My Rando adventures

Coffeeneuring!

2012-11-04T01:54:00.000-07:00

Thanks Mary, for organizing this. I had fun scoping out coffee shops that I wanted to go visit by bike, and missed out two that I wanted to go to, but didn't.

Well known fact: Randonneurs (and randonneuses) ride long distances.
Little known fact: Said randonneurs ride with the bling to be had in mind.

I present to you, the Coffeeneuring challenge: Go here for all the details..

Mary G of chasing mailboxes fame came up with this challenge along with SIRs Joe Platzner. The idea is to ride at least 2 miles to drink coffee (or hot chocolate or cider) 7 days over 6 weekends. I started this challenge on the 7th of October and completed it on the 3rd of November, 2012.

The beauty of the whole thing is, my wife and I already have a weekend coffee ritual. We have our favourite coffee shops and every Saturday morning we head out to our usual haunts, book, laptop or tablet in hand and spend a few hours waking ourselves up. This challenge presented the perfect opportunity for me to do this by bike. 6 out of the 7 days I had coffee with my wife, and the last one was the only instance I had coffee alone.

I did get receipts for all the weeks, but lost the receipt for Le Rendez-vous. Album is here.

Ride 1 (week 1)

With bemused spouse!

Date: 10/07/2012
Destination: Urban Coffee Lounge, 9744, NE 119th Way, Kirkland WA 98034
Ride 1 distance: 3.5 miles.

The day started off rainy and we had some errands to run in the morning to do with our upcoming vacation to Spain, so we decided to start this challenge right by heading to our beloved coffee place in Kirkland. I live atop a hill, so the first 2 miles are almost all downhill with a bike lane most of the way. My wife drove there, and I got myself a nice Americano and settled down with a nice book.

Ride 2 (week 2)

Who said it had to rain ?

Date: 10/13/2012
Destination: Starbucks, 9721, NE 119th Way, Kirkland WA 98034
Ride 2 distance: 3.5 miles.

The drizzly, misty rain made it one of those "Just get it done" days. Rode to the same location as last time, but went to Starbucks instead. We normally avoid Starbucks, but the convenient location won out. Late evenings usual call for a non-caffeinated drink: a decaf Soy Mocha that my wife turned her nose up at.

Ride 3 (Week 2)

Empty cafe on a perfect day!

Date: 10/14/2012
Destination: Caffe Rococo, 136, Park Lane, Kirkland WA 98033
Ride 3 distance: 5.8 miles

Perfect day for an early morning (10a for me) ride to the coffee shop. The ducks were swimming in the lake, and runners had that "Oh my goodness, this hurts" look on their faces as they climbed the hill leading up to Downtown Kirkland. 6 miles is about the distance that I start to accumulate some sweat but all too soon it was over.

Ride 4 (Week 3)

Perfect lighting!

Latte and demi-baguette

Date: 10/21/2012
Destination: Le Rendez-Vous Organic Cafe, 8918 161st Avenue Northeast, Redmond WA 98052
Ride 4 distance: 6.5 miles

Cloudy day dawned but no rain. This has been one magical October. We headed out to a French bakery nearby that makes Paris-Brest pastries. I helped a lost cyclist on the Sammamish River Trail. The light was just about perfect for a photograph. Had a nice latte with a demi-baguette, butter and jam. Fantastic day to go out for a bike ride.

Ride 5 (Week 4)

The crap we do for bling!

Date: 10/27/2012
Destination: Victor's Celtic Coffee, 7933 Gilman St, Redmond WA 98052
Ride 5 distance: 6.4 miles

Well, our run of spectacular weather had to come to an end. I got rained on all the way there, and I wore shorts and paid for it. My jacket kept me dry. The Blueberry danish and Americano more than made up for the lousy weather. Raji was with me again, shaking her head at the trouble I was putting myself through.

Ride 6 (Week 5)

Back to normalcy!

Date: 10/27/2012
Destination: Peet's Coffee, 17887 Redmond Way, Redmond WA 98052
Ride 6 distance: 8.0 miles

Another incredible day. Nice and warm and meant for shorts, even if it was late October. Raji seems to like Peet's too. The place was crowded. Peak coffee shop season is almost here!

Ride 7 (Week 6)

Drinking alone sucks. Coffee or anything else!

Date: 11/03/2012
Destination: Starbucks,

14015 Northeast 175th Street

Woodinville, WA 98072

Ride 7 distance: 3.7 miles

The wonderful thing about living in the Seattle area is the absolute abundance of coffee shops within a 5 mile radius. For the last ride, I should have chosen Sandy's in Carnation, but I was short of time, so I just headed to the local Woodinville Starbucks. And for the first time in the past few weeks, I had coffee alone. I was feeling under the weather, but the challenge had to be completed!

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 8: Dreux to the Finish

2012-11-03T23:25:00.001-07:00

August 25, 2011: Dreux to The Finish

As I walk to the table I am apprehensive and nervous: "Bonjour" I say, and the controle volunteer smiles and stamps my card. Next comes the time: "8.32" she writes. I have missed it by 2 minutes! "Oh, crap", I say, and instinctively my left hand comes down on the table and thumps it. I honestly don't know what the heck I was thinking. I recognize fairly fast that this act might be misconstrued as belligerence and quickly apologize. The volunteers are quite surprised but my prompt apology has the intended effect. They reassure me in two languages as I stand there with a very embarrassed look on my face and show me the closing time on the control: 7:12. With my 2 hour allowance for starting in the final group I have made it with 40 minutes to spare! I thank them again, apologize and head back out the wrong way but there is another helpful volunteer directing me towards the proper exit.

The guy who got me here deserves a hug, except he is nowhere to be found. I find my way back to the bike and an overwhelming desire to sleep grabs me. I succumb: 15 minutes I tell myself, no more. There is a generous amount of foot traffic and there is little chance of me falling into deep sleep. I ask the volunteers to wake me if I am not gone in 15 minutes. I wake refreshed from my 15 minute nap on the concrete. I open my eyes and find an Eastern European rider taking a photo of me with a wide grin on his face. He smiles and heads off as I get up.

As I dig through my Carradice I find the Japanese rider sitting inside the glass enclosure digging into a plate of food. I say a wholly inadequate "Domo Arrigato" again and make for the water taps to prepare my final two bottles. Carrying your own food saves one a lot of time at the controls but also delivers some regret at not being able to stop and sample the fantastic French faire. My mouth feels like a cesspool and I really must find a way to brush my teeth. I get back on the bike again and set off for the last 60 or so kilometers to Paris. We start with a nice little downhill and then the road flattens out. We are now reaping the benefits of the final few kilometers being mostly flat. My speed increases and so do my spirits. The terrain remains farmland but changes as we enter the first of several towns with insanely narrow streets. We don't find as many people standing to cheer us but they are present all the same. We eventually get on a very narrow road running through fields. It looks and feels like a bike path but a car in the opposite direction surprises me. I am passed by swarm after swarm of riders of different nationalities. They are almost uniformly in good cheer having smelled the barn from 50 kilometers out and I am not fast enough to hang with any of them.

It seems like I am destined to limp my way in. The day warms up and in yet another field I pull over and shed some clothing: the rain jacket, skull cap and leg warmers are no longer needed. It doesn't strike me that I can wrap the leg warmers around my handlebars to get cushioning. I get back on the bike and briefly ride with a rider from China and stop to get the business card of a Spanish woman who has taken a picture of me. She speaks no French and my Spanish is worse than my French.

The flatlands don't last. We enter more suburbs and then a long stretch with a very mean set of hills. I grind my way up as my speed drops right back down. The distance has destroyed my ego, cleansed me of my vanity, robbed my memory and arguably my respectability. It has left me bare for all to see: I can do no more than simply slouch, whimper and whine and hope that the next pedal stroke finds me at the top of the hill. My butt, neck and hands all hurt. I never think "I am never doing this again" but I confess thinking that I'll never be doing L-E-L. I don't think I can put up with another 160k on the bike. The climb puts us back a little Southwest of Jouars-Pontchartrain, past that beautiful church and row of trees running away from us into the distance. The road flattens out a little but not for long as the sustained flat lands I remember from Sunday don't materialize: more rollers, tree-lined boulevards, narrow streets, screaming children and shy cars do, however.

The final couple of dozen kilometers all blend together for me. Under an overpass, I see the 15 km banner and a man cheers us on: "Quinze kilometer" he says with a grin. I think the rollers finally end somewhere near the 15km point. We enter a series of roundabouts, and shortly after the famous set of lights that seem to annoy everybody. Each one of them is red, each one heightening the expectation of the finish. After the solitude of the last dozens of miles, I find myself in the company of a lot of riders, and the group expands the more lights we hit. Not all of the riders wait patiently: an Italian jumps the light and nearly gets creamed by a car coming from his right: the woman driving is none too pleased and decides to let him know how she really feels. The Italian is unfazed and sprints at the next gap in traffic.

We have less than 5k to go. It finally dawns on me that I am on my victory lap. A cliché it is, but I can stop riding, start walking and still make it in time. Maybe. If I get a flat now that is what I will do I think: walk to the gym and soak in the love for a wee bit longer. Oh, and my upper body wouldn't cooperate in fixing the flat for sure. We climb one last bridge, one last little steep stretch of no more than 30 yards and we are finally on the home stretch. More lights follow but now the sidewalks are crammed with people cheering, clapping and yelling. As we come to a stop at each light, we are bathed in a sea of adulation. "Chapeau!" they yell, and I later learn that this is a word that the French don't throw around lightly. I recognize this street: we walked here ages ago - last Saturday - for bike registration. No more than a couple of kilometers now. I find myself riding with a Frenchman who despite his lack of English is trying to make conversation. This is his Seventh Paris - Brest and that he had finished all of them. Amazing! An Englishman on his second Paris-Brest is on my right. I ask about their home clubs and ogle their bikes and gear. They ask about the Cascade 1200 and I tell them it is as beautiful as it is difficult and that the support is awesome.

A few hundred yards from the finish

Dozens of riders in the front and 20 or so right behind me. Riders congratulate each other. We are now a huge swarm of riders and a little ways down the road we finally sweep around the roundabout and are guided to a narrow area leading to the rear of the gymnasium. As we negotiate the constricted roadway two cyclists riding near us crash, unable to avoid the barricade, a wayward pedestrian or themselves.

Ooh, that was close indeed.

Having avoided this mishap very deftly, we ride carefully down the gravel path and sweep left as volunteers yell out "Bravo" while simultaneously shepherding us to the right spots. As I park my bike I see Mitchel being hugged by his sobbing wife, Linda. Will Goss also finishes in the same time as I do. We congratulate each other and make our way into the gym. I get my card stamped one last time.

Handing that card over, one last time!

The very friendly volunteer tells me gently - for next time - that I should fill my emergency contact information on my brevet card. "It is too late now", she says with a smile. "Yes", I tell her, there most definitely will be a next time.

The Post-ride scene

My battery is out of juice and as she takes away my brevet card I am filled with regret at not being able to snap a photo of my card. Do I have the brains to ask Barbara to take a photo of my card? No, of course not. Susan Otcenas finishes a few minutes behind us but I guess (rightly) that she has had way more sleep than I have. She looks fresh and I resolve to train harder for next time so I can linger a tad longer, sleep a little more and look like Susan at the finish. What a delightful ride! The next few hours are a blur but the main motivation was a complete unwillingness to leave the finish. I buy photos at the Maindru booth. I wander around talking to riders. I leave my bike out and walk outside and meet Michael Huber.

Mike and I have been riding together for a while and at the Spring 100k on a very frigid West Snoqualmie Valley Road Mike made me a promise: we would share a bottle of Champagne at the finish of PBP in Paris! Mike keeps his promise and blows 50 Euro on a bottle and we sit down with Jan Heine and Drew Buck to finish the bottle. We talk bikes, PBP, and our respective rides. Drew is tough, having completed the ride solely on catnaps. I hit the food stall and find the meaty fare very unappetizing. There's quite a few SIR riders waiting in line for food. I treat myself to some Pain au Chocolat and a Nutella crepe. We talk bikes and see riders finish. Kole finishes.

Hanging out with the Indian Contingent

Mike takes off for the Campanile and I meet members of the Indian contingent. They are a bit disappointed but happy about the whole experience and promise to come again to right matters. I catch portions of the closing ceremony with our own Jan Heine emceeing in English. I see Jennifer finish. I try to update my Facebook status and fail miserably, falling asleep at the keyboard more than a few times. The volunteer managing the computers gently wakes me up and with a smile asks me to go home and get some sleep. Eventually it is time to leave the finish area and I walk away from the Gym overwhelmed by the experience.

Near the roundabout, I meet two German riders who finished earlier and they help me pack my things and take a photo of me at the finish. I am clueless as to how to get there, but they help me find my way.

At THE roundabout

With PBP loot!

I walk back to the hotel and the roads are filled with riders. The Campanile lobby is filled with riders and their bikes. Some of them have the look of contentment in their face. Many strangers offer congratulations for finishing the ride. In the room Mike is already out cold. I brush my teeth for the first time in almost 48 hours, shower quietly and fall into blissful sleep at around 7p.

Self-Portrait at the Campanile hotel room

13 hours later I wake up and feel great. It is one of the happiest days of my life. The breakfast room is filled with tons of food, and riders: most are in great spirits. I have the biggest breakfast I have ever had in my life: we eat as a large group and make the most noise, laugh the loudest, tell the tallest of tales, eventually getting kicked out for the lunch hour. I say my goodbyes and board a train for the Gare Montparnasse. I briefly think about riding along the course to look for a "Brest" marker, but I resist the urge. I have to get back to the Latin Quarter.

One more instance of largesse awaits me from an unexpected source: a Parisian. On the train to the Gare Montparnasse a very genial looking Frenchman is sitting across from me and asks me in perfect English if I have finished Paris-Brest. I don't pass up many opportunities to show off and we chat about the whole experience. He is a cyclist too and I ask him which of the French papers have good coverage of PBP. He mentions a few names and the only one I recognize is L'equipe (Tour de France). We get off at the Gare and join the weekday throng, walking together towards the newsstands that dot the station. Cautioning me about bike thieves he tells me to stay with the bike and goes to look for papers. Say what you will about the Internet taking over for newspapers, you don't see anybody printing out webpages as souvenirs! Instead of coming back with names, he comes back with copies of Le Parisien, L'equipe and Le Telegramme. "My gift to you for finishing Paris - Brest" he says and without so much as an introduction walks away. I am quite surprised. Thank you, Mr Anonymous Frenchman.

I cannot bear to get on the bike. My butt is still quite sore and as I walk past a crowded restaurant where patrons are sitting pretty close to the street, I notice a gentleman pointing in my direction, and as I walk past them I hear the tail end of the word "Brest" and figuring I'd chat with him I walk back. An older couple are sitting along with 2 men, both of whom rode PBP. I visit with them for a little, hear their stories and while all of them introduced themselves, I can only remember Rob from Florida. I take their leave as I have a train to catch. My bike box is at the hotel where I stayed at before the ride. I get my bike box and it hurts to unpack the bike because every part of my body is screaming. A few drops of rain fall on me as I take my time to pack the bike and catch a train to London that very same evening.

I sit on the EuroStar train and reflect on the ride and one thought strikes me. I was asked a myriad of questions during the ride: Where are you from ? Where do you live? How old are you? Are you married? Do you live in France? Do you like Brittany/Normandy? Are your parents from France? Would you like some coffee? Why won't you have some Camembert Cheese? There is one question that I was never asked: "Why are you doing this?" (or the French equivalent, for all you smart-asses out there). The French simply get it. There is no need to explain, justify, or cower behind anything. You can simply be.

Vive Paris - Brest - Paris. Vive la Bretagne et la Normandie! Vive la France!

See you in 2015 and hopefully I will write a shorter ride report then.

THE END

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 7: Villaines-la-Juhel to Dreux

2012-11-03T23:24:00.004-07:00

August 25, 2011: Villaines-la-Juhel to Mortagne-au-Perche

It's 5 minutes to 10p. I've gotten back on the black side of the clock by a good 35 minutes. I find a spot to park my bike and prepare to mix more food. There is a family standing near my spot and the man asks me "Seattle?" looking at my jersey, "Oui" I say, and the man nods his head, his English just about exhausted and my French in hiding. I walk the 50 or so yards to the entrance and then 50 more yards to the control and get my card stamped. The volunteer smiles and wishes me Bon Courage while slipping in some kind of sticker into my control card. I feel pretty good coming out of the Villaines control. I mix two more bottles and feel fortified for the road. I don't have too much time but enough for any mechanical problems or a brief roadside nap which is all I care about really at this point.

