DAY ONE: September 7, 2008

Elgin to Union

45.6 miles (73 K) and 1048 feet (319 M) elevation gain

Well, here I am again, four years and one lifetime from Cycle Oregon 2004. Divorced, out of the closet, living in Portugal, and now remarried to the woman I love—in my wildest fatigue-induced dreams during the 2004 ride, I’d never have envisioned where I’d be in 2008. Funny how life works out.

Two things transformed this ride compared to the last one. First, I came with friends. My good friend R joined me from Oregon, and my training buddy S came with her wife from the other side of the country. And second, R and I shared the expense of Tent & Porter Service.

To understand the significance of that, you need to know that there are two types of riders at CO: the type who live in Tent City, and the type who use Tent & Porter Service. In 2004 I was a Tent City camper. That meant rolling into camp, finding a bare spot of grass, marking it with my bicycle, wandering off to find my 65-pound bag amongst all the other 65-pound bags carried on the trucks, lugging it back to my site, setting up my tent, and then finally getting to take my shower and relax. And the next morning, it meant having breakfast, getting dressed and the bike set, then breaking down the tent, shoving everything into the bag (no fun when it rained!), lugging the bag back to the trucks, coming back to my bicycle, and finally starting the ride.

When you have Tent & Porter service, this is what happens: you roll into camp, walk straight up to your tent which has already been pitched for you, smile at the fact that your bag is already waiting for you in front of the tent, pull out your fresh clothes and towel, and head straight for the shower. And the next morning, you have breakfast, get dressed, prep your bike, toss your bag out the front of the tent, and ride away from the whole mess. Somebody else takes care of it for you. For this incredible luxury, you pay $250—or $125 each, if you’re sharing with a partner as I did.

It was SO worth it.

This first day’s ride was simply glorious. I think the folks at Cycle Oregon are figuring out that the majority of their riders are not hammerdogs. In fact, most of us range from late 30s to 50s in age, and we’re not interested in pacelining at 24 mph for 100 miles. That’s not to say there weren’t pacelines and people riding incredible speeds, but the vast majority were just folks who had put in a decent amount of training and were having fun on some of the most gorgeous roads in Oregon. So the organizers planned a route that included not one but two rest days, with optional rides on those days, and Day Two included a 38-mile additional loop for those who needed more time in the saddle. Day Five, which was the big climbing day, also included an optional loop for those who felt three mountain summits just wasn’t enough. I thought it was a perfect plan, enabling those who really wanted to ride hard to do just that, while others—such as my friend R who has one bionic knee and another just about ready for surgery—to take much-needed rest time. R could not have done the 2004 ride, but she could do 2008.

So Day One was a mostly flat, easy warm-up ride through beautiful scenery, as we passed through rolling foothills into the Grande Ronde Valley, with the Blue Mountains on one side of us and the lower Wallowas on the other. Did I mention that it was also a clear, blue sky day and about 80 degrees? Lovely. Actually every day of this year’s ride was like that—apparently the first time in CO history.

Today was educational for me, as I learned that it is damned near impossible to take four people with different levels of strength, ability and training, and keep them all together. We had all vowed to stay together when planning this ride, but after the first day we reconsidered. Slower riders feel pressured by the knowledge that they’re holding the faster riders back, and faster riders feel a responsibility that can detract from their enjoyment of the ride. It also turned out that our group of four did not share a universal understanding of rider etiquette, and after twice having to deploy emergency avoidance techniques because one of us was riding as if there were no other people around her, I was ready to keep a little more distance. At the end of the day we agreed that from now on, we would simply ride our own paces but wait for each other at the rest stops and lunch breaks. That way we could always check in and see how everyone was doing, but we would also be free to enjoy ourselves without worrying about the others. It worked out quite well.

