STP

Jeff the Rando joined me in riding this year's STP as a loaded tour. His wife drove us up and dropped us off Friday evening to camp on the rather wet, freshly irrigated soccer field.  I remember when there were only a dozen tents set up on that large field, before they installed the sprinkler stystem.  Not only is the crowd of campers larger, the field is smaller, with the addition of a nice new running track at the University of Washington. 

We planned to leave at 7am but rolled over the empty and closed start line at 8am after a relaxed breakfast at Starbux.  It felt a little like that Steven King book where those airplane passengers land in a time after the present but before the future has gobbled up everything.  We eventually caught up to a few straggling riders, many suffering from the phenomena known as first mile flats.  We paced for several miles with a couple on mountain bikes, who we'd see again and again over the next two days.  This couple had a hand signal (touch helmet) for a silent "car back" warning.

Silence is nice, and pretty rare on this 10,000 person event.  Instead of looking at it as a bike ride, I view it as all of humanity coming out to spend a couple days riding bikes.  As always with a huge tidal wave of people, there are the scuffles and irritations that can happen in crowds.

"ON YOUR LEFT!" shouts are my personal pet peeve.  Somehow some of these folks seem to think that this warning, at high decibels, is not just necessary, but absolutely mandatory.  I expect people to pass on the left.  A few ladies even yelled at me for not yelling a passing warning to them, which is pretty surprising considering their sub-10mph pace.  Warning gently "left side" only seems appropriate if a rider appears to be swerving or weaving or as if they might dart in front of me.

But, I'm not here to complain.  On the contrary, it was a very enjoyable weekend on the bike.  Having Jeff around was a lot of fun.  Seeing the costumes and the funky bikes is always interesting.  My favorite weird bike was ridden by a guy with very muscular legs.  As I came up behind him, I thought to myself, geez this guy rides bow-legged.  What a bad bike fit!  But as I got closer, I observed that what we had here was a genuine badass.  This gentleman was riding a Schwinn Stringray with 16" wheels and a banana seat. 

There were at least three turtle teams to be found.  The first was just a couple in matching jerseys with a giant turtle emblazoned on the back.  They seemed to enjoy my accusation that they were the fastest turtles I'd ever seen.  The man called me Scorpian bootie as he egged me on to let him draft.  I didn't know why til later when I remembered the Castelli logo on my shorts.

Just like on the Tour de France, one could find chalk markings on the road encouraging riders.  There were also rhyming signs along many parts of the route.  My favorite sign read: "Attention STP riders!  Mike Peterson is fast.  DRAFT him!".

I abstained from using the organized rest stops and instead went rando-style, meaning I bought all of my food at gas stations, which suits me great because they always stock my favorite combinations of chips & soda, necco wafers & strawberry milk.

Arriving in Centralia at the beer tent, there was more evidence at how this ride has grown.  What used to be a modest beer garden has erupted into a huge series of tents and tables chock full of riders enjoying their hops and a replay of the Tour on TV. 

After dinner, with a stomach full of spaghetti, I plunged into the pool and swam across to appease the strict lifeguard's demand that any slide user pass a swim test.  Then, on to the slide.  A huge yellow tunnel that twists and turns and dumps you in.  Kicking out lactic acid while swimming is a great recovery device.

Sunday started with a walk to the drive-thru coffee stand for an Americano, while a parade of cyclists rode by, already on their way to Portland.  The first twenty five miles are the prettiest.  Rolling hills through countryside, cool temperatures and the promise of spending all day in the saddle feels sweet.

Stopping for banana bread is a tradition.  So is Gene not recalling my name.  He and his wife Susan have been serving free banana bread to STP riders for ten years now.  There are so many exchanges and conversations and observations, it's hard to keep track.  Like the bicycle built for four with dad on the front, mom on the back and two boys in the middle.  Or the couple of gals at the convenience store riding their first STP and having knee pain.  They asked how many I'd done and I counted.  9.  How is that even possible?  Suddenly they were asking advice.  I told them to take ibuprofin and buy a foam roller.

Stayed with Jeff pretty steadily through to the Longview Bridge, which was extra congested because of a three car accident.  When the group of cyclists were released, we actually caught up to the line of cars ahead of us and passed them.  Then, down the huge bridge descent, into Oregon and onto Route 30, which would be our home for the next 45 miles.

Burgerville in St. Helens was a madhouse.  I've stopped here every year and remember feeling grateful I was the only cyclist who knew about it.  Not anymore.  This and so many other things have changed over the years.  I recall riding with Ryan and Sarah the first year.  We created a system of check nicknames, which we still use today (see comment on blog entry Pedalpalooza B).  And I recall riding with Ryan the second year.  We called ourselves hot soup & crackers, inspired by my Campbell's Soup jersey.  The cute little lunch diner we found is now a mini mall.

And that about says it all.  Every cute little lunch diner you ever find will one day become a mini mall.  Does that mean you stop going and find another cute little lunch diner?  Maybe.  But keep in mind, whatever diner you find will eventually become a mini mall.  Whatever small group ride you attend, may eventually become a huge event ride.  Whatever first time things you start doing, may eventually become a decade long, or more, endeavor.