The road leading out of the Villanes-la-Juhel control is through a big white banner with the words "La Mayenne" emblazoned in giant print. Every rider heading back on course has to pass through this banner and the crowds are concentrated along the narrow road giving each rider a hero's sendoff. I watch this spectacle for a few minutes chatting with the same family near my bike but I have to leave pretty soon. I mount my bike, and say "A Bientot" to the family. "Bon Courage", they say. Riding towards the banner, I wave to no one in particular and the crowd erupts with the cheering reaching a crescendo as I pump my arms in the air while stupidly yelling "Vive la France!". I am shamelessly working the crowd and they respond with sustained cheering as I ride out of the little chute area and into the open road. I feel so good and so happy and the rush is strong: it will be a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life. You can't get this anywhere else!

The road starts off being lumpy with a climb right out of the control but shortly afterward we hit what I would characterize as mostly flat terrain. The road is a little foggy and the night air is cool but not unbearably so. Little lights flicker inside houses and porches are filled with people watching us. I am still dressed in shorts, wool socks, and half-fingered gloves. My front derailleur is acting up again and I pull over to take a look at what is happening and a woman driving in the opposite direction stops and asks me if I want a ride to the Villaines control. Amazed at her kindness and her awareness of our event, I reply in the negative; I think I can nurse this to Mortagne as I nursed myself to Tinténiac this morning, but I do kick myself for not having visited the mechanic at Villanes-la-Juhel. It will just slow me down. I thank her and move on.

As this is just a few miles out of the control I am riding with people again. The road plunges downhill after a very tricky roundabout and we leave the town behind. The road curves right quite sharply and I see one rider down on the side of the road: it looks bad! The sound of squealing brakes fills the air as everybody in the vicinity stops. A (Chinese?) randonneuse - having crashed earlier - is sitting on the road surface taking stock of her injuries and two Asian riders are with her trying to make sure she is OK. Her bike is in the ditch. We ask if they need help, but understandably the three of them are in a world of their own, not to mention language. Figuring she has the support she needs we leave but ask (in English, oops) an oncoming car to render any assistance. The lady at the wheel is more than happy to help. I normally bomb down descents but the combination of witnessing an accident and an inability to shift to my large ring dulls my instincts somewhat.

After an uneventful few kilometers I start wondering about my food situation: I have polished off one bottle of Sustained Energy, but the remaining bottle isn't quite enough to get me to Mortagne-au-Perche, so I decide that I'd like a cup of coffee and some food. A nice descent brings us down into the small town of Fresnay-sur-Sarthe with a lovely bar right at the corner where the course makes a very sharp left turn and heads due East. There were a couple of bikes leaning against the wall and figuring that I'd been riding for a couple of hours at least and may have banked some time I go into the bar which happens to be the only open establishment in this town.

There are quite a few locals and a couple of Russian riders. I ask for a coffee and scanning the menu, order an Omelette with frites along with Toast and jam. The locals are full of questions and so is the very jovial barman. The cook comes out, greets me and goes back in to make my omelette. It feels good to get off the bike for a while. The standard questions are asked and answered and the locals make jokes that I do not understand.The food takes awhile; the Russians wish me luck and leave well before me, having stopped by for only coffee. The coffee arrives, warms and wakes me up. Two very welcome sensations at this late hour. The food takes its sweet time and by the time the food arrives I realize that I wasn't thinking when I sat down for food here. I must have restricted myself to some coffee, mixed more powdered food and moved on. Lingering on the road would cut into that other luxury: sleep. But, one does have to enjoy the experience some, right? I have just had a massive brain fart: there goes 45 minutes of sleep.

The road slopes gently uphill and I am in the middle of a 10 person group. It seems like there is wave after wave of riders on the road waiting to repeatedly swallow me up. There is this rider going about my pace and I gently make conversation. She is French (of African extraction?). She cannot lift her neck up which under normal circumstances would be an annoyance but at night in rural France is about the most difficult thing to endure. And here she is, riding on. I do my best to help her navigate roundabouts and the sudden projections that make riding challenging. Adroit or a gauche I call out and she says thanks each time and follows my instruction based on my proximity to her. Helping her allows me to focus on something other than myself and keeps me awake. A few miles out of Fresnay-sur-Sarthe she is slow to react to an "a gauche" call and crashes into a concrete projection. I stop to make sure she is ok but a small group gathers and figuring she has all the help she needs, I keep riding. I don't remember her frame number now so I have no way of finding out if she finished or not. In hindsight, I regret leaving her behind. Keeping her to my left would have helped her avoid more obstacles with lesser effort.

Shortly after this, I find myself riding with two gentlemen from England. Brian (from Essex) gushes about the strength of my lights (eDelux) and confesses to wanting to ride with me just for that purpose. I have everything to gain by the company and our pace seems compatible. We ride out of one town and as I shift to the big ring my chain falls off. I stop to fix it and Brian stops too, shining his helmet mirror at my chain and making sure that I was OK mechanically. Helpful company is always welcome and I resolve to not lose Brian. We do however manage to drop Brian's friend as we exit one village and head into the countryside. Our conversation tends to be about equipment, our jobs, and the areas where we ride in. Brian is a veteran of several PBPs and he is very even keeled. As on the first night of PBP, a string of red lights takes off into the sky with the accompanying bad news: there is a climb ahead. There is a big highway to our right as we climb and the road undulates again. We are still in the presence of a large number of riders but for some reason it's been a long time since we've seen a directional arrow. This worries both of us. We ride for what seems like a dozen kilometers before Brian finally spots an arrow on a roundabout. We suspect that people are stealing souvenirs with less than a day to go. We aren't making progress at the required rate, Brian tells me. We have more than 20 kilometers to go and about an hour and 10 minutes to do it in. I finally realize why a sense of urgency pervades the riders as are were getting passed.

Down this big descent we go and there are two roads both of which are looking like they could be the right road and there isn't an arrow. Somebody has stolen a sign again! But, there is a car parked with its light on near one road and Brian and I cautiously go up to him to ask which way to Mortagne-au-Perche. "Tout droit" he says and points uphill. We enter a nature preserve of some kind and start climbing again, but this time the climbing is serious. We know we are up against the clock: it shows in the desperation of our pedal strokes.

I take a few swigs from my bottle and immediately feel a rush of energy. Brian has sped up and is a few hundred yards ahead of me, but I catch him on an incline as the tree-lined road veers to the right. As I look far into the distance I can actually see the orange glow that almost certainly is Mortagne-au-Perche. I have no clue how far it is to the control from here. We climb and descend I know not how many times but each time I get to the top, I can see the orange glow but there is one more ridge between us and Mortagne-au-Perche. The area has its redeeming qualities: there isn't too much ambient light here and the cloudless night sky is filled with a trillion stars and the occasional streaking meteor. I distract myself looking at this light show, but Brian is thinking of nothing but the task on hand. There is nothing but forest on either side of us. It is an awesome setting.

When I lived in Canada, I worked for a company with quite a large Japanese population and became aware of a very interesting dish made with Tofu. The preparation of this dish goes something like this: You put water, a huge block of tofu into a vessel and hundreds of teeny-tiny live fish together in a pot and start the heat. As the fish start to dislike the temperature, they make a beeline for the only hospitable spot in the pot that they can hide in. This of course results in hundreds of these fish cramming themselves into the tofu, which then turns out to be their grave as the temperature of the water reaches boiling point and cooks the tofu and the fish completely. I don't know why this thought came to me, but in a macabre way we resemble those fish and the Tofu is the Mortagne-au-Perche control: each of us on the road trying to jam ourselves into the tofu except of course that we are fish expecting to live to tell the tale.

We descend down to a roundabout and I see one steep final climb before the control. Our effort pays off. Though I am filled with dread as we approach the last kilometers we are a large group all giving their best effort to achieve the same purpose: make the control. There is very little talking. We finally see the lights of the building and relief washes over me. The road slopes up towards the control and at the bottom I ask Brian how many minutes we have to closing and he says "5 maybe" and I begin what I hope will be the last hard effort before the control. The control looks familiar from a few days ago except we are now arriving in the other direction. I park my bike near the entrance and run in. We still don't know if we have made it.

August 25, 2011: Mortagne-au-Perche to Dreux

Before Brian and I separate we agree to meet outside in 5 minutes: that is all the time we can spare. I feel like Jan Heine negotiating a break with riders in the lead pack except I am on the wrong end of the time game. There is the small matter of getting my card signed. I don't even know if I have made it. I take a short cut to the volunteer table but don't cross the mat which lies between the chip readers. The volunteers at the signing table are alert even at this late hour and guide me over the mat. I check in and have made it with 3 minutes to spare. THREE! It isn't my closest call ever and making the control infuses me with a sense of confidence and well-being.

Sleep doesn't even cross my mind mostly because making Dreux now has my attention. I remember where the water taps are and mix up more food, but when I arrive back at the entrance to the controle I do not find Brian or his bike. Another surprise is in store for me: when I look for the spare pair of shorts I have been carrying since Uzel, I cannot find them. I have to change shorts! Crap! I hunt every inch of my Carradice for them but it seems like I have left them back at the Gite. Oh, well. I can save some time not changing into new clothing. I step out into the night air and am immediately struck by how cold it is. I unwrap my leg warmers from my handlebars and put on every piece of clothing I am carrying. I have left my booties in my drop bag. Kent Peterson is right: drop bags do make you weak. I am hemming and hawing between waiting for Brian and leaving when I spot a very cheerful and well-rested - by outward appearances - Andy Speier.

Seeing a familiar face does wonders for my mood and I chat with him about missing by booties. Not even hesitating for a moment, Andy hands over his shoe covers saying he has no use for them but is glad that I could use it. I look around one last time for Brian and when he doesn't make an appearance I reluctantly leave the control. At PBP, time is worth something more than money. My pre-ride calculations had me sleeping a couple of hours here but reality is writ large on the clock at the control. Not knowing the terrain from here on out snuffs out any thoughts of taking a deficit on the clock.

I put on my leg warmers and the comfortable little cushioning they have been providing becomes very apparent: my hands hurt again. I decide that I cannot wait for Brian and leave the controle building. We start climbing again and I find myself gradually warming up. I left a little before Andy but he catches me a few miles out of Mortagne-au-Perche on a small biting climb. I stop and dismount and hand over his booties to him. In hindsight this is certainly a misguided attempt at saving weight as I still had at least 2lb of food on me. The things you are worried about after a few miles in the saddle!

We are treated to one roller after another and I roll over them rather slowly. Daylight is but a few hours away and with that will come welcome respite in the form of better mental awareness but we shall first have to navigate through some uncharted waters. I haven't slept a wink since Fougères and I now have 1000k under my belt. The mileage shows; there is very little detail I can remember between the first few hours out of the Mortagne-au-Perche control. If somebody told me what happened I am sure I'll go "oh yeah, that's right" but the memories are in a sinkhole someplace. I notice that not very many cars have passed us since Mortagne-au-Perche.

PBP is a ride where you are seldom alone, but there were long stretches where I found myself very alone. On this night, I am riding along with dozens of other people, all of whom are passing me. I take some comfort in the fact that I am not alone in this; that there are a hundred other souls on the road with a vacant stare and a mostly empty brain with two words scrawled on it: Sleep and Dreux. There is hardly a car on the road. We ride through towns, forests and one particularly annoying climb that went on for what seems like a few miles with nothing but forests on either side. I pass a house with a rather large black gate, the kind used to keep wastrels like me out. A few hardy souls are sleeping on the grass, their space blankets shine as our lights fall on I them, but I am determined to keep riding until I fall over. I look to my right and see the first signs of sunrise: a pleasing blue sky rimmed by a few dark clouds for variety and a vaguely reddish horizon.

A laundry line of red taillights leads us into the darkness of a very still night. I have been riding for at least a couple of hours now and the sleep demon has caught me and has started extracting tasty morsels. I've been slowly climbing for a while now and as we near a small building with sodium vapour lamps and inviting grass along the side of the road I cannot take it any more. I simply have to sleep. I wasn't weaving or anything, but I have to sleep. I lean my bike against the railing, spread out my rain jacket under my butt, set my alarm for 20 minutes, and go to sleep in just my short sleeved jersey. It is cold but that'll prevent me from oversleeping. There are plenty of riders riding within 3 or 4 feet of the grass. Seeing me spread my stuff out another rider pulls over and proceeds to do exactly the same.

I wake up with a start. My mouth feels like a cesspool. That my battery had enough juice is something to rejoice over, because I have slept 40 minutes; 20 minutes of it through a loud and very insistent alarm. I suddenly realize that I do not have much time in the bank, so I quickly put everything away. The pre-dawn light is slowly brightening things up. I get back on the bike and start pushing the pace, but though I feel refreshed I am not riding any faster. I quickly calculate what time I need to be at the Dreux control: Around 8:30a. Time is probably 6am. I have 2 and a half hours to go whatever distance it is I have to go. I have no computer, no route sheet, no way to calculate or gauge progress and no way to find out how much is still left. I curse myself for having gone to sleep as I suspect this is going to cost me my ride. I am quite mad at myself. The road is still slowly climbing and a thin fog is doing its best to bestow some mystery on the trees. There are old palaces and grand buildings dotting the road as we finally make a left turn. There are people sleeping along the side of the road. Surely these are people with time in their bags.

I am passed by a Japanese rider who rides at a pace slightly faster than mine. He catches up but rides near me for a while. "How far to Dreux?" I ask him, and get no response. I figure he is thin on the English and switch to a question that I think he might understand: I point to his bike computer and say "What speed?". I must have looked really rude; this stranger who won't leave him alone asking all kinds of pointed questions. Again, I get no response. My desperation leaks through my lips: "I really have to make Dreux by 8.30" I say, not knowing who I am saying it to or what I expect them to do in return.

I start giving it everything I have got which as you've probably guessed by now, isn't much. I am reminded of what the volunteer at Loudéac said on the way back: we are allowed to miss one control. This gives me some mental relief that my ride will go on even if I miss Dreux. It is not the end of the world, after all. The road climbs again and he drops me and pulls away. I catch up a few kilometers later and he seems surprised that I caught him. Something seems to click inside the Japanese rider: he glances at me and pulls right in front as if to pull me along. I attempt to hang on but cannot and he drops me again but doesn't notice it. I curse my lousy drafting skills and give up hope. A few dozen feet later he realizes that he cannot just ratchet the pace up, and slows down to pull me. I gratefully merge back into his slipstream.

The acceleration comes and I can feel it, but instead of just taking it straight up he slowly increases the pace and I find I can match his effort. He looks back every few feet to make sure I am there. I am now riding at speeds that I haven't hit since the outbound leg to Loudéac. Maybe I have some hope of making Dreux after all. We ride past fields, palaces and water tanks. Nothing registers for long. Here now, gone the next instant. Nothing is as important as staying close to that wheel 5 inches in front. I am still on the train and hanging on and the Japanese rider is pulling me strongly. I don't know how long I can hold on but hold on I must. It's stressful, this effort to make time, especially when you have 1100+ k in your legs and not much sleep. I see signs for 25k to Dreux and I am convinced I only have 40 minutes to spare. I am going to miss the control and resignation washes over me, but the man in front doesn't let up.

Alarmingly, the first signs of hunger set in. I have run out of food too. I haven't bonked yet but I am sure I'll have that to look forward to in the next few miles. The road miraculously flattens out and as it curves left we ride past a bunch of corn fields. It is not the corn fields that capture my interest but the hordes of riders lying in a variety of states. Most of them are just dead to the world, some just barely waking up and a few cannot even lift up their necks to look at the goings on in the immediate world. I spot a sleeping rider on the side of the road and his hand is actually quite close to the road surface, on the gravel in fact. (I should have stopped and helped him off the road but acted selfishly. I won't do that again, I promise) Another is trying desperately to lift his head but cannot and makes eye contact with me as we crest the little hill. The look in his eyes and the expression on his face defies description. It didn't look like they were in a rush to make it to Dreux, but I hope they all did. The road finally flattens out, and with the tow I am getting it certainly feels like I am going downhill.

Hideharu Sasai: Got me into Dreux on time

We are flying now, a group of 4 or 5 riders, passing people, even unintentionally shelling out a few. We start hitting some suburbs and the road goes around what looks like the Football pitch of a school. The Japanese rider finally pulls off and collapses. Unbeknownst to me, he has been fighting sleep and can work no more. We've dropped everybody. I quickly mutter a "Domo Arrigato" and head off towards the next arrow still not knowing if I would make Dreux or not. The road turns into rollers again but finally to the right emerges the Palais des Sports, the Dreux control. I pedal almost all the way to the entrance of the control and lean my bike against the closest object I can find. I must look really comical as I run the last 20 or 30 yards to the control.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 6: Tinténiac to Villaines-la-Juhel

2012-11-03T23:24:00.002-07:00

August 24, 2011: Tinténiac to Fougères

I feel oddly happy though I still can't afford to sleep. But I can get help for my bike! I am trying to find a spot for my bike when out walks Joe Platzner on his way out of the controle. Mark joins him shortly after. I am happy to see them because it means that I am making good time. Ok, decent time. I tell Joe about what's I think is going on and Joe immediately produces a spare cable but they are pressed for time too and they have to move on. It is the last I see of Mark and Joe on the ride.