It was also an educational day for S, who learned that she should never keep her water bottle in her back jersey pocket while using a Blue Room (porta potty). Keep in mind that the rest breaks tend to be absolutely jammed with bikes and riders, so you can’t just ride up to a water station and refill. You have to park your bike off on the edges and walk in with your bottles. S stopped by a Blue Room first, and instead of setting her bottle on the floor, she stuffed it in her jersey pocket. It wasn’t a problem until she stood back up and pulled her shorts up, which resulted in her hands bumping the bottle in her pocket, which gracefully launched out and then downwards, right into the storage tank. Poor S—it was one of those nice aluminum bottles, too, the kind that cost twenty bucks.

We arrived at camp by 2 p.m., which I don’t think I ever accomplished in 2004. It was such a luxury to have time to explore our host town, and have enough afternoon sun to dry my towel after my shower, and simply relax in camp. We trotted around in shorts for a few hours, but in this corner of Oregon and at this time of year, once the sun sets it gets very cold very quickly. By bedtime we were ready to snuggle into our down bags, and geez, I hate getting up in the middle of the night to pee when it’s that cold! It’s murder to crawl out of a warm nest and put on tights, a polarfleece shirt, a windbreaker, thick socks, and sometimes a hat and gloves just to walk 100 meters to the nearest Blue Room. And as if that weren’t bad enough, by then the water in the handwashing stations was icy cold, so I went back to my sleeping bag with freezing hands. Well, these are the little prices one pays for the joy of being part of an experience like Cycle Oregon. Three a.m. potty breaks are soon forgotten when one is riding along a lonely back highway, with mountains rising all around and 1,999 other people on bikes grinning happily as they pedal.

DAY TWO: September 8, 2008

Union to Baker City

44.5 miles (72 K) and 2855 feet (870 M) elevation gain

In contrast to yesterday’s ride, the organizers kept us in the hills for most of today. We rode through the foothills that separate the Grande Ronde Valley from the Baker Valley, with the Elkhorn Mountains rising up on one side and the Wallowas on the other. The route also took us through some wildly different ecosystems, as we passed out of steep hills with conifer forests to wide open sagebrush spaces and then to the agricultural beauty of the valley. S and I partnered up for this and subsequent days, as we have similar levels of speed and strength, and she was very patient as I kept shouting out, “Stopping for a photo!” She and I are pretty fast riders, but we regularly came in late because we pulled over so many times for my photos. But as the CO folks keep telling us, it’s a ride, not a race.

Oh, and I am proud to say that despite keeping my camera in my back jersey pocket, I never once dropped it into the tank of a Blue Room.

For me this was the day my new bike showed her colors. I had been wanting a new bike for years (my old Bianchi Axis was 18 years old), and had actually planned to buy an Orbea Onix or Orca in Spain. I figured, hey, it’s a Spanish bike, I’ll get it cheaper over here, right? Wrong. One lesson I’ve learned living here in Europe is that Americans pay incredibly low prices for their consumer goods, and most of us have no idea. It’s cheaper to buy an imported Orbea in the US than to buy one in the country of its manufacture. So, I ended up buying my bike in the US, and shipping it home with me. And after doing oodles and tons of obsessive research, I didn’t get the Orbea after all. I bought a Trek Madone 5.2 triple crank—the radically revised 2008 version.

This bike is a dream. Full carbon frame, Ultegra SL grouping, and an ingenious new seat mast that gives the most comfortable ride I think anyone can find on a racing bike. I practically floated over the road. Shifting was a joy, I had a very stiff platform for climbing, and best of all, my bike is a rocket on the descents. A stable one, that can’t be shaken in the corners. At one point I was riding beside S, in a full tuck, just coasting while she was still pedaling, and I was still pulling ahead. I adore my Madone! I named her Artemis, because she rides like she was shot from a bow.

I also learned that hard training really pays off. I trained much harder this year than I did in 2004, and as a consequence I was able to enjoy the tour a lot more. The climbs didn’t seem nearly so difficult—but then again, here in Portugal I live at the base of the mountains that separate the coastal plain from the higher interior plateau, so climbing is a part of my regular training route. And the Portuguese don’t believe in messing around with minor grades. If it’s a steep hill, they just follow the contours of it. (The downside is, they also don’t believe in making nice, sweeping curves. Hairpins are the norm.)

