Prologue (training)

 

 

On February 6, the Cycle Oregon web site went live with the just-announced route for the 2009 ride. I was all over it, of course, along with two of my teammates from last year, S and R. The three of us burned up the transatlantic fiber optic cable with a flurry of emails back and forth. “Wow, look at that route! Look at those hills!” “It’s a gorgeous area, I’ve been there before. We should go!” “Hey, R, what do you think?” “Oh, geez, I just bought a new bike and it’s so much money and my husband never saw me last summer because of all the training…but it’s such a pretty area…”

While all of this excited chatter was going on, and I was clattering away on my keyboard, Maria came in to look over my shoulder. “Well, somebody is excited,” she said with a smile. “Let me see the route.” I happily showed it to her, and then got out my Oregon atlas and gave her a better look. And when we were done she said, “I think I’d like to do this with you.”

I stopped everything and stared. “You would?” This was a fairly shocking statement from the person who had successfully resisted two years’ worth of my efforts to get her into some sort of exercise program. Maria’s years of servitude to her Ph.D. thesis had taken its toll, and getting past that long term inertia was proving more difficult than I’d ever dreamed.

“Yes, I would. You had so much fun last year, and it’s something I’d like to share with you. Besides, I want to start riding again. And maybe if I ride with you, I’ll get to see you this summer.”

It’s true that if you’re the partner of a cyclist training for a big ride, you don’t see your mate very often. Training is a major time commitment, and that part of Maria’s incentive made sense. I also knew that seeing me riding had reawakened her old interest in cycling. But the last time she’d ridden was over a decade ago, and even then she never had a bike with actual gears. And this was a 620-kilometer ride in six days!

Nevertheless, I took instant advantage of her temporary insanity. Within twenty-four hours all four of us were registered for Cycle Oregon 2009, and any second thoughts Maria may have had were now officially too late.

What followed was an amazing transformation. I think Maria’s experience this year can be held up as a shining example of what a little incentive and a lot of consistency can do. When we started, she was so out of shape that she would be breathing very hard after walking uphill for perhaps 50 meters. By September, she was able to ride 95 kilometers in one day.

We started training right away, even before we’d gotten Maria a bike. First we just walked, and I kept a careful eye on her aerobic output—at the time, I was fearful of overworking her heart. Those first few weeks were pretty hard for both of us. Maria hated her weakness, which she’d always managed to avoid acknowledging to this point. After all, if you never make a physical effort, then you never realize your limitations. But walking up hills forced her to realize that her limitations were profound. At first this completely demoralized her, both because of her frustration with herself and also because she hated the fact that I was having to wait for her. But the human body is an amazing thing. By our fourth walk, I could already see a difference in her breathing. When I pointed it out, she was at first surprised—and then very determined. If just four walks could yield a tangible difference in her fitness, what would eight do? Or fifteen?

And so we walked, for one month, about an hour each time. It was not always smooth sailing. Training means that some days you do better than others, and on the days when Maria felt like she was backsliding, I had my hands full convincing her that this was normal. The trick at those times is to step back and look at the big picture, and when she did, she could easily see her overall progress. By the time we finally purchased her bicycle, our walks had progressed to the point where she was doing my entire regular hill circuit without ever stopping to rest.

Then came the first bike ride, on Maria’s brand new Trek FX. She was in love with her new bike, but completely intimidated by the thought of shifting gears at all, let alone learning to use 27 of them. Some very basic training was in order.

There is no quiet, level terrain here to practice riding; we live at the base of the mountains that separate the coastal plain from the higher altitude interior plain. Yes, the coastal plain is flat, but it’s also densely populated and full of traffic—not a good place for a beginner rider. Instead, we piled both bikes in the car and drove up to a valley nestled in the mountains, with only one road through it that nobody uses except the local farmers. Back and forth we went on this road, practicing shifting and braking, turning around without stopping, full stops and getting started again. In all we rode about seventeen kilometers on perfectly flat ground, and Maria was thrilled. One month of training just to get on that bike seat, and here she was, with a breeze in her face and the bike moving smoothly beneath her, and she was actually shifting gears! She had a big, beaming smile on her face, and I suspected that a new cycling enthusiast had just been born.

But the next part was hard for her. Since there simply isn’t any flat terrain within easy reach (and driving to that valley three times a week was not practical), she really had to start in the deep end. The best cycling route near our apartment requires riding a gradual uphill for several kilometers, followed by a steep and curvy downhill, followed immediately by a turn into some really gorgeous, quiet countryside, where the fun part begins. My goal was to get her to that fun part as quickly as possible. But first we had to master the uphill stretch, and then we had to master the descent.

For Maria, those first few rides were uncomfortably reminiscent of her first few walks. She’d been so proud of riding 17 kilometers in that valley, but of course uphill distance is not the same as flat distance. We made it 4.5 kilometers that first day before she was wiped out and had to turn back. Two days later we made it 5.5 kilometers, to a scenic overlook at the top of the hill. That was a great goal point for the next few rides, until the day we went over the top of the hill and coasted about a third of the way down it. Coming back up again was Maria’s first taste of a serious climb, as this part of the hill has an average grade of six percent. (If that doesn’t mean anything to you, think about when you’re driving and see signs warning truckers of steep descents ahead. Those signs usually start appearing when the descents are 6% or steeper.)