Tinténiac is simply too big to not have a mechanic. I get my control card signed and one of the volunteers sends me to the mechanic's. I am seen immediately even though there are a bevy of riders there with all kinds of bike problems. The mechanic speaks decent English and I am told to come back in 15 minutes. I head over to the café, get 3 or 4 pieces of bread (all gratuit), hot soup, coffee, and a banana and share a table with Mike Norman. My fingers are dirty from fiddling with the bike, but I eat anyway. The bread is fresh but a bit hard but a dip into the soup softens it. Ah, so refreshing, this normal-people-food. We chat about the ride and compare notes. We have had similar rides, but Mike has had more sleep. I head back to my bike and am met by a very friendly woman who politely tells me that my cable wasn't broken but they have fixed the problem, and no, payment wasn't necessary! Amazing, these people! Overall, I stay about a half-hour here.

I briefly think about a nap but decide not to and leave Tinténiac happy that I can now make semi-decent progress. But, while the shifter works, my drivetrain is now making a mad racket and I can see that everybody around me accelerates when they come near me. A guy from the UK pulls up and slows down, fully intending to ride with me. But my unruly drivetrain interferes: he apologizes before he accelerates, unable to stand the din. The road out of Tinténiac is curvy and hilly, nothing much changes there. After a few miles of this the road appears flat for what seems to be miles. We are riding through verdant farms, and picturesque French villages adorned with bicycles and flowers, each village eager to win the approbation of passersby. I am looking for things to pick me up and deflect me from the mental low point I am now riding towards and these roadside decorations and flowers help me refocus on something else for a little while. About 10 kilometers outside of Tinténiac I get a mental boost.

We ride through the town of Dingé and John Ende comes to mind. PBP 2007 has yielded some spectacular stories and John's is one that I remember well. "I am strong, I can do it": these are words from John's report and they ring in my head for a while. I am just riding on sleep deficit but John had to pass a kidney stone! My plight seems minuscule compared to his. Then there's my friend Allison Bailey. You will never see a ride report from Allison about PBP 2007 but she rode a thousand kilometers with a bad stomach while barely able to keep anything down. She was way out of time limits and nobody would have blamed her if she decided to take a train back but she still rode her bike back to Paris. Jon Muellner had similar stomach problems after 900k and rode his bike to the finish. But the words I hold on to from his report are "Suck it up Mate. Ride it in!". Dingé reminds me to do just that. I stop by a roadside stand and eat two of the most delicious slices of Lemon Cake I've ever had and this lifts my spirits considerably. They have a small jar for donations and their eyes widen when I drop a 5E bill in it. It is truly delicious Lemon cake.

The day brightens and warms up and I can no longer bear wearing the leg warmers and reflective vest. My wool jersey is plenty for my upper body and the wool socks keep my toes warm. I pull over well away from the road on to a farm access road and sit down to strip some of my clothing off. Sitting down is painful. Noel Howes (or is it Joe Llona?) rides by and hollers out a hello. I take my time and then take a small nap on the side of the road. I need some thing to hold on to and this 10 minute nap is just that. I pull myself up most reluctantly and ride on thinking that with Fougères not that far away and the terrain being a whole lot forgiving I might make good time after all.

In PBP special moments lurk around every corner and here is one that is seared in my memory. I come around a corner and the road - after what seems like miles of false flat - finally begins to climb. Stone houses sit under a brilliant blue sky dotted by white puffy clouds. There is some cheering coming from up ahead from I know not where. As I ride up to a clump of houses I am at the bottom of this hill and the chanting seems to be coming about halfway up. I am near the last 100 yards from the top and I finally spot them to my left. It's a group of 3 girls with their elbows on a window ledge. They couldn't be anymore than 7 or 8 years old. I am finally near enough to understand what they are saying: "Allez les Bleus" they repeat over and over again in a chorus of perfect rhythm. My jersey is of course Blue and I am almost moved to tears by this custom greeting. They could have been cheering for the French football team, but I highly doubt it. Merci, I call out and they add rhythmic applause to their chanting. I am in my granny and climbing slowly up, so this lasts for a while. I feel like I am on top of the world.

I stop again a little while later for another mini nap as riders stream by. This stretch is one of the easier ones that have been thrown our way but I have no idea how far it is to Fougères. That darned computer! It is midday now and I am overcome by an intense desire to sleep. I spy a roadside car and ask them if there is someplace to sleep. The two youngsters inside are unable to help and I continue on. Some sense gets into me a few kilometers down the road and I kick myself for losing it completely. How could they have possibly helped?! A few kilometers out of Fougères, I am struck by an intense sense of deja vu, except I've never ridden to Fougères in this direction before. It feels really weird until we ride by the castle that dominates Fougères. I gawk again, but there isn't any time for pictures. I finally arrive at Fougères around 1:30p. Welcome sight indeed!

August 24, 2011: Fougères to Villaines-la-Juhel

This is where you go get your card signed

I am shocked to find that I only have about an hour and 40 minutes at my disposal, but I absolutely must sleep. Despite the flat sections of the last few miles and the lower required average speed, I haven't gained much time. I make a mental note of this as I make the long walk up to the control officials to get my card signed. The dortoir is but a short 50 yard ride away, and 3 Euros poorer I ask to be woken up in an hour. The gymnasium I am led to is completely empty except for mattresses with wool blankets on top. I lie down and let sleep take me. In milliseconds I am woken up by the control volunteer. "Monsieur", he says and softly touches my shoulder. I look up to a smiling face and sit up. Convinced that I have woken up, he leaves. He doesn't know me well, does he?

All through my life I have suffered from the "Oh please, 5 minutes more" problem when woken up from slumber. My mother and my wife will both attest to this: my "5 minutes" plea would leave my lips even before I've had a chance to open my eyes. I look at the clock and find I have 40 more minutes in the bank and so "decide" to sleep for just a few minutes more. I lie down and fall back to sleep. I wake up again to a hand on my shoulder and the same soft voice saying "Monsieur", but this time I detect just a trace of urgency and sit up upright. I have slept for another hour more! It is completely by chance that the volunteer came looking for me again.

Fougères Sleep Control volunteers who thoughtfully checked
back on me after my sleep break

It is almost 4.30 pm. I feel rested but despite being in the red as far as the clock is concerned, I am unworried. The official photographer comes over but waits for me to finish lubing myself up. The medical support person and the dortoir volunteers send me on my way with a "Bon Courage et Bonne Route".

Fougères: Official Photograph.
All lubed up and ready to go

The control is deserted, my bike being one of the few still around. I am just a touch desperate now, but one needn't panic, not with this many kilometers to go. There is plenty of distance between here and Villaines-la-Juhel to get back in the black. I haven't brushed my teeth in about 450 kilometers and I now have the beginnings of a sore developing along the tip of my tongue. Too much information? The road is mostly empty now as most riders are ahead of me but there are some people on the road. We head out on the road to Gorron.

The day is warm and the skies are clear. I arrive at La Tanniere at the home of Paul Rogue. There is a healthy crowd of locals outside and a few riders in front of what looks like a garage but it actually leads into a small yard. Who is Paul Rogue you may ask and how do I know him? Paul Rogue is famous for having a crepe and coffee stop along the PBP course and only accepting payment in the form of a postcard from your home town. In my obsessive reading of PBP ride reports his is another name that comes up in reverential tones. Not stopping here was not an option.

The cheering crew at La Tanniere

I ask for two crepes and a cup of coffee and a neighbour of Paul's from England hands it to me along with the coffee. "Paul is having a nap" she says in a crisp English accent. The Nutella crepes are delicious and I make small conversation in my paltry French as I eat and take sips of the very strong coffee. The crowd is small but well-dressed except for one man dressed in mechanic's overalls who is very interested in where I am from. There are two display boards featuring cards from riders past with a healthy representation from Seattle and Oregon. This stop is pretty close to Fougères so I have to leave fairly quickly, but I can now say that I have sampled Paul's hospitality firsthand. I check Facebook for just a minute and see an exhortation from my friend Amy Harman which politely tells me to quit taking photos and concentrate on the ride. I decide to stop taking photos unless I have time in the bank.

It is also near La Tanniere that my butt started complaining that it is unhappy with the general state of things. I have two sore spots on either cheek and I struggle to find a comfortable position on the bike that doesn't completely mess up my riding posture. I worry about my neck, my butt, and my hands. The former is still secure, but the latter two are getting insistent by the hour. I move my butt this way and that and finally find a position that I think works. I do not move my butt or stop for fear of losing this one comfortable position that I have somehow managed to find. In the interest of not grossing out the one reader who has read all the way to this point, I am going to refrain from mentioning this sore fact for the rest of the report.

There is a small climb outside of the town and as I am making my way up when the mechanic that I just met passes me in a old blue car, rolls down his window and yells "Bon Courage" before making a left turn off the main road. The Mayenne area we are riding through is chock full of farms and right out of La Tanniere we start climbing towards Saint-Berthevin-la-Tanniere. This area is vivid in my memory. We are afforded a 360 degree view: the surrounding landscape is a sequence of large mounds of earth all folding into each other. Farms pockmarked with trees fill the countryside. There isn't anything flat here. My butt doesn't want to help me sit on my saddle anymore: though slathered in unctuous goodness, it is complaining loudly. I am finding it difficult to sit comfortably and find myself climbing out of the saddle a lot for the next few kilometers. There is also a lot of bike related art including a tractor made out of bales of hay. I remember seeing something like that in the Tour de France! The pavement is littered with exhortations for the professionals with the Coup de Grace being "Good on ya, Cadel!". It is not as though they are partial to the professionals. Almost each town we pass through seems to contain some form of acknowledgement for the riders from the town who are doing PBP and for all cyclists in general.

We weave through Gorron the sight of my low moment a few days ago. I am reminded of Ken Krichman, having had to abandon due to a mechanical (post-ride note: he didn't abandon), a stark reminder that your ride could get messy any minute. There are a lot of riders from this town on PBP and proportionately, tons of people in support. All along the route I have seen people of different ages stand and cheer for us and it seems like this area has whole families at it. I see one family after the other at random points along the road with the now familiar "Bon Courage" and "Bonne Route" on their lips. There are two little girls sitting on a bench patiently observing the action wishing us "Bon Courage". I say "Merci Madame" and they start giggling. "Madame!?" they repeat in an amused voice and giggle again. Oh dear, not again. I yell out a "Merci Mademoiselles" as I ride by, their giggles receding into the distance.

I should have stopped and given those kids something I think just as I plunge down a small hill. I still have the second installment of those pins that I bought, the four or five left clanking around in my jersey pocket. I have forgotten about these and figure that I'd give them away to the next children I see. Of course, I have passed countless children before this revelation and the thought makes me sad. I start looking for children to give out these pins to.

I see them, two girls standing a little away from the sidewalk. The older sister is about 8 and the younger sister about 5, without any adult supervision, applauding cyclists as they ride by. They are quite surprised when I stop a few feet away from them on the road and motion for them to come over. They are a bit hesitant but something moves them toward me. I reach into my jersey pocket and in my kindest voice say "Un petit cadeau pour moi" ("a small gift for me"). They look confused. I'm stupid. Okay, let's try that again. "Un petit cadeau pour vous. Pour vous" ("a small gift for you") I say, and hold out the pins. Their eyes light up and they take the offering and look at them eagerly. I am about to mount my bike and ride off when the older girl - with a smile that could warm a Minnesota winter - says, "Vous êtes très gentil". Her voice is so soft that I might have missed hearing it had I not been two feet from her. Moved, "De Rien" I say and ride on.

One pretty town follows another. We've ridden through a lot of beautiful towns in the dark but I am happy to say that I rode through Ambrieres-les-vallés in the daylight in both directions: Beautiful town with a somewhat dilapidated chateau, brown stone houses and lots of flowers. A killer descent leads me to the only bridge in town over the river Varenne, but I ride on, not wanting to waste time. I'd regret this later. We climb out of Ambrieres-les-vallés past a beautiful little church. I need to use the bathroom and just before leaving town I spot a small park with bathrooms. The Men's bathroom is a giant mess and has run out of toilet paper but the Women's is as clean as can be expected after 500 men have used it. I become #501. I briefly consider stopping for pizza but thanks to the coffee at La Tanniere my brain is still in working order. I can't spare the time. In Lassay-les-Chateaux I ride by with little regret but after seeing Versailles my feeling is that a Chateau is best admired from the outside. Sorry, Chateauxophiles!

I don't know why but my most vivid recollections from this PBP are on the Fougères to Villaines-la-Juhel stretch, probably as a result of the coffee I had in La Tanniere. The light is softening now on an inexorable march towards dusk. Assorted groups of people are standing by the side of the road as we enter the town of Charchingné, politely applauding. A very small town with church, school and library, the centerpieces of any community. Before the last of the houses on the right on the very edge of town, two little boys unforgettably demonstrate why PBP is as sweet as it is. They come out sprinting from one of the houses on the right and hold out a small notebook each. They want our autographs! They want our autographs?!?. I am prone to the occasional emotional lachrymatory attack and I am completely floored by their request. I don't remember what I wrote now, but I sign my name and city. I ride like I have wings for the next few miles.

What is a good way to describe how we are being treated ? It is hard to express what the people along the route mean to me and my ride, the part that they played and the reaction they caused, and this is the best I can come up with: each spectator is like a blacksmith. Each cry of Bon courage and Bonne route, each bottle of water and admiring grin, each slice of lemon pound cake, each cookie, each offer of coffee, food or a bed, each request for an autograph, each clap, each handshake, hammers into place the steel of your resolve, makes you determined not to quit. To give it your best shot. To put short term pain aside and focus on getting to the finish. And I think it is this that will make me go back to Paris to do this ride in four years. Not the scenery, not to brag, not the medal. My resolve to finish hardens and I ride with just a little more pep for the next few miles. The people of the Mayenne seem to realize that this is our last night on the road, that we need the encouragement, the slow ones more than most. At least, that's my best guess.

Right as we leave Charchingné the road curves to the right and we are treated to a nice long downhill, the black top of the road splitting two fields of green on either side. I am caught by a French rider on a recumbent. We talk and find the first three things we have in common: we are bonking, have run out of water and have no food left. We carry on knowing that one town or the other will come up soon. We start riding through what looks like forested land but there are houses every so often. To the left we see a small sign that identifies this land as owned by the French Military and has the only "No trespassing" signs on the entire route. My friend comments that we better be on our best behaviour. We ride together in silence.

We round a small corner and there in front of us is a small village: Le Ribay. It's location is easy to remember: the town just before the big N-12 highway crossing. To our left, a small group of people are gathered around a small table set against the wall of an old stone building. A few children on mountain bikes are stopped near them, chatting informally. As they catch sight of us the whole group explodes with cheers and gets even more buoyed when they find out we are about to stop and partake of their hospitality. A genial Frenchman comes over and fills my water bottle after patiently waiting for me to put some powder into it. The bent rider - whose name I never did catch - is getting some water and reaching for chips.

There's lots of stuff to eat. Pretzels, cookies, cakes, chips, watermelon slices, and I eat some of everything. I tell them that I find Brittany and Normandy very pretty. They are clearly proud of where they live and one man tells me about the parks, the open spaces and the farms. Of course, I have no chance in heck of really understanding what he is saying but I understand that the main points were about the beauty of the aforementioned places. As David Bartlett writes in "Paris: with pen and pencil", "The language was unintelligible for I found that to read French in America, is not to talk French in France". Point taken, Mr. Bartlett. I find my lack of French very badly exposed, found wanting in conversation and comprehension and I regret not working my French.

Maybe I am flattering myself, but I get the feeling that your average denizen of Le Ribay doesn't see people of Indian origin often: they crowd around me leaving the poor French bent rider to fend for himself. They also curiously seem to think that I speak French. I soon find myself the recipient of one question after another, the most complicated of which is translated by the bent rider. "Do your parents live in France?". I reply in the negative and the crowd seems to enter a new phase of uncertainty. "If his parents don't live in France what is he doing riding Paris - Brest?" they probably wonder. I can handle most of their questions, but what they do not know is I am just Mr. Collins from Pride and Prejudice: I have anticipated some of the questions that might be thrown my way and practiced answers for them. I have rehearsed compliments too!

