Back in February the idea of racing (or riding) eighty or
ninety miles on gravel sounded so cool that the first Gravel Fondo sold out the
same day registration opened. Two
hundred willing souls paid their hard earned cash to test themselves. There was a waiting list……
The test turned out to be a lot harder than many of the
riders expected. A quarter of them didn’t finish the first Fondo of the season. When you think about the demographic of
riders dedicated enough to be in shape to ride eighty miles of gravel in mid
March and then realize that a quarter of those tough guys didn’t make it
you get an idea of how hard it was that day.
Wiser for their suffering; other riders who did finish chose
to one and done it and concluded their season the same day it started. Never F—ing again ! Thus it came to pass that when registration
closed a couple days before the Goldendale Fondo there were just short of a
hundred and forty willing to go another round. It is funny how the wrath of God
can make an impression on people.
After the heartbreak of the last minute weather reversal
at Ephrata- nobody spoke of the optimistic weather forecast in the week leading
up to the Goldendale Fondo. We kept our
mouths shut and our rain gear quietly stuffed at the bottom of our respective
bags. We dreamed of a dry ride, but kept those thoughts to ourselves. The forecasted chance of rain peaked at
twenty nine percent and had dropped to nine percent the day before the ride.
Contrary to the general trend our team increased its
participation with a total of eight fools making the trek to the end of the
earth. Our years of Cyclocross racing experiences
made for a long resume of competing in miserable conditions. We were ready for anything.
Almost anything……
On the drive over the sprinkles of rain turned to hail
and even snow as we crossed Snoqualmie Pass.
The dread in the car was palpable.
Not another sufferfest! Once
over the pass the rain decreased and was replaced by wind. The wind buffeted
the war wagon and I was stunned to see the gas usage when we arrived in
Goldendale. The war wagon has racked up 175,000
miles and this trip was the worst mileage ever.
Once again we stayed in a hotel remarkable only for its
unremarkableness. I have traveled the
world and stayed in all kinds of hotels.
I can say that of all of the hotels I have stayed in the Ponderosa is
one of them. The hotel must have been popular in the 1960’s. The shower had the same plumbing fixtures as
the house I grew up in which was built in 1963.
Welcome to the time machine.
Can't you just smell the nicotine ?
The morning dawned under threatening skies filled with
large, dark foreboding clouds. El Chefe’ and I found that the best coffee in
town (before 7:00 AM anyway) was served at a place with golden arches. At seven we gathered for breakfast and looked
outside and to our collective horror it started raining. NOAA said 8% chance of rain and it was
raining. As we in the aviation industry,
say “Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot!”
Say it ain't so....
Back in our hotel rooms we put on our costumes and looked
out the window in disbelief. The rain did not stop. My mind wasn’t ready for six hours of soggy.
We arrived at the start and kept on our jackets and jean over our costumes as
we prepared our bikes. The general look
of resignation on the faces of riders was truly sad.
Right about the time I had to make the “fender/no fender”
decision I realized it wasn’t raining anymore.
We gathered for some pre-ride instructions which I am embarrassed to
admit I generally ignored aside from the part about the post-ride meal which I
found amusing, “There are a whole bunch of old ladies preparing a whole lot of
food for you, so please come to the Grange Hall after the ride.”
With that we began the neutral roll out of town. When the lead car pulled over and the pace
ramped up we stayed in a pretty large bunch.
I felt comfortable and kept my position. The pack inexplicably surged
and braked just like a typical road race.
The pace slowed as the grade picked up and still we were at the back of
the lead pack. I checked my Garmin and
we were nearly to the top of the first hill and still we were in the first
group. At this point the first group
must have had sixty riders.
Finally as the grade kicked up again we got some
separation and the Wizard of Coz stayed with the lead group as did Big John
(whose bobbing orange helmet was like a beacon of 20/20 style ahead). McWoddie and Einmotron were also in the lead
group as expected.
El Chefe, the Silver Bullet and Evo stayed tight and we
topped out on the first hill then launched onto the first Gravel sectour. Like
one of Pavlov’s dogs I got all hot and put on the power and started passing
more tentative riders. The Silver Bullet
was close behind and when we once again found ourselves on pave’ we soft
pedaled for a minute until el Chefe caught up with ten of his new friends. . There was a little ticking coming from the
Silver Bullet’s bottom bracket that reminded me of a tick El Jefe’ had in his
pedal during the Peloton of Discovery adventure.
We were heading south with a stiff headwind coming from
the south west. We formed a paceline and
took 30 second pulls and were catching and passing other riders. This was a sizable group and if we could work
together on the paved sections, especially with the wind, we could really make
up some time. I fully expected we would
catch up to the Wiz before too long.
