Leavenworth Fondo Ride Report 2019

Four years older and none the wiser……

Hottie and I returned from a wonderful vacation in Hawaii well rested but I was sporting an ear/sinus infection.   I figured this would go away quick enough, but it lingered longer than expected.  My plan had been to jump back into my OTGG training with both feet.  As it was, I had to ease into it.  Still I was able to get in some saddle hours ahead of the Fondo.  I had a cough but it didn’t feel half as bad as it sounded.

As the Leavenworth Fondo approached, the forecast was looking great. Then I realized I was looking at Saturday and not Sunday, the day of the race.  Then I had a moment of brilliance.  What if we did the course on Saturday self-supported?  There was a town near the midway point where we could buy snacks. I reached out to McWoodie with the idea and he then had the inspired thought of doing the ride self-supported on Saturday and then doing the Medium distance race instead of the long course on Sunday. 

At the time, it sounded like a great idea.  It was, however, one of those, biting off more than you can chew ideas that suck me in almost every time.  We put the wheels in motion and we had an epic weekend in the making.

I made a pile of clothes and food for Saturday and a different pile for Sunday.  I loaded up War Wagon ll and went to bed. 

After some breakfast Ryan and I drove to our rendezvous.  We were almost ready when the balance of our band of merry men pulled up.  Ryan and I had planned on getting a head start on the bunch and soon we were rolling. In no time I was going uphill.  Then the road got steeper.  Around the corner it got steeper still.  That was as far as my good looks could take me. 

When Ryan and I turned off the pavement, the moderate grade combined with the crunch of gravel under my tires buoyed my spirits. The smell of spring in the forest and the lack of cars reminded me why I love gravel riding,

I knew from looking at my 2015 ride file that I’d be climbing for over an hour and a half after leaving Leavenworth, so I settled in.  I stopped and took a few pictures and near the top the rest of our group caught me.

We regrouped and ate and drank before launching along the ridgeline, then flying down the descent to Ardenvoir.  Our group was populated with skilled descenders and the run in was exhilarating.

We regrouped and then embarked on the climb up Mud Creek Road.  This area is super remote and was cut out of the 2019 version of the Fondo because when combined new starting location, the distance was too much for mortals.  

This section was one of my favorites from 2015 and it did not disappoint.  The descent was ample reward for the climbing and soon we were pacelining (and poorly so) to, then along, the Columbia.

I clung on the back as long as I could and before long we were roaming the aisles of the Entiant Food Store.  Nine guys with twenty seven empty water bottles and empty pockets can make a dent in a small store.  We sat in the sun for a few minutes enjoying our respite and tried not to think of the climb that awaited us.

A miserable stretch of Highway 97 took us to the Gates of Hell. As you enter Swakane the road starts off steep, loose and dusty.  In a few minutes the valley opens up and the deceptive trap is set. “What a pleasant valley,” you think to yourself. As you make your way west along the edge of the valley the road kicks up and then drops you back down, giving back the precious elevation you worked so hard to gain.  With four hours of riding in your legs this series of stair steps wears on your soul.

All too soon the walls of the valley close in and green trees and bushes close in on the road and the sunlight is gone. The climbing gets steeper and steeper still.  The fun is over.  There are several spots where you know if you stopped, or lost traction, you would be forced to walk your bike uphill until you found a stretch that was less steep.   Some sections are rocky, some are muddy and some are rutted so bad there is only a single line up through the mess.

Coz and I were battling up this hill and while I love nature, Swakane held nothing I could find desirable.  After about the midpoint of the climb, the grade lessened and I felt like I had new legs.  I was able to use more of my cassette and caught back up to Coz and we cheered each other onward and upward.

As recently as last week, parts of the road near the top had been covered with snow.  This day, however, the snow was gone and they were just muddy.  Near the top the road gets cruelly steeper.  Grades between fifteen and twenty percent hit you after you have been climbing for close to two hours. Add slippery mud to that and you have a suitable definition of hell.

More than once Coz and I had to walk up a slippery section.  After a false summit we zipped along a traverse only to reach the final sick joke portion of the climb that culminated at the summit.  We reached to top and hung our heads over our bars and fought to catch our breath.

Coz wasn’t feeling well and we spent a solid ten minutes seeking the meaning of life before continuing on.  Soon we were flying toward the right turn that signaled the long wonderful run in to Leavenworth.

