Let’s go

Here we go!

As I get bombarded from all sides with offers to save money; I can say that nothing saves me more money than just skipping all the sales and going for a walk, run or ride.  Today Hottie and I took the Kona for a walk on the beach. 

Snapshots in a box

 

It happens so fast.  I close my eyes and remember learning to ride my red Royce Union bike and my first day of school. I remember the first day a child of mine went to school.  After decades of reliance on my body as a tool to get me out of tricky situations, I am resigned to accept my age as a real number. 

The doctor cites my age as a risk factor.  My VO2 Max or Garmin Fitness age don't seem to matter to him. I can go on a five hour bike ride and come home and make dinner, but my fitness now has a fragility that it has not had before.  Looking at the ceiling waiting for surgery I recall looking at the ceiling waiting to see the principal in elementary school. I was in trouble then and I'm in trouble now. At my age I don't feel helpless often, but I fear it may be a trend.

I watched my grandson Drew trying so hard and in him I saw my own son who both hated his older brother and wanted more than anything to be his older brother.  Drew's older brother is like his dad and his dad's dad. How could I have been so cruel to my younger brother without giving it a thought?  

After my mother was moved into her new apartment and bags and boxes were dropped at goodwill and the trash place and my daughter took what she could use, there were two large boxes of photographs and keepsakes that summed up my mom's life. Big photos of her parents and others born a hundred or more years ago. The results of a tennis tournament she played in fifty years ago.  Photos of my mother as a young woman ready to take on the world. She asks me a question. Five minutes later she asks again. Two minutes after that she asks a third time. I smile and put my arm around her. She knows she has done something wrong, but doesn't know what it is. My assurance calms her. I am glad I can give her some peace. 

We aren't all astronauts.  I may have finally leaned patience.  Everyone is doing the best they can. Whomever set up the process isn't the person standing in front of you so don't take it out on them.  Smile and say, "Thank you."  People don't hear that enough. It is my secret weapon.  Oops, no longer a secret. 

Hottie loves me.  Ever since I was that kid on my way to school in 1965 I was hoping people would like me. I'm a dick and Hottie still loves me.  I am a lucky man.  I hear the Beach boys songs I heard as a kid. When I heard them I hoped someone would love me, she does. I know she is frustrated beyond words with injuries that we hope will be done soon. I'm feeling helpless again. 

I am lucky.  I get to see (maybe a little blurry right now) people I love and beautiful places.  I get to do fun things.  I find more joy in helping my mom or trying to make Hottie feel special than I ever thought I would.  I find joy in watching Kona play in every way he can.  

That is it for today. 

Eighteen years on the John Muir Trail

Tim in 2017

In the seventies and eighties I hiked in the Sierra to experience wilderness, independence and freedom.  I returned in the nineties with my children so they could share some of the same experiences. 

 

In 2002, still reeling from an unexpected divorce, my son and I set out to cover the entire John Muir Trail.  We didn’t take it as seriously as we should have, and a simple blister on the bottom of his foot derailed our plan. Fifty miles in we had to pull out for a couple days while that healed.  Then we jumped back on the trail further south at Kearsarge Pass and finished our trip with a memorable night atop Mt. Whitney.  We ended up completing the first fifty and the last forty-five miles that year.  In 2017 we returned and went in where we had pulled out in 2002.  Another physical setback shortened our trip.  This time we are both determined to be prepared in every way to finish off the remaining eighty or so miles of the trail. We are not seeking to conquer it, we just want to enjoy it.

 

Any inner peace or enlightenment that I was seeking eighteen years ago has either come from elsewhere, or will never find me. I have completed all of the gauntlets chosen by fate or by my own designs and the lessons I have gleaned did not stray far from my previous beliefs.

