After months of living my pirate life I had a chance to take a step toward normal vision. The hope lasted only a few days and then it was a step backward and an unplanned surgery. I'll spare you the sad story and get to the subject of this post.
After this eye surgery my physical activity was more strictly limited than in the past. By the time I was given the green light it had been just over six solid weeks of nothing. Don't even bend over to tie your shoes nothing. Have your son carry your luggage nothing. Walk, but not too briskly, nothing.
When I got back on the bike I had nothing. It was like I was trapped in someone else's body. That someone else was not a lifetime athlete, it was a fat slob who had puny lungs and weak legs.
On my rides my HR zones were a full 1.5 zones above where they should have been. It seemed wrong, but then afterwards the way my body felt was consistent with the actual heart rates.
I had only six days before my team was coming to the Methow for a handful of days riding gravel. I tried to cram in some training with predictable results. I bet it all on the one big day and managed to avoid cramping until I was past the flame rouge. I finished the ride pedaling with one leg. I was blown.
My usual training ploy after a setback is to load up on zone two miles. The problem this time was that to go zone two speed, I had to tickle zone four. I slept like a pile of dirty laundry. This was hard. Getting back in shape is a young man's game and I am not a young man.
After a couple weeks of trying to build up some fitness I went on a nice Saturday ride with Hottie. The next day was our team's Coffee and Lies ride. The fast guys went slower and the rest of us were compelled to keep up with them as a thank you for their kindness.
I was due for a hard day and I actually felt like I had some power. I had resumed running for the first time since my forced rest period. That may have given my legs some power. Maybe. It wasn't impressive, or fast, but it was what I had on this day and I was happy with it.
It is rare that my legs hurt even before the ride is over, but the climb up to the cafe was a mix of twitches and simply sore legs. It felt good to be strong enough to have tired legs.
To distract my mind from the hurt I tried to plan my afternoon ahead so as to minimize the number of trips I would have to make up and down our stairs.
When I got home I felt I had earned the right to what had been forced on me for all of the month of May; nothingness. I relaxed and spent some time chillin with Hottie.
The road, like a slender finger of spring, splits winter and reaches into the backcountry. Spring is here with the promise of long days of sunshine. Under a blue sky dotted with clouds ranging from white to grey three souls rolled out of Mazama and follow that road into the mountains where winter remains steadfast.
As the miles ticked by we climb and the snow on either side of the road grows deeper. Wild flowers are starting to bloom on the valley floor, yet the mountains are still cloaked under a deep blanket of snow. Spring is a time of contrasts.
As we ride, we look lumpy, our pockets bulging as we make our way deeper into the hills.
The road isn't ready for cars and, on weekends, the snow plows are idle. We ride three abreast. The first hour was warm, but now the clouds are thicker and a wind is bringing the chill of the snow through our jerseys. Patches of ice on the pavement become larger and more frequent. Finally we round a corner and can see the road goes into a wall of snow.
There is no doubt we are at the end. Often in spring I ride a road to where the snow takes over and there is a "Should I, or shouldn't I?" moment as I consider if I should turn around or keep going. No debate here. This is it.
We look around and realize it has begun to spit snow. We are emptying our pockets like we are contestants in a game show. We pull out jackets, vests, gloves, tights, and neck warmers. I sit on the pavement to put on wind pants. I am amazed that the road isn't cold. We dress as fast as we can and then begin what we know will be a long, cold descent. We are no longer lumpy, we are dressed to stay warm. We have all done this multiple times over the years and we came prepared.
Time to get going.
As we begin the descent the sweat on the front of my beanie turns cold and I have an ice cream headache. The wind blows in our faces, then from the side, then for a moment behind us as we ride down the mountain we spent the last two hours riding up. I realize that while I am not quite warm, I am not cold. After several minutes we see two cyclists heading up and they are not lumpy. They will be cold. They will be very, very cold.