We reached the turn and I captured this video:

The descent was fast and fun and we enjoyed every minute of it.  We knew that when we hit the pavement the downhill would continue and we would only have a few kilometers of actual pedaling to meet our brethren.

I have to say that as fun as the descent was, it did not justify the climb up Swakane.  Soon enough we were all at the cars shaking hands and congratulating each other on a fine day.

Coz trying not to "Go toward the light"

After a quiet dinner (tired men make poor party animals) we went to Chateau Hot Pants and showered and fell asleep like piles of laundry.

Sunday morning we girded our loins and after a hot breakfast we pinned on numbers and asked for another thrashing.  

Rolling up to the starting line ours were the only bikes with dried mud on them.  We held back a bit of smugness as we waited for the start.  Soon “Thunderstruck” was playing and we were rolling. 

C  R  E  D  !!

“Holy mother of Satan, my legs are dead,” I thought as we hit the first uphill.  I am a big fan of starting easy and warming up, but I felt like I was trying to raise the dead.  Dead legs are better than aching or painful legs so I guess it could have been worse.

I kept waiting for my legs to feel better.  It hadn’t happened when we hit Chumstuck, nor did they get any better when we turned onto Eagle Creek.  The rollers up Eagle Creek just slowed me down and even when we left the pavement I was still sluggish.

On the climb I coughed and realized that while I had been feeling better, my sinus infection had also visited my lungs before deciding to leave.

I caught and passed several riders on the climb and as I passed the last guy a few minutes from the top he asked if I had done this climb before.  I told him I had done it yesterday and I got the predictable response. 

There was a food stop at the top where I put some water in one of my bottles, grabbed a quarter of a PBJ, remounted and took off.  The descent was different that the ones on the Grande version.  The twisty turns were loose and it wasn’t until I hit the semi-straight run out that it became fast and fun.

Then I had twenty kilometers on the road which reminded me how much more fun gravel is than riding on the road.   

Our clan had three of the first five finishers and we all brought honor to the black and orange.  As the sun went down on Sunday I had ten hours of weekend gravel riding in my legs and my bed was calling my name.  This was a good block ahead of OTGG and I’m glad I did it.  With that said, Swakane and I will never be friends.

Over the two days our group rode over a combined 1,600km (or over a thousand miles in old money) and had no mechanicals or flats.  I think this speaks to the miracle of tubeless tire technology, wise equipment selection and rider experience.  

But we still make bad decisions............

Swept away

With the simple objective of saddle time and the beauty of the Methow valley all around me I set off for a three hour tour.  The sky was blue and my mind was free as I rolled out.  I was riding a set of Sectors so my road/gravel options were open.

I soon found myself meandering north on the East Chewuch debating the choices that still lie ahead.  Do I cross the bridge and go some distance up the West Chewuch?  I could ride that every week and never get tired of it.  Should I take a sharp right and do the first part of the Winthrop Fondo route?   The third option was to start up the Fondo route then take the gravel East Chewuch that is almost deserted.

That option has a catch.  90% of the way up, Twentymile creek crosses the roadway and it is impassible from April to July.  A couple years ago I rode out that way on a spring morning only to be turned back when I came to the swift moving water. At that time I had contemplated riding across, but even my bad judgment knew that could have ended very, very badly.

With the OTGG and the Leavenworth Fondo looming, my mind has shifted back to big event mode.  I have seen numerous photos of gravel and MTB races where riders had to portage a stream.  My backpacking background says getting your feet wet is a very bad idea and I have always avoided those events.  I realized I had no firsthand experience on the subject and decided today was the day.

I passed the sign that said the road was closed ten miles ahead and checked my bike computer.  When I was getting close to the river I started looking for a branch to use for the crossing.  I spotted a candidate and picked it up and gave it a thud into the dirt to see if it broke or flexed under my weight.  It passed the test and I carried in for the next couple minutes until I came to the stream.

I could hear the stream well before I could see it.  After going around the “Road Closed” gate a couple of sandy sections forced me to dismount before I reached the water.  When I came to the water’s edge I swung the bike over my right shoulder Cyclocross-style and with the branch in my left hand, I walked boldly into the water.  It felt cold my feet and calves but not uncomfortably so.  Soon I was across and there was a second fork twenty feet further and I crossed that as well.  Then I tossed my walking stick to the ground for use by the next fool that might come along.

My bike was dry but everything from my knees down was cold and wet.  I pushed my bike up the far bank and started riding again.  My feet felt cold but very, very happy on this sunny day.  I kept riding waiting for something to happen.  Within five minutes the outside of my shoes were beginning to dry.  Cold wet feet in January are bad, in May they felt wonderful. 

