempt of the Alsea Falls 200K permanent.  So cold that puddles were frozen over.  So cold that I took turns putting a hand in my pocket with my little hotties.

My partner, good ol' 7600, mentioned we were going slow and suggested maybe I was getting soft.  That kind of comment usually has one of two outcomes.  Either I get super pissed and slow way down.  Or I get super pissed and speed way up.  I tried to react logically, and without emotion, as our dear friend Mr. Spock might have done.  I mentioned that it was still the first hour and I couldn't feel my hands.  Then I told him to shut up.

Brutal north winds were in the forecast.  And, naturally, we were heading north, right into the southern Willamette Valley, home of "the sitting duck".  There was nowhere to hide, no cover at all.  Just thirty miles or so of headwind to start the day.  Although windy and chilly, the sky was cloudless and the air was crisp and sweet-smelling.  I tried hard to concentrate on these other senses while my kneecap was grinding to chalk.

By the time we arrived at the third control - Dairy Mart in Monroe - my right knee was almost as unhappy as I was.  Pedal, pedal, twinge.  Soft pedal, soft pedal, ache.  Repeat.  I consumed some bizarre milky coffee concoction and a chocolate bar to cheer me up, which worked great for about ten minutes.

We kept reminiscing about our November attempt at this route.  You know, the one where we tried to pop through on Wells Creek Road and instead ended up lost in the woods for a few hours.  I noticed some homemade bus stops I had stopped to photograph last year, as final entries in my annual photo calendar project.

Behind the conversation, I could hear my knee.  SQUAWK!  Creeeeak.  Squeeeegrle.  Sounds like that.  Well, I still have the other leg, I thought.  Wheat might be cooked, but Shredded still had some miles in it.  (If you haven't named your legs yet, I suggest you do.  And, comment here with their names!).

We climbed the highway this time, instead of forking off on Wells Creek Road.  Pushing up the narrow shouldered highway, rife with blind curves and tons of fast cars and motorcycles swooshing by was not much fun.  Heck, climbing was not much fun in my compromised state.
Eons later, we arrived at the store in Alsea.  This store has their very own stamp that they use on brevet cards.  In all of the perms I've ridden,  I've never seen such a thing at a country market.  It made the stop extra fun.  Along with the giant bag of potato chips, bag of frozen corn on my knee and chocolate bar for dessert.

The next part of the route should have been the best part, if I hadn't been in so much pain.  The worst part of the pain was that it was self-inflicted.  I should have skipped one, or even both, of my boot camp style workouts the previous week.  I should've picked a different weekend to lead a 50 mile shop ride, hop a bus from Portland to Eugene, and hop out of bed to ride 130 miles with empty tanks and tired muscles.

In any case, I hope to do this route again under better conditions, and mostly because of the mind-bending gorgeousness that was South Fork Road.  Climby and curvy, long and narrow, barely traveled by cars, trees everywhere, the river everywhere and waterfalls, too.  One wonders why the route took us up the highway instead of South Fork Road as an out and back.

This time we only had a short stint on Territorial, which should be renamed TERRORtorial.  It's basically a two lane autobahn with no shoulder and barely even a fog line.  Cars and trucks and trailers exceeding 70mph careen by, barely missing us.  Luckily, 7600 was sporting his USA jersey, which seems to soften drivers' moods, and we were not hit.

We made it to the Long Tom Grange info control just as dusk fell.  7600 reminded me that the wind always calms as the sun falls, and he was correct.  So, instead of enjoying the tail wind we had earned, we rode into the still dark, and to the Alvadore store control, where I purchased neosporin to put all over my chapped face and a chocolate bar to put in it.

The rest of the ride is a blur, as I was totally in death march mode.  I know I cried some, and sang some, and cried some more.  As we finally entered Eugene city limits, 7600 exhibited an act of kindness that re-energized me enough to make it to the finish.  A rider was stopped on the sidewalk with her cruiser bike, wheel partially off, and bags of groceries sitting by.  Without hesitation, he stopped and helped her reattach her wheel.  She offered us chocolate bars as we rode away.  .

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

The Human Powered Rollercoaster

Let's take a trip back in time, to the late '90s.  I am a big fat bike messenger and happy as a clam.  I jump on an aeroplane and land in Rochester, New York, my home town.

I ride to my Grammy's house and spend the night.  She insists I bring my bike into her carpeted living room and work on it there and explain every little thing I'm doing.  She makes me feel so smart, even though all I'm doing is putting the wheels and pedals back on and pumping up the tires and adjusting the handlebars.

