I know a Fondo isn’t a race, but it isn’t exactly a
weenie roast either….
There are three kind of fun:
Type 1 fun is fun at the time.
Type 2 fun isn’t fun at the time, but is later remembered
as fun and you’re glad you did it.
Type 3 fun isn’t ever classified as fun.
As my lone reader knows, I am all in for Gravel in 2015
and the Ephrata Fondo was the season opener.
This is the ride that had me riding long in December and kept me honest
in January and February.
When registration opened I jumped so fast I almost forgot
my own name. I took advantage of the
freakishly dry February to get in a couple of Gravelish rides. (Note how I
always capitalize Gravel? Isn’t that awesome?)
While I am not in great shape I am in decent shape and I looked forward
to the Ephrata ride.
There were six of the boys in brown heading to the event.
With Hottie on IR I had to make some special provisions to enable participation
without risking my domestic bliss. All
of us watched the weather forecasts with a level of obsession that can be politely
described as enthusiastic. Checking it
every couple hours in the week leading up to the event seemed rational.
Two weeks out the forecast called for dry but cloudy. A
week out it looked like rain was likely.
Five days out it was looking dry and warm! As the day approached the
chance of rain dipped and rose and dropped again. It finally climbed from 20 percent chance of
rain to 29 on Friday afternoon. On Saturday morning it skyrocketed to 69
percent chance of rain and it only climbed from there. Over the next 24 hours the chance of rain
topped out at 100 percent and the amount of rain per hour (.14”) also
increased. We were screwed.
Bad decisions do lead to great stories (and alimony).
We departed Seattle in a steady rain which was reflected in
our unusually somber mood. The task
before us was daunting. An eighty mile
ride with thirty miles of gravel and five thousand feet of climbing is hard on
a sunny day. Wind and rain raise the stakes and introduce new risks. Over
Snoqualmie pass the intensity of the rain increased and our folly seemed
questionable. We found Ephrata, collected
our numbers and found our hotel in the unrelenting rain.
I decided I would be starting with my Pactimo rain jacket
and my most waterproof of booties. That
would keep me dry. With my deception firmly in place, I drifted off to sleep.
I was awake before the alarm and wandered out in the now
bombing rain to see if the coffee at the Starbucks in Moses Lake tastes like it
does at every other Starbucks. It did
and I wandered back to our room with my cup of Joe.
We gathered in McWoodie’s and WhipLaesch’s hotel room and
despite wisdom, facts and logic we opted to ride anyway. There were clearly
varying levels of enthusiasm for the decision to ride. I sincerely appreciate
the solidarity. We may be fools but we
are loyal fools that can be counted on to support even poor decisions. .
Soon we were fed, dressed and driving to the start. We
were all fabricating our own justification for the inevitable suffering that
awaited us. Richman was all in. I
wondered if he knew what he was getting into. He is a smart guy so I expected a
bit more trepidation. Time would tell. Others
drew upon their religious upbringing to offset recent happiness with a penance
that can only come from true suffering.
We put on shoes, helmets and gloves with the enthusiasm
of prisoners getting ready for the firing squad. At the appointed time, two hundred men and
women who all should have been smart enough to know better rolled out of
downtown Ephrata behind a police escort.
There were riders dressed in waterproof jackets and pants
with rain covers on their helmets. There
were riders wearing tights, some had knee warmers, others knickers and some just
wore shorts. There were riders with frame packs and others with hydration packs
on their backs. There was the
predictable mix of hopeful young riders and grizzled old veterans. Some knew what they were getting into and
some were just hoping for the best.
The first mile felt like a turbine spooling up ever so
slowly. Just when I had begun to think
how fun it was riding mellow on the pavement we were on Gravel and as fast as
you could utter your chosen obscenity the climb had started. One mile in and we are on our first climb
which goes straight up more than a thousand feet in four miles. It is raining
and it will continue to rain.
Welcome to Gran Fondo Ephrata.
As the bunch strings out two hundred men and women
silently think to themselves, “This is what I signed up for? This is HARD.” Gravel climbs are challenging,
solitary affairs. I try to settle into a rhythm but my muscles are not yet
warmed up and I’m feeling a bit cold from standing around in the rain before
the start.