We trade pulls and can't help but have fun on the never ending descent. The road grade fluctuates as we drop thousand of feet.
As we near the valley floor we see a cyclist with bare arms and legs. He appears to be out for a short ride and will turn around soon (we hope). We finish our ride and welcome some hot lentil soup into our bellies. We express gratitude for the day, the ride and each other's company.
2020 Started with such hope, only to expose our collective pettiness via tragedy. An inconvenience for Hottie and myself, yet a horror for others. I kept working. We had no major surgeries for the first year in a while.
We lost Tux. That hit me so hard I realized I actually have a heart. As a tribute to him, we welcomed his nephew, Kona, who has brought so much joy and love to our hearts. That was unexpected.
Bike races and bike rides were cancelled. Our Sunday "Coffee and Lies" rides took a five month hiatus. My son Tim and I were able to share the backpack trip of our collective dreams albeit with masks at the ready.
An ideal remote work assignment allowed me not just to continue working, but to spend a majority of my time in my favorite place. So grateful. I ironed two shirts in all of 2020. What the hell?
Such a strange mix of good and bad news. We were lucky, yet are so aware that many were destroyed by the Pandemic. It would be offensive to celebrate. We are powerless to change the pandemic and how the powers that be handle it. We can control how we treat those we see and this event has provided an opportunity to be the best we can be. We could all have done better.
For all the good and bad that we had in 2020, I am ready to move on and welcome 2021. Let's learn our lessons and move forward.
It smells kinda like camping, kinda like death......
With the fires we've been dealing with some unhealthy air quality.
When I say unhealthy, it isn't an uninformed opinion....
It reminds me of being sick as a kid and staying home from school. You just kind of wander around inside and as the afternoon stretches into dinnertime, you just feel sluggish from the lack of activity and lung tightness. Everyone is restless and maybe even a bit cranky. Covid has taken the excitement out of staying at home for everyone. This is just the icing on the cake.
Outside it looks foggy, except the fog is yellow.
Taking Kona for a short walk, the streets are deserted, adding to the Twilight Zone atmosphere.
2020 has become a year of bucket list accomplishments. A month ago my son Tim and I finished off our John Muir Trail odyssey. This past Sunday KB and I set off on the Angel’s Staircase Loop.
The adventure really started when I took my bike out to add some sealant to the tires a few days before (just to be safe) and I noticed the back wheel felt wonky. It turns out I had a broken suspension pivot axle. I took it to the great folks at Methow Cycle & Sport and they told me that they would have to order a part and the bike would not be ready until after my planned ride.
I contemplated renting a bike, but opted instead to give it a try on my fat bike. I took it out for a short test ride and made a few minor adjustments (saddle height, brake lever angle) and deemed it ready to go. I figured there was going to be a bit of hike a bike so the day would be an adventure anyway.
When KB suggested we set off from my place at 5:30 AM I flinched, but agreed. Starting early would get us riding before it got too hot and running out of daylight was a problem neither of us dared say out loud, but it was a possibility we wanted to avoid.
We arrived at the trailhead in time to dress, drink up and get rolling before 7:00. The assortment of bikes on racks and campers told us we were in the right spot. Soon we were out of the parking lot and climbing a dusty trail in thick forest.
We were leapfrogging two other groups of three riders as we climbed and climbed. At each trail junction they would stop and wait for their friends and we would confirm our direction and putter on. The fat bike was doing very well soaking up the bumps and lumps of tree roots and rocks.
Although the fat bike is rigid, it does have a dropper post and more than one rider commented that given the choice of suspension, or a dropper, they would choose the dropper.
These trails are shared by hikers and bikers so we kept an eye open and at times the hikers envied us and at times they offered us pity. “I’m glad I get to hike up this steep trail,” was something we heard more than once.
Above Cooney Lake. Look carefully and you can see some sad souls...