Grammy was a Great Lady and the result of an out-of-wedlock conception.  My mother told me the story about the big scandal and how my great grandma ran away with my great grandpa to elope and live their lives far away in shame.  She made one last call home and my great-great grandma, her mother, answered the phone and insisted they come home for a proper wedding.

Back to the 1990s and my date with a certain bike race in Toronto.  I take a bus over the border at Niagara Falls, weekend destination of my childhood.  I meet up with friends at the hostel before riding over to the venue - a large warehouse rented by the race sponsors, Dunhill Tobacco and JetFuel Coffee.  Bike messengers from near and far will be racing in this giant space over the weekend, on a thing called the Human Powered Rollercoaster - or the HPR.

I'll never forget my first glimpse of the HPR.  Built out of plywood and two by fours, it doesn't look quite real.  Or maybe it looks too real.  Gritty.  Not polished or varnished or finished really.  hand-built by a team of I don't know who.  Exposed everything.  A figure eight with a bridge and tunnel.  Small, with tight turns.  A plywood tarmac.  My heart started beating very fast.

Inside one loop of the figure eight: a band.  Very loud.  Inside the other loop: spectators, racers, fans.  I found the line for registered riders and queued up.  I was in Canada so I had to queue up instead of wait in line impatiently like Americans do.  When I mentioned earlier that I was a big fat bike messenger, I meant it.  I was pretty hefty at that time, nowhere near the svelte self I've worked so hard to sculpt out of that other big and burly, but powerful, body.
The HPR Alley Cat Scramble jersey, which I still own and even wear occasionally, was quite tight and exposed every little bulge.  Self-consciously, I stripped down and started over, this time putting my jersey and shorts on first, then covering it all with a black jumper dress that was my favorite thing then.

I pre-rode the track, which wasn't really a track.  It was more of a roller coaster.  I was on a fixed gear, as was the fashion then.  The banks and tight turns were unforgiving and my little KHS frame, you know, the one with the curved seat tube, had some pretty extreme toe overlap.  It made for an adrenaline-filled experience.

One of the organizers waved me over.  "You can't wear anything that covers the jersey".  Sentences that begin with "you can't" don't sit well with me now, much back then in my hyper punk rock rebel f the police days.  I asked to talk to the main organizer, head honcho, top guy.  I was escorted to an office in the back of the warehouse.  There was a very official looking official dude, I think he might've been wearing a suit, or maybe it just felt like he was.  He was on the phone and waved for me to sit down.  After a heated discussion with whoever was on the other end, he asked me what the problem was.

I went ahead and tried the honest route.  I told him I felt really fat-looking in the jersey and wanted to wear my jumper over it.  I modeled for him to demonstrate that the sponsor logos still showed beneath the jumper's straps.  He nodded at me and said with a smile "of course you can wear your jumper over the jersey".  Then he asked if I planned to race in the black chunky heeled loafers I had on.  Yes.

One of the other ladies in my heat crashed.  She wasn't badly injured, but it enabled me to move on to the next round.  I won again, but that was the last time and I was happy to get off of that scary track.  Many talented riders ate wood that weekend.  There was blood on the track, and that's no story.  One dude, piled headfirst into the bridge support and was taken out in an ambulance.  He came back later with his jaw wired shut, drinking beer through a straw.
I have been lucky many many times in my life, and part of that luck is getting a front row seat in events that are later heralded as historic.  Months later, someone sent me a clipping from a Toronto magazine.  I was named as having won "Best in Show" because of my outfit.  That was the first I time I had heard of it, but it helped explain the small box of goodies I was given at the event.

An apparent tradition at this event, for this was the second time it was set up, was for the racers to tear down all of the vinyl banners to take as souvenirs after the last race.  A security guard wrenched the banner from my hand, bent my arm behind my back and escorted me outside.  I was enraged, but within seconds, he got a call on the radio.  He let go of me, apologized, and handed back the banner.
A seamstress friend made the banner into a jumper dress to wear in the Cycle Messenger World Championships (CMWC) in DC the following year.  I didn't win anything, but that same friend made the filmy silver supertar dress that won me "Best Dressed Messenger" at the CMWC in Barcelona in '97.  The CMWC continues to this day, in a different country each year.  This race is completely organized by that city's messengers, who volunteer many hours to put on an event that includes not just a race, but alley cats and film festivals and art showings and concerts - all showcasing the talent stockpiled within the bike messenger community.

The Human Powered Rollercoaster, sadly, is no more.  Some sort of Canadian law was introduced that prohibited tobacco companies from sponsoring athletic events, and that was that.

