Dalles Mountain 60

Mileage: 58

A little less than two year's ago, I found this intriguing post on a Long-Haul Trucker's user group that I had been lurking on:

the dalles mountain 60 - april 24, 2010 - the dalles, oregon 
Come join us for our inaugural race out of the Dalles, Oregon.  I'll
be sporting my LHT for the race - as I do for all my rides. 
 - Donnie


At this point, I had no idea what gravel racing nor had I ever ridden a bicycle over thirty miles. But I was getting tired of the same-old OBRA scene and I was excited for an opportunity to put my newly built-up Trucker to good use.

I've always had a hard time moderating myself on Friday nights so when I showed up in The Dalles Saturday morning I was propped awake by strong coffee and the obnoxious metal that I had blasted on the stereo all the way from Portland. I saw a couple people with bicycles in the parking lot. I figured they were likely going to be in the race. I parked next to them and started setting up my bicycle. A guy in a bright jacket sauntered over and introduced himself as Donnie. I quickly learned that the other two cyclists setting up their bikes were the entire rest of the field. Donnie was out with an injury and would be "officiating" and cheering us on.

We strung out long before we even reached the gravel. With the lady in blue dropping back and me chasing the lead guy. I finally caught him on the ascent, either because he had a single-speed or because he felt sorry for me. Either way, it was probably good that I caught him because I almost certainly would have ended up lost, cue-sheet notwithstanding.

We ended up taking a wrong turn, anyway, at the bottom of Highway 97 and, by the time we reached Biggs, the lady in blue was there. By this time, I had gotten their names. Mr. Singlespeed was Joe Partridge (I was to learn later that Joe has some serious long-distance races under his belt). And the lady in blue was Sue Marcoe, another accomplished rider, and Donnie's girlfriend at the time.

By this time we hit the final road section back to the Dalles we were battling a nasty headwind and any sense of being in a competitive race had long past. We took turns pulling into the wind and I found this to be an exhilarating experience. I've never been a roadie or, at that point, much of a cyclist in general, and this was my first time riding in a paceline. I loved the feeling of camaraderie that working together produces.

When we reached the Dalles my whole body, absolutely unaccustomed to distance cycling, was crying out in pain. But I felt awesome. I was riding a high that didn't leave me for days. I had just experienced a very cool thing.

Anyway, fast-forward two years. I am driving out to The Dalles to do this race for the third time. I am just as sleep-deprived as I was the other two times, though for different reasons this time. On this drive I have company, at least, in the form of Jason Britton who is a great guy to talk to, whether about bike-related things or not.

There is the usual pre-race panic as I try to do last-minute preparation on my bike and get food and water down and wait in line for the rest-room. Oh yeah, there are about a hundred more riders here today than there were at the inaugural Dalles Mountain. I say hello to everyone I know and, though I didn't think on it much at the time, all of these people are friends I have met in the past several years. We've bonded together over a shared love of bicycles.

On the pavement, out to Dalles Mountain Road, I realize that the gear I had chosen for my single-speed felt just about right. I am not the brightest bulb in the box but it didn't take much extrapolation to figure out that if 42x16 was comfortable on the relatively flat road, it would not be comfortable on the climb up Dalles Mountain, much less the ridiculously-graded Old Moody.

There are a few moments of dread on the climb, as people spun past my while I tried to grunt and stair-step my bicycle up the hill. I dread that, by a singly stupid decision on my part, I've ruined my day and possibly made completion of the route impossible.

I make it to the top of Dalles Mountain, though, and hit the descent and then the pavement with gusto. The day is somewhat cold but we've left the rain behind in Hood River and it is gorgeous. I realize that I may have made the ride more difficult for myself but I was going to finish and I was going to have fun.

I ride with Aaron for a little while, until we reach Biggs. I have to stop, not so much because my body needs to, but because I've promised myself this respite and it would be psychologically hurtful to not sit at the market and munch on a pizza-pocket and three large jo-jos. As mentally fortifying as this stop is, I hate to watch all the cyclists trickle past. So I shove the Corn Nuts into my jersey pocket and jump back on the my bike.