When we passed Cooney lake the trail shot up a comical climb that made me wonder if we were off the trail. The grade necessitated us pushing and then carrying our bikes before returning to ridable trail. Then after what seemed like a three-minute uphill ride the trail shot up becoming what a ride veteran referred to as “the wall.”
Nobody rides the “wall” section up or down, and we and others alternated between pushing, pulling, carrying, cajoling and cursing our bikes. The trail was like trying to climb a mountain of loose marbles. You would push your bike uphill, grab the brakes and pull yourself up even with the bike and repeat. Some carried their bikes on their shoulders with their steps sliding backward like they were climbing up a down escalator. Everyone was glad to be here but nobody was smiling. I told KB that as a hiker I found this part of the trail horrible and as a biker I thought it was more of a dare.
Although this section wasn’t that long, it took longer than it should have and knowing we had several more hours after this, we did not want to kill ourselves. When we reached the top others were seated on rocks next to their bikes recovering.
We could see Rainier to the south
We snapped some picture and ate and drank.
After a brief traverse we had a bit more climbing and then we were at the high point of the ride at over 8,000 feet.
We dropped down the Angel’s Staircase and all I can say is that I guess not all angels are good angels. The trail was a series of switchbacks where we dismounting at each corner. The loose, lumpy, steep drop corners just invited a crash and that was not on our agenda. Showing more wisdom that expected we aligned our risk aversion to our age and talked about how smart we were.
Soon the trail was traversing alpine meadows that were golden under the late summer sun. We stopped at a stream and filtered water to restock our supply. The water was cold and felt like heaven on our parched throats.
Looking SE
Looking NW
After some moderate climbing we reached Boiling Lake and paused to enjoy the mountain scenery. We began the hot, steep, exposed climb up to Horsehead Pass.
About to go down here
Just came up from here (see the trail?)
KB’s bike with water and gear strapped to it weighed a ton, and by a ton I mean pretty close to fifty pounds. Thirty-five pounds of bike plus seven pounds of water and a more than a few pounds of extra clothing, tools, tubes and first aid gear.
The switchbacks just kept going and we paused a few times to drink and take in calories. This was a full day and we were glad to have started as early as we did. People had been encouraging to us as we were both on rigid bikes and the novelty struck some as adventurous.
Spring, summer and fall were all in the last month at this elevation
When we reached the top we had the place to ourselves. It was a narrow ridge and we took our time refueling and taking in the view below us. An observer might wonder if we were tired, or casual about not rushing to get going. It was a pleasant combination of savoring the time and gathering ourselves mentally for a long technical descent that would require a Zen-like focus.
When we were ready, we dusted ourselves off and set off down the trail. It was the now familiar “cliff on one side, mountain on the other” that we had been riding most of the day.
Yeah, and THIS was the shit we rode....
The trail started off rough, loose and exposed. Each kilometer it got less so and our speed increased the closer we got to the trailhead. We had over three thousand feet to descend and the trail got better and more flowy by the minute.
We paused at one point on the way down and shared the observation that nine hours of riding and pushing/carrying a bike can make you tired. KB had blood on the back of his calf from multiple pedal encounters and a dirt moustache. I was likewise dirty and had some blood on me. I was glad our appearance matched the day’s effort.
The dirty smile
When we arrived at the parking lot we felt like we had experienced the full meal deal that is the Angel’s Staircase Loop. KB commented that if we did this ride every day for a couple weeks we would get in really good shape. I just let that hang in the air as I opened the cooler and fished out a bottle of cold water.
Don't think for a moment that we don't know how lucky we are....
As we began to emerge from COVID hibernation, I was delighted to find Feral Dave joining the Sunday ride. He was astride a new bike. Not the lightest, but he was able to keep up. I could not be happier to see him riding again and to see our peloton welcoming him and his bike with open arms.