However, not all was lost.  Lifetimes later, here in Portland, Oregon, a local company known as Portland Design Works housed a very tight-turned round wooden track, reminiscent of the HPR but in a figure zero.  They named it Circulus and it was thrilling to watch racers on BMX bikes ride around and around and around this very steep-banked, tiny and tantalizing little track.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Palmer Mill Expedition

There's a riding posse called "Where The Pavement Ends".  The group description reads like a poem: 

Adventure Base Miles
Sometimes hammering but never opposed to the cafe stop
Situations where 28c just doesn't cut it
Racers training and training racers
Roads closed
Hopping gates
Hardpack, singletrack, gravel, pavement
Exploring the back roads of Portland one at a time

The organizer emailed me saying this is not a Velodirt ride.  I'm not sure what to make of that, but I caught his drift when he said they are a group of racers and it's a drop ride.  So, waiting at the Stark Street Bridge to intercept them, I wasn't surprised at all to see a huge pack of cyclists hurtling through space at an unbelievable pace.  It was like the Roadrunner had cloned himself.  

Someone shouted my name and "HOP ON", which I attempted to do from a standstill.  I chased a bit, then some nice person came back and offered me his wheel.  Unfortunately, his wheel did not offer a fender and I was sporting a brand new jacket, so let's just say that's why I let him go.

For almost a mile, I could see them.  A big shadow with a cloud of dust following it, getting smaller at each corner until I couldn't see them anymore.  For some reason, I found this hilarious and was laughing as an unidentified friend coming the other way shouted at me "Maria!  YOU GOT DROPPED!".  

Rolling up to the Corbett store, I spied a small group that I suspected was a splinter of the fast group.  But, no, they were their own group.  I told them my code name was Hot Potato.  One guy, Josh, asked if I'd be writing up today's ride in my blog.  Sometimes I feel like there's nowhere to hide.  I offered this group an opportunity to drop me as well, but they declined in order to fix a flat.
Onward and upward, I stopped for a photo and water at Women's Forum.  A few of the fasties were hangin out fixing a flat at the Larch Mountain turn off and I thought, "ha! slow and steady wins the race" but they passed me again after Vista House and that was that.

A fwe miles later I could see two riders up high on Alex Barr, local legend gravelly grind.  I rode up and up and up, eventually walked for a while, rode again and found myself at the top much later.  I put my jacket on for the descent, but there were a few more curves to climb first.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Phantom Horse Thief Century

Nobody, but nobody, turns down an invitation to a ride by this name.

A good friend of mine had to close his bike shop in San Diego because he couldn't afford the rent.  He mentioned on facebook that he was now afraid he wouldn't be able to afford his personal apartment rent either (in the same building).  Then he went to Tijuana and his laundry was stolen out of his car, which included all of these old collectible bike messenger t-shirts and ALL of his socks.  None of which has anything to do with Sunday's century ride.

Unlike the small story above, Sunday's ride was primo,  We met in the Northwest Industrial neighborhood at a warehouse.  I recall racing a Bike Swam Alley Cat from that same warehouse a coupla years ago.  NW Industrial is a very weird and haunted feeling place, especially at 8am on a Sunday.  
I got there exactly on time because they said they were leaving at 8 sharp and just as I was about to leave, people started to show up.  9 of us altogether.  2 chicks.  If you count me.  The other girl just got into riding and this was her second century and she was super fun and laughed a lot.  We rode up Saltzman, which I spent most of the day Saturday dreading, but then it turned out to be no big deal.  Skyline out to Old Cornelius, Rock Creek, out out out to Banks.  So pretty and gray and a teeny bit damp and really cold but only if you stopped moving.  Actually kind of ideal weather for pedaling.

The leader guy was super nice and thoughtful and kept doing really quick regroup stops to keep us together.  We had our first rest stop in Banks and then got on the Banks-Vernonia bike path, which is pretty supreme.  20 miles of bike path with no angry honking cars, which we encountered a lot on the other parts.
The Mediterranean place in Vernonia that I spent several miles looking forward to was closed until February.  Jerks.  So we went to this Mexican place instead and everyone got big plates of food.  I got the super nachos which were super delicious and I have no regrets, even if I did keep burping super nachos for hours.  From there we started out as if we were going to the Birk.  That route is so familiar to me and it felt really cool to be out there.  It was all so quiet and empty and gray and foggy and there was lichen and moss everywhere.  

