Aaron powering his way to 10th on the day!
I heard the best
bike event quote ever: “Near the top I felt so bad I was hoping a bear would
eat me so I wouldn’t have to finish the climb.”
The Winthrop
Fondo always leaves a mark.
I was able to
host a handful of my teammates at our cabin for the Winthrop Fondo. When I first did this event in 2014 it was
held in June and just Brad and I represented the black and orange. Last year more of our brethren joined in our
mountainous folly and the event featured a new course and a new month,
September. This edition kept the new
course and fall date and even more of our brothers wanted to share in the
suffering.
This event
provided motivation to keep training after the Dolomites. With age eventually
comes wisdom and there were a number of group rides on gravel over the summer
with the unspoken objective of getting everyone ready for this event. For some
it was the conditioning, for others it was the bike handling skills.
Putting on our matching costumes and practicing.
Last year four
of our group had ridden together Gentlemen-style and had an outstanding
ride. In my world of warped values a
ride can be outstanding and include hours of pain. McWoodie and Brad were off the front and had
outstanding rides that didn’t include as much suffering duration as ours but they claimed to have also had fun.
We gathered at
the cabin for pasta the night before and after a protracted discussion on the
weather and clothing we high-fived and went to sleep early in anticipation of
the big day.
Did Evo say "Go forth and ride" or "Go fourth and ride"
There is a
reason FUEL coffee is one of our two team sponsors and there was a pot of their
“Get Going” blend brewing before sunrise.
In addition to coffee, eggs, oats and bananas would stoke our engines
early. Looking at the temperature and
the sky we finalized our clothing choices.
Brad had a car
at the start so some of our group wore extra clothing to stay warm for the ride
to the start.
Having secured
our race numbers the night before while being mindful that “this is not a race”
even though you still have to pin on a number and they record your time. I
guess I’m not sure what a race is and isn’t. Our group rolled to the start and
marveled at the amazing early morning light.
This is what McWoodie looks like from the front. Only three guys got that view.
We arrived just as
the “riders meeting” was starting. The pre-event warning for Leavenworth and
Winthrop is amusing as Jake diligently tries to scare off the unprepared.
The neutral
start was nice and the peek-a-boo sunshine warmed us as we made our way north
on East Chewuch road. Long shadows
reached across the road on this cool morning. Our group of four was solidified
early. We were able to hook up with a
couple nice guys through Mr. T, Mike and Joe, who rode with us off and on the
first third of the event.
As the climbing
started we quickly passed some riders who had been caught up in the early
excitement. The filtered sunlight was
amazing and the colors were brilliant.
The crisp air
and the knowledge that we had paid our collective training dues fueled an optimism
that this would be a great day. The
pavement just kept going and El Jefe’ asked when we would get onto the
gravel. The theme of things just going
on and on would be repeated throughout the day.
When the
pavement ended the fun really started.
The washboard was as bad as I’ve ever seen it and since we would be
returning on this part of the course I made a mental note of the location and
where the least sucky lines were.
We passed a
woman who was grinding her way uphill. “Is my back tire going flat?” she
asked. The soft surface was slowing
her. It is a cruel truth that the
displacement of the surface as you roll over it sucks the energy from your
legs. While we can talk about frame
stiffness and rolling resistance all day but the effort to go the same speed
uphill on gravel compared to pavement is huge.
I later passed
someone and offered some encouragement as I passed, “Good work.” They replied, “You probably ride this shit
every weekend?” “As a matter of fact, I ride here quite a bit,” was my reply. It was silent as I pulled away. If I didn’t enjoy it I wouldn’t do it.
The effort and
the sunshine warmed us and we pulled off vests as we climbed and climbed and
climbed. We reminded each other to eat
and drink ahead of the food stop.
Some kid in cargo shorts had stolen one of our team jerseys
We aren't sure who he is but I got a picture of him pinching the ass of another rider
At the first
food stop we refilled bottles and stretched.