It took us three weeks to arrive at the point where Maria could go all the way to the bottom of the hill and then make it all the way home again. In three weeks—almost as much time as we’d done the walking training—we were still only doing twelve kilometers. Maria thought this was horrendous. I thought it was pretty damned amazing that she was now riding over one full kilometer straight up a steep hill, with a five percent average grade and some sections that were eight percent. She had no idea what she had accomplished, having nothing to compare it to.

But now we were past the hard part, and from here on out it was simply a matter of gradually adding more distance, ramping up the speed, and taking fewer rest breaks. One month later we were doing 23 kilometers, including a second hill that was three kilometers long. A month after that we’d extended it to 30 kilometers. By mid-July, Maria was riding 40 kilometers and had made it up yet another steep climb, this one two kilometers long with a maximum grade of eleven percent. (For the non-cyclists among you, that qualifies as “fucking steep.”) It was a tremendous accomplishment and a milestone in our training.

Twelve days later, while descending from that same high point, Maria’s training came to an abrupt end.

I was well ahead of her on the descent, and was going 60 kph when an asshole truck driver pulled his truck onto the road in front of us and blocked both lanes. I braked, slid, braked again, slid again and knew I had no time to stop. The only escape route was a narrow strip of rocky, brush-filled space between the nose of the truck and the side of the hill. I don’t even remember thinking about it—it was just instinct to aim for the only open space in sight, and I missed that truck by inches. Somehow I kept the bike upright through the rocks and brush, then got back on the road and finished out the descent with every muscle in my body trembling from the adrenaline rush. I stopped at the bottom, saw the trucker drive past (staring at me as he did), and waited for Maria. Since she’d been quite a bit behind me, I thought she’d had plenty of time to safely stop.

But she never came down the hill, and after a few minutes I started back up it again. When I didn’t see her around the first curve, panic took over and I went up that hill with rocket boosters attached to my bike. I found her past the second curve, in shock and bleeding.

I may be a writer, but I still can’t find words to express how I felt finding my wife bleeding on the side of the road. She’d torn up both knees and both elbows (and fractured her right arm, it turned out), and her shredded bike shorts were evidence of a lot of damage there, too. In addition, she was bleeding from the right shoulder and had damaged two fingers, one of which also turned out to be fractured. For all that, she was lucky. Her helmet was scraped and pitted, with a hole punched right through the external shell and a crack all the way through the styrofoam liner. I’ve no doubt that helmet saved her from much worse injuries.

We’ve pieced together what happened, and it went something like this: Despite having more time than I did to brake, her inexperience plus her panic for me resulted in a several-second delay while she watched me go around the truck. By the time she realized that she was in trouble as well, she’d lost too much time. Her sudden braking resulted in a slide, but she didn’t have the skills to handle it and instead went down hard. In reality, this was another stroke of luck, because the alternative would have been her sliding right into the truck. Of the two options, crashing on the pavement was a lot gentler.

The fractured arm put her in a soft cast for three weeks, which taught both of us a great deal about the difficulties of one partner relying completely on another for the most basic aspects of living: showering, drying off, getting dressed, driving anywhere, carrying anything, even cutting meat during meals. Through it all, no matter how frustrated Maria got, she never took it out on me. But we were both awfully glad to get that thing off her!

The doctor had said that she couldn’t ride for an additional two weeks after getting her cast off. We did cheat just a little bit, doing some parking lot riding just to get her back into the feel of it. But her first real ride didn’t take place until a week prior to Cycle Oregon. She’d lost quite a lot of ground in that time, but the biggest loss was her confidence. She was far more nervous about her ability to handle the bike, and especially about going down hills. Well, most of us have crashed on a downhill at some point or another (though not usually as hard as she did), and most of us have had to overcome the resulting loss of confidence. I was sure she would work through it eventually, though doing Cycle Oregon meant that she’d be facing her fears sooner rather than later. At least we were able to get in a few practice rides before the big event, letting her get reaccustomed to speed on some small, unintimidating hills.

My friend S arrived in Oregon shortly after we did, and we spent a few days touring her around some of the scenic highlights of my state. Then we headed over to the coast to pick up R, the fourth member of our team. It was when we were all unpacking our bikes in preparation for a group ride that the next bit of drama occurred: I found a crack in the seat mast of my bike frame.

This might sound pretty minor. But a crack anywhere on a carbon fiber bike frame is bad, because the frame is molded as a single piece. A crack in a load-bearing part of the frame such as the seat mast is more than bad, it’s a disaster. Once a frame is compromised in a place like that, it can’t be safely ridden. Nor can it be repaired except in a very specialized workshop. My bike was effectively trashed—two days before we left for Cycle Oregon. And I was in Newport, population 10,000, which is not exactly known as a road bike mecca. Mild panic ensued.

But sometimes when shit happens, other people really pull through. Turns out the bike store in Newport has grown tremendously, and is now an excellent shop. It also shares the same Trek representative with the Bike Gallery in Portland, where I bought my bike last year. So the folks at the shop got on the phone, and between the Bike Gallery staff, the Bike Newport staff, the Trek rep, and the Trek factory in Wisconsin, my problem was solved. The factory overnighted a new frame to Newport (I don’t even want to know what that cost—thank god for warranty service), the Bike Newport staff met the UPS truck first thing in the morning, and by lunchtime their head mechanic had transferred over all the components from the old frame to the new one. I was able to take it out for a spin that afternoon. It was pretty miraculous customer service, and saved my butt. This is how loyal customers are created.

