Let’s go

Here we go!

As I get bombarded from all sides with offers to save money; I can say that nothing saves me more money than just skipping all the sales and going for a walk, run or ride.  Today Hottie and I took the Kona for a walk on the beach. 

Yeah - I'm off plan

Pirate for a year

This shouldn't be forever, but after eight months, it feels like it has already been forever.  Yes, you adapt; but everything is harder. I said everything, and I mean everything.  I am grateful to be where I am and am glad I have been able to adapt as well as I have.  I have learned that I need those around me.  Hottie and TQ have been essential to my success and happiness.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

More later.  Just wanted to let my fans know I'm not dead, just laying low and getting ready to attack!

Snapshots in a box

 

It happens so fast.  I close my eyes and remember learning to ride my red Royce Union bike and my first day of school. I remember the first day a child of mine went to school.  After decades of reliance on my body as a tool to get me out of tricky situations, I am resigned to accept my age as a real number. 

The doctor cites my age as a risk factor.  My VO2 Max or Garmin Fitness age don't seem to matter to him. I can go on a five hour bike ride and come home and make dinner, but my fitness now has a fragility that it has not had before.  Looking at the ceiling waiting for surgery I recall looking at the ceiling waiting to see the principal in elementary school. I was in trouble then and I'm in trouble now. At my age I don't feel helpless often, but I fear it may be a trend.

I watched my grandson Drew trying so hard and in him I saw my own son who both hated his older brother and wanted more than anything to be his older brother.  Drew's older brother is like his dad and his dad's dad. How could I have been so cruel to my younger brother without giving it a thought?  

After my mother was moved into her new apartment and bags and boxes were dropped at goodwill and the trash place and my daughter took what she could use, there were two large boxes of photographs and keepsakes that summed up my mom's life. Big photos of her parents and others born a hundred or more years ago. The results of a tennis tournament she played in fifty years ago.  Photos of my mother as a young woman ready to take on the world. She asks me a question. Five minutes later she asks again. Two minutes after that she asks a third time. I smile and put my arm around her. She knows she has done something wrong, but doesn't know what it is. My assurance calms her. I am glad I can give her some peace. 

We aren't all astronauts.  I may have finally leaned patience.  Everyone is doing the best they can. Whomever set up the process isn't the person standing in front of you so don't take it out on them.  Smile and say, "Thank you."  People don't hear that enough. It is my secret weapon.  Oops, no longer a secret. 

Hottie loves me.  Ever since I was that kid on my way to school in 1965 I was hoping people would like me. I'm a dick and Hottie still loves me.  I am a lucky man.  I hear the Beach boys songs I heard as a kid. When I heard them I hoped someone would love me, she does. I know she is frustrated beyond words with injuries that we hope will be done soon. I'm feeling helpless again. 

I am lucky.  I get to see (maybe a little blurry right now) people I love and beautiful places.  I get to do fun things.  I find more joy in helping my mom or trying to make Hottie feel special than I ever thought I would.  I find joy in watching Kona play in every way he can.  

That is it for today. 

2020 DONE!

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.

Summer no more.

I'm from Florida.  What is this cold, white stuff?

On Thursday it looked like this:

I'd call it an Indian Summer, but perhaps that phrase is now racist or I'm a day or two behind the political whirlwind of woke correctness and I should stick with just saying fall.  Anyway this is what late October looks like most of the time.....

It was predicted to happen Friday, and it did:

It took Kona a while to step onto the mysterious substance, 

but it proved to be an adequate running surface.

We are all adapting to a new season.

How backpacking caught me

Hiking with Hottie

Perhaps it started when I was five and my father took me camping in Sequoia.  It was a chance to feel like a man when I was a young a boy.  My dad and I slept in the tent like men do and we ate the same food and I rode in the front seat on the drive there and back.  As a teen my passion for the outdoors was further fueled when I started rock climbing and backpacking with my friends.  Again, it was a chance to be with my friends without parents yet we were doing adult things.