Slow riders who for some reason started near the front
are fading and we are almost dodging them as we move up. El Chefe and I quietly work our way up. If I chose to follow my own advice I would
relax and spin in zone one for the first twenty minutes or so. If I did this I
would find myself at the back of a very sketchy pack of riders and would have a
whole new set of problems. I push a bit
and it feels harder than it should and I check my heart rate which isn’t very
high. This could be a long day in the saddle. I wonder if I have a flat or if
my brake is rubbing. I notice some deep
ruts in the mud from the riders in front.
Oh, that is the deal, riding uphill in soft mud. Awesomer.
I tell myself that I will be at the top before too long
and try to find a level of effort that makes sense. The rain has made the ground soft which makes
the hills even harder. Every now and then I catch a few yards of firm dirt and
I shoot forward even though I am going uphill.
This puts the day in perspective. It is going to be a long, hard day. I try to pedal in circles as I remind myself I
have hours of riding ahead of me. El
Chefe and I work past some riders who look like they are reconsidering their
choice of Sunday morning activities.
This is a remote ride and there won’t be any convenience
stores along the way to stop and get supplies or take shelter from the
elements.
From my limited experience I know that in an hour or so we
will be strung out and riding in ones and twos.
El Chefe and I are working together and I hope I don’t slow him
down. Richman was strapped in for the
long day and was smart in deciding to ride within himself. We’d see him again until
about dinner time. Wisdom isn’t always fast; that’s okay.
We reach the top of the first climb and the pace picks
up. The grade and surface will be
changing all day long. I can’t alter
either of those but by managing my effort I can alter my speed. The challenge
is to optimize that effort to result in the best time on the day. Do I throttle
back my effort on the hills so I can go harder on the flats? What is the right balance? You can’t go hard
for five hours. What I don’t even
contemplate yet is the role hypothermia will play in that balance later in the
ride.
We lose nearly all of the elevation we just gained on a
long paved downhill. A couple riders we
passed on the gravel climb pass us which just highlights the question of when
to push and when to throttle back.
Soon we are on the second climb which is also about a
thousand vertical feet. This climb starts off on pavement and doesn’t feel as
steep. The traction is better and we are
going faster for the effort expended. We
are all are quiet now as it is all business on the climb. The scenery is grey and tan with a cloudy, wet
sky which looks beautiful. I know that
after we top out here we have rollers then a long run down to the Columbia
River so I don’t mind pushing a bit. The
rain continues but it isn’t heavy yet. I
am still warm.
Quinn passes us on an uncharacteristicly metallic bike
and a couple minutes later we pass him back.
Soon we pass Big Joe and Craig. I
figure these strong riders will catch us later but based on knowing their
abilities we seem to be amongst our competitive peers.
After riding in the Alps a thousand feet (or 300 meters
as I prefer to measure it) isn’t that long of a climb. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying it is so
short I can stay in the big ring, but it is finite. You can measure a thousand
foot climb in minutes rather than hours.
The pavement ends and soon we are jockeying for good
lines. The rain makes the gravel slower
by making the individual bits slipperier so they displace easier and you sink
deeper and go slower. It also turns the dirt into mud. The road is cover with latte-colored ruts
from the tires of the riders in front of us. The road is a dark brownish grey soil with latte-colored
standing water. When that water gets
kicked up in your face and mouth it tastes nothing like a latte. Oddly keeping to the theme of milk, however,
the taste does remind me of a dairy farm.
I find a good line and twenty seconds later it dies out
and I move right to a different line. That one sucks too. I come up on a rider and going around him the
road is even softer and it takes a huge effort to pass.
I come to a group of six or eight riding two abreast and
swing left to power past them. As I do
so I accelerate and instead of bogging down the surface actually holds me. I keep my speed up and soon I have created a
big gap with the group I just passed. I
realize that if I can go a bit faster I don’t sink as much and I keep the pace
up just as the climb turns into rollers.
I am glad to have the second climb behind me. In keeping
with the “good news, bad news” theme, up ahead the view disappears as the
clouds and the ground have collided.