The irony is, the Trek factory only had one 58 cm frame in stock, and it wasn’t the same model as mine—it was an upgrade. So I’m riding an even lighter version of my old bike, and I swear it really does go faster. It also feels more stable in the corners, which I can’t figure out since it’s precisely the same frame geometry. But who cares? I love it.

The next day we packed four women, four bikes, and four giant duffel bags into a rented van and drove to Medford, the starting point of this year’s Cycle Oregon. The morning after that was when the real fun began.

 

 

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Day 1

 

 

13 September: Medford to Yreka, California

66 miles (106 k) and 5,450 feet (1,661 m) elevation gain

 

The route for this day took us up and over the Siskiyou Mountains, down the other side toward Mt. Shasta, and finally cutting west over to Yreka, California. It was the first time in the 22-year history of Cycle Oregon that the route dipped into California. But, as the ride organizers were at pains to point out, that area of California isn’t really California. It’s the State of Jefferson, and actually did make an attempt to secede and form its own state, in conjunction with southwestern Oregon. Unfortunately, the big announcement of secession was scheduled for December 7, 1941—the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. Timing really is everything.

Check out the elevation profile on this map. Usually Cycle Oregon starts out a little more gently, with a warm-up day that lets everyone shake out their legs. Not this year! That pointy part of the profile is the climb up and over the Siskiyous, and it’s about seven miles long. Most of it averages a 6% grade.

We started out with the four of us together, and managed to stay together until we arrived at the first stop. At that point, not one, not two, but three of us needed to visit the mechanic’s stand. All of us needed quick gear or brake adjustments, but we seemed to be in line behind a lot of folks with bigger problems. It took forever.

Mechanics are gods on this tour, and they’re all there courtesy of the Bike Gallery. They spend untold hours working on bikes, from just after sunup until well after dark, every day for seven days. I think their unofficial motto is, “You Have No Excuse Not to Ride,” because they fix absolutely everything. They’ve even got welding torches for repairing steel frames.

On the road again (and considerably further back in the pack, due to the long wait at the mechanic stand). Note the mileage marker -- we’re five miles north of the state line.

Maria gave her best shot at this day’s climb, but not riding for five weeks prior to a major event is just not the way to train. She made it about two miles up the climb and was then visibly miserable. I’d expected this and stayed with her, so that when the time came, she wouldn’t be on her own trying to flag down a sag van. As it happened, all the sag vans were trapped up at the summit, so we waited for something like 45 minutes for one to arrive. By this point I decided to catch a ride on the van as well, since I’d lost so much time that I’d never get over that summit in time for lunch. Maria went on ahead to lunch, but I wasn’t about to give up that descent. So I got out at the summit and hopped back on my bike.

It turned out to be a rather hairy descent, and I was very glad Maria didn’t try it. Rough road conditions made it teeth-rattling in parts, there were a few gravel sections, and the seven miles on the I-5 freeway were made somewhat challenging by the tractor-trailers. They were flying down the freeway grade a lot faster than we were, and of course they’re all in the right-hand lane. We had a nice, wide shoulder, but the pressure waves being pushed by the trucks, followed by the turbulence roiling behind them, meant I was paying very close attention to my bike handling. As if that wasn’t challenging enough, the shoulder was clogged with riders descending much more slowly than me, and passing was a real trick with the rumble strip running along the left edge of the shoulder.

But it was totally worth it to arrive at this point. I’ll probably never again have the opportunity to stand on the shoulder of I-5 and take a photo like this. That's Mt. Shasta looming in the distance, a 14,000+ foot mountain.

The ride into our lunch stop featured this eye-popping scenery. (I want that house.) Mt. Shasta would be impressive anyway, simply due to its height, but it’s even more impressive because it stands alone, separate from any mountain range, abruptly rising up out of the plains. It looms a full 10,000 feet above the surrounding landscape, and casts a tremendous shadow at sunrise and sunset.

The lunch spot also had a great view, so I spent my time sitting where I could see it as I ate. I never get tired of staring at mountains. But when we set out afterward, a headwind had blown up that was truly daunting. It reached a steady 31 mph, at which point riders started flagging down the sag vans like they were going out of style. Poor Maria, who had looked forward to a nice, level ride from lunch to camp, was demoralized. She’s never ridden in a wind like that. I have, but not by choice!

So we took part in the great rider exodus, while R and S showed their mettle by toughing it out. R said the headwind wasn’t actually the hardest part—that came when the road turned west, and the headwind became a screaming crosswind. She said she was countersteering for seven miles.

Story of the day from Day 1: While driving his car down the steep freeway segment, the head of medical services for the ride glanced in his rear view mirror just in time to see a rider fall off his bike and not get up. The doctor immediately radioed in for an ambulance and turned around to go back. (How he did this on the freeway, I’m not sure.) The ambulance was on site within two minutes. The rider had suffered a heart attack, followed quickly by full cardiac arrest. A helicopter was called in, the rider was airlifted to the nearest hospital, and by the end of the day had recovered enough to speak with ride organizers by telephone. When this was revealed at the evening announcements, 2,000 riders gave the medical services team a long ovation. I really can’t think of too many other situations where a cyclist could suffer cardiac arrest while riding, and live through it. Pretty amazing.

Yreka is an interesting town, and I’m sorry we didn’t arrive early enough to explore it more. Certainly the people there have a different attitude. The head of the Chamber of Commerce came to speak during announcements, and told us that the State of Jefferson mentality still exists. She herself thinks of the area not as northern California, but as “Baja Oregon.”

