Or, how the OC gave the smack-down to SD
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times – probably the greatest opening to any story – ever, and the end of any real writing that you will see for the next six days – but the perfect opening to the Day-1 blog.
So, for those few out there joining us for the first time, let me set the stage. Sixteen former athletes, all in the down-hill slide to their “Golden Years”, dressed in matching customs and acting like they’re in their teens again. Two poor suckers we talked into driving vans and dealing with a never ending litany of “can you ____” ...“would you _____”.
Add to this, 500 miles in 5-days, and a daily prayer to the gods of the Pacific Northwest for the rain stay away – yeah, good luck with that one.
After a night in Portland of herding cats, fixing clothing issues, passing out phone numbers, and talking smack – we met in the lobby of the downtown Hilton - they never really knew what they were saying yes to – loaded the vans with enough luggage to make Thurston and Lovie Hall look like homeless waifs, and got ready for the grand depart. But first things first, we had to block off the road for the group shot – there was only five or six screams of indignation for assumed eye blinking or turned heads, and then we’re off. Luckily, it was Sunday, the streets were nearly empty and Portland’s finest were busy keeping the homeless, and well pierced street kids from camping out at Pioneer Square.
Carter’s organization and planning were stellar, as always (to include arranging for both Clinton and Obama to fly in and wish us bon Voyage, under the slim excuse of the Oregon Primary) – we blasted down Hwy 30 toward Astoria. It was flat, it was fast, and it hadn’t been swept in thepast decade. After the third flat in nearly as many miles, we finally turned onto the Scappose-Variona Hwy. Thank-god, Wayne “suggested” that we might want to adjust the route to a little quieter set of roads, to which Carter described as a couple of gentle rollers, but more about that later.
(shameless disclaimer, the following paragraph is “stolen from The Sunday Oregonian Sports section describing Big Brown’s dominance of the Preakness– but I never claimed to be all that imaginative)The move bordered on outrageous, a sustained display of speed, power and authority that left the stunned field of riders in the first climb of the day looking as though they were in a different race.
It started off with Tom attacking at the base of the climb, Paul – better known as the ‘Tard – jumped first, followed by a couple of the SD boys, just itching for a fight. Now if you had ever watched a cat toying with a mouse, you could visualize the scene. The SD chasing and getting close, the “Tard turns and looks, he smiles, he downshifts and he pulls away yet again. For the next 4-5 miles this continued: chase, smile, accelerate away. Now, normally I could live with this, but, Jesus the guy is 6’4”and 205 lbs – NO ONE that big is supposed to climb that fast!!!!!!!!
It was about this point that I realized there was a plan to the OC madness – and a complete lack of intelligence to the SD thinking – it went something like this. OC attacks, SD chases it back, a different OC attacks, SD chases back, repeat for the next 49-miles. At this point, we finally rolled into a wide spot in the road called Birkenfeld, that held one business – a combination restaurant/liquor. Carter had played his cagey hand and rolled through the photo op, so he was sprawled on the bench – the remnants of an ice-cold Coke and a slew of empty Zagnut wrappers piling up around his feet.
Now in the school of cagey, Carter could learn a lesson or two from Bobbo, who had stealthy rolled his bike (after giving the nod to his cohorts) and rolled off down the road. The poor SD, lovable lunkheads all - but clearly not too smart. There we were, slapping each other on the backs and talking about the adventure so far – completely oblivious to the carnage that was about to happen. Suddenly, it dawned on every one that it had become awfully quiet. Now normally, I would have been crushed – they had left me, they smelled blood in the water and put the hammer down. But all was not lost – we had James up the road to keep some sense of pride, and the ‘Tard back with us – he can pull it all back together – the day was not lost.
Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out that way. No one could stay on the ‘Tards wheel, Carter was doing his best imitation of a Bulimic Schoolgirl as he decorated the side of the van with last night’s pasta, Richie-Rich developed leg cramps that left him in the middle of the road flopping in pain while the logging trucks blew their air horns in appreciation, and James was beat into submission and spit off the back. The OC “Fab-Five” rolled into the lobby of the Astoria Holiday Inn Express: Bobbo, Jeff, Tom, Rick – and worst of all, the ‘Tard, who started all the craziness in the first place".
No worries, tomorrows another day – let’s hope SD can redeem some pride.
Day-1
99.5 miles down 400.5 to go
3738 in climbing
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