 

When we started eighteen years ago my son was a teenager and I was a full-grown man.  Now he is the full-grown man and I am an old fart that won’t be doing much of anything eighteen years from now.  For me, time has transitioning from my “someday” to “before it is too late”.  All of the realities that go with the passage of nearly two decades of time apply to both of us.  We are different than we were all those years ago and frankly I am looking forward to expanding our experiences and viewing the trip from changed perspectives.

A red sleeping bag, a blue jacket

An ill-fitting down jacket sparked it.  I had a blue down jacket and after denying it for a year or two I admitted the arms were too short.  In the 1970’s I had made a down jacket from a kit and knew it wouldn’t be hard to add a section and make the arms longer.  I am sure I had some ripstop in my inventory and I could get the down from a pair of down booties I had stuffed somewhere that I hadn’t touched in a decade.

As I extracted the booties from the boxes of stuff I hadn’t touched for years I pulled out my red sleeping bag and laid it on the carpet.  A flood of memories filled the room. Everything from camping with my dad in Sequoia to backpacking with my children in Washington and California to praying for warmth on Denali.  

Evo with Duncan at Charlotte Lake, 1979

I successfully modified the down jacket and put the sleeping bag back. The seed, however, was no longer dormant.

When my rhythm issue caused me to wonder if my cycling days might be over, my bigger fear was that I would not be able to backpack again. At this point it had been ten years since I had been on a backpacking trip. I took note and realized I needed to course correct.

Tim and Evo on Forester Pass 2002

That summer Tim and I returned to the John Muir Trail to finish what we started in 2002.  We did not complete the trail in 2017, but we did do another section and there is still a final chunk waiting for us.

Tim wading across the inlet to Lake Virginia, 2017

Our plan is to complete the trail this August. So much has changed from the seventies when I started backpacking in the Sierras.  The gear is much, much better and I am an old man that is, let’s be honest, much, much slower.

Note the required old man hat......

Farewell Tux

The Ambassador (snaggletooth)

We had to say farewell to Tux.  After being with us for ten years and two days, he finished his assignment. We were not ready to say goodbye, and only in hindsight did we realize that it was time, and he was ready to be done. 

Moonshine with Tux

At the cabin when I would take him out at night I never complained because I got to see the moon and stars.  In the morning, he was often ready to go before I was, yet every single time I thanked him for getting me out to see the sunrise and hear the owls hoot.

He was the first dog for Kyson and Cali and Russell and Sasha and Drew and a dozen other children. He was gentle and made fast fans of them all. He literally was a Greyhound Ambassador and spent time at pet stores letting children pet him. 

He was as black as night and in the dark the leash just disappeared and he was invisible. He would come up onto our deck at night and stand outside of the french doors waiting for us to see him.  In the dark, we often didn't see him. 

When we brought him home from the Greyhound halfway house he was young, fit and fast.  He was also scared of cars and stairs and bicycles.  Hottie spent countless hours teaching him and helping him become the best Tux. 

Bat ears in the snow

Tux had a crooked jaw and his teeth didn't match up which meant he had more problems with his teeth than most.  I brushed his teeth (with chicken flavored doggy toothpaste) and I am sure he knew it was a good thing. A good thing that he hated, but he let me do.  After his breakfast I would call him over and while he would come, he would not raise his head.  I would brush his teeth and more often than not he would offer me a warm belch before I was done.  Over the course of his life he had more than twenty of his forty four teeth pulled.  The vet who helped us say goodbye to him said he had the best looking teeth of any greyhound his age she had ever seen.  

Tux on a cloud in heaven, looking down on us....

Near the end he walked slower and his gait was stiff.  He would breath hard without much exertion.  He took the stairs one at a time and food became less exciting.  His kibble was supplemented with fish oil his whole life.  Then we added teeth cleaning "big chunks" and then bacon bits because otherwise he would not eat until I left for work and thus get out of getting his teeth brushed.  Then we added some prescription pills and added fiber.  All he needed was one of those pill boxes with the days of the week on them.  Still he seemed to be happy and since last fall he had good and bad days and we almost didn't see that the good days were getting fewer and fewer.