Bike MS Write-Up

Things to Think About as You Prepare for a Long Ride (or) Even Freshman Riders Can Rock Bike MS.

About the author: I am a bicyclist, some might even say a serious one.  I delight in all things bike.  I even work in the bike industry, as the Marketing Coordinator for Western Bikeworks, the premier bike shop sponsor of BikeMS.  There's no kind of bike-riding I don't like, although distance road riding is my favorite. - Maria Schur

As you embark on your next hard ride, consider your head as the most powerful tool in your arsenal. Although training and fitness matter, the higher truth is that endurance events happen up top, in the brain.  Bryce Courtney states it simply in his book The Power Of One: “...The mind is the athlete, the body is simply the means it uses..."
 
One mental preparation trick is to peek at a map of the route several times in the days before the big ride.  Visualize the start, where many experienced riders still get butterflies from the excitement.  Picture what you'll be wearing: "cute power" really does help!  If you look good, you feel good and if you feel good, you can rock whatever it is you want to rock.  Maybe even jot down some strategies to re-read over breakfast on the big day.  Things like breathe deeply, smile, enjoy the view.

Make a list.  Forgetting your shoes or helmet can be a ride killer.  Double check for essentials before leaving home in your car: shoes, helmet, water bottles, sunglasses.  Pump your tires up to pressure the night before and doublecheck them before bed.  It's way more fun to fix a flat at night at home than in the morning at the start line. 

Time equals distance.  Using a bike computer is a great way to is get the feel of how long it takes to ride certain distances.  If the idea of riding 33 (or 100!) miles is overwhelming, consider the time instead.  You'll be pleasantly surprised to see how a little math can help you calculate your finish time.  Don't forget to factor in rest stops.  They may feel short, but six ten minute stops adds up to a whole hour.

Train!  There are a ton of great training guides you can follow.  Riding your goal distance spread out over a week for several weeks in a row will help your performance on ride day.   Resting is as important as training, especially in the three or four days before the event.   See if you can add an hour of sleep for a few nights.  Eat and drink healthfully. 

The day of the ride: eat before you're hungry, drink before you're thirsty.  A general rule of thumb is 100 calories and a full water bottle per hour, but every body is different.  Use your training rides to determine the types and amounts of fuel you need to feel good.  Consume the same electrolyte drink and food you've been training with.   Inside info: Western Bikeworks will be providing Louis Garneau's LG1 electrolyte replacement powder.

And remember, all of this will pay off.  You'll have fun.  You'll accomplish a physical feat.  You'll make friends.  You'll experience beautiful vistas.  You'll enjoy a celebratory feast.  But, most important, you'll be making a difference by raising money to fight Multiple Sclerosis.  Charity rides like this spread good health to participants and recipients alike.  Thanks for riding!

Pedalpalooza 2013, Part B

Pedalpalooza 2013 is over.  It's sad to see it go, but it's also happy because it means summer is officially here.  The rain has subsided, the mercury is up high, and my summer legs have arrived.

The Chutes and Ladders ride was an absolute hoot.  We were supplied with maps and a die.  Ready, set, go, roll your die and ride that many blocks.  If the map and the chalk marking on the road tells you to, you can skip ahead on the course using a ladder or lose ground on a chute.  Look out for the double-chute!

Another great event I had the privilege of attending is the Rocky Butte Sunset Dance Party Potluck Picnic Ride.  This ride deserves its seven word title.  I joined a group of cyclists in the grass at Irving Park, but didn't recognize a single person.  Then the leaders welcomed everyone to this year's Bike Play ride and I flashed back to college days when I started freshman year in the wrong class.

After roaming around the park and finding the Rocky Butte riders, I was happy to see many friends in attendance.  We rode over to the butte and watched the clouds clear up just in time for a spectacular sunset show. The potluck picnic portion of the party was a total success.  I brought a box of honey stinger waffles to share and munched on a banquet of offerings from others, including a pretty orange daisy.

 

At the last minute, I was elated to be invited to the dropout prom.  The sprint there also put me on top of the world - from Rocky Butte to Colonel Summers Park in 20 minutes ain't bad.  I didn't have a dress or time to stop for one, but the orange daisy made for a nice corsage.

After a non-Pedalpalooza road ride around Sauvie Island the next day, I rushed home to change into a paisley dress and raspberry beret just in time to jet off to the Bowie vs. Prince ride.  Lots of purple and creativity were in attendance, like the papier mache Prince head pinata, the lady dressed as a dove with tears drawn on her face and someone dressed as a royal prince.

The sound system finally arrived and we rode and rocked out to our favorite tunes while pedestrians cheered us on.  One of the best parts of Pedalpalooza parade-style riding is overhearing murmurs of "I love Portland" from both witnesses and participants.  We met up with the Bowie group and let them beat us at tug of war.  Then, on to a dance off, which I missed as it was late and I was tail-light-less.