 

The satisfaction of learning and having the skills that enabled me to be independent in the wilderness and was empowering to me as a teenager and young adult.  Making decisions and exercising judgment was a lesson in being a grownup.  Being able to say, “It looks too sketchy right now. Let’s turn around,” while disappointing, was also rewarding because it allowed us to demonstrate, if only to ourselves, that we could make an adult decision.  

 

I gained skills using a map and compass. The stoves we had back there were a cross between a deep fat fryer and a bomb in terms of danger and flame size. Our packs were big, heavy and left us raw and bruised.  We wore boots that weighed so much that unless you had a pair of the behemoths you would not believe me.

 

I loved it. We all did.

 

The idea of being in a place that had not been overrun by man was awesome in the years after Robert Redford made Jeremiah Johnson as real as life itself. The high Sierra was federally protected long before the timber in the western foothills ran out.  With the trails in the Sierra having been built by the CCC during the depression, the joke was that they had used Egyptians for the design and construction of the trails. 

 

Our little group went hiking, climbing and backcountry skiing during the late seventies and well into the eighties. With no internet, we had to earn our knowledge via hard work, experience and mistakes.  

Farewell Tux

The Ambassador (snaggletooth)

We had to say farewell to Tux.  After being with us for ten years and two days, he finished his assignment. We were not ready to say goodbye, and only in hindsight did we realize that it was time, and he was ready to be done. 

Moonshine with Tux

At the cabin when I would take him out at night I never complained because I got to see the moon and stars.  In the morning, he was often ready to go before I was, yet every single time I thanked him for getting me out to see the sunrise and hear the owls hoot.

He was the first dog for Kyson and Cali and Russell and Sasha and Drew and a dozen other children. He was gentle and made fast fans of them all. He literally was a Greyhound Ambassador and spent time at pet stores letting children pet him. 

He was as black as night and in the dark the leash just disappeared and he was invisible. He would come up onto our deck at night and stand outside of the french doors waiting for us to see him.  In the dark, we often didn't see him. 

When we brought him home from the Greyhound halfway house he was young, fit and fast.  He was also scared of cars and stairs and bicycles.  Hottie spent countless hours teaching him and helping him become the best Tux. 

Bat ears in the snow

Tux had a crooked jaw and his teeth didn't match up which meant he had more problems with his teeth than most.  I brushed his teeth (with chicken flavored doggy toothpaste) and I am sure he knew it was a good thing. A good thing that he hated, but he let me do.  After his breakfast I would call him over and while he would come, he would not raise his head.  I would brush his teeth and more often than not he would offer me a warm belch before I was done.  Over the course of his life he had more than twenty of his forty four teeth pulled.  The vet who helped us say goodbye to him said he had the best looking teeth of any greyhound his age she had ever seen.  

Tux on a cloud in heaven, looking down on us....

Near the end he walked slower and his gait was stiff.  He would breath hard without much exertion.  He took the stairs one at a time and food became less exciting.  His kibble was supplemented with fish oil his whole life.  Then we added teeth cleaning "big chunks" and then bacon bits because otherwise he would not eat until I left for work and thus get out of getting his teeth brushed.  Then we added some prescription pills and added fiber.  All he needed was one of those pill boxes with the days of the week on them.  Still he seemed to be happy and since last fall he had good and bad days and we almost didn't see that the good days were getting fewer and fewer.

Tux and Bunny looking for treats

After he passed Hottie and I cried and cried. We felt guilty for not being able to do more, yet ultimately we knew he had enjoyed a great life.  The quiet hurt.  The empty spot where the dog beg had been looked barren. I felt I owed him a debt of gratitude.  He had been so exceptional to our grandchildren, so kind to so many and had exceeded everything we could have expected or asked of him.  I thought about building a monument, buying a statue, getting a tattoo, or trying to figure some way to honor his memory.  As the days passed the tears became fewer, yet the hole in our hearts still ached. On a ride up the Chewuch as I let my memories of him run free I asked what I could do to honor him. Just as Shoeless Joe Jackson uttered in the greatest movie of all time, "Field of Dreams" his words, "There are others you know?" came to me.   

