Plan, Adjust, Repeat

Who cares how the sausage is made if the sausage sucks?

As a middle aged man trying to prepare for an event, any event, I am in a constantly adjusting my plans to address the seemingly endless stream of disruptions and unexpected challenges. 

A pulled muscle, an insurance claim, a saddle sore, a virus, yard work, added scope at work, rain and an unprovoked mechanical can all conspire to derail my OCD planning.  In the last few years I have started allowing for some level of disruption in my planning so that during the run up to the event I am not on the cutting edge of peaking at the exact moment of the event.  Still, the frequency of deviations from my original plan continues to surprise me.

I have tried to use my rides leading up to the OTGG to test everything from my fueling (a.k.a. food) to my gloves and socks.  I’ve tried to get in heat training and even went so far as to take Hottie to Maui just to get in some heat training (wink).

All for the sake of training.....

At times the planning and following the plan seems to feel like swimming in circles, lots of motion, no real movement.

After our Hawaii trip I did not expect to jump in exactly where I left off, but the drop off was scary.  The rides felt harder (and per my HRM were harder) and were slower than they should have been.  It was as if any benefit from those miles in March and April was forfeited by a week on the beach.

Only the strong (and the foolish) survive. 

I survived back to back Fondos in Leavenworth, but I sure didn’t feel strong.  Only last weekend did I start to get hints that my fitness was coming around.  In general terms, my plan was to build an aerobic base during the first four months of 2019 by trying to ride eight to ten hours a week and then phase in focused increased intensity (intervals) in May and June leading up to the event.  I’ve been allowing myself to journey into HR Z4 and even a splash of HR Z5 now and again.

This week I had a dedicated interval workout and when it came time to ramp it up I felt like I was revving an engine.  I had a sensation that may be normal to guys like McWoodie, Moonlight and The Judge but is rare for me.  My legs were churning out a ton of power and felt like they had a ton more.  Of course, I went for more and it came with relative ease.  I didn’t feel like I was going to explode at any moment, in fact, I felt like I could hold twice my threshold for as long as I wanted.

During one of my recovery spots I was passed by a young gun and a Scott Foil TT Aero bike with TT bars.  He passed me on a little rise and he looked like he was out of the pro peloton.  Slender body, carved shaved calves, skin tight team kit and a tiny saddle bag all said, “Badass.”  I wasn’t going hard at the time and he didn’t exactly blow past me.

I was well behind him when we turned a corner and he dropped down into his tuck and began charging with all he had.  This was the start of one of my planned intervals and I started driving my legs, putting pressure on the pedals for all 360 degrees of my pedal stroke.  It felt awesome and I was pleased just with that feeling.  Soon I realized I was gaining on him and he turned and looked back.  He shoulders starting rocking on the false flat trying to hold me off. 

In five more seconds I blew past him without a word.  I just kept driving and I didn’t feel like I was going too deep, just releasing the power in my legs. My legs begged to go faster.  I could hear him shifting trying to find some way to catch a guy older than his father.  “Old man power,” I thought to myself. 

Three minutes later I finished my interval and looked behind me and he was very far back but I could tell his head was drooped.  He was blown.  I looked back a minute later and he was nowhere to be seen.  He had turned off the road. 

For so much of the year when I put down a lot of power my legs let me know they can hold that power for about five seconds or so. Today, there didn’t seem to be a limit on how long they could hold the effort, in fact holding the effort felt like scratching an itch.

It would seem that after once again losing faith in my planning and execution and feeling as though all of the interruptions and setback had derailed any chance of success, it is all coming together.

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.