Course designer Patrice Gagnon not only builds some of the best twisting, technical track around, he’s also a supermodel.

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Patrice answers questions during the women’s XC finals.

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The cross-country course featured passovers, pass-unders, a technical section referred to as “Bagdad Highway” (don’t ask), a spirit-sapping grinder of a switchback climb called “Beatrice” (she’s not as nice as she sounds), and some wicked-crazy shenanigans through the rooted, twisting “Petite Perdrix”.

The names of these sections sound nice when you say them in French. They are not.

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That’s the face of World Champion Maja Wloszczowska (Poland). Can you say focus? And poise. She rode with an uncanny poise. Beautiful.

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Course Designer and sidekick eye me suspiciously. Aren’t they cute on their little vroom vroom machines?
They must have known what I was thinking…

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…because they got a little shy and giggly.

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“The Marmotte” section was meaty enough to challenge the best in the world. It’s humbling to watch your heroes – dudes who seem invincible – tip-toe down a rock garden gingerly. Or.. in some cases, jump off and run.  Many seemed to fare well by taking the chicken-line to the right, but the big boys went straight down the gooey center and then punched it out of the last switchback.

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TV crews at the top of the climb up Beatrice. Crowds were rabid and vocal all day long.

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I have mad love for all the USA boys, but Sam Schultz is a front-runner for favorite status.

Never heard of him? You will soon. He was the top finishing American in 20th place.

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Also favored? Carl Decker. This man was in the very first Worlds competition 20 years ago in Durango. You can read about his Worlds memories on his blog. Bonus: He’s a native Oregonian. Holler!

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Decker rockin’ a pretty common pain face at the top of Beatrice. Beatrice gonna eat your mama. Don’t mess with that one.

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Technically, Canadian Goeff Kabush shouldn’t qualify for favorite status (I’m trying out this patriotism thing for a second) but just look at those chops!
How can I say no? I’m convinced he’s one of the nicest guys on knobbies.

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The press is working Schultzy. I screamed my head off for this kid all race long. Really. I scared people. Therefore, I claim credit for 15% of his victory. That’s a fair cut, right?

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Mont Sainte Anne also hosted the trials competitions. Bikes with no seats! Funny! Trials are so crazy rad it’s silly.

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Orange kits make good photos.

How adorable is this trio of miniature Canadian fans?

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Next stop: The tippy top of the DH course.

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Downhill women are super badass.

A run with a view. On-and-off rain showers plagued the DH crew a bit, giving some riders a softer ride than others. Them’s the breaks, huh?

At times, the migration from the top of the course to the bottom felt like a religious pilgrimage. We stopped every few minutes to watch another armored flyer whiz by, then returned to picking our way down the rocky, slippery perimeter.

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Git it, boy! This is one of the smaller jumps on course, but it doesn’t make it any less crazy.

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Love this kid. And this kid loves DH mountain biking. Believe it.

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DJ in sweats entertains as the crowd watches racers on the big screen.

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A little smiley love from one of the photogs in the media box. UCI is strict about media access – we had to have our badges scanned every time we entered and exited the press room.

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All eyes on the final finishers. Current leaders sit in the blue hot seat to the right until they’re knocked off the podium by someone.

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USA finish just off the podium in the DH competition, but that didn’t stop these kids from flying the stripes just before the awards ceremony began.

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How do you finish a breath-taking day of witnessing the best mountain bikers in the world do their thing?
Start with a manhattan and appetizers at the bar and then have dinner with the owner of Chateau Mont Sainte Anne and let him order you all the house specialties: an appetizer of foie gras with white port jelly, a filet mignon of Wapiti deer with wild mushrooms, and a delicious and well-paired Zinfandel. Then let him feed you a maple syrup creme bruleé.

Oh. My. God.

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Related posts:

1. Compton’s Worlds Bid in Question

Photo Credit: Dylan VanWeelden

I have been connected to the Sicilian for more than 11 years. United in life and love and adventure and navigation and challenge. I have watched him rolled out of surgery with his entire ear cut away and then taped back onto the side of his head. I have slept with him under Jesus’ serene gaze in his parents house and spent the better part of 14 hours cutting roma tomatoes to make three hundred jars of sugo.

I have learned to speak and understand Sicilian, a strange dialect of the Italian language.

I have left him for other cities and then found him again in new landscapes.

For this man I’ve learned to be more tidy, to be quieter, to feel the pull of roots at my wayward gypsy feet. I have stopped eating out of pots and pans, learned to cook food that is more civilized and eat it from plates and bowls with silverware. I have learned to feel emotions for old Italian automobiles that never run. I have purchased houses specifically because they have garages for these automobiles.

In return, I’ve asked him to stretch and bend and imagine bigger things and take risks that terrify him.

Two days ago, I asked him to ride 123 miles on a tandem bicycle with me and he said yes.

Love makes fools and this Italian boy is no exception.

Here’s what happened.

Tandem bicycles arrived by trains. Long ones with heart-stopping wheel-bases and beautiful “B”s emblazoned on the front. A man called Bilenky sent a few emails, a man named Bob showed up at my house, and a lady named Natalie put on a multi-colored cycling kit.

This is Stephen Bilenky on the cover of a crazy Japanese bike magazine that my friend Brett gave to me.

By the time my head stopped spinning, there were three custom tandems loaded into the back of my truck and we were headed for wine country.

This story sounds sweet and lovely so far but isn’t. Trust me on that.

Important background: I have never ridden a tandem.

We drive to Forest Grove and park at a winery on a sloping hillside. The morning is cool and bright. Slate Olson greets us. He’s lean and blue-eyed and charming and he hugs me. I should have sucker punched him right then, but I didn’t know any better. I hug him back, chat with friends, stuff jersey pockets, imagine greatness and make last minute adjustments.

Start time is 9:00am. We’re going to own the world. We’re going to climb gravel roads. We’re going to attack Oregon countryside and be shiny.

Nothing can stop us.

For the record, this is not a real race and none of this ever happened.

This is all make-believe. I love you and I’m Alice and I’m going down the rabbit hole. If only I had a pill to make me smaller.

Glorious Beginnings

We are a team of six. Six semi-strangers on three tandem bicycles. The third duo arrives with 12 minutes to spare after locking their keys in the car that morning.

No worries. We don’t bat an eye. They chamois up and ride. Slate Olson says a few words and sends us down the road. There are cheers married with trepidation. Slate Olson looks positively giddy.

I should know better than to trust a blue-eyed devil.

We’re the first team to leave. Six people, three beautiful Bilenky Cycles bicycles, 123 miles, three gravel climbs, one unforgivable bout of momentary insanity on the part of Natalie Ramsland.

She’s the reason I’m here.

I’m a big girl with a lot to say so you think I could hold my own against 105 pounds of persuasion, but you’d be wrong. That bitch has mind powers. It took her three days to convince me to do this stupid race and it’s possible I might regret every single one of them.

I look over to my right and there she is, smiling. She will smile for the entire fucking race. I’m serious. The whole race. That woman is indefatigable. Funny and amazing and smart and… chipper. It’s inconceivable.

Here’s what happens when tandems find flat ground: they fly.

And so we soared. 30 miles out and just a little bit of up and we’re feeling it. The magic. The good stuff.

We’re going to win.

Not really, but we’re amazed that none of the teams staggered behind us have passed us yet so we pedal with renewed vigor. We’re not supposed to win and we know it. We’re supposed to suffer and be mind-blowing and make it look good. We’re here on a mission. We are are the Bilenky Cycles Tandem Assault Squad and we’re going to fuck you up.

Not really. But you’re getting the point, right?

Pittsburg Road

They warned us about the first gravel section and so we hold our breath and make the left hand turn and start to climb.

