WE’RE LOSING THE ART OF CONVERSATION!

The sun normally peeks out in the Pacific Northwest at about 5 am; this has been the case since our arrival on Friday - every morning just like clockwork. But as I peeked out from under the startling white duvet, I noticed a little difference – it was dark gray, it was angry, and it was raining. What the heck is this, you mean the green trees and thick grass doesn’t come from the rainmaker sprinkler system like the one currently wasting water at my house? Blasted Rain Gods – all that dancing that Jeff did last night in and out of everyone’s room was no help at all – perhaps it was the traditional indigenous garb that he was wearing (if you want to see any of those pics, it will cost you a one-time subscription charge to your Visa or Master Card; visit our other blog at oopsIdiditagain.com)

Since we all hail from sunny SoCal, it was a little more difficult to muster the enthusiasm that has been the case in mornings past. Bill was an early causality, a sore throat and sniffles – he is defending his National Time Trial title on Sat, so apparently that is more important than enjoying the feel of a wet chamois and the taste of slightly oily road grime – go figure.

Still, it was 107 miles for the day and no way that we could get 16 bikes and 18 people (along with a metric ton of luggage) without a couple of 1930’s Okie’s and an old Studebaker. So off we went – the smell of Icy-Hot and more than a few grumbles. We did, as a whole, agree that a straight shot down the 101, shortening the ride by a good 8-miles, seemed like a fair compromise.

After a sedate first five miles, and a good coating of grime piling up on everyone, we hit the first climb. As has become the norm for the week, Tom went to the front and threw the gauntlet down (I can only thank whatever is holy that he is 5-months into his recovery from having his Achilles Tendon reattached after his best attempt at a Labron James impersonation – full up, this would have been even uglier).

The lesser mortals took up chase, and any semblance of sanity was thrown to the wind – it was mile 10, the perfect time to destroy EVERYONE! The lead group of five neared the crest, with 50 meters to go James jumped to take the imaginary King of the Mountain points. Bobbo, not one to let anyone take a prime, and having done NOTHING to help in the climb but glue himself to my wheel, took chase and raised his arms in blessed victory. It would be safe to say that Tom was not impressed, and if we have learned nothing else this week, It’s not safe to anger Tom. As he powered once again past the empty victors, he proclaimed, “You’re gonna pay for that!”

So there we were, 90 miles left to ride and the pace was based on how much pain could be endured – yikes!

For the sane among us, a gentleman’s ride was developing behind – this had more to do with the state of the roads than any conscience decision on their part. It seemed that every 10-miles throughout the rest of the day another curse, another hiss, and another moan was heard from the ‘Tard as he glanced at his watch and looked dreamily up the road – feeling a little like Rudolph with the Reindeer Games pulling further, and further away.

The official count:

Ken w/ four flats

James w/ two flats

Tom w/ one flat

John w/one flat and a slit tire

(Gentleman Johnny was the hero of the day, having changed more tires than an average day at Manny Moe and Jacks.)

But wait, it will get worse!

Now to his credit, the ‘Tard made a moral decision – a case of the OC supporting the SD (has the earth tilted yet); of course, for this he paid the ultimate price – crushed by the rest of his Cannibalistic brethren.

Upon their arrival at the first support stop, while filling their bottles and stuffing food down, Johnny had the pleasure of meeting one of the local folk – a homeless fellow sporting the best of his three remaining teeth.

After a couple of forays up to the group of Steve, John, Johnny, the ‘Tard, and James – looking for recyclables, spare change, or a buyer for his “nearly” new can of WD-40, he stopped dead in his tracks – his eyes locked on Johnny, “I didn’t know black guys rode bikes”, he blurted out.

After a few choice retorts, all floating over their new-found friend’s head – much like his past twenty years, he finally wandered away.

The ‘Tard , a Starbucks cup poised under the handy traveler, glanced over to Johnny – and with a look of total sincerity, innocently asked, “Do black guys take cream in their coffee” – ah, cultural awareness and sensitivity.

I’d mentioned the misery of the rain, it seems that only Jeff was swift enough to try for an honorable way out, as we headed up what seemed like the 90^th climb of the flat stage day, he shifted from his big ring to the small, his small cog to a larger one, all while bouncing over the pavement that serves as asphalt here in Oregon. To no one’s surprise but his own, the tiny little pulley that takes all the stress had had enough – and so, it seemed had Jeff – the bike was toast. In another rare display of brotherly love, nearly everyone volunteered to give him their bike for the duration – or at least until the hotel in Florance.

Normally this would have been a disaster – nothing but tiny little towns, an expensive hard to get part, and only two days left to go. But we had our secret weapon – Matty Matt, ace mechanic; after heading to the Bike Newport Cycle shop, on the day they were moving into their new location, he sweet talked the owner into letting him pull the derailleur off a bike and re-installing on Jeff’s. The bike has never run better – and Jeff has a sweet new t-shirt to remind him that too much butt is bad on plastic.

Pacific City to Florance

99.1 miles

298.6 down, 201.4 to go

3753 feet of climbing