I tell them my parents live in India, that I was born there, all in French. I meet the first guy on the ride who hasn't heard of Seattle. That is a surprise. Somehow the conversation turns to family and I volunteer this little tidbit "Mon mari est a Londres" I say. They seem surprised; I wonder why and have no clue, but I go back to eating. "Votre Mari?" they ask, and "Oui" I say taking care to say it the right way and not the Parisian way which makes the Oui sound like "way". I look around town and continue eating and then it hits me: I've just told them that my husband is in England!. "Mon femme! Mon femme! pas mon mari" I say and smack my forehead. They all laugh hard and one man puts his hand on my shoulder and laughs his guts out. It seems like the French portion of my brain is slowly shutting down, but I am happy to cause some mirth.

A local offers some Camembert cheese and I politely decline. He looks offended. Not wanting to make him unhappy, I explain in English to the bent rider that soft cheese upsets my stomach and so I am going to stay off. He completes the triangle in the conversation but recommends the Camembert himself. "You must have some Camembert, monsieur" he says and takes a bite while I smile and parry his recommendation. I put on my vest and offer a Merci Beaucoup. The locals sees us off with cries of Bon Courage and Bonne Route. The bent rider outpaces me a little and is still thinking about the cheese: "It was very good, Monsieur. You must have some Camembert", he says and I tell him it is the first thing I will eat when I get to Paris. We have a good laugh.

A few hundred yards past Le Ribay is a crossing of the N-12 highway and the bent rider offers a warning. But, as we approach the stop sign there is a local there watching for riders and traffic and standing in the middle of the road. Allez, Allez he says and waves us on. I've had a nice little break and we begin climbing again to what looks like a ridge with views extending far and wide on both sides of the road. I try to read the weather up ahead: some patches of gray and blue with what is unmistakably rain. A few drops fall on us out of Le Ribay and I wonder if we are up for a stormy night. But it doesn't last very long. Le Ribay is less than 20 kilometers away from Villaines-la-Juhel and I ride with no sense of urgency. I have completely forgotten that I need to make up more time if I plan to sleep at Mortagne-au-Perche. I've just killed 20 minutes at Le Ribay, but it's a cherished memory of mine from PBP.

A few miles later I round a corner while climbing a small hill and see what to me is one of the weirdest memories of all of PBP 2011: A rider smoking a cigarette while stopped on the opposite side of the road. After lots of bike art, including a 6-person bike in Loupfougères, I find myself riding down a well-lit street with hordes and hordes of spectators cheering at the top of their voices. It is an awesome reception: I am in Villaines-la-Juhel. Two more controls to go.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 5: Carhaix to Tinténiac

2012-11-03T23:23:00.002-07:00

August 23, 2011: Carhaix to Loudéac

There are fewer than 30 bikes at the control as most of the horde have left towards Loudéac. I am in an undesirable position: behind the bulk of the riders. It does leave a lot of space to park one's bike, however: I lean mine against the white tent. The ground is still soggy and I make my way to the control to get my card signed. I leave Carhaix fairly quickly, fully aware that any time wasted here would cut into sleep and the terrain between Loudéac and Brest isn't exactly the "bank more time" kind. Oh, I do remember some of those hills. The terrain returns to rolling just as we leave the control but turns to mostly flat as we near Maël-Carhaix.

Dusk falls around us and I am within sight of several riders as we make our way through the first of the hills that guard Carhaix from the east. The road is pitch black and heavily chipsealed here and there. My palm starts to get quite tender in places but nothing to get alarmed about. Riders are everywhere as the sound of rolling tyres and chirping insects are the only sounds that disturb the still-warm night air. We climb one roller after the other as the string of lights rises and falls giving those behind a fair idea of what lays ahead. We ride past a sleepy Saint-Nicolas-du-Pelem again with the control abuzz with activity. And just like this morning, the number of riders on the road picks up.

A few miles before Corlay, I meet an old friend again. Mike Huber who started a good 9 hours after me has finally caught up and though he is far better rider than I am decides to hang with me for the next few dozen kilometers. Very very kind of him. I ask him to go on as I usually do and he replies in the way he usually does: "We'll see how it goes, Narayan". We chat about the ride and our experiences so far. I expect a secret control at Corlay but none materializes and the only person to cheer for us is a teenager who is sitting on his balcony of his house. The terrain switches character again after Corlay, the hills starting to hit with a vengeance. The pavement also is one of the roughest of the entire route. I am making slow and unspectacular progress but the thought of this interfering with my sleep never hits me. The required speed has dropped and I must be accumulating hours by the bushel, right? Delusion is a wonderful thing indeed.

A little past Corlay Mike bids goodbye. As we hit another one of those short steep pitches he launches out of the saddle and dances away from me. We have to climb a few steep ones before we get to Merléac and my speed hits rock bottom. At last, Merléac with its narrow streets and dominating church steeple arrives. The massive food tent in front of the patisserie is still there and is still staffed with people, although not the ones who saved my ride two days ago. There are a few riders sleeping inside the food tent and some are eating, looking ahead into emptiness with that trademark stare so easily discernible in randonneurs the world over. If Merléac is here then Uzel is not that far away. This thought helps me refocus. I arrive at the now familiar turn on the road to head uphill to the Uzel.

The course of course turns off to the right, but I keep straight on, figuring that I will find the little light display that indicates the pathway to the Gite. The one I couldn't find yesterday. Riders behind me yell adroit! letting me know that I missed a turn but I wave them off. A few hundred yards down the road I start looking for the lights that Rick told me would be hanging from the trees but I cannot find anything. I get to the top of the climb and am now in Uzel, but I have no clue how to get to the Gite. Not freaking again! Figuring it is downhill from here, I take the first left and then another left again, and am near a closed off gate with no Gite in sight. I need help and I need it now. I text Barbara to ask her if she can come and pick me up. I ride down a couple of alley ways and they all lead to dead ends. This is frustrating!

It is now past 11p and I don't think I can find this by myself. Lights flicker near one of the houses and I knock on the door. I am desperate. A young couple answer the door but have no idea where Rue de Dolo is. I try using my cellphone's map to show them where it is, but they have no clue. As I stupidly ride by a couple of times, I see them cover up the window and draw the blinds to prevent even more crazy people from disturbing their TV watching. I walk up a little more and find another house with what looks like a party in full progress. A half-a-dozen young people are enjoying themselves with Pizza and booze. I tell them my predicament and one guy immediately whips out his iPhone and starts looking. He spots the street and says he knows where it is. Meanwhile, Barbara sends me directions to the Gite. The guy with the iPhone and his lady friend walk with me up the hill and then point me downhill towards what looks like an inky foggy abyss. I thank them for their help and plunge down the narrow foggy road, all the while thinking this better be to the freaking Gite. I arrive at the now familiar Gite, thank goodness.

I've wasted at least an hour looking for the Gite. It is not as much as I wasted last time around but at this stage in the game it is a serious waste of time. Too bad French Gites don't come with neon signage! Barbara, Nancy and Jan quickly swing into action. The Gite is completely quiet as Vincent, Mark and Joe are now napping peacefully, having reached the Gite a few hours before I did. I ask about our riders and hear the depressing news that Jan Acuff has abandoned. I am all business, and head upstairs to take a shower after retrieving my drop bag. I have some Sustained Energy left and switch to a new pair of shorts and carry another spare in my bag to change in Mortagne-au-Perche tomorrow. I shower, trying to make as little noise as possible. I change into my bike clothes and come down to tell Barbara to wake me up in 20 minutes. It's all the time I can afford. Oddly, I have trouble falling asleep, something completely new. I am nervous and my heart rate will not go down, but after a few minutes I fall asleep. Barbara gently wakes me up a moment later.

As I pack up my drop bag, I have a decision to make: I gamble and leave all my rain gear behind. I am going to try and save as much weight as I can. I have plenty of Nuun (unused since Brest) and Sustained Energy. A switch to well-worn gloves and socks makes me feel vastly better. Jan makes me a fantastic Omelette with onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. Nancy makes me coffee and I drink two cups of it, with a pain au chocolat as accompaniment. These are the first cups of caffeinated coffee in over a year. I kicked coffee for this day! I attempt to make up for a lack of talent and training with reading and effort and this is a little tip that I picked up reading somebody's ride report. Mark, Joe, Vinnie, Hugh Kimball and Vickie Tyer are all up and getting ready to leave. Vickie and Hugh leave before me.

I leave the gite around 2.20p (and have forgotten to charge my phone and brush my teeth!). Andrew walks me down the forest-like path and gingerly past the ditch on a small bridge and onto the road. I now see the lights that they have dangled on branches to help us identify the forest path. I have no freaking idea how I missed these in the dark. I must have been on the wrong darned road entirely! I ask Andrew to wait a few minutes (in case I don't get back on course), and head downhill. A half-a-mile later I see the familiar intersection and see riders en route to Loudéac. Relieved, I join them and am immediately struck by how benign the terrain looks and how slow I am still. It is neither cold nor warm and most importantly not raining. I am wearing most of my clothing and my half-fingered gloves work fine. I am with a small group of riders and at one point we get really worried because we haven't seen a marker in a while. We stop and chat about it and elect to press on until we finally hit a T-junction and find a course-marker. I reach down to take a swig of water and I come up empty. Dang it! I had left my souvenir PBP bottle back at the Gite! There was no time to go back though, and one can be certain that they'll sell water bottles at Loudéac.

The coffee is clearly doing its magic. I feel awake and well. My name rings out in the night air and it is Mark and Joe. I briefly harbour fantasies of hanging with them (when will I learn?) but the increasing gap between our wheels quickly puts paid to such silly fantasies. As you may recall, we climbed and descended quiet a few large ridges out of Loudéac and my worry is that I will be slow up these ridges and hence struggle to make the Loudéac control. In a spectacular stroke of good luck there is somehow more down than up, but when there is up it is steep. The pavement goes for a toss shortly before Loudéac and I remember one particularly evil descent where finding a nice pothole free line became a challenge with all the riders around me. I get to Loudéac around 3.30a. The control close is at 3.56a.

August 23, 2011: Loudéac to Tinténiac

Mentally, I am rather smashed. I am in a stupor, doing things very slowly and acting like I've just woke up. There is no place to park my bike; a lot of riders sleep at Loudéac and every single spot is taken. I eventually lean it against a rather large open trash can and am taking off my gloves when I spot Joe Platzner. Joe and Mark are on their way out having just enjoyed a nice breakfast. Who needs warm food when you have chemical cocktails!? The fools! Joe has picked me up with his wit and energy on more than one brevet and I always look forward to interacting with him on brevets when I get the chance of it, but I never expected what came next.

Joe is all energy even at this early hour. He comes up to me and says "Narayan! What are you doing right now?". I am now paying attention. "I don't know Joe, I just got here", I say in a weak voice. Joe looks concerned. "You should either be eating, sleeping, or riding. What are you doing right now?" he asks, and I am suddenly aware that I am lethargic. "It's business time!", he declares finally. It's my first ever pep talk on a brevet! I am awake now and I am desperate to follow the course of action set out by Joe. I quickly head to the controle and get my card signed. I mix up more food and in a matter of mere minutes I am out of Loudéac: thanks, Joe. I didn't have much chance of sleep or real food, but as I am riding out of Loudéac I yearn for some hot food. I will have something warm at Tinténiac if I have some time on the clock.

Arguably, the three biggest factors affecting ones chances of finishing PBP are mind, body, and bike. In my estimation, the mind is one of the most probable things to go, whether it is a lack of sleep, lack of clear thinking, or lack of desire to finish. The mind plays wicked games on a long ride because it knows that respite requires inaction, not action: all you have to do is stop pedalling. And that is so easy: take a longer nap, linger a little longer at a controle, etc etc. The body is the next most probable thing to fail, as subjecting it to heretofore not experienced stresses might cause it to just break: Shermer's neck, saddle sores or a bum knee being prime examples. The least probable of all is a mechanical failure. The bike is the only factor that you can make close to bulletproof as possible. And try, I did.

In the weeks before the ride, I started working on the bike with Andy Speier. A new rear derailleur, new crank, new tyres, new chain rings, new bottom bracket, new shifters and new cables all went on, the first massive operation on my bike in almost 3 years. A new front rim was built and installed, thanks to the immeasurable kindness of Joe Platzner, who nonchalantly built my wheel in his living room while chatting about PBP. I did one 200k with this new setup: the hilly Woodinville - Granite Falls, and everything worked out perfectly. I pronounced the bike bulletproof for Paris - Brest. Delusion is an amazing thing.

A dozen or so miles outside of Loudéac my front shifter starts behaving oddly. I have to really struggle to get it into the big ring. It makes a big racket in the big ring, and I have to ride in the middle of my rear gears to have it stop whining. Switching to the small ring isn't an issue, thank goodness. A half-dozen or so miles later the front shifter completely breaks after a hill, the lever freely moving through its full range of motion with no response from the derailleur whatsoever. I am not that mechanically inclined and though I stop to examine what could be wrong, I am in no mental state to figure it out. The cable is not broken but the front derailleur is misbehaving. I curse myself for being so stupid: I should have learnt to change cables and carried some spares.

This isn't quite the disaster I tell myself, trying to stay positive. I can still motor along on the granny and maintain more than 15 kph! I wouldn't bank any time, but we have the secret control at Quedillac coming up, and there will probably be some mechanical help there. I am forced to stay in the small ring and I can't generate enough momentum on the downhills to allow me to climb rollers effectively. I am not sleepy yet and whenever I start thinking about sleep I try and dismiss that desire very quickly. We ride through field after field of corn and I can already spy dawn to my right. I have this image stuck in my head of red lights dancing through a narrow strip of blacktop flanked on either side by corn fields. It was pretty dark when I got to Loudéac but it is nearing daylight now, our last full day on the road.

I am desperate to stay awake now: I start singing songs and do not stop even when riders go by. I am beyond all shame and figure I'd give any passing riders a nice sample of my singing abilities albeit in a language that nobody can comprehend. Dawn breaks, lifts my mood, and, in what is immeasurable relief to my fellow riders, I stop singing. We go through the beautiful town of Saint-Meen-sur-le-Grand and once again I don't stop to take a photo. I don't smell the Lavender this time. The church is lit up beautifully as we sail through the center of town. No sign of wind or foul weather. I arrive at Quedillac and make sure this isn't a control in this direction: it isn't. The next thing I do is ask for a mechanic. A secret control on the way out, it has been reduced to just a revittallaiment control and does not have a mechanic. I have trouble with the French word but a very helpful volunteer repeats the word a couple of times to help me say it right. (RAH vitta lai mon). Far from being mad at me for butchering his language this man wants to help me learn it. Incredible. My mind shifts to learning and my brain temporarily forgets to obsess over the worries of the moment.

The volunteer further expresses his regrets and says "Tinténiac?". I thank him, refill my water bottles and leave. Gary Baker and another Canadian Randonneur (whose name completely escapes me now) are just setting out after a nap. Gary looks fresh. I am a little disappointed at not being able to fix my problem, but meeting Gary is welcome respite from living in my own head. He takes a photo of me as we make our way up a small incline. I manage a very weak smile which belies my mental state. Gary and his friend soon vanish. I will have to make Tinténiac at whatever pace I can muster. My computer is dead and I have no way of knowing if my pace is acceptable.

We ride through one picturesque town after another, Bécherel being one of the more memorable ones. It lies atop a climb - surprise! - and delivers a beautiful view as one enters town on a very narrow street. Traffic is picking up now but courteous as our small group of riders make its way through the sleepy town. Bécherel is also famous for having 15 book stores for a town of about 750 residents and is home to several festivals that celebrate the written word. I think of my wife - who is in England - as I ride through fantasizing about the two of us spending a day filled with coffee, pastries and casual browsing of all the bookstores in town. There are a small group of townsfolk waiting around the town square as we sweep left and carry on towards Tinténiac. There is a long curvy climb and a nasty set of rollers in the final few kilometers before the controle and traffic is now on the heavy side as we are on a main thoroughfare to Tinténiac.

I get to Tinténiac with about an hour and 40 minutes in the bank.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 4: Carhaix to Brest to Carhaix

2012-11-03T23:23:00.000-07:00

August 23, 2011: Carhaix to Brest

Carhaix in the early morning light

The rains have devastated the grounds where the bike parking is, and just like Loudéac yesterday, there isn't a place to park. There is a tent outside the control buildings and riders are busy milling about. I park my bike against the white tent and head in to get my control card signed. The volunteers are efficient as always and with no delay, I am taken care of.