We take a left turn and the rollers start trending
downhill. This is the long descent that
we were warned about at the start. The road was just graded so it is smoother
for a car, but the errant rocks can cut your tires or throw you to the ground
and cut you like a grater. It is
downhill so the good news- bad news collaboration is perpetuated.
I gapped El Chefe on the latter part of the second climb
but he is strong (like bull) and soon he is next to me. We avoid a few stray bottles that have been
rattled out of their cages by the rough gravel.
Let the games begin !
We get a short respite of smooth dirt. “Eat now, we may
not be able to later,” I offered and we complied. The loose stuff ahead means no taking a hand
off the bars to eat or drink.
My limited experience with Gravel Fondos taught me that
there are many riders who are NOT comfortable riding on Gravel. There are others
who are comfortable and should NOT be. I collected broken ribs and a damaged bike
from a pacelining accident in a race a few years ago so I wasn’t keen to draft
behind anyone on loose surfaces. At the
Winthrop Fondo I passed several riders who were going downhill clutching their
brakes with a look of absolute panic on their faces. Thus my greatest single
objective was to avoid crashes.
Soon El Chefe and I are powering along. Our tires, bike
handling skills, fitness and luck are all in play. We absolutely blow past some
riders who are intimidated by the loose gravel.
On a winding portion of the descent where the rocks were sharp and
plentiful we pass perhaps twenty five riders stopped in groups of one to four
fixing flats and other mechanicals. The
rain has also picked up. We are heading west so we don’t notice the tailwind.
For many the Fondo is about to turn ugly. Someone on the side of the road with a
mechanical says hello as I pass. I am
afraid to take my eyes off the road and I still have no idea who it was.
I keep a healthy distance between myself and El
Chefe. I’m not about to get close enough
to draft so why be close enough to crash on top of another rider if they go
down? The course now requires a Zen-like
level of focus. We are flying downhill on loose wet gravel. All the while
trying to avoid the rocks that are either large or sharp or both. The good
lines are non-existent so you just try and let it flow. Is there any way to
make this activity sound like something a grandfather should be engaged in?
Descending on gravel you sometimes get a sensation of
floating. You steer by moving your bike
side to side as opposed to turning the handlebars. You turn by rotating your shoulders and just
kind of “willing” you bike left or right. You are kind of in control and kind of not.
A rider in a bright yellow rain jacket (with a dark grey
mud stripe on the back) jumps on El Chefe’s wheel and I give them even more
room. We pick up another rider who falls
in behind me. This last rider keeps
making corrections that make me think that it is just a matter of time before
he goes down in a pile. I hope he
doesn’t because I don’t want to stop. I
don’t mind him next to me or behind me, but I don’t ever get directly behind
him. If he crashes I won’t end up on top of him.
We come to the tunnel that goes under the railroad
tracks. I had looked at this on Google
Earth and it looked pretty wild. They spanned the whole canyon with dirt to
route the railroad tracks and the small tunnel was the only way out unless you
climbed up a hundred feet to the tracks. It was essentially a dirt dam.
I mistakenly thought the tunnel would be smooth pavement
inside. There were ruts and rocks and
rainwater running down. Man, Jake
thought of everything.
All good things come to an end and soon we are back on
pavement and before long we are riding along highway 28 and the rain is coming
down hard now. Everything on me is
soaked. I’m cold but not (yet) hypothermic.
I am looking forward to the climb past the food stop so I can warm up. We
take a turn that adds in a two mile section of what sure felt like a Cyclocross
course. Sand and singletrack in the
middle of an eighty mile ride. These
guys didn’t miss a chance to challenge us.
We then have four
miles along Highway 28 that feels like riding in the shower. Actually it was like a shower with no hot
water. The good news is the shower
washes the mud off my sleeves and face. Cars going by us honk and laugh at our
lunacy. I can’t argue with their
perception.
We turn off the highway at Palisades Road and stop at the
aid station. El Chefe and I are both
cold and want to make our stop as fast as possible to avoid freezing. Five minutes later I am trying to pull my wet
glove onto my shivering, pruned hand and get the hell back on the road in the
hope of warming up.