After ten minutes I stopped and wrung out my socks.  When I put them back on the socks and my feet were still both wet, and if I were doing it again I would just keep going.  Back on pavement the pedaling was easier and the trip back was faster than the trip out.

Halfway home I felt a cold spray on my right calf.  After twenty kilometers of gravel I got a flat on the pavement. I jumped off and found the spot where the sealant was leaking and pointed that down and shook the tire and waited.  I dug out my pump and threw in some more PSI and that held all the way back to the cabin. 

I am glad I went for the experience over the hearsay.  Not only will I not avoid a stream crossing in the future, I may in fact, seek them out.  That was the one of the highlights of my ride. 

My advice to you is go ahead and wade in.  Otherwise, you don’t know what you are missing.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst

Not a day for amateurs

After a solid week of checking the weather nine times a day using the five apps on my phone as well as checking three websites, I accepted that I was going to get rained on during the race and packed accordingly.  Deep in my heart I still clung to the hope that it might be dry.  I left Seattle during a sunbreak and my spirits rose.  As I headed south band after band of rain pelted me.

I arrived in Hood River in time to pick up my packet.  There were lots of skinny guys with sober expressions who milled about like they had arrived early for their own execution.  Indeed they had.

Even my hotel room was dark, which probably was for the best in the end.  The sound of the rain hitting the roof and running down the gutters fueled my nightmares as I drifted off to sleep.  I am too old to be this foolish.

In the morning the rain was still pounding, but Accuweather said it would lighten up about start time.  I started the day with some coffee and a bowl of cold cereal and fruit.  I dressed and went off to meet my destiny.

Looking around there were many who seemed ill prepared.  

You can fight hypothermia for about two hours, but not for five or more.  I saw too many people who considered arm warmers or a wind vest as enough protection for the day.  Fully a third of all riders had no shoe covers on.   We were going off road in rural Oregon.  This seemed like an intelligence test and there would be some who would get failing grades.

About fifteen minutes before roll out, the rain stopped and I was able to start with my rain jacket and rain pants rolled up and stuffed into my wind vest’s pockets. Likewise I had rain gloves and a warm hat in my jersey pockets.

The first few miles seemed essentially neutral and we made our way as a long pack, with only a handful of riders dropping off the back.   Before long we were off the pavement and the fun had begun. 

Not raining yet....

The race promoter had warned us that the course would be slow.  As your wheels sink into the soft surface to move forward they have to either climb on top of the mud, or push it out of the way.  The result is the feeling, even on level ground, that you are constantly going uphill with the commensurate effort required to keep moving.   This would be a long day.

The ground was more than saturated and even though it wasn’t raining the gravel/dirt/mud road required constant attention.  Choosing the best line required a Zen-like focus.  Avoid the big rocks, avoid the sharp rocks, look for the shallowest ruts (less sinking meant firmer soil), avoid the deep puddles because who knows what sharp objects lurk below the surface. 

To make finding lines easier something in the soil made the water a very light latte color which contrasted well with the dark gravel.  For the entire duration of the ride one could see the tire tracks of the riders who had passed zig zagging back and forth.  Those weren’t riders fighting for control, it was riders looking for a better line.  Here? No. Here? No again. Here? This sucks…..

I had a seat post mounted Fender that kept me from getting the brown stripe that signifies a lack of planning.  I love that fender.

More than once it felt like someone had grabbed my rear brake as I sunk deeper into the soft soil.  A few times my rear wheel spun out and slid sideways as I was charging uphill.  

Soon we settled into a rolling climb and I stopped and took photos to capture what I was seeing.  The clouds hung low as we climbed higher and higher among the green hills.  My effort and speed did not correlate.  The soft surface was robbing me of speed.  Out of frustration at times I stood up and powered up a short section only to see my HR climb to where I did not want it to be.  I still felt fresh, but I tried to manage my effort.  This was a long day and I didn’t want to go too deep too early.

We had timing chips on our ankles which made it look as though we were on house arrest.  “Prisoners of the Gorge,” I thought to myself.

As the climb kept going I unzipped and felt the weight of my rain gear in my pockets.  Was I over-packed?

There was a short downhill and the greasy mud made for some entertaining descending.  A rider passed me and went sideways in the mud as he misjudged a corner.  The reward for a big climb is getting to rip the downhill, but this day the downhills this day were stressful.