Since I have been riding in the rain, I am craving something hot. The Sustained Energy simply will not do anymore. I follow directions to the cafeteria and enter a big hallway where every table is occupied with riders in every conceivable state. I pick up three rolls of bread and a bowl of hot soup. There is also fresh fruit, pudding, cheese and coffee. There is another vegetarian randonneur there (I swear he was wearing something akin to a skirt), and we both share tips on what to get. It is easy to get vegetarian things. I stand in line and pay but the amount quoted is miniscule compared to what I have on my plate. My disbelief is addressed by a smiling volunteer who tells me that the bread is free. Of course, he says this in French, and it takes me a good 20 seconds to understand what he is saying. He then uses English. This is simply amazing! Free food! I share a table with a few other riders whose nationalities I now forget. The hot soup warms me. I soften the bread by dipping it in the soup. The bread is tasty and the soup is the best I've ever had. I leave the control in about 25 minutes. That's all it has taken.

As I leave the controle, I remember that I haven't stopped at any of the patisseries and decide now is the time to get some baked goodies. I see one that has just opened, lean my bike against the trash can, and enter. Locals are flying in and out, getting their pastries and their coffee. They greet me with a cheery "Bonjour" as I stand in line with them. I order a pain au chocolat (chocolate croissant) and as the woman at the counter is ringing me up, I see a jar of macaroons, and thinking they must be free samples, reach into and grab one. The woman is shocked and then it strikes me that maybe, perhaps, this jar is not filled with samples! I apologize and pay the 1E. The woman smiles and sends me on my way. The croissant is warm and oozing with chocolate. I sit down on the concrete and eat it right outside the store. A delectable waste of time. It is now fully bright out.

The road surface is not smooth here, and I do notice the chipseal. Mark Thomas and Joe Platzner pass me with a cheery "Narayan!" on another one of those rare flat stretches and my spirits lift instantly. It feels great to be even within the same area code as those two. They are riding much faster than I am and lose them after a few hundred yards of conversation.

We climb for what seems like forever up a very gentle incline. Something exciting must be imminent because the crowd thickens and dozens of parked cars lining the roadway. My first thought is that it is yet another secret control, but it turns out to be a major road that gets us over the Roc Trevezel. The crowds are here to cheer every single rider beginning the ascent up the mountain. The climb itself isn't steep and I cannot remember a single stretch where the grade is higher than 6%. The pavement is chipseal and there is a certain reddish hue to the stones. Traffic is heavy, far heavier than the last several hundred kilometers, a thick misty rain dominates proceedings. There isn't a shoulder to speak of and there is a very small gravel patch abutting the road.

I feel reasonable as I start the climb but lack the power to muscle over this hill. I settle into a comfortable rhythm in my lowest gear and riders pass me in droves. Truck traffic is fairly heavy and riders are riding three abreast which doesn't do much to enhance the safety of those who are riding in the opposite direction. This is the one section on PBP that I didn't feel quite safe. Trucks are crossing over to the other side of the roadway while passing riders, and the fog makes it downright dangerous. Riders seem unmindful of the conditions and that comes as a surprise to me. I am still wearing my jacket now and I really want to turn on my taillights, so I stop to take my jacket off. An ornery British "gentleman" on his bike yells at me to get off the road and then continues on up the road, but I resist the temptation to yell something back. The incident does rankle me. I wonder what he would say if there was a truck parked on the side of the road?!! I turn on my taillights and then continue the long slog up the mountain. The crowd thickens near the top and then we are treated to the start of a wonderful descent. I am so focussed on riding that I forget to take a picture of the summit. Not that it would have done much good with all the fog.

The descent is fabulous. A headwind greets us but who cares when you are going downhill ? It is cold however, and I stop and don my jacket again. I look back to see nothing but a fog covered expanse. The red chipseal remains and the fog slowly retreats the further downhill we go. Riders are streaming by in the other direction. On one of the rollers before Sizun, I see a smiling Karen Smith and Michel Richard climbing up. I am rolling down the mountain so I do not stop and chat with them. They took the train to Brest and are riding 200k in three successive days to get back to Paris. Truly civilized! Seeing them energizes me for the drop into Sizun. I see Ray McFall riding by himself and climbing like a feather. He is hours ahead of me! We call out to each other as our momentum takes us both on our separate ways.

Menu at a Sizun bar

Sizun Church, outbound

Sizun - like Loudéac - is a town that I've been eager to visit ever since I saw a photo of Jon Muellner and several of our SIR friends lounging there. There is a wonderful church steeple made of grey stone and the town itself seems to be buzzing with riders. There are several cafés, a market and some bars. I decide to stop here to get another croissant and maybe some water. I find a small bar (which offers a "Menu Randonneur"), eat another pain au chocolat, take some photographs, and just take the time to watch riders go by. I probably spent about a half-hour here. I forget to fill my water bottles, but I've long since gotten over worrying about where I'll get my next refill. The abundance of French citizens offering us goodies has a way of putting that worry out of your head!

A dozen miles out of Sizun I finally run out of water and find a small roadside stand manned by a French family. A woman, her husband, her child and an elderly French gent are handing out juice, cookies, nuts and water to cyclists and though it is on the other side of the road, I cross over and pull out my water bottles. This is one thing I see a lot of and never tire seeing: a wealth of goodies spread out on a table for you to feast on completely free of charge. The woman offers me Orange juice and cookies which I gratefully accept. It surely isn't that far to Brest but I have no idea how far (my computer is fried, remember?). We make small talk about where I am from and how I feel, but my lasting memory of this little interlude happens when I prepare to leave. The older gent of the family offers to take a photograph of me and as he returns my phone the younger woman grips my jersey, looks me in the eye and says something in French, which I fail to to understand. Recognizing this, she says "You will return to Paris, right?", in this voice of total seriousness. I say "Yes" and I realize that there are people along the route who really care that you finish the ride. Either that, or she was trying to tell me I am pointed in the wrong direction. :). Ride to the finish no matter what happens, is my take away.

Ride back to Paris, she says.

We resume climbing again and there seems to be a headwind any direction we turn and finally at the top of yet another rise, I see a freeway running to my right and a beautiful bay with the fabled bridge ahead of me. I stop to take a photograph and am joined by a Brit who remarks that this is the grandest sight in the world. I can only nod in agreement. It may not be to most other people, but to a randonneur this represents one of the most iconic spots in all of the world.

First View of the Plougastel bridge

We aren't quite yet at the bridge though, and as the road plummets, we are placed onto a bridge which parallels the main bridge now used by automobile traffic, leaving the old bridge to pedestrians and bicycles.

My bike on the Plougastel Bridge

Proof of being on Plougastel bridge, courtesy of a Japanese rider

I stop near the near end of the bridge and drink in the view. Yachts bobbing in Brest harbour, walkers ambling along a dirt path directly under our feet, dark clouds dominating the skies, the city of Brest perched on the far side and the new bridge to our right. It is a wonderful sight. A Japanese rider and I trade photographs of each other, cementing already strong Indo-Japanese relations.

Much to my surprise, Mark Thomas catches me on the bridge. He is riding a little ahead of Joe and the others. (This is the one documented instance where Joe Platzner was more than 5 feet away from Mark during the ride). We are all Facebookin'. Mark takes a photo of me. We both agree that being here is the greatest thing ever. Mark says "You're killing it!", it being the ride. Mark has always instilled a certain confidence in me and I think for the first time that maybe I have this thing in the bag. I leave before Mark and begin the ride over the bridge to the far side. I kick myself for not taking a photo of Mark at the bridge. The route puts us in a trafficky part of town and there is one crossing that I navigate with aplomb. Riding along the water, I see parts of the port of Brest and we wind our way around the harbour, and eventually see some of the walls of what looks like a fort.

We climb up to old Brest on a rather busy road, but traffic is very polite. We make a right turn and are faced with the Brest Controle! More than half-way! The time is 13:42.

August 23, 2011: Brest to Carhaix

My first order of business is to get my control card signed, which I do, and then find out that the food and restrooms are in the building across the street. I retrieve my bike and head over to the other side and spot Joe and Mark pulling into the control. They aren't going to eat here and want to head out fast, so I probably won't see them until Carhaix. For some reason I take my time in Brest, looking for water, heading to the restroom and then mixing up food. The cohesion I displayed in the past few controls is nowhere to be found. I leave after a good 25 minutes at the control when I should have left after about 10. Well, I lingered in Brest, at least.

My friend Didier from work tells me that there is a French song that goes "C'est le meilleur moment du voyage, le retour". Roughly translated, it means "It's the best time of the journey, the way back". Apt. We are halfway. Holy Crap!

The colour of the Fleches that we have to chase also changes. Our target is now to spot Orange coloured arrows. Volunteers send us towards "Paris" instead of asking which way we want to go. We are routed on a different route out of town and tackle a staccato sequence of long and somewhat steeper than usual hills. My pace drops precipitously on these hills and as usual a procession of riders passes me while I rarely - if ever - pass anyone. Here is a photo of me just outside of Landerneau: the weather beaten bricks are that of a rail bridge, crossing over the Route de Brest. A rider goes by and compliments me on my mudflap. It's one half of a water bottle. "Classic" he says, and rides on.

Just a little outside of Landerneau

A few miles before Sizun, Duane Wright comes climbing up a hill. Asking him about how he is doing produces a very surprising answer: "Not very well", which is a first coming from Duane. He never gives in to feelings of despair or disappointment on a brevet. He has raced against the clock and won too many times. He must have done the free start I think initially, but I do remember seeing him near the start and so I reckon he left with us. Things will look up: Duane is never to be counted out. He must have been sidelined with a mechanical, I think, and plod on.

I arrive in lovely Sizun around 4 pm or so, having decided before I started the ride that it would be one of the few towns where I would linger. I am craving real food at this point and I see a sign for the patisserie off the side of the road. I walk in and find two young ladies who welcome me pleasantly. They've run out of Pain au Chocolat and all everything they have looks foreign to me. I ask for a recommendation and it is clear that my French is now dead and their English is non-existent. They enlist the help of another woman from the Kitchen but she doesn't know what to give me either. Every time I have needed help on this ride, I've received it, and this time is no exception. An older gentleman who speaks decent English arrives and helps me out of my predicament. He describes my choices and I settle on a puffy looking Pastry which he assures me is good and tasty and is a Bretagne specialty: it is a Kuign Amann. I thank them all profusely for their help and chat about the ride and where I am from for a few minutes.

A Bretagne Specialty: Kuign Amann

I pay for the pastry and am heading back to my bike when I spot Jeff Tilden parking his bike. It is great to meet Jeff. I have yet to find Jeff in a bad mood. He is in great spirits and we share our stories of the road so far. Jeff invites me to eat with him and though I cannot spare that much time, I walk in with him and order a Pain au Chocolat, which Jeff insists on paying for. We sit down and chat about the ride so far while Jeff sips his coffee. I finish my pastries and leave figuring I couldn't hang with Jeff on the bike if I tried anyway.

A few miles out of Sizun, I see Divya coming up another hill and yell out some encouragement. She has a look of steel in her eyes as she crests a small rise. I try to make a quick calculation of how much time she has to get to Brest but my brain refuses to cooperate. After Sizun the Roc'h Trevezel looms again but this time Mother Nature is atoning for her earlier tantrums. We now have a spirited tailwind back up to the top of the Roc'h and the misty rain that plagued us earlier this morning has burned off leaving us to finally see what had been hidden a few hours earlier. One has a beautiful view for miles on end on both sides as we climb up to the radio towers which serve as the high point and pedalling to the top is effortless. There is a healthy crowd of spectators near the top and I begin the descent down the other side.

I am whipping my neck this way and that trying to see as much of this area as I can when I spot Vikram on the other side of the road. He is clearly in distress and the look of pain on his face tells me the news can't be good. I pull over to his side and find out that his knee is killing him. I try and talk to him about stretching his IT Band, but he has tried mostly everything already. He has decided to abandon and is trying to find the best way to get back to Paris. Vikram is quite calm; he is sure that his ride is over but also wants to come back and do this again. I promise to find somebody to help him and after about 10 minutes continue down the mountain. Hardly half a kilometer later I spot somebody cheering us and pull over and explain Vikram's plight. I do not know the French word for knee but I point to mine and mention that there is a someone up the road who needs a ride back to Loudéac. They promise to help as Carhaix isn't that far away from here.

Near the base of the descent from the Roc'h I spot another Indian rider walking his bike on my side of the road. I pull over and find out that his rear derailleur is dead and he cannot shift to the lower gears. (I forgot his name :( ). I tell him that he could go back to Carhaix and have his bike fixed and continue but our rider looks like he has made up his mind to abandon and nothing will make him change his mind. I chat with him for a few minutes and then leave. Having your bike have ride-ending problems is terrible, but it could happen to anyone at any moment. I find a couple sitting in a car and I try to tell them that there is a rider up the road walking his bike who needs help. They drive off immediately and I am hopeful that the rider will get the help he needs.

The descent from the Roc'h is now over and we head to Carhaix on a different route than the one that took us to Brest. I am a little disappointed as I pass by the turn to Huelgoat. We stay on the main highway and instead of some long, mostly flat stretches, we get a few kilometer-long rollers and the road takes on a very busy-highway character. But, it does make the distance to Carhaix a few kilometers shorter, I guess. Eventually I spy Carhaix in the distance, unmistakable in its hilltop perch. When I headed out of Carhaix on Tuesday morning, I remember the long downhill stretch out of the control and thinking this wasn't going to be fun climbing back on the return, but in reality it isn't that bad. It is now nearing dusk and I am gently climbing up a hill that isn't too steep. There is a valley to my left as the road curves left and then right as we approach the control. I arrive at Carhaix a touch after 8p.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 3: Loudéac to Carhaix

2012-11-03T23:22:00.004-07:00

August 23, 2011: Loudéac to Carhaix

The path to the control building is challenging in Loudéac. First, there's a right turn to make along with 4 other riders, then a very tricky metal impediment to cross, then a very bumpy and curvy run lined with spectators wanting to high-five you, leads you to the massive bike parking lot which is filled with riders, their bicycles, and their support groups. Never before have I cycled 450+ kilometers on the trot and I am still feeling pretty good, that low point near Gorron completely forgotten. Loudéac is a town of almost mythical standing in my head and the sight of the controle induces part wonderment and part disbelief. I am having a pretty good ride so far and things are working out better than I thought they would. In my fantasies about the ride, I was hoping that I'd get here in 24 hours. But, I am close. I have made it in 24 hours and 40 minutes: not bad for a perpetual slowpoke like me.

There simply isn't a spot to park one's bike! I hunt for about 5 minutes and then take one vacated by a departing rider. I see the building that Gregg Bleakney shot a beautiful photo of in 2007. It is now close to dusk and after making quick work of the control (signature, water), I am back on the road, the number of riders now spectacularly thin, as almost everybody seems to have stopped at Loudéac. I've got to go a dozen kilometers - to Uzel - before I get to rest my head and hopefully before the dark skies open themselves and display their soaking powers. It is dark skies ahead and naturally, we are riding towards the blackness. The path out of town is busy and has a few large roundabouts that we have to navigate and soon we are back in the country side. Traffic though thick, is unfailingly polite.

The view west out of Loudéac doesn't look daunting but I can see nothing but one verdant ridge after another ahead of us. I know what's coming and how tough the terrain is going to be, though I have never laid eyes on it. Everything is beautiful, farms on either side, the dark skies above and the occasional house to keep things interesting. We come upon a flattish stretch of tree-lined road that threads itself through some farms and I find myself riding with Bill again. I hang with him for a little while until he politely asks me if I want to stop and put some reflective clothing on. We stop, Bill and I, and I dress up for the short night ride ahead, while Bill eats something and generally potters around the bike. Riders stream past us. I think Bill is headed for St Nicolas du Pelem or Carhaix, but I may be mistaken.

We set off and resume chatting: the conversation relaxes me by taking my mind off of the task at hand, but the details of our conversation escape me now. I lose Bill; it would have been very nice to share a few hundred miles with him. I judge myself by the quality of the riders I am with and as companions go, Bill is a good one. Too bad I am not good enough to hang with him. A few miles of short climbs later, it is now dark. I am now completely alone. After the constant companionship of the past few hundred miles, this solitude unnerves me. I am also a bit nervous about finding the gîte in the dark; I have after all never laid eyes on it, and I have to now hunt it down in the dark.

The rain is famous for falling on the just and unjust alike, but if I had the management of such affairs I would rain softly and sweetly on the just, but if I caught a sample of the unjust out doors I would drown him.