Today as our crew rode in a steady Seattle drizzle we were totally comfortable. I remarked to McWoodie, "What did we do before we had Gabba's?" The migration from 23mm tires to 25's then tubeless 25's then tubeless 28's may seem like a change in fashion, but the superior traction means safety and as members of the AARP demographic, safety matters. Our clothing, which again one could argue is nothing but fashion, keeps us warm and dry in conditions that make most people want to stay inside and drink coffee. Looking at pictures from ten years ago, I recall cold, wet, Sunday morning rides that left me cold for three days. Hydraulic brakes and bigger gear ratios may seem like iterative improvements, but the difference is stunning. I have sold bikes because I decided to replace them with disc brake bikes. For those who scoff at these advances, they can ride their lugged frame bikes with vintage brakes wearing soggy wool and leather. They can do what all cults do and preach that their way is the only way and everyone else are fools. I am sure the added suffering will build their character. That is a good thing. Riding slow bikes when cold and wet requires a lot of character. I traded my character in on a new bike with hydraulic discs, a compact crank and Di2.
More than a week after finishing the OTGG (Oregon Trail
Gravel Grinder) I am in awe of myself for finishing that beast of an adventure.
I am also, a week out, still tired.The
term “Epic” is overused.This was an
epic undertaking.
It took months of training to get in shape for the
ride.It took years of cyclocross racing
and gravel riding to accumulate the bike handling skills that would be
required.It took decades of bad
decisions to have enough experience doing crazy things so as not to get off the
bike, curl up into a ball and start crying and calling for my mother to take me
home.
I’ve spent years shrugging my shoulders when people heard
about my long rides or Fondo events.Those Fondo events are hard and people should be impressed when someone
finishes one.This was five consecutive
days of Fondo-caliber riding.It has
been eight days since the ride, and I am still wake up hungry.
My training came together and our clan of six arrived in
time to avoid being rushed or having dead legs from the six plus hour car ride
to Sisters, Oregon.
When we went out for some single track the day before the start,
we didn't think we would be honing our skills for the event.....
As we assembled at the starting area it was apparent this
was a full spectrum event. There were the usual serious old guys of which I
reluctantly admit I am now counted among, but there were more super fit young
riders than typically show up at a gravel Fondo.
The neutral roll out reflected the fitness of the crowd
and after eight or so miles we were onto the gravel road and reassembled at the
official start line.We took off on the
bright red pumice that is Oregon gravel and soon I was in my element.
The fast guys, and there were mostly fast guys, pulled
away quickly.I was resolved to ride my
own pace and settled into what I referred to as Zone 5 DAYS.In other words, a pace I could hold for the
five days. This is what the day before, and the first day looked like:
The scenery was spectacular and the air was clean and
crisp.On the first downhill there was an
astounding collection of ejected water bottles.I was shocked because the terrain on the downhill wasn’t that
rough.My belief that there were a lot
of people who were fit as hell but lacked a lot of gravel experience was
confirmed by the presence of so many bottles.
Whiplash feeling kind
Soon we crossed the Cascade crest and were on the greener, wetter side of the mountains.
Everyone’s gravel is different.In California dirt roads are called
gravel.In Kansas, the flint rock roads
are called gravel.In Washington the
dirt and crushed rock of the forest service roads are what we call gravel.In Oregon their gravel is broken down
volcanic pumice that can range in size from marbles to powdered sugar.More of the surface is sand-like in its
consistency that I would have imagined and much more than I would have
preferred.
Soon we hit the wagon road which was a series of piles of
sand with a road through them.I had
the, “You can’t expect us to ride this crap,” thought as I fought my way along
the road.“This is going to kill the
weak,” I said out loud.
The frequent sand traps manifested itself in a number of
ways.What I first noticed was the
sudden deceleration when one would hit a sand patch.It literally felt like someone pumped my
brakes rather firmly.The second was
that your front wheel or rear wheel or both would drift to the side.When this happened at speed it was always unsettling.Over the course of the five days I could say
I got all the practice riding in sand that I ever wanted.Despite getting better at riding in sand
there was a countless number of puckers every day.