Up again the next day with another bike and another outfit, this time for my very own Pedalpalooza ride - the second annual Swim Across Portland.  The forecast called for rain again this year and it did sprinkle on us, but not enough to ruin swimming.  Five of us headed over to Grant Pool for splashy fun and succeeded.  The City of Portland public pools disappointed me for the next two pools, which were closed and gated, even though I had been assured in advance that they only ever close for thunder and lightening.

Leaving Pier Park in St. Johns, we lucked out to pass by bike polo.  It's come a long way in the time since I saw my first game.  The mallets appeared standardized and the ball was bright orange, making it much easier to spot.  Most of the wheels had spoke protectors and the riders were unbelievably adept at track standing and maneuvering the ball around the court and into the goal.

For my last ride of Pedalpalooza, I joined Erinne and friends for a frisky early ride up to Forest Park.  Gnar was shredded.  Bunny ears were mounted.  Fun was had and mud was everywhere.  And thus closes another Pedalpalooza packed full of fun and friends and play.

Pedalpalooza 2013, Part A

Portland, Oregon is a special place, but especially so in June, which is Pedalpalooza time.  While we are sleeping, or working, or even out on a bike ride, people all over Portland, regular people, dream up bike rides around themes they care about.  Anything goes.  The ride dreams become real when the ideas are submitted to the Shift2Bikes Pedalpalooza calendar, which you can find here: calendar.  The Shift calendar runs all year long, but June is when it gets the most publicity, including free publication in the Mercury newspaper.

People get so excited about Pedalpalooza, you start hearing whisperings about it as early as New Year's. I recall waking up in a cabin on New Year's day this year, and feeling especially jubilant when someone asked "what Pedalpalooza ride are you leading this year?".  I was already high on the bike ride to the cabin and on life and on my Malort hangover when I heard this and nearly fell away with fairy dust.  Daydreaming about summer in the snow.

And I'm not the only one who can't wait.  There are pre-party rides and planning parties and mash up rides even before Pedalpalooza proper begins.  Some may laugh when they hear of the preparations for these three weeks in June, but it's for real.  It's recommended that you stock up on sleep, get your laundry done, fill your fridge with food and beer, make sure all of your bikes are in good repair, and settle in for the bikey-est fun on either side of the Mississippi neighborhood.

This year I have the pleasure of participating in leading two, yes two, Pedalpalooza rides.  My second annual Swim Across Portland happens this Sunday.  Meet me at 1:30pm at Water Avenue Coffee wearing your swimsuit and carrying a towel, lock and $12 cash and be ready to ride to three outdoor public pools for splashy fun.  I about died when I learned the Mercury chose my ride as one of their "top ride picks".  We're sure to beat last year's attendance.

The Bikey Trivia ride was a ton of fun again this year.  I met rando Jeff before the ride to discuss in detail the dynamics of the drive mechanism on these two wheeled contraptions.  In other words, he taught me chain repair.  It's been the chink in my on-road repair armor and I'm glad to have it filled in.  Having done a 200K the day before, I opted to ride my fat-tired mountain bike for the twelve mile trivia tour.  Sometimes it's extra fun riding the wrong bike for the terrain.  My team, "What Tires?" came in second.  These Portland Pedalpalooza people sure know their bikey stuff!

The other ride I helped with was a race.  An alley cat race, my favorite type.  The FLYcat was mostly put on by a new chick, Laura, who just moved here from Minneapolis and is dead set on starting up alley cat racing again here in Portland.  And it's working.  This was her second one and many of the same faces showed up.  This is how community starts.  The theme was flying things and she had us do stunts and play games at each stop.  Folks threw frisbees at the Chapman School, home of the flying swifts.  Even though I was an organizer, I was allowed to race.  Other racers who found me flying a kite earned an atomic fireball and the privilege of skipping any of the six stops.

Before the alley cat began though, the Awesome Yards Ride stopped by my house.  Sixty people showed up in my backyard expecting awesomeness and I hope the six hours of sunny day I spent doing yard work was not wasted.  It was instant satisfaction to have so many people witness my yard in its most awesome form, not to mention the big dinosaur head welded out of bicycle tubes I bought after an art show last year.

The Power POP music appreciation ride was an interesting mid-week go-round.  The leader rode a fixed gear with a trailer hauling a giant speaker, from which he blasted sappy pop ballads.  We rode back and forth over MLK & Grand, corking traffic each time, which made me feel a little weird.  We rode over the Morrison bridge on the sidewalk going the wrong way.  We wandered around downtown until sunset when what was left of the group started toward OHSU.

Still to come on my calendar is tonight's Rocky Butte dance party ride, tomorrow's Bowie vs Prince vs Morrisey ride, my Swim Across Portland and....well, it's hard to keep track.  I don't think I'll get a date for bike prom this year and it stings too much to go stag so I'll probably skip it.  And, oh yes, the bike play ride!  This was one of my favorites from last year.  The acting troupe performs a scene from a play they've written at each stop along the ride.  Just like a real play, they are performing/riding several nights in a row.  So get out there and get your bike fun on with one of these or the other many ride offerings.

