September 30, 2017

Somewhere Near Rainbow

The weekend in Rainbow was canceled due to smoke, almost as soon as it was booked. I made a plan to do some other camping somewhere else, but suddenly, Rainbow was back on.  I dropped everyone and everything, shook my ducks out and rearranged them, and texted in a hell yes.  There's no way I'd miss a Rainbow weekend with the Hybrid Moments gang.

We arrived late, or at least after dark, and quickly got situated in the chilly cabin.  Since there was a fire ban, we wouldn't have a roaring fireplace to keep us warm like last time.  Thankfully, I was assigned the master bedroom, which includes two down blankets and an electric heater.

The next day we awoke to a beautiful sunrise, which was bad news.  A beautiful sunrise in Oregon during wildfire season means the fires are burnin and the smoke is thick.  Riding in the smoke can feel burny on the eyes and throat, and even limit breathing.  We were close to the evacuation zone, so adventuring on little known trails could actually be dangerous.

We piled in the car and drove to find a less smoky area to explore.  We saw some hitch hikers wearing bike helmets and promptly picked them up.  They were shuttling to the top of the trail, with plans to ride back to their parked car.  We dropped them at the trail head, then decided to ride there too.  

I had been promised a mountain bike-free weekend, and here we were on single track.  I tried to be a good sport, but the truth is I don't like single track.  I brace myself, my knees hurt, I'm nervous and staring at the roots and rocks and berms and spending all my energy trying not to fall, instead of seeing pretty scenery and having fun.  A few miles in, our leader asked how I was doing and I confessed I'd rather be at the dentist.

We crossed a gravel road on our way back to the trail head, and couldn't resist.  About five or eight miles of pretty riding later, it dead-ended and we turned back again.  Back at the parking lot, we saw there was another trial to try - the Santiam Wagon Trail.

The Santiam Wagon Trail used to be the only way to get over the Santiam Pass, before they paved Highway 20 through and covered it with cars.  The wagon trail is still alive though, hiding in the woods, and we got to check it out in both directions.  The trail gets pretty rocky and we were grateful to have pneumatic tires.  I wondered how history may have been changed if Dunlop had been around during wagon times.
 
Pretty soon we encountered Fish Lake, pictured above.  The lake is bone dry half the year.  A bit further on, we found Fish Lake Camp, a treasure trove of historical buildings and plaques.  We especially enjoyed theorizing about the homesteader grave of a young couple and their baby, who had encountered snow on the pass and died before making it to the safety of the Camp.
That evening we noticed an old junky-looking tandem behind the shed.  We went to work like a pit crew, pumped the tires, oiled the chain, and even wiped down the frame.  Soon the bike was rideable.  Cosmo let me captain and after several false starts, we were off!  The chain wasn't aligned correctly and our pedal stroke, instead of being in tandem, had us toe to heel on each revolution.  I'm not sure I've ever laughed as hard as I did during that tandem ride.
The next morning dawned less smoky, so we ventured out to a nearby logging road.  We waited for more Hybrid Moments riders, but no one came.  They must've been scared off by the smoke.  We climbed and climbed, and finally caught our first glimpse of Wolf Rock, the largest monolith in the state.  Further on, at our summit, we had a nice clear view of it and howled together at its grandeur.


September 27, 2017

Bikecraft Returns!

You heard it here first, dear readers!  Your favorite blogger will be appearing at the 2017 BikeCraft in Portland, Oregon.

Edit: you heard it here second - check out the Bike Portland coverage here.

The fun is set to take place the weekend of Friday, December 15th through Sunday, December 17th.  Friday's opening night promises to be well attended, with more happenings all day on Saturday and Sunday.

Check out the Microcosm (our hosts!) website about the event, here: https://microcosmpublishing.com/bikecraft.

There will be lots of great wares to peruse and possibly purchase.  Over at the Bicycle Kitty booth, you'll find buddy flaps with reflective accents (stop spraying your friends or your Cat Six competitors!), embellished valve caps (both presta and schraeder), and of course, the infamous BumEase butt pillows.

