I awoke this morning in Florence, turned on the NBC and heard the good news – slight chance of drizzle, clearing in the afternoon, 60 in Corvallis for our arrival. Now, since we are all SoCal boys, a slight chance of Drizzle means the occasional drops that if you dodge left or right they’ll miss you altogether. Not here, apparently drizzle means a steady rain, deep pools of water in what passes for a bike lane, and cars and trucks that seem to aim for the puddles just as they pass you by.
Adding insult to injury, it wasn’t enough for nature to go after us, the “bike friendly” drivers were acting out Machine Gun Joe Viterbo; only, in this case, there was no grenade for Tom, James, and the ‘Tard – more on that later.
With the aforementioned “good news” for weather, I suggested that we wait a little later for the start – give the roads a chance to dry out. After everybody nodded like a bobbing Elvis head in the back of rusty beige ’63 Avanti, off to my room I went, innocently anticipating the “team” roll out. With 20-minutes to go, I stepped out of my room and felt like Dr. Robert Neville in the early scenes of The Omega Man, the wind howling through the empty parking lot and a shrieking sound up the road. All was not lost, Bobbo and Rick – my trusty compadres from the previous day had believed in the honesty of the group as well; but the OC had turned on them and launched “Secret Weapon” Ken at 8:05 – :55 minutes before the scheduled roll!
The group was spread out over 10 miles of rain drenched roads, water streaming off glasses and draining out of shoes. Maybe five groups, all sure that they could hold off anyone behind, and roll-up anyone in front. At 21 miles, everyone came back together when Tom volunteered to have a flat – this led to 15 minutes of pictures and comparison’s as to who had more mud caked front and back. After finally feeling the team love – everyone waiting for Tom, we rolled out once again, which is when all Hell broke out. In the vein of no good deed goes unturned, Tom immediately went up the climb – 5 minutes after we rolled back up the road – like the Iron Horse screaming down the track, Casey Jones’ handle no longer on the controls.
So much for team spirit – it was everyman for themselves; with Tom, James and the “Tard riding away, the panic was on. There was no way that Bobbo, Richie and Jeff could ever let this stand. Pandemonium ensued, bikes were everywhere – not a prayer that we could possibly have caught them, but by god, they were intent on trying. The easy recovery day was toast.
Poor Steve, innocently riding alone up ahead – blissfully ignorant as to what was coming. Suddenly the sonic boom startled him as the lead group screamed past. He made a game effort to jump on, which lasted until he released his heart rate had risen faster than the forecast of a barrel of Oil. Not wanting to recreate the galley scene from the original Alien, he bailed off the back and prepared for the next pack. He jumped on with John, Richie and Jeff, and began the climb to the summit. The trucks were waiting at the top – loaded down with Snickers, chips, soda, cookies (the same fine diet that the average American kid was consuming at that very moment (nothing like finely tuned athletes at the peak of their physical power).
While at the truck, Just as Richie talks Steve out of his ice cold Coke, Bobbo and Rick roll up. Stopping for only a second, the two of them prepare to start off again. Richie, in mid sip, pushes the Coke back into Steve’s unsuspecting hands and gives chase – loyalty in this crowd, clearly goes only as far as the next faster group.
Meanwhile, Gentleman Johnny and Kevin had given up on the chase and were rolling along – this would have been fine, were it not for the fact they were both directionally challenged. Missing a key turn they found themselves 5-miles off in the wrong direction with the prospect of a fierce headwind to get back on course. Eventually rolling in an hour later than the rest, gleefully collecting the Lantern Rouge for the day.
All this took place on Matt’s 40th Birthday, who spent the majority of the day with Harold and Jim, tending to the spread out groups; he rode the final half into town – on onto lunch at McMenamins Irish Pub. Three beers and two shots later, he could easily have been confused for Morganna the Kissing Bandit. Suddenly his legs no longer hurt, but we may not be able to wake him up to eat his birthday cake – o’well, more for Bobbo.
Day 4
Florence to Corvallis
90 miles (99 for the directionally challenged)
388 down – one more day to go
Only 1999’ in altitude today
No comments:
Post a Comment