On the front of the bike, Sal grinds out a 65RPM cadence. I comply (having little choice ) with the mashing and sit in for the mayhem.

Pittsburg Road is not gravel. It’s made of rocks. Big rocks.

We find sufficient lines and pound away, occasionally sliding down an unfriendly camber, finding balance in the gutter and reapplying power. The sun is starting to heat up the earth. In front of me, salt lines blossom on the back of the Sicilian’s jersey.

I look down and become acutely aware of my role as the motor. “More power!” he says and I pour myself into the pedals and pretend I’m doing leg workouts. I want to say, “Let’s spin!” but who wants a backseat driver on a tandem? No one. So I shut my mouth and press with angry mashing.

We pass two riders from another team changing their own flat. They over-inflate the tube. Pop! Tire carnage abounds. Our luck so far is good.

Below my nose is a top-tube and below that a water bottle. I cover both with a constant stream of sweat. I feel good. This is going well. We’re going to be ok.

I think.

Rock Surfing

Our gravel climbing debut on Pittsburg Road is encouraging and we arrive at the top together, take on a little water and point the big, long bikes down the other side.

Descending gravel is an art in any case, but on a tandem it becomes a kind of terrifying poetry.

I can sense the Sicilian’s stress and try to relax and make myself into the lightest 135 pound heap of body-weight possible. (He’ll tell me later that I did not accomplish this.)

How do you steer 345 pounds of fast-moving bicycle down a road made of rocks and boulders? Very carefully.

Pop!

The Colorado duo, Jake and Sarai, have the honor of the team’s first flat tire. The change is speedy and efficient and we’re rolling within minutes. Around a swooping corner, bike sliding left-ways and over, three tandems back in action.

Pop!

Jake and Sarai again. Another quick change and we’re off. We pass girls from the Ironclad Team bent over wheels, pumping. We pass women from the Rapha team crouched over sidelined rigs, running pretty fingers over their tire lining. We wave and fly recklessly down, riding the fine edge between control and total annihilation. We pass scattered Veloforma riders in white kits looked flustered and furious as they toil over flat tires.

Pop!

No, really. Three. Jake and Sarai again. This time, we don’t just change the tube – we install a new tire with better sidewalls. We take stock of our tubes and patches. We have three more tubes and four patches total. No more spare tires. We can get 7 more flats and still finish. There are 17 miles of gravel left to ride.

Unraveling

Tandems are funny things. I spend half the day (the flat half) singing their praises and half the day (the climbing half) convinced that two people were not meant to ride the same bike at the same time.

In the stoker position, my job is to deliver power and stay on top of navigation. Up ahead of me, Sal’s job is everything else. Steering, cadence, gear selection, drag brake, handling. Everything.

His failure to execute will put us both in danger. He knows it and I know it.

At the bottom of the first gravel descent, I can see fatigue in his eyes. Mental exhaustion to be sure, but something else is there. Around us, the air is heating up. If it isn’t 100 degrees, it will be soon. And it’s probably going to be hotter than that when all is said and done. We’re not used to this.

Drink, Sicilian! He’s not eating or drinking enough. I know because I’m keeping track.

Eat, Shecko, eat!

There are two reasons I call him Shecko, which is the Sicilian word for donkey (or ass, depending on how you’re feeling). Firstly, he’s a work-horse – literally. He has dragged my ass over hundreds of roads in Oregon, Arizona and California. His draft is my saving grace.

But as strong and useful as a Shecko can be, they’re also stubborn – and the Sicilian is no exception.

Eat, Shecko! Drink!

He’s not listening and none of the food I offer him is appealing. His kit is crusted with salt, face creased with worry. At mile 65 I can already tell we have a problem. Sitting on the back of the tandem, the bike translates not only his weary cadence, but also an uneasy sinking feeling.

Lashed together in suffering like a pair of pitiful, mutant bicycle siamese twins, we pedal on with our group of six and turn our tires in the direction of Otto Miller while the hot, breeze-less day tightens its grip.

Part Two: Paint My Coffin Pink

Eight miles on Highway 30 lead us to the last bits of civilization before the start of Otto Miller. We pass a bike shop, load up on a hearty supply of spare tubes, and cruise into the Texaco for ice, water, PayDays, Gatorade and granola bars.

Each item purchased feels like extra fortification against what we are about to face. If only I select the perfect snack, the perfect drink, the perfect American flag lighter? I stifle my impulse to acquire classic but unnecessary gas station memorabilia and force Sal to drink an entire bottle of water while I watch.

“We’re almost halfway done!” he says, half smiling.

I shoot a look to a tall, thin climber-looking fellow from another team and he laughs. “Yeah, only a little road called Otto Miller to worry about. No problem.”

He’s being friendly so I resist the urge to throat-punch him and we saddle up and shove off instead.

Otto Miller Eats Babies

By now, the climb of Rapha lunch-ride legend is looming big and dark in my gut, but the ride out to the turn is serene. Country roads flanked by golden fields and lazy trees. We’re in the company of other teams. We’re chatting. We’re calm.

We’re totally fucking bluffing.

Because the truth is, we’re worried. At least I am. My pilot is fried and I know it. I don’t know what to do so I do the only thing I can: I pedal.

And then we turn.

If there was any doubt that we are about to leave a lung and a few years of our lives on this evil road, it is erased by the first pitch which serves as a virtual kick in the teeth to all of our tandem dreams and any hope we may have every foolishly harbored of enjoying this godforsaken ride.

I can hear Sal swearing up front. We are grinding a humongous gear and I am terrified to ask if I can get a fucking shift.

As it turns out, I can’t get a shift. Because our triple isn’t happening. At least not with the derailleur. The bicycle clicks and ticks and groans underneath us as Sal tries to drop it in.

We keep grinding.

“We’ve got to stop and drop it down.” I finally plead. “I can’t push this gear.”

“Goddamit!” We lurch to a halt.

This is the part where my hand becomes a derailleur. I grab the chain and show it to the little tiny ring at the bottom.  “And stay there.” I say.

I’m talking to my drive-train now so you can be sure that nothing good is going to happen from here on out. Also, starting from a stop on a tandem on loose gravel in a low gear? Not recommended. Sal is tired of waiting for me to clip into pedals. I am tired of being a human derailleur.

And we are only a quarter mile into the climb up Otto Miller.

And we are so fucking tired of this all. Believe it.

Mile Seventy-Five

I can’t tell you how slow we climb Otto. I can’t tell you because there are not words to describe that agony.

I can tell you what I saw. Natalie and Bob K on a tandem up ahead, chatting. Happy. Smiling. Ironclad girls next to me looking weary, helmets hung on their bars. Hammer Velo stragglers stopped and resting in the rare shade. Passing cars full of photographers.

Gravel.

Heat waves.

Directly in front of me? Pockets full of uneaten food. The top of a cue sheet. Logos.

When we pass riders from other teams, I watch them climb out of the saddle with envy. I wonder how I would be faring on my own bike, a light little sweet ride. I wonder if I am pedaling hard enough and betting that Sal thinks that I am not.

Here on the back of this tandem I am absolutely the biggest letdown of his life. This heavy girl who can’t put out enough power. Dead weight. A bicycle burden.

He hates me.

At least, that’s what I convince myself of. If I’m not pedaling hard enough then why are these rivulets of sweat rolling down my forehead and diving off the tip of my nose onto the top tube? Why are my quads imploding? I have to be doing my part. I can’t do anymore. I resist the urge to translate this whole, painful fiasco into a gigantic relationship metaphor.

This explains nothing. This means nothing. This is just climbing Otto Miller on a bike that was not meant to do it.

“This is ridiculous.” Sal stops the bike.