Despite this, I did have one major bonk on this day. During the rest break, the only energy bars available were the kind that have nuts, and I don’t care for most nuts. So I didn’t take anything with me, and thus had nothing to snack on for the next 24 miles—a section that included the steepest climb of the day. By the time I topped out that climb, my ass was dragging and I had no fuel left in the tank. The first thing I did upon arriving in camp was go to the retail store and buy a couple of Clif bars in case that ever happened again. Lesson learned.

Arriving in Baker City was a riot. The local car aficionados had parked a couple of classic cars (and one beautiful motorcycle) at the finish line, which was festooned with balloons and banners. While loud rock music blasted from one of the classic convertibles, the locals sat in camp chairs and cheered us on as we rolled under the finish line banner. But the best part of all was being greeted by the guy in a kilt, who was in charge of handing out the recovery drinks. Anybody who thinks kilts aren’t manly should have seen this man! He wore it well. And he looked like a god to me when he handed me that ice cold carton of chocolate milk. Mmmmm! Heaven.

The best part of today was getting a call from my sweetie, who by then was back in Portugal. It was so nice to hear her voice. I’d had to leave her in my parents’ hands when I departed for Cycle Oregon, and she flew home the following day. But the day she spent with my parents was a good one, and at the end of it, my dad took her to the symphony. While there, they ran into someone he knew, and he found himself in the position of having to introduce Maria. Now, the backstory to this is that my father did not attend our wedding the prior month. He and I had a good conversation about it, and I understood his discomfort with the concept and was fine with his decision. But I think having Maria and me staying at their house for a week and a half must have shifted his stance a bit, because he stood up and clearly introduced Maria as “my daughter-in-law.” I admit to getting a bit sniffly when I heard that. It meant a lot.

We had a moment of levity in camp when both R and I forgot that living in the Tent & Porter Service area also means living within mere feet of other people. The tents are set up in close double rows, which means we had neighbors on both sides and behind us, and each of us is separated by canvas walls and perhaps fifteen inches of space. You can hear everything. This of course includes snoring, which we avoided by wearing ear plugs every night. But that afternoon, R decided she was too lazy to zip up the tent flap before changing clothes, and announced to me, “I’m taking off my shirt. Any guy walking past deserves what he gets.”

Instantly a male voice responded, sounding like it was in the tent with us:  “I’ll sell tickets! Starting at one dollar, any takers?”

R laughed so hard she couldn't get her shirt off.

DAY THREE: September 9, 2008

Baker City to Halfway

53 miles (85 K) and 2717 feet (828 M) elevation gain

I think this might actually have been the most perfect day of cycling I have ever experienced. Fantastic scenery, great weather, perfect roads (with some screaming descents and nice, sweeping curves), and really good companionship. It’s amazing how, even while riding among 2,000 cyclists, you can keep finding your buddies over and over again. R is a slower rider than S and me, but she’s very steady, and she doesn’t stop for photos. So S and I would pass her on a climb, then stop for a photo and wave as she went by. Then we’d catch her again, and stop again, and get passed by her again…and so it went for the whole ride. On the flats we tended to stay together, simply spinning along and gazing happily at the scenery. We rode along the Powder River for much of this day, and it was just splendiferous, as my mom would say.

One of the highlights was right outside Baker City, by the Oregon Trail Interpretive Center. There, just off the road, the wagon ruts of the Oregon Trail are still visible in the sagebrush desert. It’s pretty amazing to stand there in the dirt and see the parallel lines snaking off into the distance. Hard to imagine what a day might have been like for the folks bouncing over this land in their wagons.

Jonathan Nicholas, a news columnist who founded Cycle Oregon, says that the pioneers fortunately kept journals, so we don't have to guess at what their days might have been like. But, he added, the men’s journals weren't much help. They said things like: 

“August 21. Made 20 miles today. Tough.”