Does the world still have dogs that need homes?  A quick check of the Woodinville Greyhound Pets Inc. website confirmed there were forty nine of his brothers and sisters looking for homes. We debated.  There would be poop, there would be messes on the carpet and who knows how a new dog would be with grandkids. The training and inconvenience would be a burden.  We talked and talked. 

As Alexander Rostov, the protagonist in "A Gentleman in Moscow" says in reflecting back on his life of privilege versus sacrifice, "It was the inconveniences that mattered most."

We spent time with Drake and Kona (then known as Buddy) and finally brought Kona home.  I almost cried that we had to leave Drake because he seemed to be such a good guy.  I was relieved to hear he went to a forever home a couple days later.   I cry a lot more these days.  That is good.

Kona's grandfather was Trent Lee and Trent Lee was Tux's father.  So Tux and Kona share some blood.  They also seem to share a sweet disposition. 

This is Kona.  

We were so grateful to have been able to share time with Tux.  The arc of his life from young fit specimen to old man was touching.  His first bicycle race was the Volunteer Park Criterium. He was so scared we took him back to the car.  A year later he could watch a cyclocross race with cowbells and screaming fans without blinking an eye. He was my running companion, Hottie's walking and photographing buddy and a hero to Sasha and Drew. He was always a little insecure yet he managed to be aloof at the same time.  He liked to peel back the covers on our bed when we were out of it and lay his furry body on the sheets. He would let Hottie know when it was dinner time and we will miss him every day.  We will honor him by taking care of his nephew Kona. 

Respect the mountains

No; snow gophers didn't make it all lumpy

A few recent experiences have reminded me that failing to respect the mountains can be a dangerous mistake.   In recent weeks, with spring in full attack mode, I have ventured into the mountains many times on bike and on foot. The sunny tranquil world of the mountain valley can easily betray the potential harshness lurking in the higher mountains. 

Three times in April I left the sunny valley and climbed up only to find dark skies, cold wind and spitting, unforecasted light snow.  Snow being far less of a risk than rain. 

Miles and miles from a paved road, sweating and feeling the climb in my legs I look around. Seeing the dark skies, hearing the frozen hail bouncing off my helmet, and feeling to cold wind cut into me, I thought, "This could get ugly."  

My life was never at risk, but the prospect of the day turning into a very uncomfortable death march was a real possibility.  

On one of the rides near the start I passed two men sitting in the sun wearing T-shirts and drinking beer.  After nearly three hours of riding punctuated by frequent glances at the grey sky and spitting hail I returned glad to be back where it was warm.  Those same two guys were still in the sun, still in T-shirts, blissfully unaware of the journey I had undertaken while they took their repose.  The mountains don't play fair and they often override the weather forecasts. 

Hottie, bundled up for a chilly descent.

Even a drive up a canyon for a short hike with our new companion Kona revealed threatening skies and temperatures that chilled our excitement. 

Lack of focus reveals focus

Simple pleasures 

With COVID-19 putting everyone’s season on hold, April was not the typical training month I usually enjoy. Instead of gearing up for Goldendale and subsequent events, I just went riding.  I am normally a periodized training plan kind of guy and lacking any firm objectives I am just riding.  I am also hiking and running and taking walks purely for the pleasure of it.  

Without having to force each run or ride into a spot in my grand training plan I find I am much more in the moment during my rides, runs, hikes and strolls.  I am not a fan of the shut down and I am even less of a fan of the slower than I think it needs to be return to a new normal, yet I am finding some happiness in not being so damn focused.  It has allowed me to focus on what is fun. 

2019 Oregon Trail Gravel Grinder Race Report

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.

Perhaps this is something you do ONE TIME!