New for 2014 !! Mt Adams
I can’t speak to the level of planning that mice do; but
middle aged men can put together some pretty elaborate plans. When circumstances dictate that said planning
becomes nugatory, desperate times often follow.
Our vision for the Gravel Odyssey had morphed into a plan
for a base-camp themed gravel adventure. The largest wildfire in the history of
our state killed that plan and we found ourselves drinking coffee post ride and
considering our options four days from our scheduled departe’.
I dunno, what do YOU think??
With the door closing we opted to repeat our classic
Volcanoes trip. McWoodie made some phone
calls and by some crazy miracle we could make it work. Soon we were resurrecting spreadsheets from
the prior trip and we had cue sheets, food lists and gear lists at hand.
We would start as five and end with ten riders. Using
the lessons learned from the prior trip we procured food and met at an ungodly
hour in the depressing rain on Thursday morning. We gathered at McWoodie’s
alley and McWoodie, Einmotron, El Pirate and Whiplash all appeared at the
appointed hour. Our experience showed and we were loaded and rolling right on
schedule.
Aw SHIT !
We arrived at Randle, Washington amid a cold drizzle. I
don’t know if Randle is large enough of a place to be “in,” so I shall say we
arrived at Randle. We stopped in the coffee shop and hoped the rain
would let up so that we might have a dry ride.
Like parents conversing at the park while their children play, every
lull in the conversation would find us glancing out the window to see if the
rain was still falling. The forecast was for the rain to let up later that
morning so we resigned ourselves to starting in clouds or even drizzle with the
understanding that the weather would improve as they day progressed.
Coinciding with the limits of our powers of denial we
finished our food and coffee and the rain did indeed let up. We put on our costumes and donned sleeves,
rain jackets and booties. We would take
shifts driving and El Pirate drew the first leg. I set off with the three murderers toward Mt.
St. Helens.
Thank you. I was looking for an omen..
Despite the dark skies; our spirits were high and in no
time the road kicked up and the climbing was underway. We chatted as we warmed up and when it started
to sprinkle we assumed it would be short-lived as the weather was forecasted to
improve.
Yep, wet..
The weather didn’t feel any obligation to comply with the
forecast and instead of getting better it got worse. Twenty miles in we met up with El Pirate and
after a quick snack we began the climb to Windy Ridge. The drizzle turned into steady rain and soon
our glasses were wet and fogged. We were riding in white clouds with only about
a hundred meters of visibility. Our
opaque rain jackets over white jerseys blended in well with the white of the
clouds. The road was wet and slick, the
water was spitting up off our wheels. Ninety miles to go with wet chamois
buoyed our spirits.
Wetter
This was looking to be a tough day at the office
(cycling-wise) and McWoodie smartly prompted a reality check. With no visibility, wet roads and the
knowledge that an hour plus of climbing would be followed by a dangerous
hypothermic, slick descent, we opted to turn around and continue to our
destination skipping the balance of the soggy misery of Windy Ridge this day.
The balance of the day was an endless loop of shedding
and donning clothes as we warmed up on climbs and cooled down on descents. The
rains came and went and came again. We did some moto pacing near the end of the
day which was fun. We ended up with almost exactly a hundred miles for the
first day.
We cleaned up, ate well and slept like conquering
warriors.
Overnight three more of our brigade had arrived and there
were eight of us at breakfast. Canti-Ryan, Feral Dave and Le Cannonball were
now part of the band.
It seems that when they arrived about ten the previous
evening they had an adventure checking in. For discussion purposes let’s
pretend McWoodie’s real name is Tom Brown. They said they were here with Tom
Brown and when the clerk looked in the computer to find the room he said that
there were in fact four people named Tom Brown staying at the hotel that night
and wondered if they might know which Tom Brown they were with. Tom Brown (McWoodie) had reserved all the
rooms under his name. The awkward pause that followed was eventually averted
when the night manager intervened.
The next morning we were greeted by blue skies as we
loaded up the van and McWoodie drove to the bridge at Hood River while the rest
of us pacelined along highway 14. Last year we had crossed and travelled to
Hood River on the Oregon side which necessitated a bib-soiling sectour on
I-84. The choice of WA 14 was slightly
less life-threatening and a brief episode with a block of Styrofoam reminded us
of how much we prefer less travelled roads.