We hit another Gravel sectour and I powered through
passing riders who chose different lines.
That isn’t to say my lines were better, or that I was just stronger but
I was pushing and I was passing. We
would regroup on the paved section and form up and work together taking short
pulls against a relentless wind.
We hit some rollers and rotated through just fine. On a short and pretty moderate climb the
group splintered. A smaller group formed
and began working well. We passed a couple
riders dealing with mechanicals but nothing like the carnage of Ephrata.
We hit Gravel sectours one after another. These were fun and the best lines were
sometimes washboard and I felt I was able to relax and float those better than
most. Other times the best lines were on one side or the other.
Riders seemed a little too quick to jump on someone
else’s wheel. When a rider passed on a
different line the rider who had just been passed often swerved to catch the
wheel on the different line and the passed rider was a bit out of control
during the swerve. Often the rider who
just passed had no idea someone had jumped on his wheel and thus he might
swerve quickly to try a different line and the rider now on his wheel could
have an “interesting” time trying to follow.
All in all it made for a situation that required a
Zen-like focus on the Gravel. This is
what I came for.
I found myself catching Joe Martin, fast rider and all
around good guy on a short paved section.
Joe must be recovering from heart surgery to be riding near me. We hit a longer Gravel climb and Joe and I
gapped everyone without working too hard.
I was feeling strong and began to entertain some high expectations. I should know better.
I had been eating bloks and sucking down gel and drinking
as if my success depended on it because it did.
Once the Fondo started my nutrition during the event was more important
than my training for the event. I had
learned through trial and error what worked and what could make the event a
living hell.
We came across a sandy section that was reminiscent of
Silver Lake Cyclocross. It featured deep soft sand that slowed you to a crawl.
Despite my 28mm wide tires I rode it well. Let’s call that one luck. I later heard there were many who fared poorly
on these sandy sections.
I soft pedaled until my teammates joined and again we
worked together. Two of our group had
bright orange helmets and I can tell you that you can spot those a quarter mile
away. We were climbing toward the edge of the ridge and as we came over the
Columbia River stretched out below us.
The wind was in my face and my eyes began to water. The descent on gravel was the roughest part
of the whole ride. Big, sharp loose rocks and ruts and potholes all combined in
a cornucopia of tire damaging danger. My
watery eyes made it hard to see and I tried to take the best line I could as I
plunged down a steeper-than-expected road.
I felt a hard hit on my back tire and grimaced and then
when I felt a second one I guessed (correctly) that the second one was because
my rear tire had no air in it.
Damn. My first zero pressure flat
on a tubeless.
I pulled off and spun the wheel. Sealant was squirting out both from a hole
and from a spot between the bead and the rim.
The Silver Bullet came sliding to a stop (literally) followed by El
Chefe (also sliding). We futzed with the
wheel for five minutes trying to get it to reseal.
In hindsight I believe the flat was caused by a hole
which the sealant actually sealed but between when I flatted and when I stopped
a small rock, something between a grain of sand and a pebble, wedged between
the bead and the rim breaking the seal and making it hard to reseal. Being an old man who requires reading glasses
for anything closer than four feet I couldn’t see the rock and had no choice
but to install a tube. I felt bad for
slowing my companions.
After finishing the ride I would say that on the entire
course there was a single one hundred yard section where the perfect bike would
have been a full suspension 29er. It was this part of the course where I
flatted. Next year I shall go much, much
slower down this rocky descent.
The right tool for that job...
With tube installed I remounted and with increased caution
on my part, we resumed our journey. About twenty or thirty riders had passed us
while we repaired the tire. So much for our top forty finishing position. A few
minutes later the Silver Bullet met with the same fate and again we tried and
tried and then inserted a tube. Just as
we were finishing up the Wizard of Coz came by and stopped to join us.
The Wizard of Coz had been in front of us but had taken a
wrong turn. With his dreams of glory
crushed by tragic misfortune he joined our trio of cursed riders and we were
now four strong. By this time anther
forty riders had passed and our Fondo had become a Gentlemen’s ride. The term Gentlemen’s ride comes from events
put on by Rapha. The format is that each
team starts together and stays together for the duration of the ride. The first team of five riders to cross the
line wins. Our team already blurs the line between a bike racing team and a
gentlemen’s club so adopting the ride format here was not a stretch.
The open range was green and the hills were
beautiful. The clouds were plentiful but
were no longer menacing. Over the ridge
to our left the Columbia was making its way to the Pacific. It was a great day to be on a bike.