We take off and I am cold. I am really cold. I know I’m not heading out for just a half
hour. My race with hypothermia is on so any thoughts of metering my effort are
on hold until I am warm. I’ve still got
two and a half hours if I am lucky. I
internalize when things get tough. I shut up, put my head down and ramp up my
effort in an attempt to get warm. El
Chefe is on my wheel and as I look up the canyon the rain is driven into my
face by the headwind that wil torment us for the next hour plus. Before long we had picked up two more riders
and we began to paceline into the wind.
For the whole ride I had my Garmin indicating heart rate,
cadence and distance. Any more on my
screen and I can’t read it without glasses.
Talk about age discrimination…. I
watched my HR and cadence as I pushed up the canyon. When my turn came I pushed then held and held
some more before dropping back and giving someone else a turn. I knew that with the stiff headwind we needed
each other and we worked for the benefit of each other and more importantly,
ourselves.
My heart rate confirmed we were working hard and I took a
hint of solace in that. I would later
find out that all of our effort was to maintain a fifteen mile an hour crawl up
the canyon. If I had known that at the time I would have just pulled over and started
crying. Ignorance is bliss.
The long gradual climb up the valley into the headwind
and driving rain seemed endless. I drank
a bit of Skratch Labs and squeezed some Hammer gel down my pie hole. The deluge had washed the mud off the front
of my bike and clothing.
Up ahead I spotted a truck on the side of the road with
the hood raised. As we approached the
truck a slender man dressed in a black ball cap, a stained Carhartt jacket and
blue jeans came out from behind the cab.
He had a long knife in one hand and pointed it at my face and then
lunged toward me. I happened to be on
the front of the paceline so I was able to steer left and out of his reach but he
caught El Chefe and sliced his right arm with a sword-like slashing motion. I turned to see blood flowing down El Chefe’s
arm as he covered the gash with his left hand while fighting to keep his bike
moving away from the mad man. I could see the dark red blood dripping off El
Chefe’s hand. The other two riders scattered and we were riding for our lives. I heard the truck engine start and the truck started
to chase us. This actually didn’t happen
but I put it here just so you know it really could have been much worse.
After over an hour of riding into the headwind the blessed
gravel finally came and El Chefe and I bid the others farewell and stopped to
confirm our hydration was adequate. Two
minutes later we were riding side by side on the gravel as the canyon
narrowed. I knew the climbing was about
to start and I feared cramps would soon be my fate. If I cramped I wouldn’t be
able to ride hard enough to stay warmish.
I steered my thoughts in a different direction.
The road kicks up sharply in three distinct sections and
the climb is aptly known as Three Devil’s Grade. The first devil had us struggling to keep
traction. It was steep enough that I
wanted to get out of the saddle but it was too loose to ride out of the saddle.
The choice then becomes riding seated or standing and
keeping your weight waaay back over your back tire so you don’t lose
traction. We both succeeded in wrestling
our bikes up the first devil and were greeted with a scenic valley right out of
an old western movie. The wet dirt and
gravel were slowing us down. I kept
looking to see if I had a flat the pedaling was so hard.
Many of us rode 28mm wide Hutchinson Sectours set up
tubeless. It was a good set up. We
didn’t flat and while we would have preferred fatter tires on the gravel and
narrower tires on the pavement the tire proved a good compromise. Richman was
on Clement USH’s which were also a good choice for the conditions. El Chefe and I saw a truck up ahead and there
was someone in the back trying to fit one more bike in the back for a rider who
was giving up the ghost. As we passed
the truck we looked inside to see if we recognized anyone. We did not.
Following a brief respite the second devil collected his
due. I was surprised we were able to
ride the steep section without incident. Finally we topped out and were out of
the canyon and the third devil was left to search elsewhere for victims. He
would find many this day.
We were now riding on gravel amid rolling hills. The
horizon didn’t contain any epic mountains so I wonder how much more climbing we
had. I prepared a sheet that had the
elevation and kilometer points but it had melted in the rain so I was forced to
rely on my memory. My memory sucks. I
believed we had more kilometers before we topped out, but I didn’t see any
obvious climbs.
We followed the road and before long we were greeted with
pavement. While I love it when the pavement
ends I am usually equally happy when it starts again. I hadn’t cramped and was feeling strong. I had been eating and drinking as if my life
depended on it. Perhaps it did.