At camp we could recharge our bodies and our electronics
When I arrived at camp the first day I spotted McWoodie
and rolled over to him.I was about to
ask the Einmotron to help me carry my tote to the campsite when I noticed his
arm was bloody.Looking around I saw St.
Nick sitting in front of his freshly pitched tent and asked him to help me.He sprang up and came over and I noticed the
shoulder of his jersey had a hole like a shotgun blast and he pulled it back to
revel a bloody shoulder.He had the
matching bloody leg as well.The gravel
had not been kind to the men in black and orange on this first day.
Proud white trash
After we had showers, dinner and medical attention for
our two fallen brothers, we recounted the days glory before falling asleep under
cloudy skies.
Wet looked like this....
Day two dawned wet and after a solid breakfast we dressed
in anticipation of rain.We had poor
cell reception and via text messages, Hottie was able to communicate the wet
forecast.We started with rain jackets
on and climbed through an endless green canopy.As we gained elevation it got colder and the
rain only got harder.Near the top
people were getting nervous that we might get lightning or simply freeze to
death.
There was an aid station at the top but it was raining
hard and I rushed through just emptying my pockets of food wrappers and
refilling my bottles.The descent was predictably
cold and the soft surface meant I couldn’t just “let it fly.”My hands were hurting reminiscent of the
fabled Black Pine Lake ride.My left
hand hit a bush and it felt like my fingers had been whipped with a cat o’ nine
tails.I checked my fingers three times
to see if they were bleeding.Nope, just
cold and hurting.
The paceline into Oakridge
I passed a rider pulled off to the side of the road
trying to warm his hands in the icy rain.I would pass at least six more on the descent doing the same thing.A rider later remarked that he wished he had
drank more so he could have peed on his hands to warm them.
As I got lower in elevation the rain began to let up and
it warmed up a bit.Before long the sun
was out and the Sam McGee experience at the top of the pass was only a
memory.When we finished the gravel for
the day I spotted my team brothers and we assembled and road together to the
campsite.
This location was by a river and an hour later I would be
dipping my body into the river to cleanse the mud and dust from my body.
The day was shorter than the first day and
it afforded some down time.
Invigorating
The evening was highlighted by a fire in the main
building in the park where we were camped.We had eaten dinner by this time and we were too tired to worry about
it.As long as they could continue to
feed us, we didn’t care.
Day three was the one everyone had circled as the big one
and we were bracing for the challenge.
We ate early and prepared for the monster ride.
Eggs and taters covered in cheese plus a croissant and oats to boot!
This is how we dropped off our totes each morning
The entire route had excellent signage,
including these flag that were placed AFTER
the turns to let you know you were on the right road
When we rolled out my pockets were stuffed
with food and I was as ready as I would ever be.
Even the finish banner was sagging this was such a big day
Our route started with a long stretch of pavement that
climbed in a series of stair steps as it passed lake after lake.We’d climb to a lake, the go level along its
shore, then climb to the next lake.We
had formed a paceline and I let it suck me along.
If we were superheroes we'd be called "Scabman"
This is what Day 2 and 3 looked like:
When we finally turned onto gravel I knew it was time to
get serious.The grade kicked up to
double digits and the trail got loose.The climb was relentless.It
stayed steep and dry and soon we emerged from the cover of trees and it got hot
as well.
I stopped and straddled my top tube and grabbed my little
bottle of Picklejuice.It is exactly
what it sounds like and it has been a miracle product for me in preventing or
stopping cramps on huge rides.I swigged
it down and winced.
Stop just long enough to see the lake,
but not long enough for the mosquitoes to find you....
With the Picklejuice in my belly I started off again and
my body seemed to know it was show time.It was as if my body said, “Okay, he’s taken the Pickllejuice, release
the Kracken.”I quietly felt
stronger.I’m sure it was all in my
head, but I’ll take any trick I can at my age.