Velodirt's Oregon Stampede

More than anything, I am thankful to my readers. Without you, I would not be a writer.  I met a few of you on the Stampede last Saturday, which vastly helped my survival.  I'm talking to you, John.  And you, Johnny.  And you, Ed.  Each reader, in turn, slowed their pace and rode with me for several miles.  The company was valuable, but even more was the validation that I'm not writing into a black hole, even if I am riding into one.

I was aware all day of my need to dodge cocky arrogance.  I can do anything, it's true, but only if I have serious doubt in my arsenal.  Arriving at Dufur for the first rest stop, at mile 40, I was naively delighted with how well the day was going.  Most of the tough gravel and climbing is behind us.  Most of the pavement lies ahead.  And many of the group are still at the store as I head out.  I thought to myself, I'm doing great!

The cue sheet breaks out the next era of my life like this: 
mile 55.3: straight over the cattle guard, enter wildlife area, dirt.
@ first fork @ 55.9 - at top of hill go right/straight down the rough steep hill.  One small creek crossing (likely dry) b/f some climbing and second fork
@ second fork @57.2 - go left.  look for green marker on tree at left of instersection.
@58.9 - cross stream on wooden bridge
@61 - stream crossing (no bridge)
pavement @ 61.5

I cede that self-imposed suffering is a privilege.  I chose to go on this ride, knowing in advance that I would probably hit a new bottom.  130 miles is well within my grasp.  Riding on gravel is getting easier.  Headwinds and 12,000 feet of elevation gain are just fine.  Combine them all and stir in the White River Wildlife area, which I'd like detonated off the face of the earth, and it adds up to the hardest day I've ever had on a bicycle.

I find myself alone and bawling loudly in this nature reserve that goes for six miserable miles, most of which I have to walk.  As I encounter creek crossing after creek crossing, some wet, some dry, some streams, some bridges, I lose count of where I am and am sure for several miles that the paved road and my sanity are only a half mile away.

Arriving at yet another creek crossing,  I scream at the top of my lungs.  I flip off trees and fish and curse God for the color of the sky. At that moment, after not seeing another rider for hours and feeling certain I was the last shmuck on the route, Howard and Alan appear on their bicycles.  Caught in the act of freaking out is humbling in a different way than the impassable giant boulders and soft silt I had endured.

Finally arriving on pavement, I used anger to power my machine forward at an impressive 25 miles per hour, which I sustained for the next four miles into town.  The lady at the Tygh Valley store said the last group left just twenty minutes before.  I sat and ate popcorn from their machine and refilled my four water bottles for the second time that day.  A woman in an SUV pulled up, asking if we were doing the gravel grinder ride and if we knew where Steve was.  Being rescued terrifies me so I shortened my break time.

Appetite sated and elated to ride on more pavement, I flew off.  Hatred for gravel was translating into a renewed passionate love and lust affair with asphalt.  It's so smooth.  So regular.  Trustworthy.  Fast.  Pavement works with my bicycle, not against it.  Soon I was riding through Warm Springs territory, the DesChutes River Canyon and over Sherar's Bridge.

The next ten or so miles winded me up the road.  I can't recall enjoying a tough climb as much as this one.  I was tired, tear-stained, salty and smeared with sunscreen, but I was singing and climbing to beat the band.  Each little curl of the road revealed a barely visible white line etched into the canyon in the distance ahead.  Those little white lines turned out to be fences between the road and the cliff and represented where I'd be if I continued to pedal.  Which I did, until, at long last, I reached the top.

I started doing math when I got to Twin Lakes Road, which I nicknamed Twin Horns Road.  Gravel just loose enough to unnerve me with lots of little rises and dips.  My speed of 8mph would have me arrive back at camp, and the keg, around midnight.  Midnight!  I needed an average speed of 13mph over the next three hours if I would make my 9:30pm goal.  So, I turned back.

Once again, Howard and Alan appeared.  These two had a nice slow and steady pace and upbeat attitudes.  They slowed to see why I was headed south when north was the way home.  I told them simply "fuck gravel", and continued back to highway 206.  We met up again before Moro, which we had high hopes for.  "To Moro!  To Moro!" I sang in my head over and over on the fast fat shoulder.

Down in the ditch to our right we saw a tiny deer.  It was bouncing along at 20 miles per hour and both Howard and I giggled at the sight.  What a day of nature this had been.  The morning started with a baby rattlesnake in camp, followed by countless dead snakes out in the road.  In the afternoon, I rolled up to a couple dozen blackbirds on a fence, who all flew off at once, exposing their brilliant yellow underbellies to me.  I thought I saw a chicken in the middle of the road, but it turned out to be a giant hawk who was snacking on a dead rattler.  The best though, was the stampede.