He has just broken the most important rule ever. Never tell the truth. Doesn’t he remember? You have to lie. You have to make yourself believe that it’s important and possibly normal to be out here on the hottest day of the year on a double-bike on a gravel road. That all makes sense. Getting to the top is inevitable and wonderful. The only thing that matters.

Why did he just shatter our bubble of delusion?

My shoulders drop. It is ridiculous. I have no counter.

But we have to keep going because there is no alternative. You don’t stop. You don’t walk. You don’t turn around. You just keep climbing because you signed up for this shit and now you have to pay for your hubris.

I hate him. He hates me. We hate everyone and everything. But, most of all I think I hate Slate Olson and Natalie Ramsland. This hour is dark and they seem easy enough to throw under the bus. To hell with them.

The top of Otto Miller will appear at mile 80 and we’re at mile 75.

This is the best day of my life. I want a cold beer and a shotgun. I’m definitely losing my mind.

Triage

Reaching the top is so hard that when we finally crest, we are so empty and beaten that we are incapable of feeling joy. I make a mistake and think we’re stopping when we’re not and Sal yells at me in front of a crowd to keep pedaling. Ice cold cokes and snickers bars at the Checkpoint are small consolation.

Sandwiches and cold water seem like a gift from god. This would be amazing if I didn’t know that we still faced a ten-mile grind up Dixie Mountain. This would be amazing if we were sitting at the finish line.

Riders and cyclists lounge like corpses, talking quietly. The waking dead. The atmosphere is optimistic weariness. Those with yet-uncrushed spirits attempt to cheer up their vomiting, cramping comrades. Our other two tandem teams look solid and enthusiastic. The couple from Colorado is crushing it. Ryan Trebon comes flying up Dixie Mountain, sits down on a chair and says, “Fuck my life!”

This isn’t going to end well.

Sal is attempting to pull off a rally. He downs a Coke and some water but leaves the sandwich I hand him half eaten.

I recall my own brushes with serious bonking and his stinging advice, “It’s all in your head! You have to be stronger than your body.”

I decide not to offer this particular form of encouragement at this moment in time.

We pedal away. Dixie Mountain awaits.

Part Three: Pour My Ashes in Slate Olson’s Coffee

Famous last words. Remember them well: “All we have to do is get up Dixie Mountain and we’ll be ok.”

All we have to do is get up Dixie Mountain.

It’s true. But what does that mean? Pedaling uphill for over an hour.

Stuff yourself away. Tuck yourself inside a pocket. Turn yourself off. Cross your eyes and shut your mouth and pedal. Numb yourself to everything. Sever your body from your senses and make it pedal. Just get through it. Just get it over with. Just survive.

There are ways to do things that are this hard. There are ways to trick yourself into enduring that kind of extended pain. You have to reach into your bag of tricks and pull every single one out until something works.

You have to get to the top of that hill. That’s all.

But first you have to get to the hill.

Peacocks and Double Mechanicals

I’m told that there were peacocks along the route. They touted this as if it should make up for everything else. “Yes, but there are peacocks!!” They even put a peacock on the T-Shirt for the ride. Fucking peacocks!

Will I hate peacocks forever after this? Probably not, but certainly for a few years.

I didn’t see these birds along the road, though I am told by other racers that they were real. What I do know is that instead of seeing these amazing birds on Pederson Road, we suffered a double mechanical. At the exact moment that the Natalie-Bob Bilenky Machine lost their timing chain, Sal and I suffered a rear flat.

We stopped together in the shade and began to work on removing our rear wheel (a complicated task with a drag brake involved). Sal walked back and forth between the two disabled bikes muttering and looking for tools. He tinkered with the brake and put his hand on his forehead. His face pinched and I thought, for a second, that he might actually cry.

Which is when it hit me.

Sal is really sick.

Really sick.

Sal has severe heat exhaustion. How is Sal still functioning? Why did I put us in this situation? Why didn’t I pedal harder? Can I pull him back from this? Will he ever forgive me? Should I take him to a hospital? Should we keep going?

What the fuck are we doing out here?

Luckily, I’ve mastered the fine art of panicking while remaining completely calm so I reveal nothing. Maybe we can nurse this thing up Dixie Mountain. Maybe we can coast down the other side of the west hills into the finish line at Chris King. Maybe if he has enough water he’ll snap back?

Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe we all are. This is stupid.

Abandoned and Alone

With the bicycles repaired, we start up the long, slow grade. We’ve agreed to stay together since we are sharing tools. Our third tandem team has long since gone up the road on their own. It’s just the four of us now – and we need each other.

Slate Olson drives by us in a big sprinter van and says, “I love you guys!!”

Team Beer boys gather in the shade to rest on the side of the road and cheer us on. We’re going to do this. I can feel it. We’re going to make it. We can make it.

Sal pedals in fits and squares, stopping every few strokes to get a rest. We’re going uphill. We have to keep turning the cranks over. When he stops, I kick in a mini turbo boost to encourage him to keep spinning the pedals. It’s a study in gut-wrenching inefficiency. It hurts and it is awful and the bike is telling me that the Sicilian is nearly dead.

Three miles in, our chain drops. Natalie and Bob stop up ahead to wait for us and look back just as we’re shoving off.

At that moment, our chain snaps. At that moment, Tony P. rides by them and they begin chatting. They don’t see us stop a second time. Caught up in framebuilder conversation, they don’t notice that we’re gone. They have the chain tool. They ride away.

And there we are. Just the two of us. Sal as sick as a dog, swearing like a sailor. Me, as useless as ever. A bicycle that we can’t pedal.

Our finest moment.

We love bicycles and each other but not today. Not at all. This is all wrong.

A Summer’s Evening Walk

We walk.

We walk and kick rocks and I make phone calls. Among those dialed: Natalie’s husband Austin (our emergency support crew), Natalie (no answer),  Slate Olson (no answer).

I text Natalie: “We are stranded. Broken chain.”

I consider calling my mom. This is a mom moment, right? “Hey, Mom – it’s me. Yeah, we’re just on this remote gravel backroad in Oregon with a broken bike and I’m pretty sure Sal is thirty minutes away from heat stroke. No no – everything’s fine. We’ll get outa this one – don’t worry about it. Just wanted to say I love you.”

Finally, a text from Natalie: “We’ll be right there.”

They appear minutes later, chipper as ever, and I attempt to distract Sal from unleashing the Sicilian fury on our well-intentioned teammates.

The chain is fixed just as Slate Olson appears with the sag wagon. Sal is frustrated and fuming. “I’m done. Let’s put this thing in the van. This is over.”

It’s up to him, but when he looks at me to ask me what I think, I say words that I will regret for a long time: “I’ll do whatever you want, but I can still pedal.” I want to finish Dixie Mountain at least. And I know Sal is reacting out of frustration and anger. I think he can keep going. It’s all in your head. Isn’t that what he told me?

(For godsakes, Swift. Put this sick kid in the fucking van already!)

“Fine.” he is steely faced. He gets back on the bike.

We finish the climb. We finish the climb with anger and bitterness. We finish the climb with empty hearts and empty water bottles.

We finish the climb, reach the checkpoint and Sal climbs off the bike, walks behind a tree and vomits for ten minutes straight while Slate and I exchange worried glances.

“Will he hate me?” Slate asks.

“No. I hate you. But Sal will hate me. Without doubt this is my fault.”

“Should you go check on him?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not going over there! I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

Slate takes the bullet and visits the vomiting Sicilian to advise him that, if we’re going to try to finish, we should get going, because the sun is going down.

We have been riding bikes for eleven hours. Eleven hours! We can’t stop now. I want to finish but remain quiet and let the Sicilian decide for himself. Miraculously, after another bout of vomiting, he throws a leg over the top tube. We are reunited with our team and we cruise in tandem formation down Skyline toward our impending glory.