-- quoted in My Father Mark Twain, Clara Clemens

I love this quote: if Mark Twain is right and Karma is indeed something to be reckoned with, I have done more than a few egregious things in this life and possibly others. A few miles after I part company with Bill, the rain starts. We are now completely among farmlands with one hill after another, constantly gaining elevation and not losing much of it. I can't quite accurately describe the terrain chiefly because I only rode this stretch in the dark (both directions). There are dark clouds right above the ridges that we are riding over. The thunder rumbles softly at first, seemingly miles away and not threatening in any way. But then the lightning display starts and lights up the whole countryside in sometimes-brief-sometimes-long bursts. The rain worsens but figuring I've only a few K to go, I only put on my rain jacket though I have all the rain gear I need in my Carradice. I remember discussions with Andy Speier and Mark Thomas about the weather forecast and am now glad that I chose to carry everything, even if that meant lugging it all the way here.

I climb each ridge and the wetter I get. The route west out of Loudéac is nothing like the 600k I did back in June. The hills aren't quite as steep but their frequency is attention-grabbing. I count the number of seconds between the lightning and the thunder boom and the number keeps dropping: closer and closer it gets. For about a half-hour, I count several strikes that were within a mile (less than 5 seconds). Most of it was 2 seconds or less. The rain hits the road and produces small crowns as it bounces into the air, each water droplet the size of a gummy bear. I very briefly contemplate pulling over but resist the urge as there is nothing to hide under. My focus is to get to the gîte and pulling over for cover would delay getting to a warm bed.

Even in these conditions there are riders around. A few like me are on the road, a few are hiding under trees and some others under the awnings of barns. They watch in sympathy as we ride by, perhaps hopeful that they can wait out the storm. After a few miles of this horrendous weather I am completely drenched. There's fewer riders now on the road (like somebody had swept the area clean). Water runs off my hair and into my face, the salty taste almost welcome. A few riders are already on their way back, a good 300 kilometers ahead of me at this point. I look down at my computer to see how many more kilometers I have before the turn to the gîte and my computer is blank. The rain has killed it. This is when my ride starts going wrong...

We make a giant right turn and come up to a T-junction and there is a sign that says Uzel is to the right. As expected the road now makes a left turn and I am in the company of a few riders and ride past the Uzel sign thinking the gîte would be on the main road. I start looking right for the lights that Rick told me would point me to the gîte, but there is nothing there. I make a U-turn when I hit another road and circle back looking for the lights but nothing there. I have several choices here: calling the gîte, pulling out the paper map or figuring out instructions using my phone. But what do I do ? I continue riding. Westward. Away from the gîte. I have no idea why I did this when I clearly know that the gîte is in Uzel. I can only blame it on the accumulated tiredness.

We've climbed a lot to get to Uzel, but the route turns seriously hilly west of Uzel. It is never flat and the rain shows no signs of abating. Traffic is non-existent as we make our way through one village after another with hardly any spectators to cheer us on. You know conditions are bad when there are no spectators at PBP! I ride on in the rain for kilometers on end, completely wet, all the while wishing for the comfort of a hot shower and a warm bed. We start climbing towards Merléac, another hilltop town. I can see city lights and what looks like a tent, ahead. There are people hiding away from the rain, and to the right of the white semi-circular tent, are a bunch of shops, all closed. There are quite a few people here and this gives me hope that I'll somehow find my way to the gîte.

They are selling food here and there are some riders huddled over in small makeshift beds. A woman and a man walk up to me and ask me if I want something to eat. I tell them that I have a gîte in Uzel (Oozell is how I pronounce it) and alarmingly, they have no clue where that is. I repeat that I have a gîte and that I need to get there to sleep, and I tell them the name of the street. Nothing clicks. I curse my luck and after about 10 minutes of looking hither and thither, I continue further west away from Merléac. The road heads seriously downhill and I pedal for a half-hour more. The rain is still going, with the hills making it interesting.

The first shivers start as I find myself well away from the lights of Merléac. Even though I am working hard on the hills, it is increasingly growing colder. I look for shelter and find none. The area is filled with farms and I am climbing again, the interminable rollers being the one constant. I start shivering seriously a few miles later and the bouts hit me when I least expect it. I have made the mistake of craving comfort, a hot shower, hot food and a warm bed. It is very hard - mentally - to let go of that which you were looking forward to for the better part of the day. I know I won't get what I crave and that tells me that I am not going to survive this ride. When I come to this realization I am almost relieved; relieved that I won't have to pedal 750 odd kilometers.

I pull over and stop for the first time to check if my pit zips are closed. They are. I remount and my spirit is now crushed. I simply have no desire to go another foot. I stop and hang my head for a few seconds, a tree offering me some respite from the relentless rain. When I contemplate moments like these, I always think that money spent, the training, the travel worries, the disappointment of 2007 would all rise up and snap me into the present, but no, all I can think of is getting some comfort. When the brain fixates on creature comforts, it's curtains.

Before I can put my plan of quitting into action, two motorcycles pull over next to me, and ask me if I am ok. They are part of the official roving motor pool responsible for rule enforcement and rider care. Escorting me to the side of the road, they ask me if I need any help. Their English is pretty rusty and my French is terrible, but my sorry figure probably left them in no doubt that I was in trouble. I tell them about my gîte and about how I could not find it and now I am all wet and shivering. We briefly talk about where my gîte is, and I tell them, incorrectly again, that it is in Oozell. They do not know where that is either. I am pretty sure they thought I was making the name of a town up in my mental state. I struggle to open my Carradice bag looking for the piece of paper documenting the route to the gîte that Rick and Barbara gave me on Saturday.

As I hold my phone and try to look for Uzel on Google Maps, I am hit by another bout of shivering, this one the worst of them all. It goes on long enough for one of the motorcyclists witness; he parks his motorbike and walks over to take my bike away from me. I now know my ride is over. He's seen me shiver and now he's taking my bike away, I think, powerless to fight that move. He hands the phone to the other motorcyclist, and then holds me up. That little piece of paper probably saved my ride. As the other motorcyclist looks at the piece of paper, he sees the name of the town. I swear I remember this like it happened 15 minutes ago, he says "Oh, Oo-Zellllle". It turns out that I was pronouncing the name of the town wrong. They confer amongst themselves and then come back to me, and propose that we head back to Merléac.

Now that I know my ride is over, I am unmindful of the time being wasted, or of riding back along the course. I start pedalling, but the man who took my bike away asks me to hold onto him and starts pulling me ahead, but I am so tired that my front wheel is at risk of hitting his rear wheel sending me crashing down. I try for a few dozen meters but I quickly give up. We head back to Merléac, the steep hill before the town awash with water heading downhill. We arrive back at the tent, and I am escorted to a table and made to sit. Somebody holds my bike while the townsfolk and the motorcyclists confer among themselves. I catch a few winks of sleep, with my head on the table.

I am woken up and escorted to a car. Two men place my bike in the back and drive me back along the course. We are back in Uzel in no time and we are going gîte hopping. I fall asleep in the back of the car and I awake to voices in front of a building. A woman comes out and talks to the drivers and they figure out that we are the wrong gîte. However, the woman is a great help and points out the exact location of the gîte where I need to be. Another person who I shall never meet who saved my ride! In a couple of minutes we are at another building and this time it is the right one. I am greeted outside by Barbara and Jan, and I couldn't be happier that I am finally back on track.

My bike is taken out of the car, but there is one final thing to be done: the motorcyclists ask for and make a note in my brevet card, but hand it back to me. The significance of this would dawn on me later. I however, take this as confirmation that my ride is over. After all, I was given a ride back to the gîte. As I wait I shake hands and thank the drivers and get their addresses. The motorcyclists get ready to leave and I thank them profusely. I am handed off from one set of caretakers to another.

The families of three of SIR riders riding PBP (Mark Roberts, Mark Roehrig, Rick Blacker) had graciously offered to transport our drop bags and help us with things at the gîte, but I forget who came out to greet me in the pouring rain. I am led into the comfort of a room and a towel finds its way to my hands. Somebody parks my bike (probably Andrew), and the process of warming me up begins in earnest. I am still shivering, but thanks to the kindness of these four, I am finally in fit enough shape to eat something and go shower. I still have some time in the bank, but can only sleep for a couple of hours before I have to get back on the road again. I eat, shower and plug in my phone to be charged. I don't remember waiting to fall asleep, but I am gently woken up by Barbara, who tells me it is time to head out. Mark, Joe and Vincent are all in bed, but I brush my teeth and have a hot breakfast and my life is good again. The only thing left to do is to prepare my bag for the next 300+ kilometers.

Every randonneur (or randonneuse) has had a mentor, a guiding influence, and a good recipe for success in randonneuring is to learn from the experienced. The best are those that don't pretend to know all the answers, but rather share what has worked for them. When I was new to randonneuring, Michel Richard and Karen Smith took me under their wing and helped me learn the ropes. Indeed, much like the BC Randonneurs, RUSA is full of these folks and whoever came up with the idea of a Paris - Brest - Paris special edition of American Randonneur ought to be canonized. A few weeks before we left for Paris, I received a special edition of American Randonneur in the mail. It had a lot of very interesting articles but by far the best one was the one by our own Dr. Codfish on drop bags, and the tricks to function with the reduced brainpower during the latter stages of a grand randonee. One of the lessons that I took from the "drop bags" article was to have a one Ziploc bag full of the things required for that day: your brainpower is inversely proportional to the number of kilometers you've ridden your bicycle. Of course, such bags represent your idea of how things will go during the ride rather, but it is a great starting point.

Even though I had decided on and packed combinations of jerseys, shorts, socks and gloves back in Paris and stuffed them in big Ziploc bags , I mull over my choices for a little while. For a brevet of this magnitude, especially away from home, one tends to think and rethink clothing, food, equipment; looking at the mountain of things to choose from, one draws scant comfort from the strength of routine. I decided to switch to my wool jersey, but kept everything else. I switched to a comfortable pair of shorts and a new pair of gloves: well worn and well washed. I picked up a new ziploc bag of Sustained Energy. I had little left of the food I toted from Paris.

I leave my rain gear in the Carradice, but put on my rain jacket. The rain is gentler than yesterday. The road gently tilts upward and I pass farm after farm in the darkness of the night, the only light coming from homes set a bit inside the land. I worry that there wouldn't be any water until Carhaix, but my fears turn out to be unfounded: families have left tables of food and several 2L bottles of water on the side of the road to help us. Vive la France!

The rolling hills eventually end and I remember cycling up a long false-flat in the company of a dozen bobbing taillights a few hundred feet ahead and the whir of tyres on the pavement as riders pass me. Our lights offer the only illumination on a starless night. The red lights atop the giant windmills flash in a steady rhythm. Giant droplets of water smack our helmets as we ride on, each one of us wanting the sun to come up again. We pass through a still-sleeping Corlay (secret controle from a past PBP), and past the sleep stop of St. Nicolas du Pelem. Tons of tents dot the grounds as people rush about. We ride silently past, but the stream of riders thickens as riders rejoin the course after (hopefully) a few hours of sleep. It is still gently raining.

A few miles out of Mael-Carhaix the sky starts to lighten, but it is still dark out. I remember this because this was one of the very few sustained flat stretches after Loudéac. At Mael-Carhaix, the cafés are doing brisk business. Riders are stretched out in every chair and table possible, some resting their heads on the still wet table, some sleeping under store awnings. We are riding among curvy misty hills though the road itself is fairly flat. The road is rough but I guess French chipseal has yet to learn all the dirty tricks from Mason and Thurston county chipseal, and the road is still pleasant to ride.

I arrive at the control a little before 7a.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 2: Mortagne-au-Perche to Loudeac

2012-11-03T23:22:00.002-07:00

August 22, 2011: Mortagne-au-Perche to Villaines-la-Juhel

Mortagne-au-Perche isn't a control on the way to Brest: it is termed a "ravitaillement" control and is housed in a very modern-looking building, but I don't need to enter it. I only need water and that need is very quickly satisfied thanks to well-placed spigots. Just ahead a food truck is doing brisk business. There is a mechanic station (with one very bored looking mechanic) and another booth selling Overstims products and even bikes. There are volunteers near the bike parking area which is overflowing with bikes. Finding a spot to park my bike is a challenge, so I lay my bike down on the ground and mix up food. I post a photo of the control on Facebook. I had been quite excited about keeping my friends up-to-date on my activities in France; This is my preferred way of sharing my journey with family and friends all over the world. After about 10 minutes I ride away. Helpful volunteers help us stay on course right out of the control, and yell "Brest, Brest" as they wave riders through. After several solitary miles I am back in the company of quite a few riders, most of whom have arrived here before me, but have taken the time to nourish themselves with that fancy French faire.

The approaching dawn rears her head behind me and my mind rejoices at having almost successfully navigated the first night on the course. The roads get hillier the closer we get to Villaines-la-Juhel, but with the exception of a couple of steep little hills the course has been very benevolent so far, but who knows what lays ahead. The rain is gentle at first and then gets annoying in a little while. I am not far from the first control as my bike computer informs me and we finally get to the top of the hill and the road takes a sweeping left. The crowds start appearing, slowly at first and thickening the closer we get to the control. The first signs that we are near the control comes from the tons of RVs parked along the road with riders from various nationalities being helped by their attentive support personnel. I get to Villaines-la-Juhel a little past 7:30a and now have a 3 hours and 15 minute cushion. I might have had more but I try to put the hilly bonus miles out of my head as things are going so well.

August 22, 2011: Villaines-la-Juhel to Fougères

Inside the Villaines-la-Juhel control

The control has very nice wooden bicycle racks alongside a stone wall that runs for quite a while, but every single one of them near the entrance is taken! It takes a while to find an empty spot but it isn't that big a deal. It is actually cause for cheer because it means I haven't been spit out the back yet. The control building is to the right and this is my first control! There isn't any confusion or a stampede. The ACP has a fantastic system in place for signing cards, with two tables to our left and right with 3 persons each. There is not even a trace of a wait to get one's card signed. A volunteer directs me to the correct table (plenty of volunteers, might I add?), and I exchange a merry Bonjour with the person who signs my card. It is of paramount importance to stay respectful and not act like an express train making a cursory stop. There isn't anybody else in line, so I take my time: they've taken the time to be with us and see us through. I ask them how they are doing and thank them for volunteering (Thank you, Google Translate!).

They forward me along to the food room, and I dutifully follow instructions, though I am not planning to stop here for food. I step out and survey the scene. Most of the people present are riders and their support staff, but there are a noticeable number of townsfolk nearby cheering the incoming and the outgoing. I've finished my control formalities and am ready to go in about 10 minutes. I feel pretty good. Looking west I see some gray skies with a tell tale trail from the clouds to the ground. Being from the Pacific Northwest, I have no trouble identifying rain nearby or in the distance. A bit of nervousness at the prospect of harsh conditions further ahead is quickly pushed down by the excitement of being in France and amongst these riders. It begins raining softly barely a few dozen miles west of Villaines-la-Juhel. I do have all my rain gear and that will tide me over. Things have been going well and I have 3 hours in the bank. I've ridden through the night and now have the day to look forward to. Riding in France at night has been wonderful and I've just done something that I've never done before: ride through the night and feel good after.

Lassay-les-Châteaux Castle on the way

On a long ride like this, the details of the latter parts of the ride cloud any memories one may have from the earlier parts of the ride: this is both good and bad. Good because it allows you to stay in the moment and forget any misfortunes that may have befallen you, and bad because you don't really recall the earlier stages when you are trying to write a report on the event. I confess that I don't remember the intricate details of what happened between Villaines-la-Juhel and Loudeac, but a lot of what I recall are standout moments: the mundane has been washed away as the detritus of a long ride.

One may spend an inordinate amount of time on a ride like this living in his own head, but one clambers out of it often: there is one word that my mouth utters constantly, and that word is Merci. The French are out everywhere and are at key intersections guiding us along the right path, silently clapping sometimes, raising a glass to us other times, increasing the probability of our success, and expecting nothing in return: okay, they want a high-five every once in a while. You have to admit this though: we cyclists make a stunning spectacle. Different physical shapes, speeds, bikes of all types, riders from several nations, multi-colour jerseys, the differences so stark and yet the purpose so similar. I'd be fascinated by this stuff if I lived along the route too.

I remember riding along on a fairly lumpy road and in the company of a few riders when the rain takes a turn for the insistent. Gentle reminders about the precipitation that envelopes us are replaced with nags, with each nag getting more and more severe as we ride further west. My head is still clouded from not having slept the previous night, but because of the sleep that I've accumulated over the last few days, I am still functional. We are riding on a ledge cut into the mountain with green fields receding downhill to our left and the road heading more or less straight toward another cluster of hills. A town lies ahead in the distance, covered by the misty fog of the early morning rain. It could be a scene from a hundred years ago as I see very little of the vestiges of a modern civilization: no skyscrapers, no disgusting industrial plants, no neon signs, and no malls. Stone buildings, farms, barns and forests. Delightful. I ride on, not worrying about putting any rain gear on, but my determination is being tested with every dollop of rain that hits my face.