 

 

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day 2

 

 

14 September: Yreka to Happy Camp

75 miles (121 k) and 2,600 feet (792 m) elevation gain

 

As you can see, Day 2 was a whole lot easier: 75 miles of mostly downhill, interrupted only by short hills and one 2.5-mile climb. Maria had a great time on this day, rolling along all the way to the last rest stop (at mile 55) before taking a sag van for the last bit.

The route was simply beautiful; one of the most gorgeous rides I’ve ever done. Shortly out of Yreka we entered the Klamath River canyon system, and had a few fun descents on really nice, smooth, open road. The terrain was rocky and austere, and quite lovely. (I’m a sucker for harsh landscapes.) And all day long, we had the Klamath River at our side.

Riders pausing at a water stop for a quick drink and a bathroom visit before going on their way.

A traffic jam like this usually means someone’s in trouble up ahead, and either a sag van or an ambulance is maneuvering over. That’s Maria in the left foreground (wearing her new Cycle Oregon jersey!).

Eventually we reached a scenic bridge, which proved to be an irresistible pull for a lot of riders. It’s also where I lost Maria, never to be seen again until the lunch stop. I pulled over just below the bridge to take a photo and said, “Go on ahead to the bridge,” in order to prevent her from having to stop and start again. But what Maria heard was, “Go on ahead.” So she did. And never looked back!

Meanwhile, I went on to the bridge, took a few photos, looked around for Maria, and couldn’t find her. I went across the highway to a gravel area on the other side and hiked up a bit to see if she was taking a nature break somewhere. Nope. I looked back to the bridge, scratched my head and wondered what the hell had happened. I didn’t want to leave, because what if she was here and I just wasn’t seeing her? It’s hard to find someone with lots of cyclists coming and going and milling around. But after a while, I got back on my bike and started pedaling. Then I panicked a little at the renewed thought that maybe I was leaving her behind, so I pulled over and spent 15 minutes watching riders go by. At that point I gave up entirely, hopped on my bike and proceeded to lay the hammer down. Once nice thing about being abandoned by your partner—you can go very fast! So I worked my way up through the pack and eventually caught up with R. “Have you seen Maria?” I asked.

“Oh yes, she went trundling by while I was taking a water break,” said R. “She seemed quite happy.”

Well, okay then. I guess I don’t need to worry about my sweetie anymore!

I did find her at the lunch stop, along with S, so for a brief moment we were all four together again. But it’s impossible to stay together when people ride at different speeds, and after lunch we gradually separated out.

Despite the road trending mostly downhill, there were still quite a few bumps to get over. Here’s Maria chugging up one of them and still smiling. FYI, the black thing on her right arm is an elbow brace. Her physiotherapist warned her that she’d better not ride without one for at least two months, since if she crashed on that arm a second time before it was fully healed, she’d find herself in surgery.

The view from the top of that bump...and considering that earlier we’d been nearly at river level, you can see how much of a bump it really was.

By the last rest stop before camp, Maria had reached her limit and took a sag van the rest of the way in. I sweated my way through the pack and once more caught up with R, riding the rest of the way in with her. She was happy to have me with her if only so that I could take a victory photo of her at the entrance to the town of Happy Camp, which has a rather unusual monument: a huge Bigfoot sculpture. Apparently Bigfoot has made numerous appearances in this area, so the locals have put up a tribute at the entrance to town. Certainly this is a good area for an elusive giant humanoid—I’ve rarely been to a town as isolated as this one. We saw almost no non-Cycle Oregon vehicles during our entire ride in from Yreka.

Maria’s bike in the lineup (bottom right corner). Riders will lean their bikes anywhere in camp, and fences are particularly appreciated. When there’s no space left, some riders will lean their bikes against each other, as you can see with the two road bikes in the upper left part of the photo. This is quite effective—as long as nobody bumps into one of them by accident, and no gusts of wind come along.

 

 

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day 3

 

 

15 September: Happy Camp to Lake Selmac, Oregon

54 miles (87 k) and 5,200 feet (1,585 m) elevation gain

 

In every Cycle Oregon, there is at least one day that separates the enthusiasts from the truly insane. Enthusiasts think it’s fun to ride 54 miles. Truly insane people think it’s fun to ride 54 miles while tacking in an elevation gain of 5,200 feet, nearly all of which takes place in one crushing 10-mile climb.

This was the day Maria had known, from the very beginning of our training, that she wasn’t even going to attempt. She simply took the medical sag van straight to the next camp. It was a very smart decision on her part, and I was very glad that she was safe and being cared for. Today’s ride was not for the inexperienced.

During evening announcements the day before, we were told that the climb would begin “about fifty feet out of camp.” This was not an exaggeration. From the moment we left camp we started going up. There was a nasty little bump at the beginning, then another seven miles of not-so-hard climbing, and then the real fun started. Altogether, there were 20 miles of climbing at the beginning of the ride, followed by a hellaciously long descent, then a ride through flat farmland, and finally another 3-mile climb, which contained one segment with a 21% grade.

Riders were falling out of the pack right and left on this climb, and the sag vans were kept busy. (If you can’t read the sign taped to the rear window, it says, “Got Bag Balm?” Bag Balm is a salve used on the udders of cows who are having problems with rashes or chapping. It also happens to be first aid for cyclists who are having problems with...rashes or chapping.)

Lots of folks taking photos at the summit. The view was impressive, especially when we looked way, way down to the bottoms of those mountains and realized that’s where we’d started out in the morning. Happy Camp was at river level.