The pillows are vinyl on one side and cotton on the other, offering cyclists, campers, hikers and general adventurers a dry place to sit wherever they may roam.  There will be plenty of sizes and colors to choose from.


See you there!

September 2, 2017

Swift Summit 200 / 100

I succeeded in my goal to make it to the start line of the Swift Summit 200/100.  My morning started at 3:30am at my mom and dad's house in Albany, which is pretty close to the start line in Lebanon.  My dad rose with me and gently hovered in the background, his hands crossed in his humble way.  After watching me wolf down a bowl of oatmeal and head out the door, he stopped me to give me a hug and said  "You are strong and you are brave.  Just remember to have fun!".

Entering town, I saw our Race Director, Trevor, at the Lobby Cafe and ran in to grab my second cup of coffee*.  I was so excited my heart was racing, and had been since the night before.  Being interviewed a few evenings earlier by the Sprocket Podcast only added to the pressure build up.  I dropped my drop bag and had bib number 224** pinned on to my back.  I had hoped for 211, with my special affinity for type II fun, and the number eleven in general.  It had been my messenger number, and therefore my name, for a couple of years.  Since then, I often notice a mile post 11 sign, just when I need a boost.

It was dark and chilly at the start line and I was glad to have my bunchable pink jacket with me.  I watched Mark slide in just in time, and madly pack his bike while Trevor spoke.  Although harried, Mark took the time to run over and give me a hug and a "Bonne Route".  Trevor's speech included the usual "look out for tracks and deer, turn left at the bottom of the hill" type announcements.  Then he went on to name the fallen, the killed endurance riders from this year.  I touched the MH sticker on my bike in honor of Mike Hall. After a silence, he read a poem.

I was honored to be queuing up with this bunch of amazing athletes, and somewhat incredulous to even be counted among them.  Trevor announced that we had some accomplished endurance bike racers in our midst and that he'd like to call them up.  Then he said my name.

Time froze.  Me?!  I'd never gotten a call up before, and he was calling me up and calling me up first?  My strategy of staying within myself immediately went to crap while I rolled my bike up to the front.  He called up others then, Kraig (winner of this year's Steens Mazama 1000), David for the Steens Mazama, Route 66 and TransAm, and Mark for his RAAM finishes.  And of course, Rob English, who'd go on to win today's event.

The group finally rolled out and I let myself drift to the back.  I knew if I rode with the pack, I'd chase and wear myself out too early.  As it was, our neutral rollout was at a 20mph pace.  The dark and chill exhilarated me and I missed a turn***, which luckily added only a couple of miles.  I pledged to pay closer attention for the rest of the day.

The alternating woods and countryside were simply glorious.  Watching the horizon dimly lighten and brighten over the span of an hour felt like having a front row seat to a pretty great sky show.  I rolled into the first control, in Lacomb, ten minutes later than my 8:30am goal time, but with plenty of time before the 10am cut off time.  "I better hurry up!" I thought to myself.  Before leaving, I recited my "blackout poem" to the volunteer.  These were hand created by our Race Director and mailed to us in advance.  I loved mine so much I'd memorized it.
Riding around Foster Lake made me feel sentimental for some reason.  It was so beautiful and I felt privileged to have the opportunity to see it in this way on this day.  Coming around the more populated southern edge of the lake, I noticed much of my water was already gone and wished I'd pocketed a third bottle****.  Luckily, a laundromat presented itself and I dashed in, bike and all, to fill up.

Below is the one photo I managed to take all day.  I was trying to capture the sweetly stenciled Swift Summit logo, but was too harried to notice it was blocked by my basket.  
The next control, Arturio's house, was coming soon.  I imagined there'd be a slip & slide and lounging racers scattered on the grass.  Instead there were a couple of nice ladies sitting in lawnchairs behind a table laden with fruit and chips.  I recited my blackout poem to them and munched on some chips while madly taking my jersey off to re-pin my number, which had come loose and was flapping in the wind while I rode.  Next year, I'll sew it on.