Before long I reached the top of the long climb and
filled my bottles and then climbed a little bit more and then the road turned
into a series of rollers.The rollers
were more my style and I could power up them and recover on the backside.That I can do all day long.
Then the rollers were collectively losing elevation and I
was able to get going quicker.When the
road turned into rock garden I put my singletrack skills to use as I weaved a
trail around the sharp rocks.I entered
a flow state as I was flying back and forth imagining myself as graceful as a
soaring eagle.
When I ride I always offer encouragement to those I
pass.I seldom get a reply, but that is
alright. On this ride today, the longer route had joined the shorter route and
the fastest riders were passing me.More
than one, offered kind words and a couple even patted me on the back as they
passed me.I can tell you that those
words of encouragement mattered a lot.Thanks guys!
Emerging from this bliss I felt strong knowing the bulk
of the big day was behind me.I rolled
into Gilcrist feeling like I had done something, and looking forward to the
easier day that was promised for day four.
Our camp was tight this evening and the crowd was
definitely showing signs of trail fatigue.Spirits were high as we felt like we were now on the downhill portion of
the adventure.
These small town gymnasiums were a slice of history
The morning of day four told the tale of how much
physical toll this journey was taking.Instead of breakfast being a stage for all the beautiful people it
looked like the morning after a drunken frat party as tired riders shuffled
into breakfast looking disheveled and hung over.Puffy eyes, thousand mile stares and almost
no conversation revealed how tired everyone was.
On top of that, it was frosty.
There are worse things than cold shoes..........
Before the start they warned us the first ten to twelve
miles were soft.In fact the first
twenty four miles were soft and the rest wasn’t much better.Instead of the easy day we had hoped for I
found myself with a bandana over my face to keep the dust out of my lungs and
my legs churning out three hundred watts just to go five miles an hour in the
soft flour like sand.
Everyone was looking for a good line. There were none.
The surface got better and worse several times before
finally spilling out onto pavement for the cruise into camp.The sun was hot in the Oregon desert and we
were glad when we arrived in camp.Chad,
the event organizer apologized for the rough conditions.
Finally, some road that was not soft
Dinner was steak and salmon and was the best meal of the
trip.Everyone was smelling the finish
and there was a true spirit of camaraderie.
The morning of the fifth day there was both an excitement
and relief that we would soon be done.This was another bigish day and under a hot sun we would be tested one
final time.Once again everyone looked
like they had been thrown out of bed, but there were smiles everywhere.
Once underway, the racers were chatty compared to the
prior days.“What’s your name, where you
from?” were tossed back and forth.We
cheered each other on.“Good work,” I said more than a dozen
times. This is what days four and five looked like:
By now I found I was passing the
same riders that I had passed on previous days at about the same points on the
ride.
Stairway to heaven
We hit some snow, but the mood was almost comical at this point and so, like the Oregon Trail pioneers, we just rolled with it...
I charged hard as I knew the end was near and when I saw
the finish I just kept it up.Crossing
the line I really did sense I had done something.This had been a hard five days and I had
spent a lot of time and energy preparing.
Done! Oregon you're my bitch!
My phone had beeped when I was riding and I checked it
now only to find the McWoodie had crashed out and was headed to Bend to seek
medical attention.What a
heartbreaker.I would later find that
he crashed just prior to the last climb and his crash broke five ribs (a team
record).
With a head swirling with a myriad of thoughts I began a
twenty kilometer descent back to Sisters where it had all started five days
earlier.
I entered the park and rode under the finisher’s banner
and received a medal for finishing that was the size of a small plate.I found McWoodie who was moving slow and
forcing a smile.We were in no hurry to
leave as we ate and swapped stories.Any thoughts of heading home that night were quickly tossed as we were
all blown.
NOT McWoodie (a.k.a. McRibs), but you get the idea
My phone beeped that there was a reminder for the next
day, Monday, to check my two week training look ahead.I smiled.My training is done, it is time to recovery now.