Tux and Bunny looking for treats

After he passed Hottie and I cried and cried. We felt guilty for not being able to do more, yet ultimately we knew he had enjoyed a great life.  The quiet hurt.  The empty spot where the dog beg had been looked barren. I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude.  He had been so exceptional to our grandchildren, so kind to so many and had exceeded everything we could have expected or asked of him.  I thought about building a monument, buying a statue, getting a tattoo, or trying to figure some way to honor his memory.  As the days passed the tears became fewer, yet the hole in our hearts still ached. On a ride up the Chewuch as I let my memories of him run free I asked what I could do to honor him. Just as Shoeless Joe Jackson uttered in the greatest movie of all time, "Field of Dreams" his words, "There are others you know?" came to me.   

Does the world still have dogs that need homes?  A quick check of the Woodinville Greyhound Pets Inc. website confirmed there were forty nine of his brothers and sisters looking for homes. We debated.  There would be poop, there would be messes on the carpet and who knows how a new dog would be with grandkids. The training and inconvenience would be a burden.  We talked and talked. 

As Alexander Rostov, the protagonist in "A Gentleman in Moscow" says in reflecting back on his life of privilege versus sacrifice, "It was the inconveniences that mattered most."

We spent time with Drake and Kona (then known as Buddy) and finally brought Kona home.  I almost cried that we had to leave Drake because he seemed to be such a good guy.  I was relieved to hear he went to a forever home a couple days later.   I cry a lot more these days.  That is good.

Kona's grandfather was Trent Lee and Trent Lee was Tux's father.  So Tux and Kona share some blood.  They also seem to share a sweet disposition. 

This is Kona.  

We were so grateful to have been able to share time with Tux.  The arc of his life from young fit specimen to old man was touching.  His first bicycle race was the Volunteer Park Criterium. He was so scared we took him back to the car.  A year later he could watch a cyclocross race with cowbells and screaming fans without blinking an eye. He was my running companion, Hottie's walking and photographing buddy and a hero to Sasha and Drew. He was always a little insecure yet he managed to be aloof at the same time.  He liked to peel back the covers on our bed when we were out of it and lay his furry body on the sheets. He would let Hottie know when it was dinner time and we will miss him every day.  We will honor him by taking care of his nephew Kona. 

Embrace the grind

Coffee

I'll catch up later.  So much good.  So much sad. 

Yesterday I left for a bike ride that was supposed to be 2.5-3 hours.  The idea was to ride down to Carlton and back.  There was a strong wind blowing north to south and I was flying on the first part of the journey. 

I knew the return would be hard, but that was okay.  As I let the tailwind blow me south I spun and enjoyed the long awaited sunshine.  

When I turned around my pace slowed and my heart rate climbed. For reasons I can't figure out, there were yellow marmots off on both sides of the road scurrying around as if they had just been let out of school.  It provided a welcome distraction as I fought the headwind. 

I've been down this quiet road dozens of times and there are still things to see for the first time.  As my mind wandered my pace would slow and I had to concentrate to maintain a decent level of effort.  

I recalled hearing about a gravel race in horrid conditions where the winner finished with an average power output of 330 watts for five hours and an average speed of sixteen miles and hour. With that thought swirling in my head, I didn't feel so bad pushing into the headwind. 

As I climbed the hill approaching home, my legs felt the nearly three hours of riding in them. That was okay.  I love the process. I love the long miles, the sore quads, the sun on my back. In this time when people go to extreme lengths to avoid being uncomfortable, I embrace it.  I grow from it and it keeps me young.  At least, that is what I tell myself. 

Plan, Adjust, Repeat

Who cares how the sausage is made if the sausage sucks?

As a middle aged man trying to prepare for an event, any event, I am in a constantly adjusting my plans to address the seemingly endless stream of disruptions and unexpected challenges. 