Yes, a stampede, on a ride called the Stampede!  While riding on the easy second gravel road of the day, I saw a dark spot ahead.  I thought I was catching up to a group of riders.  The spot got bigger and darker until I realized it was a small herd of cows crossing the road.  Then I could tell they were not crossing the road but moving toward me on it.  Rather quickly.

I saw a taller silhouette behind them, which turned out to be a cowboy.  A real life cowboy wearing a cowboy hat, riding a horse and  flanked by two herding dogs.  He motioned for me to get over, as I was standing in the middle of the road like a deer dazzled by headlights.  As they passed, it struck me how large and fast and strong these creatures are.  Any one of them, even the small ones, could easily take me out with a quick head butt.

Meanwhile, arriving in Moro, we spied a lonely soda machine and fed it dollars.  The guys decided to finish the gravel portion of the return trip, while I opted for the fast fast highway.  I dug deep, back into the recesses of my randonneur experiences, riding and doing math, singing and drinking water.  Soon, I would encounter the third "helper car" of the day.  Out in the middle of nowhere, drivers seemed to be worried about me and would stop to ask if I was ok, lost, crazy or what-have-you.

I'd like to act as a friendly ambassador to the public for all things bikey, but math told me I had no time to slow down, much less stop.  Each driver seemed to respect my curt "I'm fine, please leave me alone" replies and rolled on.  Just a few more miles down the gorgeous descent that is Fulton Canyon Road and I was on the familiar route 30.  I could see a blinking red light ahead of me, which felt like winning the lottery.  I never caught it but I was happy and time trialed back to camp, making it just fifteen minutes past my goal.

"Where's Donnie?" I asked on my return.  I heard a voice from the fireside ask "are you going to hurt me?".  I guess a few riders punched him hard in the arm at the end.  It's counter-intuitive and illogical but I wanted to hug him and thank him for creating the most challenging and beautiful route ever. 

I learned later that the first finisher completed the ride in eight hours.  A friend of mine finished it in eight twenty.  Somehow I wasn't upset or disappointed that it took me almost fifteen hours.  There's no way I could've done this ride a year ago or the year before that or ever.  It inspires me that others can do it so seemingly easily and quickly because I'm learning that...

the old hard is the new easy.

Better Is The Enemy Of Good Enough

I arrived five minutes late to the start of my seventh Columbia Gorge Explorer tour and rolled out moments later with the last departing group of the day.  The stage was set for the rest of the four day tour - my group would be the last to leave camp every time. 

Naturally, it was raining on Washougal River Road.  I think it must always be raining there.  They were out of Atomic Fireballs at the Washougal Merchantile.  They no longer sell them at the Corbett Store.  And they've been out of stock at the Troutdale General Store since last summer.  So, it was a cinnamon-less climb up the hill to meet back up with SR-014 and continue our eastbound plod into the gorge.

They taped a bracelet on my wrist at the Bonneville Spa, which has a mall-like culture.  There are many rules, many signs and many officials there to enforce them.  I tried to relax anyway, sinking into the outdoor jacuzzi in my cute new red polka dot swimsuit.  Drying off and putting wet clothes back on is a heartbreaker.  I tossed my suit at the valet and asked them to mail it home for me.  We'll see if it arrives.

Now, on to Stevenson and the Walking Man Brew Pub.  Dozens of the tour riders were enjoying beer there.  Yes, beer.  Before the riding for the day was even done.  One wonders if an activity loses its scandalous status if everyone does it.  We counted the hills to Home Valley Camp and arrived to learn of an "assigned camping area" for me and the so-called "party-ers".  Everyone else, including those who had stopped for beer, got to choose their own sites.

It's bittersweet to realize that this would be my final tour with this group.  I've made so many friends and memories, saved the tour from demise by stepping up to lead it and finally landed here in persecution territory started by one camper's upset at my building a campfire last year.  The upset escalated to official complaints which devolved to an investigation wherein eight campers were called and interviewed about my conduct.  The investigation revealed my innocence, but not before staining my reputation.  Ah, the bureaucratic Bee Ess of bicycle groups.

Instead of organic chaos and going with the flow and folks mingling and chatting, we were herded to a mandatory meeting and told what's what.  They even suggested that newer riders try their hand at pacelining for the very first time, especially if they had no experience!  What better venue to learn this dangerous skill than with strangers on loaded bikes riding a narrow wet freeway shoulder while semi trucks blaze by?

That evening, I invited three men to join me in my two man tent for a disco party.  We spun the small disco ball I brought, laughed, talked, listened to music and sang at the top of our lungs.  Once I was pigeon-holed as a loud partyer, I felt the need to live up to it.  Regardless, it was a good time with good friends.  It's a shame others couldn't enjoy hanging out into the evening instead of bedding down before dark.

Rain continued to haunt us the morning of day two.  We rose and packed and ate and departed camp.  The lack of tailwind foretold the future lack of headwind, since we'd be heading back westbound late that day.  This was the best weather day of the tour.  Rolling hills, sweeping views, waterfalls, rock faces that knock your socks off.  Brown barren land with a lot of heat and climbing and finally, Mary Hill Winery.  Again, there was a crowd of tour riders there.  We danced, drank wine and enjoyed the sunshine.  Down the hill to Stonehenge, over the bridge and west to camp.