I catch up to Jens Voigt's Army on the road but it feels a little awkward trying to mix into their paceline so I soon drop off the back. Then comes Old Moody and I am off the bicycle. One thing I notice, though, is that I'm not going significantly slower than the riders hammering their steeds up the hill. And the opportunity to stretch out my back feels great.

Immediately after my first Dalles Mountain ride, I started to carry music with me, for that much-needed boost after the real pain has begun and the end is still nowhere in sight. This time is was somewhere on the gravel rollers above Fifteenmile Road. As I put new batteries into the speaker-case, another rider came by and I jumped on my bike to chase him down. He was from Team Cthulhu and we ended up pulling each other back into town, thus putting a satisfying cap on the third Dalles Mountain 60.

I take every possible opportunity to mention to other Velodirt riders that "I was there for the first Velodirt ride, ever". I'm quite proud that I have raced, and finished, every Velodirt ride. I doubt that I will always hold the same religious fervor for Velodirt. I hope that Velodirt continues for a long time, and I would be happy to assist in the production should Donnie ever begin to burn-out. But people move and evolve and find new things to keep them entertained. So, five or ten years from now, I may be doing something totally different. But, right now, the Velodirt rides are some of the most eagerly-anticipated events of my year. In no small part did Velodirt save my Bicycling Soul.

Not only Sue but Joe was out there again, too. Though nobody ever saw him. Because he was doing three laps in preparation for the Trans-Iowa.

Maryhill Loops. Photo stolen from Ryan King.

2010 NW Gentlemen's Race

I was supposed to ride a century today. Instead, I am sitting inside and screwing around and digging through old computer files.


I found this write-up I did following the 2010 Rapha Gentlemen's Race. It was a hot day and I was severely under-prepared for the ride. Though we got cut from the last portion of the course (as did most of the other teams), all six of the Velodirt riders that started the race rode into Chris King Headquarters together, an experience that left me greatly satisfied. 
 

August 15, 2010

Somewhere on Otto Miller road. I glance down at my computer. I seem to be averaging just under 7 mph. I lost my cue sheet, with its elevation profile, some time ago but I seem to remember people talking about the “two ten-mile climbs”. No magic math can get me past the reality that I will be on this road, the second climb, for another hour. And after that … but … I can't worry about what's after. There's just this gravel road that I must get to the top of. Every bend offers the possibility of a flatter road just beyond. And, as I round each bend, I see only more climbing.

Sweat gathers on my visor. And falls down in big drops and splashes on my handlebars and on my stem and drops down to the dirty ground underneath. A couple of riders pass me. Up ahead, one rider is stopped, straddling his bike, bent over his handlebars and his teammate stands nearby, looking anxious. But the road is mostly empty. I think. I'm no longer noticing much. I'm in a cave by myself. I stare down at the gravel slowly going past, with occasional glances ahead to ensure that I pick the best line, the most worn part, where there will be less gravel to sink into. Corners require the most concentration, where a bad line can send you sliding down the camber. The most important thing is to not waste energy. If you are struggling to keep your bike upright then you are wasting energy.

It is quiet. Peaceful. The only sounds are birds chirping and my labored breathing and the soft crunch of my tires slowly rolling over the gravel road.

At some point a large Sprinter van rolls up alongside me. It looks like a team van to me and I expect them to roll past. Then I notice that the passenger window is rolled down and the guy in the passenger seat is staring at me.

“How are you doing?” the man asks.

“Oh, I'm fine.” I realize now that this is the Rapha van, probably acting as a sweeper. No matter how awful I feel right now I absolutely do not want to get pulled from this race. I will not get pulled. “Yeah, I'm great. How are you?” I say, and I realize as I say it that I sound like a heat-addled dope.

There is a pause that seems to last forever. Then the guy says something that sounds like “Have fun” and the van moves on.

I am annoyed that they wished “fun” upon me, if that is indeed what he said. This is, obviously, nothing close to fun. But I didn't get yanked, that's the important thing. I grin wildly, stupidly. Absurdly happy that I have pulled off this conspiracy. Not even my teammates know that I could count the number of times I have ridden over 50 miles on one hand. Nobody knows that I'm not even supposed to be here!