I shared with Joe that the climb as soon as you leave the food stop was
ridiculous but that it would settle down. I recalled the horror I felt embarking on this
section in 2014. I was thinking, “They can’t
be serious?”
The loose rocks
and steep grade lived up to the “Too steep to sit, too loose to stand” billing.
Soon we climbed past Rogers Lake and the top was in sight. Don’t think we’ll be there in five minutes I
cautioned the two first timers in our group.
The road makes a big loop as it ascends to the pass. Coz said he heard
the pass referred to as “Skull and bones pass.”
It sounds fitting. He warned our
group about the final kicker at the end.
Looking up the
road I saw a cyclist who was coming down.
He approaches fast and my mind searches for something funny to say. Then I notice he has blood on his nose and
down the front of his face as if he has a bloody goatee. I’m speechless, he has
obviously crashed and is heading back down.
Look away Evo, look away.
The fire road
here was sandy and finding a good line was difficult. Instead of a well-worn path that revealed the
best traction the sand revealed the weaving of previous riders searching for
grip. “Maybe here? No, maybe here? That
sucked. Let’s try this one again…”
At this point we
had been going uphill for two hours and the trifecta of fatigue, altitude and
extreme grade meant the man with the hammer was waiting near the top. The grade kicks up to almost 20% for the
final push and it’s loose so you have to maintain some speed or you spin out.
You have to stand but you are forced to keep your weight back to keep
traction. This places a strain on your
quivering quads that often tips the scales into the Kingdom of Cramps.
Within twenty meters
of the top I saw a rider dismount and walk the last bit, dropping his head in a
combination of resignation and exhaustion. Look away Evo, look away. At the top the wind cuts us to our core and
we quickly layer up for the descent.
The road down is
rough and we take it easy. In 2014 this part of the course was like a pile of
jagged rocks littered with riders fixing flats. Two years had allowed the rocks
to sink into the soil but it was still ugly.
Last year it was rough and this year it was rough and washboard.
My curse on long
rides has been adductor cramps and my theory is that the trigger for me is
descending out of the saddle. I suspect
the strain of hovering over the saddle is something I really don’t train for
and after lots of climbing holding that one position leads to cramps. Kind of like a long traverse on a snowboard
where you are on one edge exclusively for a long time then you get leg cramps.
Thus as I went
downhill I really tried to sit as much as I could. If I didn’t see washboard I sat. When I had
to jump a rut or go over rough stuff I got up, otherwise I was in the
saddle. El Jefe’ and I were keeping in
visual contact of each other which provided me a couple chances to slow
down.
A truck was
passing us on the fire road so we pulled to the side to let it go by. Just ahead I saw Joe and Mike also stopped. After the truck passed Joe and Mike resumed
the battle. El Jefe’ and I shed layers before setting off. We wouldn’t see Joe and Mile again until we
arrived at the Barn. Good job guys.
Bold and gold
This area is
called Tiffany Lakes and it is remote and beautiful. The fall colors were strong. That may seem like a strange description, but
it is accurate. Bold golds and browns against grey snags, silver granite and a
bright blue sky with white clouds.
The road here was
smooth and we enjoyed ourselves. This is
why we came.
Joe and Mike getting smaller and smaller
We climbed and
descended two more times in journeyman fashion.
After reaching the last of the three peaks that highlight the first half
of the ride we were ready to drop down to Conconully.
Hurt me!
There is a cruel
joke when you come around a rough and loose left hand downhill turn and the
road kicks up in your face. The grade is
fifteen to twenty percent and although you climb less than a hundred meters it
feels like a dirty trick because you thought you were done climbing for the
morning.
My mind had
managed to forget about this feature and thus I hadn’t warned El Jefe’. We fought our way to the top and regrouped
with Mr. T and Coz.
We still had a
staggering about of altitude to lose and we pointed our machines downhill. Sections that you could rail last year were
washboard festivals. I spotted a water
bottle that had been ejected from Coz’s bike and scooped it up. In the next five minutes I added a second
water bottle and a stray tire lever to my pockets.