My favorite sign. We crossed the state line somewhere on the descent, but since this was a very little-used road, neither state bothered to put up any signs.

The descent was fast and twisty, and I was so glad Maria wasn’t on it. Twelve miles of curvy, high-speed bike handling is either really fun, or really stressful. For me it was both—I had loads of fun on the sections where I had room to pass, but when I got trapped behind slower descenders, it was tough. Then I had to ride the brakes, which I hate doing on long descents (excessive braking heats up the rims, and tire blowouts can occur, which you really don’t want at 35 or 40 mph). At one point I ended up behind a guy who knew what he was doing in the curves—meaning, he was picking good lines through them by going from one side of the lane to the other—but was still traveling a bit slower than me. It was frustrating to the extreme, because I was constantly on the brakes behind him, but he kept using the whole lane to corner and I simply could not pass safely. I finally just pulled over and let him go ahead, while I flexed my poor cramped hands and listened to cyclists whizz past. Then I got back on and had much more fun. Downhills are made for speed, not braking.

Lunch was at the Bridgeview Winery near Cave Junction. A manmade pond there is stocked with trout—some of them sizeable!—and proved to be irresistible to a few of us with hot, tired feet. Yes, I spent my entire lunch with my legs in the water. I also got totally sprayed down by the trout, who responded with great enthusiasm when the winery owner flung out a few handfuls of trout chow. Those fish can flip a lot of water.

This was possibly the most civilized lunch stop I’ve ever experienced in a Cycle Oregon. Chairs, tables, awnings to shade riders from the sun, wooden decking—wow. There was even free wine sampling, which on second thought might not have been such a great idea.

There was an easy route from here to our campsite, but that meant spending time on the busiest highway in the area. So the Cycle Oregon folks routed us a much more scenic way, which of course was also much more difficult. This is where that last 3-mile climb was located—remember the one with the 21% grade? Yeah, that one. And this after a 20-mile climb and a lovely, relaxing lunch at a winery! Needless to say, most of us were not looking forward to these last miles.

In fact, at the final rest stop of the day, the line of riders waiting for a sag van was the longest I have ever seen in three Cycle Oregons. They waited a very long time, too, because there were even more riders back at the winery who were requesting sag vans. I do wonder if the ride organizers will request future winery stops not to provide free wine tasting. A little bit of alcohol on a hot day, near a nice cool pond, does terrible things to a rider’s will power.

The last hill really was a killer. But just as I was coming up the last part of it, I heard drumming and chanting. And then I came around the curve and there they were, an enthusiastic drumming circle, shouting “Go! Go! Go! Go!” when they saw me. You know, it’s impossible not to smile and feel a sudden burst of energy when you’re confronted with something like that. They did that for every rider who straggled up that hill.

There was a giant traffic jam on the top of the hill; all the riders were being held back while a fallen rider was tended to on the downhill side. Camp scuttlebutt said this was a woman who had lost her brakes on the descent and crashed pretty badly. I don’t know if that’s true—completely losing brakes isn’t very common—but it was a very steep descent with big potholes.

At any rate, since we weren’t moving, I went over to the drum circle and asked the nearest guy if I could join in. He beamed and pointed toward a sack on the ground. I found a wooden dowel and stick and proceeded to knock out a rhythm with glee, doing my part to help other riders make that last push. After about ten minutes someone put down a drum, so I traded in my dowel for that and had even more of a blast. Then someone lit a marijuana cigarette and passed it around, instantly satisfying the stereotype that all drumming circles involve drugs. I was actually a bit envious; a drum circle must sound pretty spectacular when one is under the influence! But good lord, all of us riders are already ravenous after finishing a ride; can you imagine being ravenous and having the marijuana munchies? I probably would have eaten our tent.

I played until every one of the held-back riders had finally cleared the barricade, and then I put the drum back, thanked the guys, and walked back over to my bike. Now I had a clear shot down the hill, and some great memories. That was the best summit rest ever. (I vote for drumming circles on all summits!)

The descent was steep but short, and then it was just a few miles to Lake Selmac, where our camp was set up. I ran into Maria and S while walking my bike through the crowds—they were on their way to turn in our dirty clothes to a laundry service. (How to make money for a school or community program: charge cyclists to wash their clothes for them.) S had taken a sag van from the summit of the big mountain climb because she’d felt nauseous all that morning. That makes her the only person I’ve ever heard of who rides 20 miles uphill while sick, and then gives up the downhill payoff. She might as well have said, “I feel like barfing, so I’m going to ride the absolute toughest miles of this entire week, and then I’ll give up and take the van.” She is one tough lady.

The toughest of all four of us, though, was R. With S sagging on Day 3, and Maria and I both sagging on Day 1, R was the only member of our group who rode every inch of the week. She’s also the eldest of our group. Enough said.

 

 

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day 4

 

 

16 September: Lake Selmac to Glendale

71.4 miles (114 k) and 4,192 feet (1,278 m) elevation gain

 

Day 4 was a treat—miles and miles of riding along the Rogue River, one of the most gorgeous rivers in the state. As an added plus for me, much of today’s route was on the same roads we’d done during Cycle Oregon 2004, but coming from the opposite direction. I was delighted to see that landscape again, and couldn’t help but think about how different things are now than they were the last time I cycled down those roads. People will often say, “That was a lifetime ago,” but in my case it really was.

It’s been four years since I gave up that old life, and I’m still not quite used to the joy of living inside my real skin.