“August 22. Made 24 miles today. Tougher.”

Fortunately, he said, the women kept far more detailed journals, describing in exquisite and dense prose the details of their lives—where they were, what the scenery was like, what they ate, who got sick, etc. They also had entries like:

“August 23. You would not believe what that sonofabitch husband of mine did today!”

These entries were usually the result of the number one cause of injuries to wagon train males: gunshot wounds, often self-inflicted or incurred during a heated argument. And a man with a gunshot wound was no end of hassle for his wife. Not to mention that if he did something so inconsiderate as actually die on her, she was in trouble.

Today’s ride culminated in a 5.5-mile climb that averaged a 7% grade. Since it was right after lunch, I had plenty of fuel in the tank, and went right up with no problem. At the summit, S and I pulled in to wait for R, who was pretty close behind us. And just as R came in, so did a sag van playing ABBA’s “Voulez-Vous” over the PA system. Impromptu dancing ensued, which quickly spread to everyone else resting at the summit, and we all had a pretty silly moment.

Then we mounted back up, zipped our windbreakers closed, and took off for the glorious 1,000-foot descent over the next four miles. Damn that was fun! I hit 43 mph on that descent—not my fastest speed, but probably my fastest for such a sustained length of time. And when we rolled off the descent and made the turn into Halfway, there were four women in pioneer garb sitting under a sun shade, clapping and cheering us on. They were so cute that I had to stop and take a photo of them, too.

Halfway is a town nestled in a valley at the base of the Wallowas, and has a population of 337. Imagine what it must have been like for the residents to have 2,000 cyclists roll in, plus their guests, plus the staff and volunteers, plus a herd of luggage trucks, the catering trucks, the mobile shower units, et cetera—it was an invasion. We instantly increased the size of their town by about seven hundred percent. The CO Main Stage went right in the middle of Main Street, effectively closing the town down for two days. But I don’t think the locals minded too much. First of all, we brought a lot of spending money with us. And second, the stage featured a hot R&B band from Portland that night, and I’m pretty sure no band like that had ever come through Halfway before. At least, not since the last time they hosted Cycle Oregon. The street was full of people dancing or simply standing around, enjoying a drink and relaxing. I suspect the town must have let its normal alcohol ordinances slide for a couple of days, especially since the beer garden was right there next to the Main Stage. I heard one local telling another, apparently in answer to the question of whether they could drink outside, “Well, hell, there must be five hundred people drinking in the street!” But the nice thing about us drinking riders is that we’re too damned tired to get ornery. So we have one beer or glass of wine—maybe two, tops—and then toddle off to bed at nine o’clock.

DAY FOUR: September 10, 2008

Halfway rest day

God, what a nice day. Warm, relaxing…everyone got their laundry done…you know, it’s amazing how wealthy one can feel by simply holding an armful of clean, dry clothes.

Quite a few cyclists took the opportunity to ride today. There were two possible rides down into Hell’s Canyon, one a 34-miler and the other an 80-miler. Both of them were easy downhill coasts on the way out, and nonstop climbs on the way back in. Considering what we had waiting for us the following day, I thought those riders were a little nuts. But that was the genius of the route plans for this year’s ride—everyone got to tailor the ride to suit their own personal desires and/or limitations.

We chose to avail ourselves of a wonderful lunch at a local restaurant, wander around town, and attend a rodeo that was put on by the locals just for the benefit of the CO riders. It was quite a cultural whiplash to see the residents in their well-worn western gear down in the ring, while the bleachers were a sea of spandex and lycra. It was also pretty neat to find out that Cycle Oregon was partly responsible for saving the fairgrounds that  we were sitting in. Halfway lost a source of income that was allocated to buying the fairgrounds, and Cycle Oregon came in with a $50K grant to help. And that’s one of the things I like most about this ride—it’s a non-profit, designed to benefit the small towns of Oregon, both through raising awareness of their existence by routing the ride through them, and also by handing out grants. I like knowing that my entry fee is doing good things. Every town that hosts the riders, whether it’s for a lunch stop or an overnight stay, benefits in some way. It’s a win-win situation, because the locals are happy to see us, and that warm welcome makes a big impression on the riders, many of whom will stop back in on some future vacation to spend a little tourism income. We tell our friends, too.