I come to realize I have to stop and put my rain gear on, but there is no place to stop and change. I finally see a tree along the edges of a farm, and decide to stop there. Another rider has the same idea, and we both open our bags to get the rain jackets out. We introduce ourselves and I find out that he is from Canada and discuss people we know in common. I am embarrassed to say that I have no idea who he is now. So, if you are reading this and you are that person, please drop me a line. We leave together but the Canadian drops me easily, no surprise there. I settle into my former rhythm, the speeds of the previous night a distant memory, and continue on straight, when I am woken up from my reverie by the sound of a man yelling, and yelling it sounds like, to grab my attention. I am intent on riding straight ahead and the gentleman wants me to turn right and up a nice hill. It seems that I would have ridden off course if this genial gentleman hadn't interfered. Merci, Monsieur!

Back to the task at hand: the hill. We climb slowly up the hill and I get a good look at what I am trying to ride over. This climb is hardly steep but I am slow and for the first time in almost 13 hours I am reminded of how mediocre a rider I really am. The course shows its teeth and there isn't much flat land here. The rain has stopped, but the air still a wee bit on the chilly side. I am still doing decent time, which surprises me greatly. I half-expected myself to be dead after the first control and I take some comfort in my rate of progress. Despite the rain, the day is warming up and after a while, the rain stops completely. We pass a beautiful chateau in the town of Lassay-les-Châteaux, and I stop and take a picture and upload that so my friends can feel jealous of me. Quick stop though, no faffing, though we are in France. I do have to hit a bed around 9p.

After a long and gentle climb through a forest that felt like it went on forever, the delightful little town of Ambrières-les-Vallées materializes out of nowhere. The town is picturesque, lampposts and balconies are bedecked with flowers, and the bridge over the river is beautiful, and the town center is teeming with bicycles. Houses are arranged in rows up along the hillside. The river Varenne overflows a brilliantly constructed embankment to create a sort of faux waterfall. There is a wonderful painting of a horse drawn carriage on a wall that advertises the local bar and restaurant, which looks very inviting. It is a lovely spot for a bit of breakfast: it is around 10 am now. That would be too decent and not fit in my plans, so I keep riding, but in hindsight, I would rate this town along with Sizun as must-stop along the PBP route. Next time, I am taking a break here.

We hit a T-junction and are directed right towards the town of Gorron, whose significance I would never have recognized if it were not for Jeff Tilden's 2007 PBP report: Gorron has the highest per capita ridership of any town in the world at PBP (at least, it did in 2007). We start climbing a few hundred yards away from the bridge and traffic is now heavy. Unerringly courteous though, as we snake left and right, climbing away from town. I find myself overheating on some of these climbs out of town and stop to take off my jacket. A few miles later we are up against yet another hill when the first heavy droplets of rain hit. Serious rain. No messing around. I ride on, not wanting to stop and lose time, but I am not going as fast as I'd like. The legs aren't quite spinning right, the power is absent and the brain is feeling the effects of that last all-nighter.

A few miles before Gorron the rain thickens. My brain tells me the rest of the ride is going to be like 2007, my energy is at an all time low, and I am search for the power button. I have to stop and put on my rain clothes or I will be soaked to the bone. I find a huge tree to hide under and lay my bike against the dry ground. On the other side of the road, a small group of people waiting under an awning watch riders go by and they observe as I go about my business. My sense of urgency vanishes as I slowly pull things out and begin to dress up to head into the deluge. I take a good 15 minutes and eventually get going, but I am disappointed with the length of that stay. I suspect I am bonking but I am powerless to do anything about it. My brain is fried just a wee bit.

I haven't advanced a few hundred yards when Ken Krichman catches up to me. Ken is in great spirits and I tell him that I am not doing so well. Ken reaches into his jersey pocket and hands me a half-eaten baguette wrapped in white paper, which he has been carrying for who knows how long. "Eat this; you'll feel better", he says. We ride together for a little while, finally entering the town of Gorron and before we exit it, Ken has gone on down the road. Baguettes are easy to eat on the bike, as they are long and not that bulky. It is also my first solid food since yesterday afternoon, and the taste is everything you want in a piece of bread. I have been bonking! As I chew, the baguette rips into the soft tissue at the roof of my mouth and I wince in pain. It is another one of those glorious experiences that you can only get in France. Where else do you recover from a bonk by eating a baked-this-morning baguette ?

Gorron is motivating in several ways: first of all, it is a decent-sized town which means that there are lots of people at every curve and crossing cheering us on, the weather an afterthought in their minds as they hoot and holler and raise our spirits by just speaking their language. French is a delectable language and, along with Italian, is one of my favourite languages. Second of all, the townsfolk of Gorron have scribbled down numerous names and motivational phrases on the road exhorting us to ride with courage and ride well. How could one disappoint them? After Gorron, the rain seems a little less strident and the brain a little more aware as we enter Bretagne and finally the outskirts of Fougères. Not an inch of pavement is dry anywhere in Fougères. A big banner proclaims this as as "Haute Bretagne". The time is a little past 12:30p.

August 22, 2011: Fougères to Tinténiac

Sign welcoming us to Haute Bretagne

There are volunteers everywhere helping us find the control. The control is in a little building on the left, and straight ahead is the cafeteria. I lean my bike against the wall and go inside to get my card signed. I am dressed from head to toe in rain gear and the person doing the signing registers surprise as I amble to his table. I ask him how he is doing. He clearly doesn't expect me to ask him how he is doing. I get my card signed, tuck it away, and head out, not spending any more than 5 minutes off the bike. It is still raining as I leave. It is only 54 kilometers to Tinténiac. I am happy with myself for having left the control this fast. I feel pretty good and that is never a bad thing. I leave with a huge swarm of riders, bent on making Loudéac by nightfall. 445k in 24 hours would give me with a huge cushion - something I could draw upon to the end. The rain stops and temperatures warm up. This is most welcome.

SIR has arranged for riders doing PBP to get small souvenir pins to hand out to folks along the route. Naturally, I waited too long before I decided to get some. These pins haven't really been occupying my mind until now and have been lying in my bike jersey pocket, clinking away. I don't know why but I suddenly remember that I am carrying these pins to give out, and I am not exactly being diligent or appreciative of the cheering crowds and children. I vow to hand them out at the next village. In front of house with a small table, sit 5 kids: two of them, boys of about 10 or 12 years of age, and three little girls. I stop and the kids come over, not knowing what I stopped for. The oldest kid is clearly in charge.

When I reach into my jersey pocket, their eyes light up. I give them a pin each, one after the other, and they all look at it with wide eyes. Merci, they say; their parents have taught them well. But, there's one more child than I have pins for, and he is the oldest. One of the hardest things to do in the world is to disappoint a child. I confess to not having the heart for it. But I've handed over whatever I had and am one pin short. I dread what I have to do next...

Je suis très désolé, I tell him. His face changes to one of sadness, he stomps his feet and runs back into the house, crying. The other children look in the direction of the house, bewildered. I spend the next dozen miles regretting putting off buying these pins until the last minute. Next time around, I'll probably carry more than what I need and buy them early. Better that than disappoint a child. I have no recollection of which town this happened in, but I remember it was shortly after 1p. I am quite disappointed by how little I remember from this leg. Sorry. Slate written over by memories more recent. I do arrive at Tinténiac shortly after 3:30p.

August 22, 2011: Tinténiac to Loudéac

Entrance to Tinténiac control

I leave swiftly again ever mindful of the clock, and the steel reputation of the course from this point on. I remember precious little about the terrain itself. One of my motivations in writing this was to report on the exact nature of the course, but unfortunately I seem to have mislaid the details somewhere. Out of the controle, I start riding with Bill Russell. Bill is on a beautiful bike with even prettier panniers. We talk about SIR and I remember making inane jokes about him being the wrong skin colour for a Bill Russell and Bill being a good sport about it (having heard the same joke for the 900th time in his life).

A little past 5p and about 15 miles out of Tinténiac, in the little town of Quédillac, we come upon some commotion in the middle of the road; it is one of PBP's secret controls. "Controle", "Controle", the volunteer repeats as a fellow volunteer steers us towards a row where we are to park our bicycles. I get my card signed and leave immediately, quite proud of the fact. Out of Quédillac, the road flattens out as we make a left turn onto a major roadway with wide shoulders. We are on this for a few kilometers before we are sent off the main drag again making a right turn towards the town of Saint-Méen-le-Grand. There are farms to the left and right, lavender fields to be precise, and the warm air is rife with the smell of lavender. A brown brick shed sits not-quite in the middle of this field. A powerline runs along the road, interrupting my view of the farm. A tree stands amidst the greenery, its leaves shaking gently in the evening breeze. The memory is seared in my brain. The fantastic fragrance doesn't last for every long though, and we enter the town proper.

After the lavender fields, the buildings of a village ought not to impress one too much, but Saint-Méen-le-Grand has other ideas. It is a pretty town with a very imposing Hotel de Ville (City Hall, to the uninitiated) straddling the city square, sporting a giant banner welcoming cyclists to the town, it stands almost like a palace. Onlookers on both sides of the street yell out encouragement and applause. The reason I describe this scene in vivid detail is because I just rode on by, wanting to get to Loudéac before dark. Next time, I'll stop for a photo.

A little past this beautiful sight I spot an arrow pointing left mounted on a street sign and dutifully follow it. I don't go 200 yards before an elderly gentleman working in his garden signals me to stop. I ask him if I am on course and he shakes his head and points back in the direction where I came from. He waves as I thank him, and turn my bike around. Cyclists are streaming ahead on the main road and now I cannot even fathom how I could make such a simple mistake. I am guessing somebody - or the wind - turned the arrow a bit left to lead people astray.

The closer I get to Loudéac, the more excited I become. With a few miles to go I see the lead group with a very focused Chris Ragsdale near the head of the peloton. They are only a few hundred miles ahead of us. "Go Chris!" I shout, Chris looks at me, but is going at a speed that discourages identification of voices and faces. Still, seeing a familiar face is a big boost and seeing one of ours in the lead group is a giant morale booster. It looks like Chris is going to be one of the top finishers! Club Pride! The approach to the town is littered with farms but it slowly transitions to an urban environment: it cannot be long before the control now. The RVs give away the proximity of the controle. My pace quickens. We enter a roundabout and past it is a crowd two or three deep behind barricades, lining the road all the way to the controle. A few hundred meters of riding through this and the entrance to the controle emerges. It is 8:40p.

PBP Randonneur 2011, Part 1: Start to Mortagne-au-Perche

2012-11-03T23:22:00.000-07:00

I've written two versions, one short, one very long. The short version is for the sane and the long version is for me when I am 80 years old, so please excuse the level of detail. I've tried to share as much of what I can remember and sometimes I may remember wrongly. Please excuse any omissions or errors, and the "me" centric writing: I thought I'd just keep it private for the longest time because of this reason. If you want an idea of what the ride was like, read the stretch from Fougères back to Villaines-la-Juhel. It consists of some of my best experiences during the event.

The Short Version

I have long lusted after PBP and in 2011 I finally got to experience it firsthand. In my first attempt at this distance I finished in 88 hours and 35 minutes. I was aiming for 9 hours of sleep, but got 5. I rode a few bonus km (see longer version for details). There were two secret controls and I have no recollection whatsoever of hitting that second secret control (one group says it was between Villaines-la-Juhel and Mortagne-au-Perche, and another group claims it was after Loudeac). I had some mechanical problems which forced me to use the granny for about 80 kilometers, but I had no flats. The course was fantastic, the people were amazing and I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Would I do this again? Yes. Would I recommend that cyclists do it? Yes. As Ron Himschoot says, you just need the desire to finish it. Paris-Brest-Paris is simply the most fun you can have on a bike, due in no small part to the French who fill the course at all hours and in the unlikeliest of places to cheer for us, help us with food, water, a place to nap, and show how much they love this event and those that ride in it. If you are a randonneur or a randonneuse and are wondering if Paris - Brest is worth it, take the plunge and come ride it in 2015. You will see and experience for yourself and probably come to the same conclusion. I can say honestly that I cherished this experience and will go back for more (if body and finances cooperate, perhaps). PBP is a huge commitment, but something to be experienced at least once.

My ride would not have been possible without help. There are simply too many people to thank... So, thanks are due to everybody who has ever encouraged (or discouraged), ridden with, supported, listened to, or simply commiserated with, me. Special thanks go to my wife Raji, the volunteers of PBP, ACP and RUSA: without you none of this would be possible. Thank you.

August 21st, 2011: Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines to Mortagne-au-Perche

As we wait for the ride to start I find myself among a huge group of Seattle riders with the closest being Erik Nilsson, a first-timer and a much stronger rider than I. All around us, riders are capturing the scene on little point-and-shoots and cellphone cameras. We are quite surprised by the number and length of the pre-ride speeches, but knew we'd start at 8p. More waves were unlikely: there hadn't been very many people behind us as we waited behind the gymnasium. One final speech in English, a Mexican wave, and a countdown (in French!) later, a horn sounds. The cheers of the people in the background, the clipping-in sounds of hundreds of cleats, the look of determination descending upon the few hundred faces, and the beginning of a much-awaited journey: sweet. A chorus of beeps from the electronic chip-readers gives us a fine send off into the very warm French summer night.

I think I am all set for the road ahead: I have my reflective vest on - despite the warmth - and two bottles full of liquid nutrition to avoid stopping for the first 60 kilometers at least. I expect the first few kilometers to be dicey but riders are courteous and give wide berth. We start off riding on what looks like an expressway for a few kilometers, but take an exit on to the usual quieter roads. The road narrows a little bit and brakes squeal, the group compresses and decompresses at each of the roundabouts that litter the first few kilometers as we ride through the last of the suburbs of Paris. Several motorcycles escort us, volunteers cheer while holding traffic up at every intersection as riders take charge of the road. My initial miles are an avalanche of new discoveries, emotions, sights and experiences.

Hundreds of people of all ages lining the right side of the road cheer us, hoist placards that wish us luck, courage and a happy ride. Pedalling seems effortless: I am quite surprised to see that I am doing 30 km/h and don't know what to make of that. I surprise myself by keeping at that speed even up slight inclines. I am powerless to control myself. We have a peloton and a nice little tailwind, I reckon. I don't want to go out too fast but being in such a throng of riders is exhilarating and I'll get dropped when the serious hills hit anyway.

We are still flying and I am in a group of about 10 riders. I am passing people too! We make our way past the first few suburbs of Saint-Quentin and into the last vestiges of the Paris metropolitan area, parts where the number of spectators dwindles. It is almost entirely flat for the first 10k or so and as we arrive at the first little climb of the ride the setting on either side of the road is spectacular. It is one of my best memories from the ride. We are near the village of Jouars-Pontchartrain; there are huge fields on either side and the crest of the hill is punctuated by the silhouette of a church on the left and a row of trees lining the horizon darting to the right, with a spectacular pinkish red sunset on its way. I want to stop and take a photo but don't. Dumb! And it isn't the last dumb thing I do. This first little hill marks the end of the flat section of my inaugural Paris - Brest, and the rollers start. I shift to my granny for the very first time and hordes of riders stream past me. We are the last group and the hill is nothing serious mind you, and I am still flying, in general terms. No sign of the excitement ending and my familiar pace (between 15 and 20k) to show up. I keep at it, figuring that I might as well ride this horse till it tires.

Several houses along the course have bicycle related adornments, the pavement features messages encouraging us, and roundabouts have motivational placards with the names of riders on them. You are going to have to trust me because I have no photos to prove it. People sit on lawn chairs and keep clapping as we ride on by. Spectators line the streets in small towns and cars are always courteous. They drive a safe distance away and pass with plenty of berth, displaying none of the urgency that North American drivers seem to suffer from. Riders fill the roads and yet the cars are patient, only passing when safe, and never in an aggressive manner. I have read about this, but it is something else to experience. There aren't very many cars, with most of the locals probably figuring out that this night the roads are for the bicyclists. In the little town of Gambais which was situated on two lovely left turns, there is a house where a big group of people are sitting down to a very civilized family dinner and they let out a giant holler each time a group of riders goes by. In one village, there is loud music playing and every villager seems to be out cheering the riders.