Ah, look at that easy elevation profile. A welcome break after Day 3, I can tell you! But those little bumps toward the end—those were hard. After your legs have been well and thoroughly trashed, it’s the little hills that kill you.

We stopped on a bridge across the Rogue River, where I took a photo of Maria. Then a passing rider offered to take one of both of us, which turned out to be one of the only photographs we have of the two of us together on that ride. We appreciated his easy camaraderie, and in fact it’s precisely that which I find so attractive about Cycle Oregon. We’re a mobile city of 2,000 riders plus several hundred support staff, and we’re all equally insane (though for different reasons). Shared insanity is a strong bonding agent.

Some of us are simply out there to have fun. Others are there for the personal challenge. Some are doing it because they always wanted to, but never thought they could—until they tried. There were quite a few parent/child teams, including several older ones where the parent needed about three decades to talk the child into it. One woman was there with her husband as a gift for her 50th birthday. And some were riding for the sake of loved ones—I saw quite a few jerseys with “I’m riding for...” and a person’s name sewn onto the back.

The story that really choked me up was that of a Portland man named Scott, whose father took part in the second-ever Cycle Oregon twenty years ago. He wanted to do it again, and tried for years to get Scott to go with him, but there was always something getting in the way. A few years ago, Scott’s dad died. This year, when Scott finally had the opportunity to ride, he pulled his dad’s twenty-year-old bike out of storage, cleaned it up, and rode it on Cycle Oregon.

By late morning we’d made it to one of the most spectacular stretches of the Rogue, called Hellgate Canyon.

For me, this canyon has special significance because when I was a kid, I was a huge John Wayne fan—and an even bigger Katherine Hepburn fan. (That second one has been lifelong, actually. Katherine Hepburn is a goddess.) And those two cinematic giants acted together in just one movie, called Rooster Cogburn. One of the dramatic highlights of the film was a shootout between Cogburn, who was piloting Hepburn’s character downriver on a raft, and the bad guys concealed in the canyon walls. This is where it was filmed.

Beyond the canyon walls, the land opens up a bit. It’s a lovely vista...

...so of course I had to take a picture of my bike. Well, I took one of Maria, too, but she’s already been featured in this travelogue. My bike hasn’t.

Right now she’s a bit of a mishmash—the old bike had red highlights, so I’d put on red handlebar tape and bottle cages. They don’t go too well with the new frame color, but I couldn’t do anything about that until after the ride. (Yes, I am absolutely vain enough to want my bar tape and bottle cages to complement my frame.)

You might notice the little yellow thing strapped to my headtube. That’s a plastic bear squeak toy. It’s actually supposed to clip onto the handlebars, but my bars are too wide in diameter, so I velcroed it to the frame instead. Making a “squeaka squeaka!” sound as you pass people is often preferable to repeating “On your left!” ad nauseam, and it makes the other riders smile. It’s also a great way to say hello to onlookers, who are always lining the route when we’re in a town.

R’s husband bought squeaky toys for all four of us. Maria and I have matching yellow bears, R’s is a frog with its tongue hanging out, and S’s is a dragon. They were all appropriate.

This was Maria’s longest day—she made it to 59 miles before petering out. She had really wanted to make it to the last rest stop, but the final part of the ride was rolling hills, and her legs were just too tired. Those kinds of hills are manageable if you’ve got the power to pedal at high speeds down one hill, and let that speed help you up the next, but if you’re pooped and to the point of just coasting down the hills, then the next uphill costs much more in energy.

But before she finally gave out, I socked away two lovely memories. The first was of topping out one of the bigger hills and turning around to watch Maria come up behind me. This hill was steep, and a lot of riders were walking. But not Maria. She was chugging up the hill, verrry slowly—in fact, not much faster than the walkers—but she wasn’t getting off. In that moment, I was so damned proud of her. (Well, I was proud of her for many moments, but that one in particular sticks in my mind.)

The other was of the local women who had hit upon a great way to raise money: sell lemonade to hot, thirsty riders on a long climb. These ladies smartly posted a big sign on a tree saying:

COLD LEMONADE AND ICE WATER, $1

1/2 MILE AHEAD, ON THE LEVEL STRETCH BETWEEN TWO UPHILL PULLS

Our mouths were watering from that moment on. So by the time we topped out the first pull and found the entrepreneurs in a small gravel layby, there was no question about stopping. I actually didn’t see a single rider go past them. In fact, these women had done such a booming business that they’d had to send friends out to scout for more lemons. Apparently, they had bought out the entire lemon supply of Wolf Creek, the little town they lived in, but that hadn’t been enough. So they bought out the neighboring town of Glendale as well.

That was real lemonade, and absolutely the best I’ve ever tasted. After hours of riding and drinking nothing but water, it was heaven! And those women made several hundred dollars that day.

It was a couple of miles later that Maria petered out, and after the usual conversation—“Are you sure you want me to go ahead?” “Yes, I’m sure.” “Because I can wait until we get you onto a van...” “Would you get out of here?!”—I set off on my own. At this point I was starving, so I broke speed records getting to the next rest stop. I found R there, just getting ready to leave again, and asked her if she’d wait a few minutes while I got some food into my system. But then a ride organizer appeared, shouting a warning to all riders that at 5 p.m. the freeway segment we were about to enter would be closed down.