DAY FIVE: September 11, 2008

Halfway to Joseph

83 miles (133 K) and 7412 feet (2259 M) elevation gain

This was the day when S and I actually were the insane riders who did the optional, extra bit of riding. Three mountain summits just weren’t enough; we had to make it four. And in a true testament to my training, I still had leg and lung power left at the end of this very long day. Of course, my right knee gave out on me six miles before the finish line, but heck, that’s just a joint.

This day started out with a 19-mile climb, parts of which were killer steep. We learned that when the CO maps show sections labeled “6.2%” and “5.1%,” what they really mean is that those are the averages in those sections. My Garmin gave me several 10% readouts, and at least one 12%.

At the summit, I announced that I wanted to take the optional side loop, which was three miles of additional climbing (and 550 more feet of elevation). Three miles doesn’t sound like much, until you’ve already put 19 behind you! S, being in a more mature mood, suggested that since we’d gotten a late start that morning (an alarm that went unheard, followed by waiting more than half an hour for R to get a flat tire fixed), perhaps it would be the better part of valor to skip the option and go straight to lunch—which, from the summit where we were now having this debate, was simply a 5-mile screaming descent into a park on the bank of the Imnaha River.

I said it would certainly be the more sensible thing to do, nevertheless I wanted to do the loop. I couldn’t help it; the loop went to the rim of Hell’s Canyon, giving a spectacular view that we’d never get any other way, and it had been ten years since I’d last been in this area. Who knew when I’d get here again? I was certain I’d always regret it if I didn’t go.

So, we went. (I am a bad influence.) And it was some hard riding, to be sure. But the view at the top was simply spectacular—a panoramic view of Hell’s Canyon, and Idaho’s Seven Devils Mountains on the other side. Really jaw-dropping. And we had to laugh at the CO sign that had been stuck into the ground, which said PHOTO OP. Someone had taken a black marker to it and added, “Duh.”

While we were enjoying the view, a pair of CO riders went to the edge of the overlook and strung out one of those folding signs between them that said MERRY CHRISTMAS. They posed for a photo, while the rest of us applauded their admirable forward thinking and planning. Then, of course, everyone else wanted to borrow the sign, too. I think a lot of Christmas cards are going out this year with photos of riders holding that sign with Hell’s Canyon in the background.

At last we reluctantly turned our back on the view and whizzed down to lunch—a descent which had now gone from five to eight miles long, since we’d added three to it, and which was a whole lotta fun. Actually it would have been more fun if we hadn’t been riding so cautiously—the ride organizers at the intersection of the side loop to the main road stopped us and warned us that the descent was very steep and we needed to be very careful. Well, it wasn’t actually all that steep, and I wasn’t sure why all the caution was warranted. Later, I learned that there had been a bad accident there while we’d been climbing up to the rim of Hell’s Canyon, and the victim was transported to the hospital. Ride gossip being what it is, I have no idea what actually happened, but what we heard was that a man had been descending too fast, had come up abruptly on a slower group of riders, hit the brakes too hard, and went right over the handlebars. The problem with this story is that it’s pretty hard to go over the handlebars from simply braking at a high rate of speed. Not unless you hit something. On the other hand, I did witness some truly insane riders descending while putting all their body weight on the front of their bikes (to get more speed? Stupid, and ineffective at that), and if the victim was doing that when he hit the brakes, then yes, I can easily see an over-the-bars horrific crash.