The first food stop was in a sloppy bog that reminded me of Portland cyclocross at PIR.  A cream cheese consistency goop that behaved like quicksand.  If you stood in one place more than a few seconds you sank. I filled my bottles and grabbed a few calories and threw out food wrappers.  In that short time, I started to get cold and was glad to get moving again on the remainder of the climb.

As we climbed into the clouds the wind picked up and pushed me sideways.  There was no place to hide from the wind.  I kept thinking, “The whole course can’t be uphill.”  The side wind added to the complexity of trying to ride the right lines.  It had sprinkled off and on very lightly but suddenly, two hours into the ride, the rain came in full force and effect. 

I stopped and put on my rain jacket and pants as the rain got harder.  I stopped two minutes later and put on my warm hat and rain gloves.  This was my Holocaust cloak.  I was wearing everything I had.  The rain was pounding me. I passed riders with bare legs and riders with jerseys, but no jackets.  They were cold and there was eerie silence after I offered encouragement.

I pulled off my glasses as the rain made them useless. The visor on my hat saved the day.  This was the monsoon I had feared and I hoped it would pass soon, or those who were underdressed would be in a shitload of trouble.

The rain continued hard and while I was glad I had reached the top of the climb, the next several miles were exposed to the relentless wrath of wind driven rain.  As I watched the latte water spewing off my front wheel the wind drive it all over my left lag and shoe cover.  The brown rivulets poured down my left leg.  My right leg and shoe cover were soaked by the rain directly from the sky so those rivulets were clear.

Oh, this is going to SUCK!

The water rushing down the ditches by the side of the road sounded like a truck approaching.  Ahead I saw a white patch next to the road.  As I got closer I saw it was snow.  Snow within spitting distance from me.  This was a red letter day.

I was constantly trying to take a personal inventory and be smart.  Was my core warm? Were my hands and feet okay?  How long since I had eaten and drank?  I kept eating and drinking.  I knew I had to keep fueling the fire or the Bonk would get me.  When I would pull a water bottle out of its cage it would make a horrible grinding sound  as the wet grit on the bottle would scrape the carbon cage.  Then the nozzle was covered with mud.  The problem was, here in farmland, that mud could contain all kinds of stuff that could make me sick.  I would squirt the bottle to clear the nozzle, then follow that with a spray into my mouth.  Only after the bottle was back in its cage would I notice the sand in my mouth.  I was doomed.

I checked my ride time and distance.  Oh my God, I was going slow.   I wondered how long the short version of the ride might be.  The rain showed no signs of letting up.    It HAD to let up sooner or later.

On the next descent I felt more comfortable and went faster.  I slipped a few times but either I was getting better at it, or the conditions were better, or I just didn’t care anymore and was just letting it fly.  I saw someone get a flat.  Three of his friends stopped so they could all get really cold and miserable.

At the bottom of the long downhill the muddy road turned into a paved road and I saw a five or so riders stopped on the left side of the road under a cliff.  As I approached I realized there was a woman in the group who was hypothermic and the others were huddled around her trying to get her warm in the cold, cold rain.  The laws of physics made their task futile.  There was nothing I could do for her.  I looked away and rode on.  I wasn’t too far from the next food stop and I could send someone back with a vehicle to help her.  Ten minutes later I spotted a rider and truck heading back and felt a little better.

A few more corners and there were two men riding slowly uphill.  The one in back was weaving and as I tried to give him encouragement he said he had cramps.  His companion was also suffering because he had to slow down and was losing the battle with hypothermia.   “Dropping like flies,” I said to myself.

These grim encounters brought me to a dark place.  I knew I wasn’t too far from the next rest stop and there could be options to bail out or cut the ride short.   I wondered what it would look like if everyone had a gauge that displayed their core temperatures as hypothermia was effecting everyone. I was far better off than most.

By this time I was coated in mud and grit.  If I had to wipe my nose, my gloves felt like sandpaper on my face.  I didn’t dare take them off to take a photograph.  I would periodically check my brakes to see if the water had destroyed my organic pads.  I recalled the horror stories of Cramps contemplating a foot drag on the final Ephrata descent as his pads were toast. 

I made it to the second food stop and doom was thick in the air.  There was a sag wagon loading bikes into a trailer as broken riders, soaked to the bone, were climbing into the vehicle.  A few others ate and then turned and followed the road sign back to The Dalles, abandoning the race.