Day three doused our breakfasts again.  We rolled out last again.  My hearty group of friends chose to take the unbelievably gorgeous Old Moody Road, the high road, the place where I first rode gravel just two years ago.  We rode alongside cows and far above the gorge, skipping the deathly loud freeway shortcut.  Arriving in The Dalles, we chose to eat at Cousin's - only because it's tradition.  It goes to show that some traditions need to change.  One even barfed in his plate.  We'll call him "the kid".

The Kid is quite a character and a personal favorite of mine.  Here's a man who knows how to ride bikes.  His bad-assness is surpassed only by his storytelling and raucous party attitude.  People like this reassure me I am not the most extreme person on earth.  Nowhere near.  We left him behind, as he was too sick to continue, and rode up Rowena Crest and the Mosier Tunnels.  Dropping down into Mosier, we were surprised to find the traditional ice cream stop closed for business.  This led me to notice a little store next door I'd never seen before, which had the elusive Atomic Fireballs in stock.  I bought a big bag full. 

We picked up a new rider at Hood River, who experienced no less than six flats during his short stint with us.  Some tires are simply not tires.  The various tire discussions made me painfully aware of my over-opinionated, or at least over-expressed opinions, on these round rubbery things.  On to camp and another assigned spot.  Bowling balls and beers and s'mores by the fireside.  Laughs and reminisces.  Plans and dreams for a future tour of our own.

The anticlimactic day four dawned with yet another deluge.  At least there was tree cover at camp for our morning get ready routines.  The slog slogged on and we trudged through, singing as we could.  Our small group splintered with yet another flat.  The final push to town filled me with feelings of sadness and disappointment that the future I'd envisioned has changed.  Somehow it felt fitting that my final tour meal featured a party of one dining at a mini-mall buffet.

The adage "better is the enemy of good enough" was repeated many times by a good friend who joined the group for her first ever loaded tour.  She was a constant spot of sunshine for me, and many others.  Her cheery attitude, especially as she struggled to learn how to assemble her tent and load, kept me afloat.  It reminds me to accept things as they are.

Ripplebrook

Every four years almost five thousand hearty Randonneur riders from round the world travel to France for the signature Paris Brest Paris 1200K ride.  Completing a PBP earns you the title of Ancien and a handshake.  Unless you're a woman, then you're an Ancienne and you get a rose.

But, all this is beside the point, for me anyway.  I'm still working on learning how to ride 200Ks in a relatively short time and more than just survive.  It may take another year, another R12 (f!) or maybe more.  In the meanwhile, I am developing a genuine appreciation for our "Alps" and the postcard-like qualities of the countryside that we have right here in our own backyard.

Saturday was no exception.  An in-town start saved the headache of pesky carpooling logistics but added a few miles and several minutes to the start time.  A bagel, a brevet card signed by the Po Po (Portland Police) and a quick sprint to the first control at Bell Station started the summer-like May day.

It's become a tradition to run into Brake-Bike-Mike anytime one rides eastbound on the Springwater trail.  And, sure enough, there he was.  He knew we were off on a 200K adventure and bemoaned his necessarily slower, shorter day as the leader of a group of newer riders.  

Soon we found ourselves past Boring and entering the village of Estacada.  After a leisurely stop for lemonade, we were on our way.  South to the lovely Faraday Road.  The temperature continued to rise as we began the gentle ascent toward Ripplebrook Ranger Station.

A river dip was definitely in order, and after several tries we found a nice pull-off with easy access to the cold and quick-running Clackamas River.  Somehow, 7600 and I got separated so I rode on ahead without him, leaving a lipstick note on a big blank sign "C ya at RRS".  Alas, it was to go unseen.

The climb ramped up a bit more and I was glad to do it alone.  Just like a tree falling in the forest with no one to hear it, if I ride very slowly while solo, no one will ever know.  After a while, I could see the trusty red, white & blue scorching up the hill behind me.

We rolled into the Ranger Station snack shop, filled our bottles, got some snacks and sat in the shade before coasting back down the hill.  The shadows started getting long by the time we reached Faraday.  Soon we were on the westbound section enjoying rolling hills and a sun set.  Then, Oregon City and shots of Red Hot at a favorite little haunt.

Home stretch time!  Heading north, north, north, we looked for the trolley trail and failed and went back to the main road.  Light rail construction near Milwaukee Avenue predicts the future there.  Times will be changing soon for that humble neighborhood.  Broadway at last.  Burgers!  Brevet cards signed.

Society of Three Speed Ride, Edition Two

Not quite recovered from the Rapture, but anticipating a slow and easy Society of Three Speeds ride, I headed out to the meeting spot at Ladd Circle.  The attendance was more than double the previous ride.  We each introduced ourselves and our bikes, did some laps around the circle and headed northwesterly.