When there are
round smooth rocks that are partially exposed they call them “babyheads.” This part of the course had been graded and
it had kicked up jagged rocks that were like clothes irons placed randomly on
the road. I am hereby coining the phrase “Clothes Irons” and hope it sticks.
Fire roads in
the Cascades are often rutted and have washboard sections but this year was
something special.
When we reached
the pavement for the final run to Conconully we were relieved and let it
fly. We heard a gunshot and passed a
fellow taking target practice with a handgun.
There is just something about the second amendment. We were going pretty fast but I think the
targets looked like Hillary Clinton.
As we approached
Conconully I became keenly aware that it wasn’t warm. They sky was cloudy and I hadn’t shed any
layers despite our drop in elevation. I
had a wind jacket waiting in my drop bag and my memories of getting cold on the
climb to Baldy Pass last year were heavy on my mind. I resolved to carry every article of clothing
I had out of Conconully.
Coz "chillin" in Conconully
At the food stop
there was a young fit-looking woman who was wide eyed. She asked about the rest of the route. I told her the climb was long but steady. She said she was pretty trashed and offered
the quote of the day that opened this post.
At the food stop
I was fairly efficient. I emptied my pockets of trash and refilled them for the duration of our journey. I stocked my top tube bag and swapped the
battery in my GoPro. I ate some crackers
and the salt tasted good. The reapplication of chamois cream was done discretely
and soon we were in formation and heading west.
I had an
interloper on my wheel but when the road began to climb, he quickly and quietly
vanished. We settled in for the climb that “just goes on forever.” With
virtually no traffic we had the road to ourselves and our group of four moved
more like an amoeba and less like a paceline.
The sun came
through and it warmed up and we stopped a couple times to shed layers. With my
vest, sleeves and full gloves in my pockets I rode uphill and enjoyed the
warmth of the sun.
The grade was
not steep but it was unrelenting. We
were five hours in and there was an unspoken nervousness about this climb. We all wanted it done. El Jefe’ went off the front and we let him
go. Coz had some stomach gurgling and
wasn’t eating so he knew a bonk was lurking.
I recalled cramping on this a year ago and tried to moderate the debate
in my head between wanting to speed up and get to the top or slow down and be
conservative. Mr. T seemed his usual
jovial and unflappable self but this day is hard on everyone.
Up, up, up, up
The surface was
pretty good but now and then we had to hunt for better lines. At one point, Mr. T was on the edge of the
road and asked Coz and I if we thought he was okay or if he was risking a flat.
“You’re fine as long as you’re tubeless,” I replied in jest. He said he was running tubes but they were
slime tubes so the he was “mostly tubeless.”
I furthered the logic and said that if that was the case he should be
“mostly fine.”
That thin line is the road we rode to get here.......
This route has
one right then one left turn and then you ascend on the south side of a ridge
for what seems like forever. We were heading for Baldy Pass which is predictably
next to Mount Baldy.
You can see Baldy from
way down the valley and it looms ominously between you and the finish.
At this point
you are watching your distance and elevation and wondering if perhaps one of
them is wrong. The top is supposed to be
106k in and be 1,940m high. I remembered
El Chefe and I leapfrogging each other here last year as we both battled cramps
and hypothermia. I was glad I wasn’t fighting those battles this year but I was
tired and anxious to finish climbing.
As I rounded a
right hand corner I recognized the final kicker which my memory had mercifully
hidden from my consciousness for a year.
The question in my head about distance and elevation was suddenly
reconciled. Yes I had less than a kilometer to go but indeed I did have another
hundred and fifty meters of climbing.
“Don’t do the
math,” I told myself. Too late.
I found my 36
cog and said a silent prayer of gratitude to Horst. The difference between a 32
and a 36 in back on this course was the difference between ridiculous and
diculous. I was nearing the top and checked the elevation. My tip sheet was accurate and within twenty
meters of the top I thought to myself I didn’t cramp.