I can't seem to catch my breath. I shift up and stand up in my pedals, cranking up the hill like climbing a staircase. I sit back down, downshift, and spin. Nothing helps. My breath is ragged. My heart is racing. I take a drink but the effort to get the bottle out of its cage, to swallow the tepid water, to replace the bottle, these actions make me more flustered, my breathing more desperate. During the entire climb I have had an understanding with myself that I would not stop.

Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.

I consider this mantra carefully. Why not stop? Because you will not start again. Well, why not? Why wouldn't I start again? This is a challenge. You must overcome it. You must not stop. I will overcome this challenge. I will stop and then I will continue and I will get to the top. Don't be weak! Keep pedaling! Whatever. I'm stopping. But you'll get rubber legs. You'll puke. You won't get back- Shut up. Just shut up.

At a slight bend in the road I find a nice, shady spot. I lean my bike against this lovely, shade-providing tree. I glance around self-consciously and urinate beside the tree. Not much urine comes and what urine I do expel is orangish yellow. I've been drinking all the water I can stand. It just seems to leak out. As my soggy jersey affirms. I begin to think Aaron was onto something, dumping salt into his water bottles.

I stand for a minute. Wiping sweat from my forehead, leaning against the tree, getting my breathing under control. I keep glancing down the road. I don't anyone to pass me while I am standing here like a lunk.

Finally, I am breathing normally and there is no longer any reason to stay. I push the bike forward and leap on and mash on the pedals and soon I have achieved my normal rhythm and I am going up the hill and my breathing is under control.

Somewhere near the top I remember that I had brought tiny, tinny speakers and an mp3-player. I had pictured busting it out as my teammates labored with me up a climb. They would be astonished and then overjoyed that I had lugged speakers all this way. And we would all rock out as we conquered the climb …

Anyway, there is nobody around. Only a lone rider up in the distance. I pull out the player and queue up the White Stripes and shove the speakers into my jersey pocket.

Dead leaves and the dirty ground …

I am energized by the music. Without extra consideration or effort my legs pump harder and my bike moves faster.

… If you can hear a piano fall …

I gain on the other rider and then pass him. He says something to me that I don't understand. I hope I'm not being obnoxious, blasting music out of shitty speakers on this otherwise peaceful day. But I do feel sort of awesome. And this music is awesome. And I am rocking up this hill.

.. And every breath that is in your lungs …

Then, before the song is even finished, I am at the top. Bikers are milling around a tent with sandwiches, water, and cold sodas. And Tom is telling me that the we've been cut. The race is over.

Worst Brevet of the Year Ride - February 11th

Twelve ladies and one lucky dude, me.

Route map.

Had to do a gut-check when the ladies turned to descend Springville instead of taking the nice quick way home. Some kid hopped out of a car with a skateboard and followed us down. I was topping 40 mph on some sections and that kid stayed with me pretty much the whole way, until the first roller. I was impressed.

Started to really feel my right knee. I'm thinking about various remedies, like foam rolling or bike fitting. Knowing me, though, I'm just gonna ignore it until it becomes a huge problem. As my friends and I are saying more and more these days, "Sucks to get old."

Rode through some mud on Council Crest, just to be Dirty.

Mileage: 61

Otto Miller - February 4th

Got a late, lazy start and headed up Dirty 30 towards Scappoose. Everyone regrouped at the grocery store then we headed for ol' Otto. The climb split the group up pretty good and, after a short break at the top, a few of us started back to town. Started mixing it up a bit with John Howe, playing cat-and-mouse on the rollers of Skyline. I was a bit too exuberant and really busted my own ass. Felt great, though.

Ridin' Dirty 30

Mileage: 60-ish? (I really gotta get another bike-computer).

Skull Hollow - January 14th and 15th

Rode around Grey Butte with Joey, Rob, Ed, and some other people. Tried to find Smith Rock. Failed. Did some off-trail hike-a-bike. Gave up on Smith and got back to the car right as the sun started to dip and the desert became ass-cold.

Next day, hit up Phil's with Ed for some chill swoops. After the previous day, we took it pretty easy. Also, it was cold.

Mileage: 40?

Intro Post

Yet another blog about riding bicycles. How boring. Sorry. This is mostly just a self-motivation tool, to track how many training rides I do this year.