By the time we arrived at the lunch spot, the bulk of the riders were on their way out of it. And by the time we finished our lunch, a state trooper told us there were only 15 riders still out on the course behind us. We were definitely in the very, very back of the tour now. But you know, it was actually nice that way. No crowds of riders to contend with, especially on the other descents. I’m a good descender and one thing that drives me nuts is having slower riders descending right up against the center line of the road. Yes, I understand that they want to be as far from the edge as they can get, but they are effectively blocking the entire road from anyone behind them. It’s not safe to pass them on the right (totally against rider etiquette, not what they’re expecting, and they might swerve at any second), and it’s not safe to pass them on the left, because it means going into the oncoming lane of traffic. On the descent from the rim of Hell’s Canyon I’d been forced to go into the oncoming lane twice, and was happy on the remainder of this day that I didn’t have to.

Lunch was followed by another 10-mile climb, which was a killer since we’d put so much into that first climb. There was a short but sweet descent on the other side of it, then another 4-mile climb, and finally a lovely 10-mile descent out of the mountains. By now it was getting late in the afternoon, the temperature was dropping, and we suspected we might be racing daylight to get to camp. We were very sorry then that we’d put our full gloves and leg warmers in the gear drop at lunch.

Just as the descent got a little less steep, S shouted, “Whoa! Flat tire!” and veered off to the shoulder. A quick inspection showed that her tire had been punctured by a small rock, so we got the rock out, patched the tube, and S began reinflating with her frame pump—but nothing happened. I couldn’t believe my patch hadn’t held, but there was nothing for it then but to strip the whole tube out and put in a new one. Of course, while we were doing this, every other rider on the course—including all the ones we’d passed on the climbs—went whizzing by. I believe at that point we really might have been the last two riders out. We got the new tube in, S began to inflate—nothing. Well, this just wasn’t right. On a hunch, I grabbed her pump and reinflated the patched tube we’d just pulled, and it was perfect. No problem. Turns out that while S was trying to inflate, she was pushing the valve stem up against the rim with the pump. Ergo, no air was getting in. We’d wasted half an hour on an unnecessary tire repair. On the other hand, S now knows how to use her frame pump! (And how to patch a tire. These things are invaluable.)

As we got back on the bikes and renewed our descent, I asked S what time it was (my Garmin’s battery had given up the ghost already). She checked and said, “Six o’clock.” We looked at each other with serious expressions. Six o’clock is when the course closes, and the sag vans sweep up the remaining riders. If you don’t flag a van then, you are officially on an unsupported ride. If anything happens, you’re on your own. But we were only 15 miles from the finish line, and most of those miles were flat, and we really wanted to finish the ride under our own power. So we watched the vans drive slowly past us, giving us every chance to flag them down, and we let them go.

At the bottom of that descent was one final climb, only a mile and a half long, but coming at the end of the day as it did, all of the remaining riders were bunched up on it. We still had enough juice to power past them one more time, yelling encouragement as we went, because by now it felt as if we were all part of a special group—The Last Ones On The Course.

And then we topped out the hill, and came out onto the flats of Wallowa Valley right at sunset, and oh my god it was beautiful. Fields of hay and grain with their tips on fire from the last rays of the sun, the very air around us glowing, and the sun itself sitting just above the mountains, outlining them in a last burst of fire. I wanted so badly to stop for photos, but we were really racing the dark now. We spurred ourselves up to a 21 mph pace all the way across the valley and up to Main Street in the town of Joseph, at which point we had less than six miles to go. And as we were arriving on the outskirts of town, all of the Blue Rooms from the ride’s rest breaks came rolling past us on trucks, along with the ambulances and the final sag vans. Day over.

It was while we were stopped at this intersection, waiting for the trucks to clear out of the way, that a Cycle Oregon car pulled up behind us. A man jumped out of the passenger side, ran up to the stop sign, and ripped down the route signs that told riders to turn left. Wow, when they close the course, they really close the course!