I saw one rider finish his banana and head up the muddy road continuing on the course.  I figured I was in way too deep to play the “good judgement” card now.   I swung a leg over and headed up the muddy road before logic got the best of me.

Soon the road turned and kicked up steeply.  They said you could do this with a 34:28. I used all of my 40 tooth cassette on the climb and passed a fellow fighting to get a glove on his wet hand.  At the top, it turned out it wasn’t the top, and the climb just continued up a long canyon. 

I passed a couple riders and a couple riders passed me.  These were lonely times.  I checked the elevation on my Garmin and concluded it wasn’t reading correctly.  The climb grade was right in my wheelhouse.  When the grade is three or four percent I can ride forever, and ride it strong.  In the sloppy mud it felt like a constant twelve percent grade.  

When I finally reached the top of the canyon I felt like the only person in the event.  I could see a long way in front of me and a long way behind and there was nobody else around.  The road kept rolling up and down and up and down. 

Leaving the first food stop

Finally I turned and thought it would mark the beginning of the downhill.  Around a corner it kicked up again.  Now I was getting cold.  I thought that if I got a flat I should just take a cyanide capsule and lay down and die rather than stop and freeze to death fixing a flat tire.  After downloading my ride I would find that my Garmin registered a low temperature in this section of 2 degrees C, or 37 degrees F.

After several more rollers the road finally pitched down and about half way into the canyon my brakes started making a horrible screeching.  It was the sound of metal on metal with sand in between.  My braking was poor, but not completely gone.  Survival mode.

The road started to flatten out and then we hit pavement.  Soon the rain washed the grit from the front of me and I felt like I might just survive this day.   I put out some power and my legs didn’t complain. 

These photos are out of sequence.  I didn't have the guts to unzip my jacket 

and take out my camera to take pictures after the rains got biblical....

Soon I hit the final food stop and again there was a truck with a bed full of bikes and a cab full of riders avoiding eye contact.  I refilled a bottle and set off.  The wind was now in my face and the rain pelted me.  I would still get getting grit out of my eyes twenty four hours later.

My legs were tired after more than six hours of riding but my adductors felt okay and my low back wasn’t burning.  I amped up my power and still felt good.  Aside from the cold, physically I was doing very well.   My efforts and core and training volume seemed to be working.

The last few miles went by quickly, but not quick enough.  I finished and made my way to WW2 and loaded up the bike and stripped the wet clothes off me.  I was shivering as I finished getting my street clothes on.  I turned in my timing ankle bracelet and got my finishers pint glass and patch. 

The table that had the finisher’s glasses told the story.  Of the 125 who signed up for the 120k version, 70 did not finish or cut it short.  I’m sure the other distances had similar stories.  The word epic is overused.  That day was epic.

After some food I got in my car, turned up the heat and headed for home.   I was past Tacoma before I was warm enough to take off my jacket. 

They say poor judgment leads to great stories. Well, I hope you enjoyed mine.

March miles bring April smiles

During ski season my training goals are measured in aerobic hours per week.  As the snow melts those hours turn into kilometers on the road.  I have tried to be fairly disciplined about my training as I point toward the five day stage race known as the Oregon Trail Gravel Grinder in June. 

This has meant some long rides under grey skies and spending more time on an indoor trainer than a guy would like.  As the days FINALLY got longer and the long winter tights have moved to the back of the drawer I am finding those solitary sessions have laid a foundation for fitness.

I have been following the Polarized model of training. This means some specific intervals but mostly logging lots of volume at low intensity. Building that foundation is supposed to allow me to do harder while generating less lactate thereby allowing me to go faster longer.

 After more than a month of three and four hour Saturday rides at low intensity I wanted to test myself ahead of a gravel race next weekend.   I went back to back to back on Friday to Sunday.  For my four hour ride Saturday instead of living in mid Z2 and eating nothing, I rode in the middle of Z3 and ate throughout the ride. 

Not only was I faster, it felt easy.  I felt like I had so much more in the tank.  When I finished I wasn’t starving, nor was I really that tired.  I didn’t spend the afternoon on the couch, I spent it in the garage and putting around the house.  My legs knew they did something, but I could have gone out and done it again on Sunday. 

So I did.  Not another four hours, but the Coffee and Lies ride with the team in full force and effect.

To be honest I strayed from my pure training model by spending almost all of my time in the no man’s land of LT2, but I wanted to know.  I’m glad I did.  More later.