Motoring behind the Cannonball
After shuttling bikes across the bridge (bike traffic
being verboten) we topped our bottles and headed toward Mt Hood in the
distance. This was the day I had in my head when the option of this trip was
proposed and I was enjoying the ride. McWoodie dropped back and kindly offered
a wheel and pulled me the final miles to the next food stop.
With bananas, bagels and rice cakes consumed we set off
for Bennett Pass. Last year the rider who was assigned to drive to this pass
and set up the food stop got lost and we were forced to continue riding with
empty bottles and out of food on a hot exhausting climb. The intervening year had done little to
diminish the shame of that fiasco and it was fortunate he was not along this
year as the hills still reverberated with the echoes of us cursing of his name.
This time the van was waiting and the perfect placement
of the food stop was apparent. I drank a
bottle at the stop and left with two full bottles and pockets stuffed with
food. The sun was hot and I would drink
eight bottle of liquid before arriving at Timberline.
I reached the turn off to Timberline Lodge and began the ten
kilometer climb with about eighty miles and more than two thousand meters of
climbing already in my legs. Despite this I felt strong and kept out of my
lowest gear. As I climbed, the
kilometers ticked by and the meters added up.
At times the road curved sharply and the cobalt blue sky was all I could
see beyond the edge of the road. This
was living.
Matthew fighting gravity
This was the kind of riding we dream of when we slog
along in the rain. It was hard to
imagine that twenty-six hours earlier I had been wearing a rain jacket, my body
fighting to stay warm.
Nearing the top the road splits and I heard someone over
my left shoulder yell, “Almost there Davo, good job,.” it sounded like Mark,
but he was behind me. I waved a hand to acknowledge the encouragement and kept
spinning. Upon my arrival I found our
fast riders around the van refueling and nobody could account for the
mysterious encouragement I had received five minutes earlier. It remains an enigma.
Poser !!
The lodge is at 6,000 feet above sea level and the view
is inspiring. When McWoodie called the lodge
the only room available was a basement room with ten bunks and two bathrooms.
It was cheap and with earplugs and open windows, it suited our needs
perfectly. Soon there were a bunch of
middle aged men with impressive quadriceps and pathetic biceps gathered in the
pool area.
Look away children, look away...
Walking around I carried a water bottle that I kept
filling only to notice it empty a few minutes later. I refilled it several times and the miracle of
hydration helped my recovery. I slipped
on some compression tights and was glad I did.
No doubt the tights looked silly sticking out of my casual shorts, but
one of the benefits that accrue to middle aged men is the absolute lack of
concern over the opinions of others with regard to our personal appearance.
Kind of makes you want to sing eh?
Ten men and bikes and clothes gave the room a certain....
...smell
Looks like kids summer camp huh ?
Almost exactly twenty four hours after our group went
from five to eight it reached its full size as El Jefe and El Chefe arrived. Before long there were ten prone cyclists
asleep in a dark room filled with sounds and smells that would rightfully
terrify small children.
Day three dawned clear and Feral Dave had made arrangements
to ski early and catch us and ride later that day. Wearing a sweater and jacket borrowed from El
Pirate he snuck out of the room before the rest of us were awake.
One at a time we dressed, found coffee and wandered
around outside basking in the brisk sunshine taking in the views and getting
blood flowing on our tired legs. After
breakfast we dressed warm and “realized” the potential energy we had stored
while riding up the day before. It took
us less than ten minutes to descend what had taken me fifty minutes yesterday
afternoon.
We regrouped and began phase two of our descent. After dropping more than 4,500’ we met the
van and removed jackets and arm warmers.
On quieter roads we made our way north toward the Columbia River. A couple hours later we were caught by Feral
Dave driving the Chefe’ express having finished his skiing adventure and now
ready to ride.
El Jefe’ had pined for us to climb Larch Mountain last
year and we had declined. This year it appeared some of us were up for it. When we hit the turn off every single one of
us was all in for the (bonus) 3,000 foot climb to Larch Mountain Lookout.
It was Saturday and the road was full of cyclists going
up and down the storied climb. The
reward for climbing was the descent back to the start. Filtered light and non-descript pavement
color conspired to hide some lethal potholes and El Pirate lost a bottle on a bone-jarring
pothole edge. Those around him held their breath as the bottle spun on the road
at forty miles an hour. The bottle then lost momentum and rolled harmlessly off
to the side without necessitating any evasive action. While El Pirate retrieved
his errant capsule we stopped and gave thanks to our assorted deities.