Soon after, a bicycle with 20" wheels flatted.  I have an unsubstantiated theory that smaller wheels flat more often because they rotate more and therefore have more opportunities to wear out and/or pick up glass.  Either way, the rider was unprepared for flat repairs, but luckily she was walking distance from Clever Cycles and another member helped her.  The rest of us stood in the shade on the Esplanade and waited.  It was a hot day, which created the feeling and mood of impending Pedalpalooza events.

After crossing the Willamette River, the Self Appointed President for life surprised us by leading us up on the sidewalk and back toward the river.  It was a fun and interesting little jaunt that showed us the riverside views and art of relatively new development.

We stopped at People's Co-op next for a food and drink pick up.  The group left before everyone was done, due to some miscommunication, and we were split up.  Reliance on new electronic technology was evident.  The second group caught up with the first at the trailhead park near Forest Park.  We enjoyed a leisurely picnic here, while our President enlisted new members and explained the history of the Thurman Bridge (oldest road bridge in Portland!). 

Then, on to Lucky Lab Northwest.  This is one of those rides where there's more stopping than going.  The relaxed pace and abundant socializing was enjoyed by all.

Rapture Wrap Up

This year's Rapture ride would be different than last year's.  Sure, Velodirt puts on a mean ride filled with hills and punishment and gravel.  Sure, I cried like a baby several times last year.  Yeah, it took me at least three hours longer than everyone else to ride it.  But so what, this year I was determined to exact my revenge on Trask Mountain.  And it worked.

Equipped with a new (to me) mountain bike - a GT Backwoods - and crazy fat tires, I learned about the luxury of mountain bike gearing.  The cantilever brakes were nicer to my hands and more effective at slowing than my road bike's calipers.  Most of all though, those fat Kenda Small Block Eights saved my bacon.  It felt like driving a couch!

The ride began at 10am so I left around 9.  That first hour of the route is confusing with many false turn-offs.  I was torn between not wanting to see any riders and dying to see even one rider.  Seeing anyone too soon would mean I was slow.  Not seeing anyone for too long could mean I was lost. About an hour and a half after I started, just before cresting the first big hill, a rider quietly passed me by.  He was either fast as hell or had also started early because I didn't see anyone else for another 40 minutes.

I started counting bikes.   3 cyclocross and 2 mountain bikes.  6 CX and 3 MTB.  Keeping track started getting sketchy when I passed the Jens Voigt Army on their first of many flats that day.  The overall estimate was 21 cyclocross and 12 mountain bikes.  Pretty soon I was alone again.  Then the JVA and a gal on an orange machine with 700x28 zaffiro tires passed me.  We leapfrogged several times, me riding slow and steady, them fixing flat after flat and sprinting on.   

I rounded a corner and saw fellow randonneur rider Kevin sitting on the side bleeding.  A few people stopped to squirt his wounds with water so I just called him a badass and rolled on.  The descent is long and hairy enough to make you crave climbing.  Kevin caught up with me after a while.  He was pretty scraped up and neither of us had a first aid kit.  At the sulfur water fill up stop, he rinsed off and I gave him what little I had: an atomic fireball, a tissue and some chammy butter.  A few minutes later, a dude with bandages and neosporin rolled up and made Kevin's day.

Kevin and I stayed together for the next few hours.  We were very evenly paced, although his wounds may account for that.  He would occasionally make a little whimpering sound, I assume from the pain.  We enjoyed a quick wade into the reservoir water.  He asked if I planned to take bail point three, the short cut back to camp.  No way.

But I was quickly running out of water and it was hot.  Bail point three started to sound like a necessary shortcut to stave off dehydration.  Then we encountered two guys filling bottles from a stream.  They had a water purifying chemical and shared it with us, enabling me to make my dream of skipping the bail point come true.  Luckily, I carry plenty of candy and was able to thank them with a zot and a jawbreaker.
 
Alone again, I was able to concentrate on new lyrics for my gravel song and enjoy my special relationship with Puddy Gulch Road.  This sucker is steep.  Just when you finish one roller, another appears.  It felt tortuous after all the miles of gravel and hills behind me.  I heard a dog barking.  I saw a flash of canine running toward me and yelled at the owner, not far behind him.  Am I destined to be fearful of dogs whenever I ride now?  Then I looked at the dog.  This brown velvety creature had floppy ears and a lolling tongue and is probably next to the word cute in the dictionary.

Finally on the home stretch, Flying M Road felt so out of reach.  Certainly I'd gone far enough by now.  Maybe I passed the turn?  How could they make Flying M Road so far away?  Who are they that make things far away?  I started swearing.  Just then, two riders, who looked fresh as daisies, passed me up.  I'm certain they had heard my graceless cursing demands that the road appear.

When I arrived at camp, I learned there was a rumor I had fallen.  A few friends worried about "the girl in the pink jersey who went down", but it wasn't me.  A handful of other riders continued to come in after me. I felt victorious over the me from last year.  I wasn't last!  Then the kegs and the steaks and the intimate group of campers sitting around the fire sharing war stories of the ride we'd just conquered.  I can't wait til next year.