And then we flat.

Bob and Natalie again. We’ve resolved to ride in as a team, so Sal and I stop and circle back. We get off the bike and while I’m chatting with the flatted team, Sal sits down in the road.

Not on the shoulder of the road, but in the lane of travel itself. His face is a study in delirium. His eyes are rolling in the sockets. He’s dry heaving.

“Baby, you have to get out of the road. We’re on a curve, you’ll get run over.”

I am moving him when the sag wagon appears behind us and pulls over. I make a head-chopping motion with my hand and signal for Slate to come and collect the wounded. Sal is done. There is no glory in this sickness. He has ridden himself to the brink and it’s time to take him home.

This game is over.

You Just Need a Little Salt

Once in the van, we attempt to feed the Sicilian salt. He chews potato chips slowly as we descend Rocky Point and the entire city appears before us with mountains soft and white against the pink sky in the background.

Flying down Highway 30 toward the finish, Sal speaks up, “Slate. Can you pull over? … Right now?”

An amazing amount of vomiting follows and I have more time to reflect on every poor decision I made throughout the day. Every warning of heat exhaustion that I failed to notice. Every careless, stubborn resolution to keep going.

Back at Chris King, I send him home with our rescue crew and then wait for the two remaining tandems to arrive.

They are the last to finish. It is 8:45pm and all of the kegs are empty. The party is over. Slate is announcing winners and thanking people as they roll in, so they receive a standing ovation. I gather the troops, load up the truck, stop for beer and provisions, drop Natalie and Austin off and head back home where my living room fills with tandems and helmets and gear and torn up bodies.

Upstairs, Sal continues to vomit until I finally threaten to take him to the emergency room.

In the morning, he’ll awaken refreshed and renewed. He’ll look good enough for me to ask: “Do you mind if I write this?”

“You can write it.” he says resolutely, “But I better be a hero by the end of the story.”

He’s finally smiling.

Sally, you’re definitely our hero.

As for you, Gentleman’s Race? I’ll be back for you. Mark my words.

*

Related posts:

1. Rapha Gentleman’s Race: the Ladies’ Take on Things
2. Perfect Agony: Rainier Cyclocross Race Report
3. There are Only So Many Matches (Banana Belt 3 Race Report)

Part One: This is How We Die
Part Two: Paint My Coffin Pink

Part Three: Pour My Ashes in Slate Olson’s Coffee

Famous last words. Remember them well: “All we have to do is get up Dixie Mountain and we’ll be ok.”

All we have to do is get up Dixie Mountain.

It’s true. But what does that mean? Pedaling uphill for over an hour.

Stuff yourself away. Tuck yourself inside a pocket. Turn yourself off. Cross your eyes and shut your mouth and pedal. Numb yourself to everything. Sever your body from your senses and make it pedal. Just get through it. Just get it over with. Just survive.

There are ways to do things that are this hard. There are ways to trick yourself into enduring that kind of extended pain. You have to reach into your bag of tricks and pull every single one out until something works.

You have to get to the top of that hill. That’s all.

But first you have to get to the hill.

Peacocks and Double Mechanicals

I’m told that there were peacocks along the route. They touted this as if it should make up for everything else. “Yes, but there are peacocks!!” They even put a peacock on the T-Shirt for the ride. Fucking peacocks!

Will I hate peacocks forever after this? Probably not, but certainly for a few years.

I didn’t see these birds along the road, though I am told by other racers that they were real. What I do know is that instead of seeing these amazing birds on Pederson Road, we suffered a double mechanical. At the exact moment that the Natalie-Bob Bilenky Machine lost their timing chain, Sal and I suffered a rear flat.

We stopped together in the shade and began to work on removing our rear wheel (a complicated task with a drag brake involved). Sal walked back and forth between the two disabled bikes muttering and looking for tools. He tinkered with the brake and put his hand on his forehead. His face pinched and I thought, for a second, that he might actually cry.

Which is when it hit me.

Sal is really sick.

Really sick.

Sal has severe heat exhaustion. How is Sal still functioning? Why did I put us in this situation? Why didn’t I pedal harder? Can I pull him back from this? Will he ever forgive me? Should I take him to a hospital? Should we keep going?

What the fuck are we doing out here?

Luckily, I’ve mastered the fine art of panicking while remaining completely calm so I reveal nothing. Maybe we can nurse this thing up Dixie Mountain. Maybe we can coast down the other side of the west hills into the finish line at Chris King. Maybe if he has enough water he’ll snap back?

Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe we all are. This is stupid.

Abandoned and Alone

With the bicycles repaired, we start up the long, slow grade. We’ve agreed to stay together since we are sharing tools. Our third tandem team has long since gone up the road on their own. It’s just the four of us now – and we need each other.

Slate Olson drives by us in a big sprinter van and says, “I love you guys!!”

Team Beer boys gather in the shade to rest on the side of the road and cheer us on. We’re going to do this. I can feel it. We’re going to make it. We can make it.

Sal pedals in fits and squares, stopping every few strokes to get a rest. We’re going uphill. We have to keep turning the cranks over. When he stops, I kick in a mini turbo boost to encourage him to keep spinning the pedals. It’s a study in gut-wrenching inefficiency. It hurts and it is awful and the bike is telling me that the Sicilian is nearly dead.

Three miles in, our chain drops. Natalie and Bob stop up ahead to wait for us and look back just as we’re shoving off.

At that moment, our chain snaps. At that moment, Tony P. rides by them and they begin chatting. They don’t see us stop a second time. Caught up in framebuilder conversation, they don’t notice that we’re gone. They have the chain tool. They ride away.

And there we are. Just the two of us. Sal as sick as a dog, swearing like a sailor. Me, as useless as ever. A bicycle that we can’t pedal.

Our finest moment.

We love bicycles and each other but not today. Not at all. This is all wrong.

A Summer’s Evening Walk

We walk.

We walk and kick rocks and I make phone calls. Among those dialed: Natalie’s husband Austin (our emergency support crew), Natalie (no answer),  Slate Olson (no answer).

I text Natalie: “We are stranded. Broken chain.”

I consider calling my mom. This is a mom moment, right? “Hey, Mom – it’s me. Yeah, we’re just on this remote gravel backroad in Oregon with a broken bike and I’m pretty sure Sal is thirty minutes away from heat stroke. No no – everything’s fine. We’ll get outa this one – don’t worry about it. Just wanted to say I love you.”

Finally, a text from Natalie: “We’ll be right there.”

They appear minutes later, chipper as ever, and I attempt to distract Sal from unleashing the Sicilian fury on our well-intentioned teammates.

The chain is fixed just as Slate Olson appears with the sag wagon. Sal is frustrated and fuming. “I’m done. Let’s put this thing in the van. This is over.”

It’s up to him, but when he looks at me to ask me what I think, I say words that I will regret for a long time: “I’ll do whatever you want, but I can still pedal.” I want to finish Dixie Mountain at least. And I know Sal is reacting out of frustration and anger. I think he can keep going. It’s all in your head. Isn’t that what he told me?

(For godsakes, Swift. Put this sick kid in the fucking van already!)

“Fine.” he is steely faced. He gets back on the bike.

We finish the climb. We finish the climb with anger and bitterness. We finish the climb with empty hearts and empty water bottles.

We finish the climb, reach the checkpoint and Sal climbs off the bike, walks behind a tree and vomits for ten minutes straight while Slate and I exchange worried glances.

“Will he hate me?” Slate asks.

“No. I hate you. But Sal will hate me. Without doubt this is my fault.”

“Should you go check on him?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m not going over there! I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

Slate takes the bullet and visits the vomiting Sicilian to advise him that, if we’re going to try to finish, we should get going, because the sun is going down.