Then we turned onto the Scappoose Vernonia Highway, which I've never ridden in that direction before so my mind was a little blown when it turned out to be this massive climb.  I thought it was a massive climb from the other direction but I guess climbs feel massive when you go up them and descents are quick and easy to forget.  
I started to drop back and sing I've Been Working On The Railroad, which soothed my frazzled nerves.  I kept thinking my back tire was really soft.  Finally, around five zillion years later, we made it to the top and everyone was waiting for me and we zoomed down to Scappoose and went to a drive-thru coffee place.  I got a hot cocoa with a shot of espresso in it.  Drink of the gods, I tell ya, wow did that revive me.

From there we slogged back in the dark cold wet with zillions of cars on highway 30 and I was so happy when I saw the Sauvie Island bridge silhouette, then even happier when the St. Johns Bridge sillhouette came into view.  We went to this bizarre brew pub in the middle of NW industrial nowhere and I got a beer and an order of toast and lived the high-carb dream.  Then downtown to the max train and home to my cat and my shower and my bed.  Woke up the next morning as if nothing had happened.  

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Twenty Fifteen

Accountability is increased when intention announcements are made, so I'll share.  My theme for Fifteen will be F.

My cycling goals have almost always been numerical.  This many rides, that many centuries, an R12, what have you.  Next year will be different.  I'll still play the permanent game and I already have a big trip planned (hello, Oregon Outback!), but mostly I'm going to choose my rides based on the potential for fun.  Here's the complete list.

   Fun.  I will ride my bike for fun, and fun alone.

   Fat.  I will spend the first four months of the year losing a bunch, 15 pounds to
   be exact.

   Fantasy.  I will visualize what I want on a daily basis.  Some call this meditation.

   Friends.  I will develop new friendships and deepen current ones.

   Five.  One's missing here!  I'm open to suggestions - just leave a comment.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

R12, 2 (F)

I'll never forget the huge surge of emotion that accompanied earning my first R12. What is an R12, you ask?  Well, let me preface my answer by warning you that it's a French phenomena, which happens all over the world.  A regular bicycle rider, who soon loses sight of regular bicycle rides, joins a group called Randonneurs USA.  At the time, it seems like a small commitment - no commitment at all, really - just $20, which gets you a quarterly magazine, an identity number, and a sticker. Soon enough, one has forgotten their name and goes by their number instead.  Just call me 7337.

After thorough review of the rules and expectations of being a "rando" rider, one attempts a brevet, or maybe even a permanent (perm for short, if that curls your hair).  The difference?  I'm still trying to understand.  Brevets are on a calendar somewhere and people seem to show up.  Permanents are arranged by individual riders, and are not on the official calendar, but may be advertised in other ways.

Both rides include receiving a brevet card, which magically transforms even the most dilapidated middle-of-nowhere tavern (in best cases), or busy gas stations (in less than best cases), into a "control".  Each control has a time cut-off, and if you don't make it, not only does that mean you're slow, it means you've been disqualified and can now ride home with your saddlebag between your legs.

So, back to the original question.  An R12 is just one of a long offering of Randonneur awards.  One earns it by riding a 200k (that's 126 miles American) every month for twelve consecutive months.  They must be calendar months.  You can't just go crazy and peel off a 200K every 4 weeks, because that may give you 2 in July and 0 in August, which will get you seriously DQ'd.  I'm not talking about Dairy Queen here, folks - this is the dreaded disqualified, or DNF (did not finish), although I suppose either of those are better than a DNS (did not start).

On that fated frigid December evening two years ago, rolling into the mini mart signified my final control in my final ride leading to my R12 award.  BooYAH!  I did it!  That evening, Rando 7600 and I attended a post-permanent Christmas party.  As the two of us sat across the room from each other inhaling holiday treats, we had a mind meld.  We were both living a double life: one as a Rando, one as a normal person who attends Christmas parties.

A few months later, I received my quarterly Randonneurs USA magazine and quickly flipped to the page listing awards.  All of those miles and late nights and early mornings has added up to this - my name on a list.  I looked with new respect at each and every name there.  Some of these people had probably completed their rides on tandems, in snow, on gravel routes or on fixed gears, but there was no indication of who had done which.  I only knew from articles within the magazine that Randos did these things.

Some of the names had a number after the R12, indicating how many R12s they'd earned.  And there I was!  My R12 also had a parenthesis after it: (F).  "Fred?" I pondered.  No, how could they know.  "Fast"?  Well, that's just not true.  Oh.  "Female".  There weren't any (M)s indicated.  I felt singled out, confused, even upset.  I've learned since then that the intent is to encourage other (F)s to attempt their R12.  Intention is nine tenths of something.

