YOU CAN LOVE YOUR BIKE

(You just can’t looove your bike)

Final day on the road; rolling out of Corvallis and back to Portland.

The weather looked like it would cooperate after two very wet days, and as is the tradition, we were intent to keep the ride together. This seemed like a good idea at the time, but the steep climbs – and way too many Type-A personalities would change that plan.

For the first 20 miles, we powered over the foothills, a double paceline – almost looking like we knew what we were doing. But rest easy, the calm was just a facade. Tom was itching to jump out, while the ‘Tard was rolling back and forth throughout the group trying to recruit henchman to counter the inevitable move.

“Kevin, how are the legs?”

“If he goes with only one person, be ready”

“if it’s three or more, we’ll need to jump on board.”

I nodded my acknowledgment, assured him the legs were good, and prayed nothing would actually happen – this group riding was a lot easier. Actually chasing after Tom had already proved to be painful.

Sure enough, just when it was least expected, a gap formed – up the road were Tom and Carter. The road was flat, they had a lead, and we were very slow to react. Suddenly there was commotion, the lead came to a stop and Carter began to limp around.

The questions started flying,

“Did they crash?”

“Is it a flat?”

We rolled up and saw the grimace on Carter’s face – and the look of shock on Ken’s. Seems it went something like this:

Tom in front, Carter behind – the pace was high. They crossed onto a small bridge, Tom shouted out for the bump, but Carter was about to explode from the effort. He hit the bump and bounced to a terrific jolt. Now if any of you have ever ridden behind Carter, the inescapable sequence that follows should come as no surprise. His butt went up, his butt came down – speed and mass were more than the poor titanium bolt could take. Physics are not to be trifled with, as he bounced back up the seat fell off and you can picture the next occurrence yourself. Suffice it to say – a little too much familiarity with your bike is not a beautiful thing.

So Carter’s seat is no longer attached, we’re in the middle of nowhere and there’s 90 miles to go – we do the only sane thing, tell him good luck and wave goodbye. It’s the last day, we’re tired and it’s supposed to rain later in the day – it’s everyman for himself.

There are three big climbs for today’s route, the first is at the 33 mile point – and it turns out to be a doozey- several points exceed 15%. The group breaks apart with guys off the front – to include the ‘Tard. After cresting the hill and racing down the first pass, he took the opportunity to break away from the other four, who had stopped to wait for the main group. Realizing that he was all alone, he at first worried that it was way too early – there’s at least sixty miles before the mandatory link up for the final roll into Portland. But then it struck him, he didn’t have to hold on for 60 miles, we have a ferry crossing in less than 20, he only needs to get there first.

Meanwhile, the other four decide that they can make a run for the ferry as well. The race was on. Less than an hour later, as the four chasers rolled to the ferry landing they hung their heads as the ‘Tard let out a donkey cry of triumph – halfway across the river and a 30 minute lead now in hand.

This was the first of two ferry crossings for the day, the second at the 82 mile point. We were all back together and on a mission to catch the Paul. Carter, having studied the roads and routes for this trip for the past four months as he planned the trip came up with the perfect idea. If we skipped a detour through a small town we could cut off 2-miles, that would put us at an intersection ahead of him – there we would be, smiling and waving, “what took you so long?” we would shout out.

We never saw him at the intersection; clearly we are just too fast. We powered onto the second ferry – still no sign. We talked to the folks in the area – no other riders. We did it, we are the KINGS!!!!

We glowed in our self-appointed glory as we crossed the river; up until the point we started to worry as to where he was – after all, he had a 30-minute lead on us. Cell calls went unanswered, Jim and Harold in the vans hadn’t talked to him, no one could be sure if he even had his route card. Half of us were ready to roll on, the others were trying to reach him – this went on for another 20-30 minutes when he finally called us back. Seems he had been at the hotel for quite some time, having missed a key turn he found himself way off course. After stopping at three gas stations to ask directions, he began to feel like poor Ed Gentry, trying to make his way down the Cahulawassee River. With nothing but shrugged shoulders as the reply regarding any ferry crossings, he finally found a direct route and blasted on to Portland.

With the time delay, we still had 20 miles of countless turns and steep hills to go, just as the rain was beginning to fall. And fall it did, the hardest and wettest portion of the trip, which seemed kind of fitting – a finish in Portland should be either perfect blue skies, or a complete downpour, anything else would be disappointing. We finally reached the Hilton, after a picturesque mile of rainforest and shivering from the cold. DONE!

Well folks, that’s it for another year: 493 miles covered – another 22 if we count the wind-up on Saturday. Here’s the official count.

10 counties
16 riders
2 drivers
2 vans
102 gallons of fuel
11 flat tires
1 broken derailler
1 split tire
1 broken seat post
3 days of rain
1 day of record heat
Uncountable gallons of water, cans of coke, mini Snickers, Fig Newtons and potato chips
32 really sore legs
18 smiles and back slaps

Next year we roll out of San Francisco for a trip up toward Bodega Bay, inland to the hills of Northern California and a return to the City by the Bay. Mark your calendars; the week before Memorial Day for the “Train of Pain 3, I lost My Legs in San Francisco.”