We have been riding bikes for eleven hours. Eleven hours! We can’t stop now. I want to finish but remain quiet and let the Sicilian decide for himself. Miraculously, after another bout of vomiting, he throws a leg over the top tube. We are reunited with our team and we cruise in tandem formation down Skyline toward our impending glory.

And then we flat.

Bob and Natalie again. We’ve resolved to ride in as a team, so Sal and I stop and circle back. We get off the bike and while I’m chatting with the flatted team, Sal sits down in the road.

Not on the shoulder of the road, but in the lane of travel itself. His face is a study in delirium. His eyes are rolling in the sockets. He’s dry heaving.

“Baby, you have to get out of the road. We’re on a curve, you’ll get run over.”

I am moving him when the sag wagon appears behind us and pulls over. I make a head-chopping motion with my hand and signal for Slate to come and collect the wounded. Sal is done. There is no glory in this sickness. He has ridden himself to the brink and it’s time to take him home.

This game is over.

You Just Need a Little Salt

Once in the van, we attempt to feed the Sicilian salt. He chews potato chips slowly as we descend Rocky Butte and the entire city appears before us with mountains soft and white against the pink sky in the background.

Flying down Highway 30 toward the finish, Sal speaks up, “Slate. Can you pull over? … Right now?”

An amazing amount of vomiting follows and I have more time to reflect on every poor decision I made throughout the day. Every warning of heat exhaustion that I failed to notice. Every careless, stubborn resolution to keep going.

Back at Chris King, I send him home with our rescue crew and then wait for the two remaining tandems to arrive.

They are the last to finish. It is 8:45pm and all of the kegs are empty. The party is over. Slate is announcing winners and thanking people as they roll in, so they receive a standing ovation. I gather the troops, load up the truck, stop for beer and provisions, drop Natalie and Austin off and head back home where my living room fills with tandems and helmets and gear and torn up bodies.

Upstairs, Sal continues to vomit until I finally threaten to take him to the emergency room.

In the morning, he’ll awaken refreshed and renewed. He’ll look good enough for me to ask: “Do you mind if I write this?”

“You can write it.” he says resolutely, “But I better be a hero by the end of the story.”

He’s finally smiling.

Sally, you’re definitely our hero.

As for you, Gentleman’s Race? I’ll be back for you. Mark my words.

*

Related posts:

1. Blessed Be the Coffee
2. Hero Run: Courier Coffee in the Oregonian
3. Chris Horner Gives Fallen Rider (and bike) a 2k Ride to the Finish

Photo Credit to the amazing Jose Sandoval

*

Eight miles on Highway 30 lead us to the last bits of civilization before the start of Otto Miller. We pass a bike shop, load up on a hearty supply of spare tubes, and cruise into the Texaco for ice, water, PayDays, Gatorade and granola bars.

Each item purchased feels like extra fortification against what we are about to face. If only I select the perfect snack, the perfect drink, the perfect American flag lighter? I stifle my impulse to acquire classic but unnecessary gas station memorabilia and force Sal to drink an entire bottle of water while I watch.

“We’re almost halfway done!” he says, half smiling.

I shoot a look to a tall, thin climber-looking fellow from another team and he laughs. “Yeah, only a little road called Otto Miller to worry about. No problem.”

He’s being friendly so I resist the urge to throat-punch him and we saddle up and shove off instead.

Otto Miller Eats Babies

By now, the climb of Rapha lunch-ride legend is looming big and dark in my gut, but the ride out to the turn is serene. Country roads flanked by golden fields and lazy trees. We’re in the company of other teams. We’re chatting. We’re calm.

We’re totally fucking bluffing.

Because the truth is, we’re worried. At least I am. My pilot is fried and I know it. I don’t know what to do so I do the only thing I can: I pedal.

And then we turn.

If there was any doubt that we are about to leave a lung and a few years of our lives on this evil road, it is erased by the first pitch which serves as a virtual kick in the teeth to all of our tandem dreams and any hope we may have every foolishly harbored of enjoying this godforsaken ride.

I can hear Sal swearing up front. We are grinding a humongous gear and I am terrified to ask if I can get a fucking shift.

As it turns out, I can’t get a shift. Because our triple isn’t happening. At least not with the derailleur. The bicycle clicks and ticks and groans underneath us as Sal tries to drop it in.

We keep grinding.

“We’ve got to stop and drop it down.” I finally plead. “I can’t push this gear.”

“Goddamit!” We lurch to a halt.

This is the part where my hand becomes a derailleur. I grab the chain and show it to the little tiny ring at the bottom.  “And stay there.” I say.

I’m talking to my drive-train now so you can be sure that nothing good is going to happen from here on out. Also, starting from a stop on a tandem on loose gravel in a low gear? Not recommended. Sal is tired of waiting for me to clip into pedals. I am tired of being a human derailleur.

And we are only a quarter mile into the climb up Otto Miller.

And we are so fucking tired of this all. Believe it.

Mile Seventy-Five

I can’t tell you how slow we climb Otto. I can’t tell you because there are not words to describe that agony.

I can tell you what I saw. Natalie and Bob K on a tandem up ahead, chatting. Happy. Smiling. Ironclad girls next to me looking weary, helmets hung on their bars. Hammer Velo stragglers stopped and resting in the rare shade. Passing cars full of photographers.

Gravel.

Heat waves.

Directly in front of me? Pockets full of uneaten food. The top of a cue sheet. Logos.

When we pass riders from other teams, I watch them climb out of the saddle with envy. I wonder how I would be faring on my own bike, a light little sweet ride. I wonder if I am pedaling hard enough and betting that Sal thinks that I am not.

Here on the back of this tandem I am absolutely the biggest letdown of his life. This heavy girl who can’t put out enough power. Dead weight. A bicycle burden.

He hates me.

At least, that’s what I convince myself of. If I’m not pedaling hard enough then why are these rivulets of sweat rolling down my forehead and diving off the tip of my nose onto the top tube? Why are my quads imploding? I have to be doing my part. I can’t do anymore. I resist the urge to translate this whole, painful fiasco into a gigantic relationship metaphor.

This explains nothing. This means nothing. This is just climbing Otto Miller on a bike that was not meant to do it.

“This is ridiculous.” Sal stops the bike.

He has just broken the most important rule ever. Never tell the truth. Doesn’t he remember? You have to lie. You have to make yourself believe that it’s important and possibly normal to be out here on the hottest day of the year on a double-bike on a gravel road. That all makes sense. Getting to the top is inevitable and wonderful. The only thing that matters.

Why did he just shatter our bubble of delusion?

My shoulders drop. It is ridiculous. I have no counter.

But we have to keep going because there is no alternative. You don’t stop. You don’t walk. You don’t turn around. You just keep climbing because you signed up for this shit and now you have to pay for your hubris.

I hate him. He hates me. We hate everyone and everything. But, most of all I think I hate Slate Olson and Natalie Ramsland. This hour is dark and they seem easy enough to throw under the bus. To hell with them.

The top of Otto Miller will appear at mile 80 and we’re at mile 75.

This is the best day of my life. I want a cold beer and a shotgun. I’m definitely losing my mind.

Triage

Reaching the top is so hard that when we finally crest, we are so empty and beaten that we are incapable of feeling joy. I make a mistake and think we’re stopping when we’re not and Sal yells at me in front of a crowd to keep pedaling. Ice cold cokes and snickers bars at the Checkpoint are small consolation.

Sandwiches and cold water seem like a gift from god. This would be amazing if I didn’t know that we still faced a ten-mile grind up Dixie Mountain. This would be amazing if we were sitting at the finish line.