Another hour of descending and it was my turn to drive a
section and I loaded my bike on the back as my brethren darted along the cliffs
of the Columbia River Gorge. Soon we
were at our hotel and hunting for food.
The good news was the day had included 13,000 feet of descent. Since we started at 6,000 feet you can guess
how much climbing we did on day three.
That is where we started..
On day four our morning preparation was reflecting the
refinement that comes from repetition.
The process of waking, eating, packing, dressing and loading had become
very efficient. In contrast to the ease of the morning routine my legs were feeling
the effects of back to back to back hard days. I’m not saying everyone was
hurting, but I don’t think there would have been much enthusiasm for three on
three basketball.
Feral Dave and El Pirate in front, Le Cannonball and Canti-Ryan in back.
What some men will do to hold a table at the breakfast buffet..
We had been toying with the idea of altering the last day
and decided to return to Randle via Mt. Adams, specifically riding through the
hamlet of Trout Lake. The 21 mile
approach to Trout Lake is an endless false flat. El Chefe’ was waiting as we arrived and
greeted us with a big box of peaches. It
is my unique opinion that peaches are the most tangible evidence of a higher
power. It is also my opinion that if you don’t have to lean forward when you
bite into a peach it isn’t a ripe peach.
These were ripe and I dove in and had at least my fair share.
The road out of Trout Lake was smooth, shaded and
practically perfect in every way. It
reminded me of France and when I shared this view Feral Dave agreed, citing
only the fact that the French roads were generally not as wide as this road. It was sweet.
El Chefe rolling
The road grade eased and sharpened but it never stopped
climbing. My altitude and accumulated elevation gain were separated by about
one hundred and fifty meters and the relationship held true for a long time.
Awesome roads
The plan from McWoodie was to portage the gravel and I
quietly held out hope to ride the gravel.
About fifty miles in we reached the gravel and the van was waiting to
carry bikes and riders across. With the
determination of a four year old that has to pee really, really bad I blasted
past the van and attacked the gravel like Fabian on the cobbles. I squeezed the hoods and dropped my shoulders
and dug in.
I powered up the loose false flat and picked up speed on
a slight downhill. I kept that momentum
and sped up the next slight incline. I
was breathing deep and charging on. Pushing hard didn’t make my aching legs
hurt any more than they already did so I went for it. The road was along a ridgeline so the views
told me that while I might have little rises, I would not have any big climbs
coming. I drilled it.
After a couple miles I was in a rhythm, and it was the
highlight of the ride. I got out of the
saddle and suddenly I felt the rear tire go soft. I leaned forward to unweight
the rear wheel and I came to a stop. It is always scary how quickly you stop in
gravel when you stop pedaling.
My rear tire was flat and looking behind I could see
Canti-Ryan approaching. He is a strong
rider and a quality human being. “Say it
ain’t so!” he asked, pleading on my behalf.
I cheered him on and he sailed past.
The van was behind him and I loaded on my wounded bike
for the last mile of gravel. The
remaining stretch to the car was mostly downhill and I had achieved my goals of
uphill and gravel so I gladly took my turn driving the last bit.
The descent into Randle is fun on a bike but ugly in a
car. The number and severity of sink
holes, broken pavement and potholes exceeds anything I have seen anywhere since
my birth. Finding a line through the jumble on a bike is a worthwhile
challenge. Finding two lines (for the
vehicle’s wheels) was harder. I kept it slow and if not for the long run out at
the end the bikes would have beaten me to Randle.
It was eighty degrees and surprisingly humid in Randle.
We cleaned up as best we could using wipes, water and hand towels. We shook hands and piled in for the drive
home.
With energy levels depleted the conversation lagged so we
listened to podcasts to stay awake. Finding dinner proved to be more difficult
than it should have been and it was after nine PM before I was in the war wagon
heading for my place.
Within ten minutes of pulling in I had kit in the washer
and me in the shower. I put the left
over perishables in the refrigerator and unpacked while the final stage of the
Tour de France was replayed on TV.
I drank glass after glass of water and as soon as I had
completed only what had to be done, I fell into bed.