But that was a lifetime and many kilometers ago, and now I've earned my second R12 (F).  This time around, I don't give a Flying (F) what letter they put after my name, I'm just grateful for the accomplishment.  The Portland Society, the bikey ladies professional network I belong to, has assisted me in embracing the (F).  We now use a hand signal to indicate female, the parenthesis around the (F) curving like a lady does.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Mill City Coffee Run

"Who's better than us?" asked 9969.  "Nobody, that's who!"

Some days when I get out of bed, I feel like I'm stepping outside of the regular world.  The alarm gongs early, still dark, and I spring up, thinking "Today!  I get to ride bikes all day!".  The enthusiasm wanes, but not for several hours.

9969, aka the Kid, aka the Pirate - my ride to the ride - showed up thirty minutes early and I was still in the bath.  I let him in and got back in the bath.  Things go better if I have a hot soak and mellowing out period to start days like this.

It was 25 degrees as we walked out of the cafe in Wilsonville, ready to jump on the Boone Bridge and get to the Charbonneau District.  Crossing the Willamette River takes you away from suburban sprawl and drops you into a pastoral post card.

Howell Prairie Road was gorgeous and neverending, and also on the route of a new permanent I'm creating.  The Portland-Aumsville-Portland, or the PAP, was inspired by the icy weather creating dangerous areas on higher elevation roads.  I need something flat and easy that starts nearby for days like this.

We rode through Aumsville before arriving at our control in Stayton.  I checked out the restaurant control for PAP and even spied a deli market across the parking lot.  Golden.  On we pedaled to our french fry snack in Stayton.  Leaving town via a circuitous route made sense after we missed a turn and spent an unpleasant mile on the main street.
Soon we were on Old Mehama Road.  The countryside here was so quiet and peaceful, it felt almost haunted.  Even the dilapidated old barn surrounded by sheep and heaps of discarded farm equipment looked picturesque.  Soon we were singing songs about stink and soon after that we encountered an extremely smelly pig farm.  Bacon's revenge.

We were getting short on time as we entered Mill City, which doesn't seem to have a mill and is so small it's barely a town.  After riding in circles for ten minutes, 9969 chimes in with an "I thought you rode this before", I reminded him that was a year and many thousand miles ago, and with seven other people leading the way.  Finally we stumbled onto Rosie's Cafe, our destination.

I don't think they were excited to see us city slickers in our tight pants there at the cafe.  When I asked for my order "for here" she asked if we would be sitting outside.  In the frigid cold.  The muffin and truffle I had were delicious nonetheless, and we enjoyed a friendly conversation with a neighboring table.

Onward and upward, or downward, we jumped back on highway 22.   All morning we had watched the telltales and felt sure our future included a massive headwind on the way back north.  This dreaded hypothetical headwind never did show up until Butteville Road, many miles later.  First we had to get back to Stayton.  We agreed that chocolate milk would make our world a better place and got matching receipts.
Back to Aumsville and back onto Howell Prairie Road.  The sun started to set but the temperature stayed on the good side of forty.  Twilight seems to be the time of day dogs are on guard and we had many run out at us.  We started to be quiet so we wouldn't call them all out.  We saw a pair of boys jumping in a blue barrel to crush down leaves, and I laughed out loud when one of them fell over and out of the barrel.

My back felt sore and pedaling hurt so I slowed way down and watched the red blinking light ahead of me recede.  Soon enough I was at the Angel-Gervais turn, but my riding partner missed it.  I called and voicemailed and texted, then rolled on ahead to Gervais.

A bag of chips and a bathroom break "behind the Gatorade machine" in the Gervais store freshened me right up.  On to Butteville Road.  It felt even longer than Howell Prairie, if that's possible.  My headlight only served to show how dark the world had gotten, and keep me from riding into a ditch.  But the sky felt big and glowed navy blue.  It was the only thing that kept me going for many miles.

C'mon Fargo.  Please be Fargo.  The telltale green street sign would glimmer up ahead, reflecting my headlight and teasing me with the hope that it might say Fargo.  Sign after sign did not say Fargo. The F on the Feller Road sign gave me a momentary flutter, but still no Fargo.  9969 phoned to tell me he'd made it back to the car.  I wanted to beg him to send me Fargo Road.

Finally, lifetimes later, Fargo Road materialized.  Then Bents and Arndt and Boones Ferry.  Only two miles on Boones Ferry, then, onto the freeway and over the bridge and back to the car and beer and burgers and the euphoria of sitting still.