Riders and cyclists lounge like corpses, talking quietly. The waking dead. The atmosphere is optimistic weariness. Those with yet-uncrushed spirits attempt to cheer up their vomiting, cramping comrades. Our other two tandem teams look solid and enthusiastic. The couple from Colorado is crushing it. Ryan Trebon comes flying up Dixie Mountain, sits down on a chair and says, “Fuck my life!”

This isn’t going to end well.

Sal is attempting to pull off a rally. He downs a Coke and some water but leaves the sandwich I hand him half eaten.

I recall my own brushes with serious bonking and his stinging advice, “It’s all in your head! You have to be stronger than your body.”

I decide not to offer this particular form of encouragement at this moment in time.

We pedal away. Dixie Mountain awaits.

Read Part Three: Pour My Ashes in Slate Olson’s Coffee

Related posts:

1. The Littlest Caribou Rides Again: A (non)Race Report
2. There are Only So Many Matches (Banana Belt 3 Race Report)
3. Rapha Gentleman’s Race: the Ladies’ Take on Things

I have learned to speak and understand Sicilian, a strange dialect of the Italian language.

I have left him for other cities and then found him again in new landscapes.

For this man I’ve learned to be more tidy, to be quieter, to feel the pull of roots at my wayward gypsy feet. I have stopped eating out of pots and pans, learned to cook food that is more civilized and eat it from plates and bowls with silverware. I have learned to feel emotions for old Italian automobiles that never run. I have purchased houses specifically because they have garages for these automobiles.

In return, I’ve asked him to stretch and bend and imagine bigger things and take risks that terrify him.

Two days ago, I asked him to ride 123 miles on a tandem bicycle with me and he said yes.

Love makes fools and this Italian boy is no exception.

Here’s what happened.

Tandem bicycles arrived by trains. Long ones with heart-stopping wheel-bases and beautiful “B”s emblazoned on the front. A man called Bilenky sent a few emails, a man named Bob showed up at my house, and a lady named Natalie put on a multi-colored cycling kit.

This is Stephen Bilenky on the cover of a crazy Japanese bike magazine that my friend Brett gave to me.

By the time my head stopped spinning, there were three custom tandems loaded into the back of my truck and we were headed for wine country.

This story sounds sweet and lovely so far but isn’t. Trust me on that.

Important background: I have never ridden a tandem.

We drive to Forest Grove and park at a winery on a sloping hillside. The morning is cool and bright. Slate Olson greets us. He’s lean and blue-eyed and charming and he hugs me. I should have sucker punched him right then, but I didn’t know any better. I hug him back, chat with friends, stuff jersey pockets, imagine greatness and make last minute adjustments.

Start time is 9:00am. We’re going to own the world. We’re going to climb gravel roads. We’re going to attack Oregon countryside and be shiny.

Nothing can stop us.

For the record, this is not a real race and none of this ever happened.

This is all make-believe. I love you and I’m Alice and I’m going down the rabbit hole. If only I had a pill to make me smaller.

Glorious Beginnings

We are a team of six. Six semi-strangers on three tandem bicycles. The third duo arrives with 12 minutes to spare after locking their keys in the car that morning.

No worries. We don’t bat an eye. They chamois up and ride. Slate Olson says a few words and sends us down the road. There are cheers married with trepidation. Slate Olson looks positively giddy.

I should know better than to trust a blue-eyed devil.

We’re the first team to leave. Six people, three beautiful Bilenky Cycles bicycles, 123 miles, three gravel climbs, one unforgivable bout of momentary insanity on the part of Natalie Ramsland.

She’s the reason I’m here.

I’m a big girl with a lot to say so you think I could hold my own against 105 pounds of persuasion, but you’d be wrong. That bitch has mind powers. It took her three days to convince me to do this stupid race and it’s possible I might regret every single one of them.

I look over to my right and there she is, smiling. She will smile for the entire fucking race. I’m serious. The whole race. That woman is indefatigable. Funny and amazing and smart and… chipper. It’s inconceivable.

Here’s what happens when tandems find flat ground: they fly.

And so we soared. 30 miles out and just a little bit of up and we’re feeling it. The magic. The good stuff.

We’re going to win.

Not really, but we’re amazed that none of the teams staggered behind us have passed us yet so we pedal with renewed vigor. We’re not supposed to win and we know it. We’re supposed to suffer and be mind-blowing and make it look good. We’re here on a mission. We are are the Bilenky Cycles Tandem Assault Squad and we’re going to fuck you up.

Not really. But you’re getting the point, right?

Pittsburg Road

They warned us about the first gravel section and so we hold our breath and make the left hand turn and start to climb.

On the front of the bike, Sal grinds out a 65RPM cadence. I comply (having little choice ) with the mashing and sit in for the mayhem.

Pittsburg Road is not gravel. It’s made of rocks. Big rocks.

We find sufficient lines and pound away, occasionally sliding down an unfriendly camber, finding balance in the gutter and reapplying power. The sun is starting to heat up the earth. In front of me, salt lines blossom on the back of the Sicilian’s jersey.

I look down and become acutely aware of my role as the motor. “More power!” he says and I pour myself into the pedals and pretend I’m doing leg workouts. I want to say, “Let’s spin!” but who wants a backseat driver on a tandem? No one. So I shut my mouth and press with angry mashing.

We pass two riders from another team changing their own flat. They over-inflate the tube. Pop! Tire carnage abounds. Our luck so far is good.

Below my nose is a top-tube and below that a water bottle. I cover both with a constant stream of sweat. I feel good. This is going well. We’re going to be ok.

I think.

Rock Surfing

Our gravel climbing debut on Pittsburg Road is encouraging and we arrive at the top together, take on a little water and point the big, long bikes down the other side.

Descending gravel is an art in any case, but on a tandem it becomes a kind of terrifying poetry.

I can sense the Sicilian’s stress and try to relax and make myself into the lightest 135 pound heap of body-weight possible. (He’ll tell me later that I did not accomplish this.)

How do you steer 345 pounds of fast-moving bicycle down a road made of rocks and boulders? Very carefully.

Pop!

The Colorado duo, Jake and Sarai, have the honor of the team’s first flat tire. The change is speedy and efficient and we’re rolling within minutes. Around a swooping corner, bike sliding left-ways and over, three tandems back in action.

Pop!

Jake and Sarai again. Another quick change and we’re off. We pass girls from the Ironclad Team bent over wheels, pumping. We pass women from the Rapha team crouched over sidelined rigs, running pretty fingers over their tire lining. We wave and fly recklessly down, riding the fine edge between control and total annihilation. We pass scattered Veloforma riders in white kits looked flustered and furious as they toil over flat tires.

Pop!

No, really. Three. Jake and Sarai again. This time, we don’t just change the tube – we install a new tire with better sidewalls. We take stock of our tubes and patches. We have three more tubes and four patches total. No more spare tires. We can get 7 more flats and still finish. There are 17 miles of gravel left to ride.

Unraveling

Tandems are funny things. I spend half the day (the flat half) singing their praises and half the day (the climbing half) convinced that two people were not meant to ride the same bike at the same time.

In the stoker position, my job is to deliver power and stay on top of navigation. Up ahead of me, Sal’s job is everything else. Steering, cadence, gear selection, drag brake, handling. Everything.

His failure to execute will put us both in danger. He knows it and I know it.

At the bottom of the first gravel descent, I can see fatigue in his eyes. Mental exhaustion to be sure, but something else is there. Around us, the air is heating up. If it isn’t 100 degrees, it will be soon. And it’s probably going to be hotter than that when all is said and done. We’re not used to this.

Drink, Sicilian! He’s not eating or drinking enough. I know because I’m keeping track.

Eat, Shecko, eat!

There are two reasons I call him Shecko, which is the Sicilian word for donkey (or ass, depending on how you’re feeling). Firstly, he’s a work-horse – literally. He has dragged my ass over hundreds of roads in Oregon, Arizona and California. His draft is my saving grace.