I looked across at El Chefe and remarked, “It’s stopped
raining.” I pulled off my gloves and
squeezed out a staggering amount of water and stuffed them in my jersey
pocket. The road kept rising and the
hills in the distance still didn’t have any monsters looming.
We took a left turn and were back on gravel. Both of us felt strong and we were catching
riders who were generally blown apart. Eighty
miles is a long way and the truth comes out sooner or later. For these riders
later was now.
Our route seemed to be just about to top out around the
next bend. Then as we hit that corner
there was another a bit higher. We were
warming up and took off our rain jackets. After the third or fourth, “Is this
the top?” we figured out the deal. The
series of rolling uphills continued until we made the final downhill turn for
Ephrata. The last climb had been disguised among gentle rolling hills. I was
okay with that.
A rapid descent (top speed 70kph+) and soon we are
approaching Ephrata. I look behind and
there is nobody who will catch us. Some
of the historically fast guys I thought would beat us to town are still behind
us or in a SAG wagon. Even though we get
a few sprinkles it doesn’t really rain on us anymore. The joy of not getting bombed on combined
with the relief of being this close to done was euphoric.
We congratulate each other with the finish line in
sight. We oddly both feel indebted as I
believe El Chefe pulled me and he thinks I pulled him. After some “After you, no after YOU,” we
cross the finish line. We are handed a
patch for finishing (it turns out they had plenty of those left over) and we
ride to the car. After five and a half
hours of going, going, going it is strange to be off the clock.
After changing into dry clothes El Chefe holds out a bag
containing his wet clothes. “Hold this,”
he says. The bag weighs at least ten
pounds. Eighty percent of the weight is
the water that soaked his clothes. In
addition to the rain slowing us down by making the ground slow and soft, riding
with an additional ten pounds of water surely slowed us down on the climbs.
We sit in the cab of El Chefe’s truck with the heater
going and wait for Richman to finish. When he arrives he looks good. He looks really good. He looks too good. Next
time he had better look shattered. Next
time I expect him to finish sooner as well.
Richman changes and we find some hot food. We head home
basking in the glory of our epic adventure.
Of the two hundred that started more than fifty did not finish. El Chefe and I finished in the top half of
those that did finish which exceeded my personal goal. I had expected the ride to take five and a
half hours and it took me five minutes more.
Looking at the times compared to last year I figure the rain cost us
between thirty and fifty minutes. If I
subtract that from our finishing time I am more than a little pleased with my
results.
Three of our brown brothers rode together placing in the
top twenty. All in all we fared better than most. I felt really strong at the end which pleased
me greatly.
On the car ride home I wiped the grit from my eyes for
the third time. I did this again before
bed and first thing the next morning. Just before getting back to Seattle I
scratched my ear and found it had grit in it as well.
After I got home I dumped out my muddy clothes in the
driveway. I hosed the mud out of them
and threw them in a bucket. After I
poured the bucket into the washing machine I hosed the grit off the bike. I
lubed the chain and wiped down the bike and left the rest for the next day.
The next day when I cleaned my bike I found water
everywhere and my rear wheel needed to be trued. I found that my left cleat was loose and both
cleats were clogged with sand. I
re-lubed my BB, pedals, derailleurs and brakes. I cleaned the rims and replaced
what was left of my brake pads. .
Those that ran discs removed their pads and sent pictures
the next day to document the harsh conditions.
McWoodie had more wear from this one ride on a new set of pads than from
all of 2014 on the original (and lower quality) pads.
In 2010 a group of us rode the Tour de Blast. Feral Dave
was the first honest man among us when he proclaimed that was not fun at
all. He rightfully classified it as Type
Three Fun, which is no fun at all.
Despite our varied experiences of five to eight hours of
riding in hellish conditions every one of us was talking about “next time” even
right after the event. Typically there
is a period of “Never F-ing again!” that evolves into “That wasn’t too bad” and
eventually becomes, “It was tough, but fun.”
That is the definition of Type Two Fun.
For me I enjoyed the whole ride. I will absolutely agree I enjoyed some parts
more than others, but for me it falls into the category of Type One Fun.
Scary huh??