We finally turned onto Main Street and rode south through town, and that’s when my knee gave out. Gone, just like that. No warning. I stopped and tried to stretch it out, but it was having none of that. So I rode the final five miles with one leg, simply kicking the pedal over on each stroke and drafting about four centimeters off S’s rear wheel, trying to take every advantage I could. With the sun behind the mountains, the cold was settling in, and we were definitely feeling it. But those last five miles go along the edge of Wallowa Lake, one of the most gorgeous lakes in Oregon (second only to Crater Lake, I think), and even while in pain I was mesmerized by the scenery, especially with the sky such a gorgeous color and a nearly full moon rising over the ridge to our left. At the south end the lights of camp shone brightly, reflecting on the water. It really was an epic ride.

By the time we rolled into camp, it was officially night. We stopped several people to ask if they knew where the Tent & Porter section was, but it seemed like everyone else had arrived after dark as well. Nobody knew where anything was located, so we just walked our bikes toward the lake and eventually stumbled onto our tents. My bag was not in front of mine, and for a moment I cringed, thinking that there had been some snafu that I’d have to iron out before I could shower and eat dinner. But when I unzipped the tent, I learned what it means to have a wonderful tentmate. My friend R, who had not been so insane as to try that optional loop up to the Hell’s Canyon overlook, had rolled into camp quite a bit before us and had set up my cot, my sleeping pad and bag, and pulled my gear bag inside. What a total sweetheart!

I met up with S again, and we headed straight for the mess tent. Here, for the first time all week, Cycle Oregon really blew it. I don’t know how they managed to coordinate meals for so many people, all eating at different times, but it had been flawless right up until now. The main dish that night was pasta and marinara sauce, and the servers ran out of sauce literally the moment I stepped up and extended my plate. The woman in front of me got sauce—I did not. The other food lines were out as well. Do you know what pasta is without sauce? Rapidly cooling boiled starch. So my dinner, after 83 miles and 7,412 feet of climbing, consisted of a small salad, green beans, and a slice of garlic bread. And to top it off, the apple pie we’d been served for dessert was still frozen. It was, in a word, brutal.

Thank god for the pizza vendor in camp! By now I was practically hallucinating a thick, juicy, cheesy, steaming slice of pepperoni pizza. But first, a shower. S and I found open showers and stood under the scalding water, and both of us started to crash right there. We’d needed food, and it hadn’t been available, and our bodies were just shutting down. I think the relaxing effect of a hot shower did not help. S left, saying she was too tired to get pizza, and just went straight to bed. I was actually going to do the same thing, but R happened to arrive in the shower at that time, and she essentially ordered me to go get a slice of pizza. So I did, and do you know, that was the best damned pizza I have ever eaten in my entire life! I sat at a wooden picnic table, listening to the band playing on the Main Stage, watching the moon rising over the ridge and savoring every bite. I think that pizza saved my ass. Poor S confessed the next day that she’d been miserable that night, starving so badly, and wished she’d forced herself to get the pizza as well. She just needed R to lay down the law on her.

DAY SIX: September 12, 2008

Joseph rest day

I’d actually intended to do the optional ride on this day, because I really wanted the chance to ride back along Wallowa Lake and tool around the valley by the light of day. But after the implosion of my knee the prior night, today had to be a real rest day. Actually I was relieved to find that my knee worked at all, having dreaded the worst.

So we hopped a shuttle bus into town and tooled around Joseph, enjoying the art galleries and the ice cream (not in that order). Then we shuttled back to camp and took the tramway up to the top of Mt. Howard, which is a must-do. Twenty bucks for a 15-minute ride, but there’s no easier way to gain about 4,000 feet in elevation—and the view from up top is simply spectacular. To the north, the agricultural patchwork quilt of Wallowa Valley; to the west and south, the spectacular peaks of the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area; and to the east, the rugged landscape reaching to Hell’s Canyon and the mountains of Idaho. This is one of the wildest and most amazing corners of the state.

That night, the band performing on the Main Stage was Quarterflash, which startled the heck out of me when I saw the name on that day’s Cycle Oregon newsletter. Wow, Quarterflash—their eponymous hit album was practically the soundtrack of my high school years! And the concert easily topped my list of spectacular music events simply due to the location—the now-full moon rising over the ridge, the lake in the background, the dark, looming mountains on three sides…gorgeous. And if Rindy Ross doesn’t quite have the pipes in 2008 that she did when Quarterflash first burst onto the scene in 1981, well, that’s to be expected. Nobody can hit those high notes forever.