A pulled muscle, an insurance claim, a saddle sore, a virus, yard work, added scope at work, rain and an unprovoked mechanical can all conspire to derail my OCD planning.  In the last few years I have started allowing for some level of disruption in my planning so that during the run up to the event I am not on the cutting edge of peaking at the exact moment of the event.  Still, the frequency of deviations from my original plan continues to surprise me.

I have tried to use my rides leading up to the OTGG to test everything from my fueling (a.k.a. food) to my gloves and socks.  I’ve tried to get in heat training and even went so far as to take Hottie to Maui just to get in some heat training (wink).

All for the sake of training.....

At times the planning and following the plan seems to feel like swimming in circles, lots of motion, no real movement.

After our Hawaii trip I did not expect to jump in exactly where I left off, but the drop off was scary.  The rides felt harder (and per my HRM were harder) and were slower than they should have been.  It was as if any benefit from those miles in March and April was forfeited by a week on the beach.

Only the strong (and the foolish) survive. 

I survived back to back Fondos in Leavenworth, but I sure didn’t feel strong.  Only last weekend did I start to get hints that my fitness was coming around.  In general terms, my plan was to build an aerobic base during the first four months of 2019 by trying to ride eight to ten hours a week and then phase in focused increased intensity (intervals) in May and June leading up to the event.  I’ve been allowing myself to journey into HR Z4 and even a splash of HR Z5 now and again.

This week I had a dedicated interval workout and when it came time to ramp it up I felt like I was revving an engine.  I had a sensation that may be normal to guys like McWoodie, Moonlight and The Judge but is rare for me.  My legs were churning out a ton of power and felt like they had a ton more.  Of course, I went for more and it came with relative ease.  I didn’t feel like I was going to explode at any moment, in fact, I felt like I could hold twice my threshold for as long as I wanted.

During one of my recovery spots I was passed by a young gun and a Scott Foil TT Aero bike with TT bars.  He passed me on a little rise and he looked like he was out of the pro peloton.  Slender body, carved shaved calves, skin tight team kit and a tiny saddle bag all said, “Badass.”  I wasn’t going hard at the time and he didn’t exactly blow past me.

I was well behind him when we turned a corner and he dropped down into his tuck and began charging with all he had.  This was the start of one of my planned intervals and I started driving my legs, putting pressure on the pedals for all 360 degrees of my pedal stroke.  It felt awesome and I was pleased just with that feeling.  Soon I realized I was gaining on him and he turned and looked back.  He shoulders starting rocking on the false flat trying to hold me off. 

In five more seconds I blew past him without a word.  I just kept driving and I didn’t feel like I was going too deep, just releasing the power in my legs. My legs begged to go faster.  I could hear him shifting trying to find some way to catch a guy older than his father.  “Old man power,” I thought to myself. 

Three minutes later I finished my interval and looked behind me and he was very far back but I could tell his head was drooped.  He was blown.  I looked back a minute later and he was nowhere to be seen.  He had turned off the road. 

For so much of the year when I put down a lot of power my legs let me know they can hold that power for about five seconds or so. Today, there didn’t seem to be a limit on how long they could hold the effort, in fact holding the effort felt like scratching an itch.

It would seem that after once again losing faith in my planning and execution and feeling as though all of the interruptions and setback had derailed any chance of success, it is all coming together.

Our Fondo has a bakery stop

Reloaded and ready for more

In 2014 I rode the Winthrop Fondo.  That year it was on the old course and the event was held in June.  It was hot, but the elevation kept the temperatures cool enough that only on the final climb up Lester road was it uncomfortable. In 2015 a handful of us did it and lived to tell the tail.  In 2016 many of us did it as a group and had a great, though predictably shattering, experience.

 El Jefe' in 2016

For 2017 we opted to assemble the same weekend as the Fondo, but instead did a five hour gravel ride as a group instead of seven to nine hours of hurt punctuated by cramps and cursing.

This is much better than killing ourselves.....