The four of us resumed riding and we blew past a handful
of riders. Nobody even tried to catch
our paceline. Then up ahead it looked like a herd of cattle had grouped along a
fence where the road must dead end and turn.
I scanned left and right to see which way the road would turn. All this time we are getting closer and I
realize the cattle are on the road, ditch to ditch with cowboys on horses
behind them. The road doesn’t turn.
The cyclists at Paris-Roubaix only had to deal with a
train crossing. We were staring at a
hundred tons of beef marching toward us.
A cowboy told us to get off the road and climb up the ditch and let them
pass. We obeyed as we exchanged glances
with each other as if to wonder what would happen next. At this point I wouldn’t have flinched at
juggling clowns on unicycles blocking the road.
Even the sirens of St. Helens seemed passé at this point.
Our joy at resuming our ride was short lived as the road
was now a minefield of fresh cow pies. Our
path now looked like a smelly game of Frogger. The futility of weaving around
the green globs made me all the more anxious to get going fast again.
As we began escaping the shit we started to ramp up the
pace. The Wizard was
uncharacteristically popping off the back.
I dropped back and he was suffering from cramps and a general bonk. He ate and tucked in. We formed up and took
turns pulling. By now the tick that was
coming from the Silver Bullet’s BB had escalated to a sound that you would
expect if you had loose ball bearings in a hollow pedal arm. Cla-clunk,
cla-clunk, cla-clunk; any hope of sneaking up on anyone was gone for him.
We battled rollers, the Wiz’s bonk and merciless
headwinds until the road finally poured down toward the Columbia. As we were
descending the classic “Mountain on one side, cliff on the other” two deer
bound across the road just ahead of us.
We all slowed and individually contemplated the possible no-win
situation that would result from a close encounter of the third kind.
Our descent ended in the modest hamlet of Lyle and the main
food stop. We refilled our bottle with liquid, stuffed our pockets with food
and stretched. It was warmer now and El
Chefe left his vest and knee warmers in his drop bag to be retrieved at the finish. As tempting as the cookies and sandwiches
were I exercised my seldom used judgment and just filled my pockets with the
food I knew worked with my body on these all day epics.
Slaw for another day
We departed and headed up the Klickatat River valley. For
fifteen miles the road followed the river as it weaved back and forth. The two
percent grade was almost imperceptible after the headwinds earlier in the day.
By now the Silver Bullet’s bottom bracket sounded like he had a spark plug
hitting his spokes and the sound reverberated through his carbon frame and
caused another rider to ask what that sound was. The grinding had to be costing him some serious
wattage.
At mile 72 the road turned right and kicked up beginning
an eleven hundred foot climb on steep loose gravel. I stopped to adjust my left shifter position.
I had replaced my cables the week before and had to loosen the shifters to get
the old housing out and somewhere in that process my left shifter had dropped a
half inch which had been bothering me more than you can fathom the whole day.
I removed my cap and knee warmers and unzipped my
jersey. When I got going again the climb
was tough, loose and wonderful. I felt strong and my adductor muscles were
feeling fresh and ready for more. I caught the Wiz and another rider before
coming upon El Chefe who had stopped to shed layers as well.
We regrouped and the promised tailwind found us. With the wind at our back we didn’t need to
paceline and we could ride alongside each other and confess our sins. The Wiz
was appreciative of the escort and Evo and the Silver Bullet were glad the
group had waited out our tire changes.
We were soon on pavement but the roads were deserted. The
rollers were big and if not for the tailwind could have been discouraging. El
Chefe leaned over his bars and yelled at his front tire. It was getting squishy and he (and we) didn’t
want to stop so close to the end.
His sealant kicked in and it resealed while riding. This made it complete; three flats and one
bonk. We are a team in every sense of
the word. By now the sound coming from the Silver Bullet’s bike was like a lawn
mower going over a pile of marbles. I will keep you updated when we find out
what was causing the sound.
The final miles were as easy as they can be with six
thousand feet of climbing and ninety miles in your legs. We rolled across the line four across and
then made our way back to the car. As we
approached Big John and Mo (Mrs. Silver Bullet) greeted us with the news that
McWoodie had crossed the line first.
Impressive.
We changed and took Jake’s advice and made our way to the
Grange Hall where we inhaled plates of spaghetti and salad without a thought. The wonderful ladies of Goldendale were a
welcome sight indeed. Maybe they were
smiling because they don’t get a lot of men wearing kilts in Goldendale.
It was a long way home and nobody was looking forward to
the drive. The long drive and the ride
shared at least one thing in common.
Good company can make almost anything fun.