But as strong and useful as a Shecko can be, they’re also stubborn – and the Sicilian is no exception.

Eat, Shecko! Drink!

He’s not listening and none of the food I offer him is appealing. His kit is crusted with salt, face creased with worry. At mile 65 I can already tell we have a problem. Sitting on the back of the tandem, the bike translates not only his weary cadence, but also an uneasy sinking feeling.

Lashed together in suffering like a pair of pitiful, mutant bicycle siamese twins, we pedal on with our group of six and turn our tires in the direction of Otto Miller while the hot, breeze-less day tightens its grip.

Read Part Two: Paint My Coffin Pink

Related posts:

1. Rapha Gentleman’s Race: the Ladies’ Take on Things
2. The Take-Aways: Lessons from Race Number One
3. The Littlest Caribou Rides Again: A (non)Race Report

Related posts:

1. Photos: Asphalt, Steak and Corpses
2. Short Track for Rookies: Dedicated to the Speedy Recovery of Colby Brooks
3. Recovery 102: On Ice Baths and Other Shenanigans

Here’s how it happens.

I wake up in the morning and put on a fairly almost-brand-new pair of Sidis. I lash a temporary home to the back of a heavy steel bike with a long wheel base. I pedal out of Portland.

Along the way, I learn how to start the heavy bike from a stop without kicking the rear panniers. I learn to maneuver it gently to keep it upright. I learn – slowly – how to climb out of the saddle without creating an agonizing swing of momentum. I learn to stop gritting my teeth when logging trucks rolled by.

I stop at a General Store in Barton, Oregon and buy chocolate milk, a corn dog, a bag of cashews and a pack of gum. Then I think, “I’m doing it. I’m touring.” Outside I sit on a picnic bench and make a protein shake out of the chocolate milk. It is terrible. The corn dog is worse.

Two hours later I am somewhere in the middle of a national forest climbing a grade that refuses to reveal itself. The road neither rises nor falls, it just goes on and on forever without drama. I tick off a steady cadence and marvel at how a bike can move at 5 miles per hour with such persistance.

Five miles per hour. That doesn’t get you anywhere very far, very fast.

I make myself pedal for an hour exactly and then stop. There is a large log in the shade where I lean the bike before sitting down beside it.

I’m almost out of water and have no idea how much is left to climb so I take small sips and convince myself to keep going.

People plan these things – I know that’s true. People pore over maps and make route plans with way-points and calculated refueling stops and perhaps scenic, entertaining interludes. I didn’t bother with any of that – I just started riding.

How complicated can it be to ride to Bend, Oregon? There are big, busy roads in between those two towns. I know people in both. I am a phone call away from rescue. This is not exciting, this is just plain crazy pedaling.

Highway 242 through the Willamette National Forest is quiet and narrow and winding. I’ve ridden these roads once before as part of a brevet that involved PB&J sandwiches, a gang of friends, a lunch-box strapped to a carbon fiber bicycle, and a vintage cooler hidden in the woods.

They’re different when you’re alone.

I’m used to ticking off, maybe, 17 or 19 miles every hour, depending on whether I’m alone or in a group.

Five is crushing. Crushing.

It doesn’t matter how many times I remind myself that I am on a 65 pound touring bike or how many physics equations I do in my head to convince myself that the power output really ought to be completely phenomenal regardless. Five miles every hour?

I’ll never get to Bend.

I spend 90 minutes squinting for road signs. Road signs signify civilization and progress. Road signs will mean that this crawling pace will come to an end. Light through trees look like yellow diamond signs. I hallucinate green signs which might indicate a campground that has water. I stop at the river and fill up my bottles though I don’t have a purifier. I dampen a bandanna and wear it around my neck. I squint into the sun.

Mary, I’ll Be OK

The hill ends, of course. They always do. And after a series of false summits, I hit the real one and ahead of me there is a mountain with a winding road that goes down.

It goes down! The pig bike, I discover, loves to go downhill.

I coast like a kid and watch the miles tick over effortlessly. You owe me this! I think. And then I remember that I’m wrong.

“Thank you!” I say out loud. These roads owe me nothing, so I should be grateful for what I get. “Thank you!”

75 miles in and already with the revelations, Swift? Sheesh, this is going to be a long trip.

The downhill sweep leads to hippies. Hippies who are hitch-hiking. Hippies who have water.

Saved.

Then there’s Detroit.

Rolling into town after 50 miles of Capital N Nothing is almost religious. There’s a blue-green lake to the right filled with people on boats who are diving.

I want to jump in.

At the gas station and General Store the woman forgets that I gave her a five and not three dollars so I lose two bucks in the process of procuring water. It’s not worth the argument so I take my $5 bottle, ask her where I can find the best burger in town and then pedal there.

Inside the Corner Post I find Mary.

For the record, my mother’s name is Mary and, while perhaps half the world is also named Mary, this coincidence still managed to strike me.

I am the only customer so Mary asks if it’s alright to visit with me a bit and we chat about my journey.

“You’re traveling alone? Isn’t it awful?”

“It’s actually kind of nice. It’s quiet.”

“But aren’t you afraid?”

“I’m being careful. And counting on the universe – and several years as a self-defense instructor – to take care of me. I know there are risks, but I want to be able to move around freely in the world. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?”

She assures me she does not, but feels compelled to remind me about the guy who took the girls from Portland a while back and brought them to Detroit specifically to rape them.

“You’ve got to be very careful!” she urges. Then she helps me figure out where I will camp later and brings me a very big and tasty bacon cheeseburger and an extra Dr. Pepper before helping me refill all the water bottles that did not get filled with the $5 supply from the general store.

“I wish I could freeze these for you!” she says.

I like Mary.

It’s getting late but I keep pedaling, hoping to tackle some of the grade that will murder me all the way from Detroit to the summit of Santiam Pass tomorrow. I make it about 8 miles, see a campsite called Whispering Falls and decide that sounds just lovely.

At campsite 6 I put up my tent, change into compression recovery tights and a wool base-layer, organize things for the morning, sit in the sand on my own private river bank, and then sleep like I’ve been kicked in the head. In the morning my North Face Puffy Jacket pillow is covered with saliva, my phone is dead, my alarm didn’t go off, I feel half-alive and I am glowing from the inside out.

I am in a fabric shelter, still sitting with my feet tucked into the sleeping bag, boiling water over a camp stove to make one-cup coffee with a re-usable fliter. There is a river to my right. The Long Haul Trucker is still sleeping next to the tent. Compression tights are hot. Coffee is strong. Panniers are heavy. Everything needs to be taken apart and packed up again.

Everything is so simple. It’s easy. Straight-forward. Streamlined. My life is in these bags or spread out on a picnic table.

I wash my arms, face and neck in the river, re-pack the bike and shove off up the road. On my way out, I wave at two older couples who are talking outside their motorhomes.

Electricity – what an amazing luxury! My phone is dead and people are worried about me so I have to pedal fast.

Eight miles later I find Marion Forks Restaurant, a bowl of hot oatmeal, a sausage patty the size of my face, and a power strip.

Electricity!

I’m telling you, it’s brilliant.

I plug in various devices and a young woman walks through the front door and says, “Oh, you’re that girl!”

Guilty as charged in most cases, but clueless in the particular moment.

“You ate the restaurant my mother works in yesterday… Mary! She told me all about you last night. She is worried about you!”

Hey, Mary. Don’t worry – I’ll be ok. Promise

To Be Continued.

PS: Blog updates will lag a little bit, but for real-time adventure updates, just follow me on Twitter. As long as I can find a little range, I’ll tweet a photo or two.