I had done quite a bit of math on the way to Arturio's, and calculated I'd be a half hour earlier than my goal of 12:30pm.  As expected, I rolled in at 12pm, an entire 2 hours before the control closed.  The climbing began in earnest after that.  Fern Ridge doesn't seem to have any ferns and felt like more of a mountain than a ridge, but the views were grand.  

Finally the uphill it turned to gravel.  The hill and the gravel were hard but not impossible.  The downhill portion felt sketchy and I had to coach myself not to fall: "Relax, roll right through, float float!" I yelled.  

Hot foot haunted me in the final stretch to control number 3 in Brownsville, or "Brownsville 1" as I had come to think of it.  We'd have three control stops in Brownsville, and my drop bag would be available at each.  Brownsville 1 closed at 3pm and my goal had been to get there at 2pm.  I was a half hour late.

The volunteers welcomed me as if I were their long lost best friend.  They took my bike from underneath me, filled my bottles and set up a bucket of ice water for me to stand in.  After a couple of sublime minutes standing in ice water, they urged me on, telling me I had 45 miles to complete in three hours.  So I put on my shoes and raced westward, looking forward to the long flat section.

I had envisaged this section would be my time to shine.  I'd have 110 miles on me, be fully warmed up and ready to roll fast, head down, hands in the drops.  There was just one tiny thing I'd forgotten - the north headwinds that the western Willamette Valley is famous for, which always kick up in the afternoon.  The dirt devils and yellow brown countryside scorched.

I decided to finish singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall before doing any race math.  I suspected my situation was dismal, but knew pedaling was really the only thing I could do.  After we passed around the last bottle of beer, I realized I needed to average 18 mph for the next hour or so.  I was working hard to maintain 12mph.  

Soon the route turned north again onto Falk Road.  "FALK" I screamed joylessly.  I saw a lady up head walking a bike and slowed down to suss her out.  She had heat stroke and was cramping and I stopped to hug her.  She started crying and I urged her to call in and get rescued, then said goodbye and pedaled on.

A few miles later, I saw another pair standing by their bikes by a mini-mart, with a large bottle of water on the ground.  I asked if they'd be using it all and they offered me some.  They told me they were done racing and riding straight to the brew pub finish line in Lebanon.  I told them they were a bad influence and left quickly.  Although I felt little hope of making it at this point, I didn't want to quit until I knew for sure I couldn't make it.

I don't quit.  I won't quit.  I will just pedal and sing and some magical tailwind will fast track me to Brownsville 2 and all I'll have to worry about then will be the Crowfoot and Brownsville 3 controls.  That's what I kept telling myself anyway.  At 5:20pm, I had 10 miles to go.  There was no way I could get there in 10 minutes, so I stopped and took a break on a small bridge over a little creek.

I thought for sure I'd cry.  I always cry when things get rough.  This was my first DNF (did not finish) in a big event; surely I'd be crushed.  Instead, I looked out over the creek and felt strangely peaceful.  I texted Trevor that I was scratching (bike racers scratch or abandon, we don't quit!).  

Then I texted my mom and dad and told them.  They were extremely sympathetic, imagining I'd be in mental agony over the defeat.  They offered to pick me up but I wanted to go for a little ride before facing my fellow racers.  I pedaled on and enjoyed being honked at angrily by some gangly teenage boys in a pick up truck.  If they only knew how much they motivate me and my kind.

It was on that last stretch that I finally figured out the "swift" in the race title referred to the birds in the valleys, not speed. I was checking out a big metal playground slide for sale when KP passed me as if I was standing still.  His number 211 was just barely visible as he blurred by.

Soon I was turning off the quiet alley and into the finish line party at Conversion Brewing.  Everyone screamed and cheered while I madly made the cut throat signal to indicate I hadn't finished.  I needn't have worried, everyone would know that because I wasn't presented with a finisher's cap.  You can bet I'll be back to finish up my business next year.

* mistake number one: my heart was already racing, I did not need a second cup of coffee.
** mistake number two: I was too shy to request a number I like.
*** mistake number three: I should've accepted a friend's offer to borrow their garmin.
**** mistake number four: I should have carried a third bottle, I was always low on water.