A little explanation: today’s ride ended with another segment on the interstate, this time a three-mile uphill stretch. Since the shoulder on this section wasn’t as wide as it had been back on Day 1, the Oregon Department of Transportation had taken special precautions. Orange traffic cones separated the shoulder from the traffic lanes, and a huge electric readerboard sign was flashing the message WARNING: CYCLISTS ON ROAD NEXT 3.5 MILES. But all that was done by ODOT staff, not Cycle Oregon staff, and the ODOT folks wanted to clear everything up by the end of their workday. Normally, the Cycle Oregon route does not close until 6:30 p.m., but today was different.

Well, when we heard that warning, it was already after 4:30. R and I looked at each other and said, “Shit!” I crammed a Powerbar in my mouth, a second in my jersey pocket, filled a water bottle and off we went. I was still chewing the second Powerbar when we hit the freeway onramp.

This time was a far less harrowing experience, because it was a 6% uphill grade. Which meant the big trucks were all grinding up the hill nice and slow. No 60 mph pressure waves buffeting us, and no turbulence. It was very noisy, but other than that, no problem. Though I did have a slight problem after we crested the pass and began flying down the other side toward our exit. I was loving the descent, pacing a guy way in front of me and eyeballing the gorgeous swooping curve that awaited in the form of the exit. It was going to be fun! And then I took my eye off the exit and looked back at the guy in front of me, and realized that he was suddenly a whole lot closer. In fact, he was having to brake because the woman in front of him was practically crawling off the freeway and onto the curvy exit.

Sometimes, I think bikes should have brake lights. I ended up in an emergency braking situation, hauling down and hoping that my tires didn’t break loose because I had no room to manage a slide. Fortunately, I was able to scrub off enough speed, but geez, the post adrenaline rush was a killer.

Most of all, I was disgruntled because that woman ruined that lovely sweeping curve for me. Dang.

 

 

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day 5

 

 

17 September: Glendale to Grants Pass

77 miles (124 k) and 3,900 feet (1,189 m) elevation gain

Day 5 was one of those nice ones where you know that by the time you hit lunch, it’s pretty much downhill all the way to camp. But there was a 5-mile climb before lunch, and the entire ride took place on some of the roughest chipseal I’ve ever set my wheels on. (Chipseal is a method of roadbuilding involving putting down a layer of gravel, spraying it with tar, flattening it out and then letting normal traffic further flatten and harden the road. Cheap, easy to repair—and will vibrate your teeth out if you’re on a bike.)

Our first rest stop was only eight miles out of camp. It’s unusual for the ride to offer us food that soon after breakfast—usually it’s just a water and potty stop—but this place was special. It’s a restaurant called Heaven on Earth, right off I-5, and the owner had contacted Cycle Oregon and offered to cater a rest stop, with her staff providing the labor and her restaurant providing the snacks for free.

For riders accustomed to crackers, hard-boiled eggs, bananas, grapes, dried fruit and Powerbars at their rest stops, this really was heaven on earth. The spread was amazing! Apple pie, marionberry cobbler, chocolate cake, lemon cake with chocolate frosting, mini cinnamon rolls, homemade cookies—all of it was produced right there at the restaurant, and all of it was delicious. This was universally voted Best Rest Stop Ever.

The climb turned out to be a tough one, not because five miles of a 6% grade is all that awful (especially not compared to what we’d already done), but because this was five days of riding in a row. Usually Cycle Oregon finds a way to insert a rest day after three or, at most, four days of riding. But it all depends on the availabilty of locations. This year we rode five days, rested one, and then rode one more. So by that fifth day, we were all running a little low on gas and looking forward very much to summiting that climb.

The biggest laugh of the day came on the downhill side, which was yet another high-speed, twisty descent on a narrow Forest Service road. We flashed past a large, flat area with a small mountain of gravel in the center, probably used for chipseal. The Cycle Oregon signage team had posted a big yellow sign on the side of the pile that read: RUNAWAY TANDEM RAMP.

You know, it might actually have worked.

Another sign that gave me a big snort was at the gear drop. A gear drop is where riders who dressed warmly for morning temperatures can dump off their leg warmers, full-fingered gloves, jackets and anything else that’s gotten way too hot by lunchtime. You shove your gear into a tent stuff sack (the same stuff sacks used for our tents in Tent & Porter Service—way to recycle!), write your rider number on a piece of duct tape, stick it on the bag and then drop the bag in the appropriate box. The bags are all gathered up and trucked into camp, where you can pick yours up at the end of the ride.

Here we have the gear drop for today’s ride:

Well, who can refuse an invitation like that?

And here I am, having accepted the invitation and ditched my leg warmers. The sun felt sooo good! (Living in Portugal has brought out my inherent lizard tendencies. I thrive on heat.)

Chipseal or no, this ride had some seriously lovely scenery, and practically no cars. Just a gorgeous day all around. And then we rolled into Grants Pass, with the blissful knowledge that we didn’t have to go anywhere the next day! Oh, glorious rest day...

 

 

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day 7

 

 

Our rest day in Grants Pass was just what we needed. We took advantage of it to repack our bags, take care of a few camp errands, have a long-awaited lunch of Pizzicata Pizza (they have a stand in camp, and I’d been craving pizza for, oh, five days) and go on a rafting trip down the Rogue River. Really a great day, and most of all I valued the fact that for once, all four of us were together. We laughed a lot.

It was also a day in which Cycle Oregon experienced a first in all its 22-year history: a rider passed away in camp. His tent neighbors noticed that he didn’t go on the optional ride that day, and that he hadn’t appeared outside in the morning. They checked on him and found him cold and stiff—he had apparently passed away in his sleep during the night. He was a 59-year-old man from Eugene.