(In the bathroom at the Marion Forks Restaurant)

Related posts:

1. Keep Pedaling
2. Cycling with the Sicilian: 5 Keys to Pedaling with a Partner
3. Pedaling Ladies: Get Vocal. Here’s Your Chance to State Your Case

Photo info: Shot the lede photo last weekend at the Cascade Classic Stage Race in Bend, Oregon. This little cutie girl was happy to be wearing Mara Abbott’s QOM jersey. Abbott let her borrow the jersey to wear in her kiddie competition!

Women and Bikes: Bring It

Oh man, if there’s one thing I love it’s seeing more women on bikes. There have been some super awesome events and happenings going on this summer that I’ve neglected to tell you about and for that I’m sorry. BUT there’s still a pretty sweet lineup of chicks+bikes type shit coming down the pipe.

This is what I know about. Got more? Hit me in comments so we can share the love.

And we are just rolling in the love, aren’t we? Yeah!

Kick Ass Events for Women at Bike N Hike

Erin over at Bike N Hike is doing a bang up job of putting together some cool resources, classes, rides and events for women. Check out the basic information below and feel free to email her for details and more information.

7/31-8/1: Summer of Trails  10am at the trailhead
Tour de Tillamook, reserve a demo bike ( there are a limited number available), ride the trails, get involved with trail work.  Check out our website to sign up for a bike.

8/3: Basic Repair Class 7pm
This is open to both men and women.  This class will teach the basics of changing a tire, cleaning your chain and other scheduled maintenance.

8/7: Novice Women’s Ride 8:30am
Please stay posted as we may have to cancel this ride

8/11: Ladies Night 7pm
We will recover some basic stretching, core strength and spinal flexibility for on the bike comfort.  We will also be discussing bike fit.  Refreshments will be served.

8/14: Summer of Trails 10am
Meeting at Sandy Ridge for a day of trail riding.  Please sign up on our website if you would like to demo a mtn bike.

8/21: Novice Women’s Ride 8:30
This will be a no drop ride that will leave from the Portland location at 8:30 am.  The pace of the ride is set by the riders that show up, we ride at the pace of the slowest rider.  Please make sure to bring a helmet and water.  The ride will last approximately 1.-2 hours.

8/24: Basic Women’s Repair Class  7pm
Women only are invited to learn to change your tire, clean you chain and to hear about other regular maintenance that pertains to your bicycle. (Portland location)

Update: Title Nine Series Canceled

Title Nine Cycling Series: Remaining Events

The Weekenders’ Cycling Series for Women is a series of clinics and rides designed for the beginning to intermediate bike rider. This will be an introductory course focused on getting women on their bikes and comfortable riding them! The series includes three consecutive Thursday evenings of fun off-bike learning sessions and three Sunday morning rides to put what you’re learning to the road.

Sunday August 1: Let’s Ride, Part 2. We’ll take a tour of Portland’s most popular bike avenues and paths within a 20-mile loop of the city center. We’ll
break into small groups in order to ride safely and talk about urban riding skills.

Thursday August 5th: How to change a flat with guest speaker Tori Bortman of Gracie’s Wrench. BYOW (Bring your own wheel). Learn hands-on how to fix a flat, and the equipment you need to carry with you on every ride.

Sunday August 8: Let’s Ride, Part 3. Ascending and descending skills are at the heart of safe and fun riding. Using the roads of beautiful Mt. Tabor we’ll teach the fundamentals of riding up and down hills safely and efficiently.

Related posts:

1. “Real” Women and What We Want from Cycling Gear
2. Cycling with the Sicilian: 5 Keys to Pedaling with a Partner
3. Tour de St. Honore Event this Sunday will Benefit the BTA

Summer’s been like pow! Yellow rays and warm breeze and wrapped in sweat and light and heat and adventure. So the world lights up with long days and the people come outside and run around crazy-style like they’re let free after a long detention.

It’s madness and the manic suits me just fine. At least for the moment.

I’m in Love

The heat of days comes on strong and in the summer we get tanner and leaner and more beautiful. My head turns in a million directions and at the end I fall hard. Goofy style.

It’s a city crush. A town, really. A little town in the high desert filled with bikes and clocks that run a little slower. Smiling people who drink too much happy water. Rivers full of my favorite Veloforma cycling ladies. Crits that circumvent high schools or downtown blocks or little shiny neighborhoods. Kids in bikinis on sidewalks. Candy shops with double chocolate malt balls and those old-style root beer chewies that you just can’t find anymore.

Business meetings begin with smiles and hugs and end on river park benches.

I can’t tell you why it happened because who can articulate giddiness? Who can analyze elation?

Screw it. Just smile.

Portland’s powerful fierce and filled with smart kids and creative brains and culinary amazingness. But when I point my truck at the big mountain in the east and hang a right to meander south toward Bend, I get light in the heart region.

There’s just something about it.

And there’s more of that something in my future.

A Small Race in a Hexagonal Country

So, there’s this bike race. It happens in France, where – in case you weren’t aware – there’s a place where the women wear no pants.

Anyway, there’s this bike race and it’s full of superhuman boys who are arranged (muscularly speaking) to look like men. They pedal throughout the entire country, attempting to best one another over the course of days.

It’s amazing and very, very long. Every morning I wake up and follow them on a computer screen. I’m cheering, but they probably can’t hear me.

I like the large Norwegian and the one called Jens the best. After that, it’s a Romance Novel Model called Fabian and then a little boy-faced Frenchman named Voeckler. They climb with snaking motions and grace – or sometimes mash their way over cobbles in big gears with mouths agape. Some days they are monsters and other days they float.

Either way, it’s a thing to see.

For all of July, I’ll wake up just to see them move and celebrate and cry.

All Kinds of Summer Touring

I’m out of here. Which is to say that all year long I’ve been hoarding the days of August like some kind of secret treasure. The plan is loose and probably reckless: get on the bike and start pedaling. Stop to eat and sleep and dream and possibly identify cloud-animals in the sky.

Rumor has it my rig will be pointed North, with an eye on Canada. But, truthfully, only the bike knows where we’re going – and she’s not talking.

When I get back it’s cross season.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Related posts:

1. Dear Diary 003: Black Magic and Sharpee Pens
2. Dear Diary 001: Golden Streets and Lemmons
3. Dear Diary 005: Bicycle Grocery Avenger and Coming Home

Ready to get your Frenchy time on?

There’s a new kid in town when it comes to watching the Tour de France and they’ve got everything you need for a solid morning (or evening) of spandex super-glory spectating.

The Globe Bar and Cafe just opened in SE Portland (2045 SE Belmont, near 21st) and they’re opening their doors early just for eager TDF viewers who are hungry for a nice omelet, fittingly French baguette with jam, hearty mug of coffee (Nossa Familia), glass of champagne or all of the above!

Join us Saturday (tomorrow! tomorrow!) at 8:30am to watch the opening prologue live (projected onto a huge 10′ wide screen). Bring an appetite (see specials below), your devil horns and that crazy maillot jaune fever. The Globe will open at 6:00am for early stages.

TDF Morning Specials

$5 Omelettes
$1 Baguette with jam
(More extensive menu available)

Not into the crack of dawn thing? Not willing to miss your team ride on Saturday? Have one of those pesky day jobs? No problem. They’ll be showing all repeats at 5:00pm.

TDF for Happy Hour Peeps

•    Evening showings will feature wines and cheeses representative of the region that the race is moving through.
•    OBRA Members who show their racing license receive $2 off their first drink! (Non-alcoholic drinks excluded)

Hope to see you there!

Check out the TDF viewing schedule at The Globe Cafe.

Related posts:

1. Where to watch: The Tour in Portland
2. How to Track Every Second of the 2009 Tour de France
3. Into the Great Outdoors with Team Columbia-HTC: TdF Mania