At that exact
moment my right adductor muscle cramped and the man with the hammer had found
me. “Not today,” I said out loud and
powered through the cramp to reach the top.
I coasted across the cattle guard, stopped and put on all of my
clothing.
I was feeling black and white
Sleeves, vest,
beanie, wind jacket and full gloves all went on. My knee warmers and shoe covers had been in
place since I put them on at the cabin before sunrise.
We formed up,
reverently leaving a space in honor of DG, and flew downhill. The surface was
smooth, fast and confidence inspiring. As we railed the road the gold leaves on
the sides of the road flew past. Looking
down the valley we could see we would be dropping for a long time.
We had paid the
dues to climb this high and had earned every inch of the descent. We reached the last aid station and I filled
one of my two empty bottles. I knew that
I wouldn’t be able to drink again until we reached the pavement and that by
then there would only be time to drink one bottle.
We set off and I
knew the wicked washboard loomed ahead but I was smelling the barn. El Jefe’ went off the front and Coz and I
paired up. The washboard started off bad
and then got worse. It felt like I was
riding in a clothes dryer. I used all of
my tricks to work through it but even so at times my beloved Boone was rocking
like a jackhammer.
Same guys different event
Up ahead I saw
Coz bounce almost to a stop and I could sense the silent profanity that he
would later confirm. My hands and arms
were beaten from the cumulative vibration over the long day. Coz and I regrouped, launched again only to
have the pounding repeated. We were
ready to be done.
When we finally
reached the pavement El Jefe’ was standing there trying to regain feeling in
his body. We exchanged F-bombs. I
reached down for the drink I had been looking forward to and found an empty
bottle cage.
My other bottle
was empty and the closest water was at the finish. We waited for Mr.T to roll up. We prayed that he didn’t flat. We were ready for pizza. A minute or two later he rolled up and we
invited Dr. Castelli to join and began the last leg of our Fondo. Dr. Castelli joined but was soon dropped.
The roller
coaster descent is a carnival of descending fun. Big ring up front and this is
as close to flying as you can get. We
pointed out the potholes to those behind as we were zinging down the road.
This is the kind of pounding we took.
Soon we are back
on the East Chewuch road with yellow lines and everything. We form a pace line
and drill it into town. I’m feeling
energetic and take a couple long pulls at the front just because I can. I claim the uncontested sprint for the town
line. One minute later we make the turn and we’re done.
They hand us
finishing patches and I put it into my top tube bag. I’ve got seven or eight of these in a drawer
and sooner or later I’ll figure out what to do with them. It’s trivial but at this moment I’d fight
anyone who tried to take it.
Pizzas were consumed at an alarming rate
McWoodie was
there and only when I ask does he mention that he finished fourth. We ride on to the Barn and have a slice of
pizza. Then Coz and I ride back to the
cabin and reflect on a great day. Nobody
got hurt. Everyone finished. That’s a
good day.
Dinner was a
group project that worked better than expected. We enjoyed soft tacos, rice and
beans. We listened to the stories of
those who finished ahead of us and they took in our experiences as well. We raised a toast to the missing Dave’s and
welcomed our new friends Mike and Joe. Brad shared the details of his cramp-a-thon and Mr. T proposed a faith-based solution.
After dinner we
hit an awkwardness similar to the end of a first date. We were unsure if we
should socialize or collapse into bed. After a few minutes of pretending to be energetic,
reality overtook us and we bid farewell to the Mazama contingent and before
they were back at Brad’s place the lights were out and we were in bed.
I tried to get
comfortable and fall asleep but everything was sore. My hands were sore, my forearms and shoulders
felt a warmth that happens after a weight workout. My legs were tired and my
low back ached. My neck was stiff and my
chest was tender from breathing hard for nine hours. Finally I told myself that was as good as it
would get. I closed my eyes and dreamed
of riding away from the man with the hammer.