They saved their biggest hit, “Harden My Heart,” for last, and then left the stage. But, silly musicians, they thought that a concert at Cycle Oregon was like any other concert—that they could leave the stage and be called back for an encore. So they left the stage, and their audience immediately headed for the shower units, the Blue Rooms, and their tents. It was bed time! By the time the poor band came back on stage for their one final song, hardly anybody was there to dance to it. I dimly heard it from the shower unit, where I was taking out my contacts. Damn, too bad—I love “Take Me to Heart.”

DAY SEVEN: September 13, 2008

Joseph to Elgin

58.3 miles (93 K) and 1714 feet (373 M) elevation gain

This day was just R and me, as we’d said goodbye to my friend S and her wife the night before. They had bus tickets back to the Portland Airport, and needed to be in Elgin with plenty of time to catch it. Neither R nor I wanted to be on the road that early, as today was an easy ride. Plus it is damn cold in the mornings, and we wanted to give the day a little time to warm up. Even so, when we left our tent a bit before 8 a.m., it was 38 degrees. Even my full-fingered gloves couldn’t combat that chill. I rode with my hands balled into fists on my handlebars, hoping I wouldn’t have to suddenly grab for the brakes, and set a punishing cadence of 110 rpm while trying to get my blood pumping. (R said she really didn’t know legs could go that fast.)

But the moment we emerged from the shadow of the ridge into sunlight—pow, warmth! I stopped there to take a panorama series of the lake, and had to laugh as every single rider who went by made the same sounds upon crossing the line from shadow to sun—oohs, aahs, happy shouts of “Oh god, it’s warm!”—it was hilarious.

This ride was fabulous. Gorgeous scenery, the joy of having put in a fantastic week of riding, and best of all, freakin’ forty-four miles of downhill! The kind of downhill that looks flat, but registers as a -1% grade on the Garmin, sometimes -2%. And it makes you feel like a star, because you’re averaging 21 to 23 mph all the way.

Of course, all good things come to an end, and all of those happy cyclists gleefully whizzing down that long, easy descent suddenly slammed into the base of the Minam Grade, a somewhat grueling five-mile climb. By the standards of our ride two days earlier, this was nothing, but coming at the very end of a week of riding, there were some hurting bodies. And on the other side of that was a roller coaster of three small hills on the way into Elgin and the finish line. I was roaring down the back side of the final hill, with the end in sight, when all of sudden I saw a black dot in the air in front of me. Half a second later it smashed into the side of my neck. It was a bee, buzzing along minding its own business, when I slammed into it at 34 miles per hour—ass end first, of course. The impact drove the stinger into my neck, and shit that hurt! I rode the last few miles gritting my teeth. Then I pretty much forgot about it when I crossed the finish line to the sound of cheers and cowbells being rung by the locals—what a great feeling to finish another Cycle Oregon, and still feel like I could ride another twenty miles!

I did end up going to the medic, just to make sure the stinger wasn’t still lodged in my skin. He checked me out, swabbed me with a topical anesthetic, and told me I was lucky I hadn’t gotten it down my jersey. He said he’d seen cyclists with five or six stings on the chest, from the bee being bounced around in the jersey. Yikes. This is an argument for snug-fitting jerseys if I ever heard one. I actually did get one down my jersey earlier this summer, but fortunately it was here in Portugal, and my jersey was unzipped to the base of my sternum. The bee got out almost as quickly as it got in. I can, however, attest to the misery of having jersey fabric flapping against a stinger.

We made our way to the long term parking, took one final shower (thank you, Cycle Oregon, for leaving the mobile shower units for us!), loaded up the bags and the bikes, and set off across the state. It was a great week, and we’re already planning a repeat.

Oh, and that night I got up in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom, barefoot and without putting on gloves or a single piece of polarfleece. It was bliss.