For 2018 we again chose the Fondito (little Fondo) option.  We still had a full day that left us spent, but the ride did not shorten our expected lifespan. 

McWoodie, Marcel and Einmotron came over on Friday morning and met at Cramps place.  They were all eating lunch when I arrived and before long we were in costume and racing along the trails on the valley floor. 

We had a rollicking good time that included single track with short steep climbs and winding ski trails that allowed for stinging accelerations and “look out ahead” cornering.   We hit some late summer duff and the resulting cloud totally obscured the heavily rutted trail.  Marcel went down and was lost in the cloud.  

Heading back to Mazama we were all down in the drops and drilling it as fast as the winding trail would allow.  I was fortunate to be able to anticipate the familiar twists and turns and felt bad for those who did not.  After our ride Cramps had to head back to the waiting perils of city life.

The next day The Punisher and Coz arrived and after some coffee and vittles were ready to partake in a heaping helping of gravel. 

Under grey skies we rolled out with food in our pockets and extra layers just in case the skies opened up.   We climbed Lester and then up and over to join Beaver Creek.  This was just the start of our riding and we topped off our bottles with some water we had cached for just this occasion.

Then the serious climbing started as we made our way toward Starvation Mountain.  Up road 4225, then up 4230.  The endless series of false summits would have broken our spirits if we didn’t have the beauty around us to remind us why we were here.   Then we reached the secret passage that took us to 4235.  Here we regrouped and put on more layers.  Instead of the day getting warmer as it had on Friday, it had gotten colder.  Soon we were climbing again as we now headed east. 

The views opened up to our right.  Bear Mountain and Loup Loup stood tall and green.  Beyond them, the Sawtooth range.  This was what made the ride worthwhile.  I knew there wasn’t much climbing left, and my eyes kept searching for the road to flatten out. 

After peaking out we zipped up and braced for the cold descent.  The descent was fast and loose. We hunted for better lines as the washboard bucked us around like we were riding jackhammers.  My hands were numb by the time we reached the pavement which didn’t last long.  

On the punchy lower slopes of Balky Hill my left adductor cramped.  “Oh good,” I said out loud to no one.  I stopped and Marcel passed me.  I had been carrying a small bottle of the product “Pickle Juice” which had been recommended by Fatty who has all kinds of cramping problems as a miracle drug. 

I swigged the two ounce jar and yes, it tasted like pickle juice.  I restarted and my left adductor seemed a bit better but less than a minute after swigging the juice my right adductor joined the party.  I soft pedaled for five more minutes then realized my legs felt okay now.  I ramped it up.  No cramps.  I really ramped it up.  No cramps.  I am a believer.

We arrived at our planned stop of the Cinnamon Twisp Bakery.  We ordered sandwiches and salty chips.  We were in good spirits with only one big climb remaining.  Someone asked if we were in town for the Fondo. We replied that we were doing our own Fondo.

After eating our fill we slowly remounted.  I had to take the short way back to let out Tux who had been alone in the cabin for too long.  The rest of the group went up the Twisp River Road and when they turned onto Little Bridge Road they were met by a member of the fire crew who told them they could not pass.  After some conversation and bonding sprinkled with an outpouring of charm the guardian discreetly waved on the men in black and orange.  They then climbed the winding gravel road to Thompson Ridge and then partook in the reward of descending Bluebird and Radar Creek and tempting fate along Patterson Lake only to cap off the day with a ripper down the Winthrop Trail.

After showers there were heaping plates of salad, pesto bread and spaghetti to be devoured. 

We capped off the weekend with a Sunday ride up and around Sun Mountain.  A final lap of the descent down Radar Creek and the Winthrop Trail was the icing on the cake.  After showers the group packed up and left as the rains started.  You can hope for this kind of timing, but you should never expect it.

Sometimes you get lucky!

Hey everyone, meet Adam.  Our newest grandchild.  He is smiling at Hottie in the photo