You know, if you have to go...that’s a pretty good way to do it.

 

19 September: Grants Pass to Medford

41.5 miles (67 k) and 2,800 feet (853 m) elevation gain

 

On the morning of the last day, we woke up to a lovely sunrise. It was kind of bittersweet leaving camp this time, knowing it was the end. On the one hand, all of us were plenty tired of tent living and more than ready for real beds and bathrooms. But on the other hand—who knows when we’ll do this again? R says that with her knee issues (she’s heading toward her second knee replacement) and the amount of training required, this might be the last one for her. I know it won’t be for me, because I love this ride and besides, Maria is really rarin’ to do another one, this time with better preparation (and hopefully no broken bones).

But there are so many other places to ride, and so little time...

The last day was the shortest of all—only 42 miles, without any overly nasty hills. For those who felt that just wasn’t enough, there was an optional 10-mile loop that added in an extra 1150 feet of climbing. Nobody on my team felt the need to do that.

This was a treat day for me for a couple of reasons: first of all, my friend Rick, who lives right on this day’s route, had arranged to meet us seven miles from the starting point, and then ride with us into Jacksonville, 28 miles down the road. And second, since Maria was totally confident by now, I was able to let her ride on her own while I took off with S. S and I are closely matched, and we’re both competitive wenches, so we push each other quite a lot and have fun doing it. She said she wondered what I had in my breakfast that morning, since I set a hellacious pace. Actually I just didn’t want to be late meeting Rick, but it was fun burning off some energy.

We found Rick happily ensconced in his recumbent, and had a gorgeous ride with him through the Applegate Valley. Since Rick’s ranch was right on the route, we bypassed the rest stops and took a short potty break at his house instead. Wow, a real flush toilet, and hot running water right there! Luxury. Of course, Murphy’s Law prevailed. While heading back out the gravel drive to the road, S picked up a goat head thorn, which punctured her tire. First flat anyone on our team had that week, and it happened on the one place on the entire ride when we weren’t actually on the course.

Turns out that Jacksonville is right at the bottom of a lovely descent, and I had a ball chasing Rick down it—especially after he threw down the gauntlet with his casual mention that he usually rolls out at 45 mph, but on my upright bike I’d probably only be going 36-40 mph. Let me just tell you that nobody is quite as smug about descending speeds as a recumbent rider (except possibly tandem riders). They suffer going uphill, but they really do speed downhill.

Well, I’m a good descender, my bike is a freakin’ rocket on the downhills, and that particular descent was curvy but wide open enough for me to not worry about blind curves or passing slower riders. There was lots of room to let it go, so I did—and clocked 44.7 mph. I was pretty much on Rick’s tail through most of the descent, though I have to admit that when the grade lessened, he did roll away from me.

In Jacksonville we stopped at his favorite coffee shop and had fantastic toasted bagels and hot chocolate, while sitting at an outdoor table and watching cyclists go by. It was really a marvelous hour, especially since the last time I’d seen Rick was at my first wedding in 2002. But S and I had to get moving, as we still had to pick up the rental van in Medford. So with great reluctance I hugged Rick goodbye, and S and I rode the last seven miles into Medford. It was a beautiful warm day, with a clear blue sky and a spectacular view of Mt. McLoughlin, and those last miles really felt incredible. We crossed the finish line together, patted ourselves on the back, and then set about the prosaic tasks of finding everyone’s luggage and preparing to pick up the van.

R rolled in a bit later, and Maria wasn’t too far behind her. Everyone was beaming with enjoyment of the ride, and Maria was especially proud because she had completed the entire day’s ride this time. She’s earned her bragging rights!

It was a long day by the end, though—packing up bikes in bike bags, getting the van and returning to the start point to pick up people and luggage, and driving back to my parent’s house. R’s husband was waiting for her when we arrived, so we transferred her and her gear to their car, shared a round of goodbye hugs, and watched them drive off.

But not before taking one final photograph:

These wristbands cost $850 each. Well, not literally, but that's the entry fee for Cycle Oregon, and the wristbands are put on by Cycle Oregon staff when you go through registration. These are what get us all of the amenities we pay for—food, sag van service, rider services, medical help, etc. Once put on, they don’t come off until you cut them off. And for most of us, that’s a bittersweet moment. On the one hand, we tend to find the wristbands a little annoying, but...cutting them off is so final.

The next morning we put S on a plane back home, and then it really was over. God, I hate goodbyes. The only way I can survive them is to look forward to the next hello. 

Oh, and I did indeed get new bar tape and bottle cages for my gorgeous new frame. Here she is, all cleaned up and properly accessorized. Want to hear the funny part? I always name my bikes, and since this bike is mostly new, my teammates thought it should have a new name. Besides, apparently nobody else liked the original name, which was Artemis (because she rode like she was shot from a bow). R pointed at the black and blue color scheme, plus the fact that it’s strong and fast, and said it should be named Xena. The hilarious thing about this is that R is the only straight woman on our team! She can’t possibly know that Xena is a lesbian icon—at least, I don’t think any of us told her. Of course the name totally stuck, so…I’m riding Xena.

Anyway, I took her out for a spin with Maria the weekend after we got back to Portugal, and you know what? Clean bikes with color-matched accessories really do go faster.

Though that could just be my Cycle Oregon legs. Maria’s bike went faster, too, and it was still dirty.