The next morning, we were awakened by the bee-like droning of old fashioned bi-planes and flying rigs as they flew over the meadow then swept in for a landing.  We rendezvoused with the pilots up at the ranch house, where a bountiful breakfast awaited us.  Back at camp, just before leaving, photographer/videographer Graham asked to interview me and for a "tour" of my bike.  This made me feel special and famous and was the cherry on the cake of the weekend.

When The Dog Bites

My back sprain was just seven days old and still pretty painful the morning of my April permanent.  It took me almost an hour to get out of bed that morning.  After stretching and a hot bath, I gingerly pulled up my new compression bibs. It seemed illogical to ride at all, much less to ride all day.  But I was determined to continue my quest for the next randonneur status: R12 (2).   In the end, it simply came down to doing the only thing I know - ride.

My riding partner, who couldn't care less about trophies or status awards, assured me that we could turn back at the first sign of trouble.  He also, generously, dubbed the ride as "Maria's perm" and patiently softpedaled while I struggled to keep an average pace of 12.5 miles per hour.

A few blocks from the Grand Central Bakery start, I noticed a broken egg in the bike lane.  It reminded me of a story Tyler Hamilton tells in his book The Secret Race.  Something about a coach viewing the athletes almost as disposable - toss a dozen eggs against the wall and keep the ones that don't break.

And that's how the day went for me.  Riding on eggshells and unable to take a hand off the bars, even to signal, I promised myself I wouldn't break.  I tried to use the Wheatland Ferry crossing as a rest stop, but it took halfway across the river just to dismount my bike.   Getting back on was a similar challenge.  I continued, egged on by any egg references I could get my eyes on.  And I took even more pills and pep-talked the crap out of myself.

We'd ridden many of these roads many times, so it felt like home territory.  Stag Hollow gravel was fun.  That's where the first dog of the day chased us.  I forgot where we met the second one, although I recall yelling NO at it.  The third one, I'll never forget.

We were on Stringtown Road, in the middle of farm country, coming up a small rise.  Two dogs, a pit bull mix and a white lab, came running at us from across the street.  I rode my fastest, a paltry 15 miles per hour, but failed to outrun the pit bull.  It grabbed on to my calf with its teeth.  A stream of swearwords later, we stood on the grass talking with the dog's owner.  Molly May was her name.  May is short for mayhem, naturally. 

The skin was broken and the bite smarted, but my tights escaped without damage.  It was almost refreshing to feel pain from somewhere besides my back for once.  So, we pedaled on to Gales Creek.  Downed cans of (medicinal!) beer at the Shell station before heading back to town. Lots of bullets were dodged that day.  With my back in that condition, if I had fallen when tangling with the dog, I don't know if I'd have gotten back up.  But I didn't fall.  And I didn't break. 

Tweed

For the second year in a row now, I've enjoyed the immense privilege of leading the tweed-clad, oldie bike-riding set on this lovely little jaunt about town.  To indicate that I am their leader, in the tradition of the good old British-style fox hunt, I dressed somewhat foxily and even strapped a stuffed fox on top of my picnic basket full of animal crackers.  I have to remind myself, and am reminded by others during the ride, to slow down.  Even in my silly outfit on my slow bike, I'm too fast(!).

We met at 2pm at Tabor.  I amazed myself by riding all the way to the pavilion without walking.  On arrival, I was delighted to see a swell amount of cutely-clad riders.  It's interesting to see each person's interpretation of tweed type apparel. I was most impressed with Kirk, who showed up on a Penny Farthing.  This thing makes fixed gears look like a walk in the park.

 

 

Kirk's bad-assery aside, a young buck on a sexy little black track bike caught my eye.  He had the style down pat and I especially appreciated seeing an old style track bike. Also, not surprisingly, the Self Appointed President for life (SAP) of the Society Of Three Speeds (SOTs) was in attendance.  I somehow managed not to snap his photo, so will leave it up to your imagination.

A little sprinkle subsided and we were off, on our way down the volcano.  I rang and rang for general attention and led us down.  It's tricky leading a group of this size (maybe eighty?), especially when my own brakes are sub-par and my seatpost is about 2" too short and the hill is pretty steep.  But, it all worked out and soon we were weaving our way through pleasant neighborhoods.

I heard one woman exclaim "I love this town!" on seeing us pass.  Another gentleman told his friends "Look, it's the Tweed Ride!".  What a thrill to be recognized.  Then, the highlight of my day happened.  Just when I thought I couldn't get any higher.  A friend and customer from the shop saw me and yelled "Maria!  You were right about the tires, I loved them at Rickreall!".  Are these worlds colliding or is it all one world?

 

A friendly rest stop, a group portrait, several snacks and an hour later, we were on our way down the hill to Velocult for the after party.  I hope and believe Velocult will always host the Tweed after party.  After all, it was their very first big event here in Portland.  And, as many may not know, Velocult ran the Tweed Ride in San Diego before moving to Portland's soggy shores.