We are riding in a foreign country! The houses, the roads, the signs, the company, the flora: all different. This is my first time riding in Europe, my first brevet out of North America and it is exciting. Riders everywhere and of national identities very different from what we see on a traditional brevet. People carry their gear differently: panniers, saddlebags, backpacks(!), CamelBaks, trunk bags, etc. Fenders are rarely to be found, and if they are found, it is most likely a Brit, or an American rider. A lot of riders just have small seat bags, like they are out on a 200k. Some don't have helmets. Lot of road bikes with skinny tyres. Some things remain true no matter where I ride though: I get dropped just as fast. I am dropped by Brits, Swedes, Australians, Bulgarians, Chinese, French, Spaniards, Japanese, Taiwanese, Serbians, Danes, and Germans, and some of our own.

On all of the rides that I have done, be it permanents, populaires or brevets, I have always had the security blanket of a route sheet. A small sheet of paper that controls your every move and vaguely assures you that you are on course. The advantage of knowing the distance to the next turn is that one can turn one's navigational brain off and just enjoy the countryside, by day or by night. PBP's route sheet was pronounced useless on the Internet because the course was marked with little flèches indicating the turns, but as with anything in life, this convenience comes at a cost: one can never turn one's brain or eyes off from navigation. It is unnerving at first but the combination of one's own wariness plus the security of having other eyes on the road makes it almost a non-issue as the kilometers go by. I have no trouble following the arrows - almost always at eye level or lower - but one has to be constantly on the lookout for these things. Much like a junkie looking for his next fix I keep thinking about where I can spot the next flèche. This is foremost on my mind as I navigate those first few kilometers in the dark. I am having good luck spotting the arrows and staying on course so far.

Dusk starts to fall as we enter the French countryside. We sail through the now dark night and the vision that I have been looking forward to the most finally materializes: a clothesline of red taillights dancing off into the distance, their gentle bobs divulging the effort required ahead. One look at my helmet mirror reveals a bevy of white head lights. It is quite the sight and is every bit as invigorating as previous ride reports have made it out to be. You will not see this anywhere else in the world, but at this great randonneur get-together. A Brit and I fall into conversation and agree that this is awesome fun. Lesli Larson catches up and I keep pace with her to chat for a little while before she slowly pulls away. We make a right turn onto a fairly large road and are faced with truck traffic for a little while. It is also here that I finally put my fears to rest about how we would be treated as bicyclists in France. Cars and trucks are uniformly courteous and I needn't worry about night riding in France. After a few miles we are taken off the major road and onto a minor road. I am getting comfortable on the ride and feeling good about how I am faring.

My stomach begins to grumble barely a couple of hours into the ride and by this time I have covered 40+ km. The only thing I can think of is the "Pria" bar. Dang it! My worst fear has come true: I am going to have stomach problems at PBP! We go by a few small towns and I look for something to be open, but no luck, and I really don't want to ask any spectators if I can use their restroom. The pack has spread out and while I am still in sight of riders, I am not right with them. A dozen kilometers later, I decide that I can't wait any longer: I'd have to ask to use somebody's bathroom and do it quick. We enter a long straight climb into the town of Le Breuil and halfway up the climb a group of three are on the side of the road cheering us on. They are my first hope!

I have anticipated this problem and know what to say (respectfully) when wanting to use the bathroom. The three of them are surprised that I stopped and when I ask to use their bathroom in my "French", the trio immediately swing into action: the man takes my bike, while the woman and her husband lead me straight into their house. They understood me! They understood my French!! I can hardly believe it! As I enter the threshold I bend down to remove my shoes like a proper Indian and the woman says "Non. Ca va". I could have hugged the three. Their house is simply decorated and looks cozy. When I came back outside they offer me water, tea or coffee and I refuse as politely as I can: I am now in "protect my stomach" mode. I thank them and take off to cries of Bon Courage. I didn't take a photo of them and I seriously regret that now. I rejoin the relentless stream of riders making their westward journey which is now a trickle. I still have some company but there aren't the dozens of riders nearby that I experienced for the first few hours.

We pass the odd village and vast expanses of farmland. Some of the fields have labels of what are being grown, but I cannot remember a thing now. The frequency of houses reduces greatly. Farmhouses dot the countryside, their lights the only indication that there are people in this landscape. Lots of farmhouses. The character of the houses changes too the further we go away from the Parisian suburbs. Modern construction recedes and old stone buildings become the norm. Streetlights are few too with an abundance inside towns and villages. A lot of riders new to Randonneuring are worried about riding at night. It can be the cause of even more consternation riding at night in a foreign country, but I find that riding at night brings on a rare-to-find familiarity. It is very new at first, but as the miles pass under our wheels the newness remains but without the butterflies at the bottom of one's stomach.

We have a good descent down into the town of Coulombs where townsfolk are gathered on both sides of the bridge to give us a good cheer. As we leave the throng and make a right turn to climb out of the town we are subjected to cheering of a different kind: three teenagers moon us, two show us their posteriors and one regrettably, the front. We all laugh: it is all in good fun. The former controle town of Nogent-le-Roi comes and goes but there isn't a reason to stop. I see a few Seattle jerseys inside a small bar here. We are back out in the country side and after a few dozen miles I am out of water.

We enter the town of Tremblay-les-Villages and even at this late hour TVs flicker and people are active. A few smokers cheer from their balconies. The bar is doing good business. We have been fed so many stereotypes of rude French waiters: the one that meets me at the door is anything but. I greet him with a bonjour and spying my water bottles he immediately leads me to the kitchen and leaves me there with a small pipe that has running water. I fill up my bottles and clumsily drop one onto my shorts. Water and Sustained Energy splatter everywhere, and the waiter comes running over. I brace for the worst but am faced with a smiling visage: "Pas de probleme, monsieur", he says and fills the bottles again himself. There is a mop nearby and I offer to clean up but he will have none of it. "Bon Courage!" he says and gives me a push out the door.

As I start riding again I am reminded that Sustained Energy is a bit of a sticky mess. My shorts are covered with white powder and my shoes are wet. My gloves are sticky. Fabulous. I have created extra work for a poor waiter on his busiest night of the year! The night is sure to get colder and my wet pants won't be an easy thing to deal with. I don't have two bottles of food either and have to stop again. And at this dark hour I have no chance of finding more water. One of the things that I was worried about before the ride was the 140 km stretch to Mortagne-au-Perche at night in a country with a reputation for having nothing open past 6pm even on a weekday. However, I needn't have worried (as I was told): there are bars open and when they aren't the townsfolk along the course stand cheering with bottles of water, food and even coffee as we ride past. And not just one or two little bottles for the sake of appearances: many have several two liter bottles of water sitting on tables along the side of the road. Some have Orange Juice, milk, and coffee.

I spy a car with its emergency blinkers turned on to the left, but I plow ahead into the inky darkness, a nice long downhill invitingly ahead. I hear a shout to my left "Paris - Brest": figuring this is somebody encouraging riders I shout a quick "Merci" and keep riding on. After a good three-quarters of a mile of downhill later I consider - albeit very briefly - that I am lost, but I see three red lights in the distance. Figuring I was on track and completely ignoring the lack of headlights behind me I keep riding. I arrive at a little pharmacy and find a Japanese rider looking at his map. We exchange hellos but the rider is consulting his GPS. We are now in another town and not another rider is in sight. I keep riding and come upon two Chinese riders: I pull over next to them to confirm if I am still on course and the man assures me I am, and the woman gives me one of those "Search me!" looks. I keep riding on and after about 3 miles (over a second ridge), I come upon a roundabout but there aren't any route markers: this is unusual. I wait for a few minutes hoping some riders will show up, but after a five minute wait a car comes by and doesn't stop for me.

I know now that I am in trouble. If there are no headlights or taillights may be I should ride back ? The thought of the long uphill keeps me hoping that I am still on track. But, I come to the realization that I am lost and have to head back until I see more riders. As I ride back I see another car coming up the road, but it doesn't stop either. The Japanese rider hasn't passed me and neither have the two Chinese riders, so they must have backtracked! I decide to ride back up the hill and as I reach the base of the climb, what do I see halfway up?! Two taillights bobbing in the distance. It is the two Chinese riders. I am really annoyed with myself for not having turned back sooner. Bonus miles aren't that bad, but when you factor in the distance we are aiming to ride, every little mile counts. I finally make it to the top and see the man who had yelled out to me when I was going downhill. He is a ride official sent out to warn riders that a left-turn sign is missing. I say "Merci Beaucoup" and ride on. I've lost about an hour.

Making a mistake is a common occurrence on a ride and the best course of action is to just forget about it and plow on ahead. Of course, my brain can't let go so soon: I keep hammering myself for the bonus miles. I have also run out of water. The fields along the course are now littered with riders suffering from sleepiness. We have been riding only for a few hours and dawn is a few hours away, but I can see riders pulled over and trying to deal with sleep. Their strategy seems to be to survive the night by all means necessary, while mine is to keep those cranks moving despite the loss of sleep. I am so overcome by the excitement of the event that sleep is an afterthought at the moment. Escort Motorcycles whiz by every once in a while keeping tabs on riders. The terrain also seems flatter a little bit after Chateauneuf-en-Thymerais and I make excellent time to Jaudrais. Some way to get water would be nice...

At a farmhouse under a whole bunch of streetlights I see a bunch of teenagers on the side of the road with bottled water. I pull over and much to their amusement, first fill my bottles with Sustained Energy. The oldest of the group, a lanky lad, waits for me to finish and then fills water politely while the rest look at me with curiosity on their faces. Not wanting to assume this is a free service, I innocently ask "C'est combien, monsieur?". The water filling teenager has a surprised look on his face; "C'est gratuit, monsieur" he says, almost offended that I brought the subject of money up (which I know is anathema to the French). I thank them all for their help, clip in, and am about to ride off when a voice from the back asks: "Quel Pays, monsieur?". I forget about my embarrassment and think about how I really want to answer. How does a man born in India, having Canadian citizenship, living in the United States answer this question? Of course, we aren't in Seattle and these kids probably have little chance to meet people of my ilk or so I flatter myself. Or maybe they just need confirmation. I think briefly for a moment; "Je suis né en Inde", I say. This seems to satisfy them. With a "Merci Beaucoup" I ride on while they holler out encouragement. In the last few hours I have barged into somebody's house, messed up a French Bar's kitchen, gotten lost, and the Coup de Grace, almost offended the French! I haven't reached the first control yet!

Past Jaudrais there are almost no people as we ride on narrow roads with only our headlights to lead the way. There are some people out in the town of Senonches, but I ride on, merely thanking the onlookers. Most of the little villages that we ride through are deserted, just like back home but every once in a while in some completely unexpected little village a voice would ring out disturbing the still of the night: Bonne Courage. The road flattens out again as we approach Longny-au-Perche and I find myself ratcheting up the speed again. The legs feel good, the sleep demon is away and there is constant company within sight. The roads are well paved, litter-free and uniformly excellent. Life is good! If only I could get that hour I lost back!

The closer we get to Mortagne-au-Perche the lumpier the course becomes and a few long steep rollers slow my progress. I am in a small group of riders as we make it to the center of town which is filled with bicycles and riders. The famous bakery (with it's bicycling man sculpture) is doing very brisk business. The control is a little further out and I make it to Mortagne-au-Perche around 2.45a. I am averaging almost 20 kmph. This is very good considering the terrain, my stomach and my navigational faux pas. With the first controle at 220k it will be a while before I find out how much time I've saved (or haven't), so it is 80k more on pure faith.

Mortagne-au-Perche

PBP Randonneur 2011: Kings of the road

2011-11-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

This is a newbie's perspective.The Report itself is 8 parts, which makes the whole thing readable.

Enjoy!

Part 1: Start-to Mortagne-au-Perche

Part 2: Mortagne-au-Perche to Loudeac

Part 3: Loudeac to Carhaix-Plouguer

Part 4: Carhaix-Plouguer to Brest to Carhaix-Plouguer

Part 5: Carhaix-Plouguer to Tinteniac

Part 6: Tinteniac to Villaines-la-Juhel

Part 7: Villaines-la-Juhel to Dreux

Part 8: Dreux to the Finish

SIR 600K: Taking the hard road home.

2011-06-21T01:33:00.002-07:00

First and foremost, many thanks to all the volunteers and organizers of this ride. We could not have done this without you. Thanks for taking the time and spending the weekend for us. I qualified for PBP thanks to you, and hopefully this time around, I will actually get to go to Paris! ;)

Prologue

I was pretty nervous before this ride. The 200, 300 and 400 had got me walking my bike at least once, and on my knees more than once. I was nervous in 2007, but I was quite nervous for this one. I didn't think I'd get any sleep, and the thought of Tahuya after 500 punishing kilometers was more than my mind could handle. I steeled myself for the first sleepless 600 of my Randonneuring life.

Sorry about all the annoying references to 2007. This is my second attempt at this route, and I kept thinking about how the present compared with the past.

Day 1: Start to Buckley

There was a nice group of riders at the start; some were laughing, and quite a few lost in thought. I was one of the latter. Mark Thomas gave me both of the wool jerseys that I ordered, and I stashed them in the drop bag. I was carrying Sustained Energy, in the vain hopes that it would be rocket fuel; I had enough - I thought - to last me until the overnight in Elma. The idea was to just get water and move on at the controls. We'd see how this would work out. I had more in the drop bag to last me day 2. I left all the rain gear at home.

After the usual pre-ride instructions, we set off into the slightly chilly morning. The weather forecast was spectacular, atoning for the dousing we got during the latter part of the 400k. I was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeve jersey, and though I was cold for the first little part of the ride, it wasn't uncomfortably cold. I found myself stopped at several lights with Jan Heine. Imagine that?! Even as we hit the hill leading to the International district, a significant proportion was still within eyesight, but I probably had the lights to thank for that.

This section of the route used to be my commute when I lived in Factoria and worked in Downtown Seattle, so I knew it pretty well. Several randonneurs whooped it up in the tunnel leading to the I-90 bridge. I found myself riding with Lynne from Portland (riding her first 600), and Mitchel Schoenfeld, but Mitchel quickly outpaced us on the bridge, and Lynne outpaced me on the hill into Mercer Island. I was alone with my thoughts again. We made a wrong turn (repeat of 2007), and Jeff Tilden's hand circling the air told us to retreat to the North Mercer Way turn. I was still in contact with riders and this was an encouraging sign. We made it across the slough and then onto Lake Washington Boulevard. My thoughts were focused on Coal Creek Parkway (on which I sucked in 2007), but for some reason only one hill bothered me. These rollers have gotten easier. I had some trouble shifting into the granny (bad sign on this ride), but somehow made it up.

May Valley road was idyllic and peaceful, and a cop car followed us patiently along until it was safe to pass, going by with a wave. Lynne was riding smoothly, and somewhere ahead were Jeff and Mitchel. I knew that there would be a secret control someplace on May Valley road, and sure enough we stopped briefly when Elaine Jameson demanded we produce our cards and then sent us along after signing it. Jeff Tilden was now riding with us, and this was another good sign. Jeff was a great source of encouragement as I made my way up the rollers of Issaquah - Hobart Road. My chain popped off once and Jeff left me, dancing on the pedals as he muscled his way over yet another roller. I caught up with him and Lynne, and we rode all the way to Buckley. There was quite a crowd at Buckley. More good signs.

Day 1: Buckley to Eatonville

I had a decent cushion in Buckley; more than an hours worth. I was determined to make a quick stop at Buckley, and left after refilling my water bottles and buying a PowerBar. As I made the turn onto SR-162, I reached down to get some water, and came up empty! I had left my water bottles at the Buckley control. I quickly checked for my control card, but luckily I had picked that up! I cursed my carelessness at the control, and rode back, seeing all those who had left a few minutes behind me, explaining to everyone why I was riding in the opposite direction.

The store owners had kindly stashed my water bottles. I thanked them and made way again, and had wasted 20 minutes. I was quite mad at myself and had to to calm myself down; I need the nervous energy to fret about the ride. I had more granny trouble along the next few hills on Orville Road, but finally figured out how to get it to shift to the granny. Yaay for me! Traffic was less than courteous on Orville Road, but luckily I sucked less than on the Fleche. SR 161 brought me crashing down to earth, as the climb into Eatonville in the hot temperatures slowed me down terribly. The granny got a workout, and I made it into Eatonville, and found the Truly Scrumptious Bakery, for the very first time.

Day 1: Eatonville to Packwood

There were quite a few bikes at the bakery, and I found Andy Speier, Mitchel Schoenfeld, Jeff Loomis, Joe Platzner and Chris Heg finishing up their food and getting ready to leave. I ordered a Maple Bar, quickly wolfed it down, mixed up more Sustained Energy and took off. I had stopped for less than 10 minutes. I would have spent less, but I had to text my wife and updated Facebook. Ah, the perils of modern technology!

Lynne had gone ahead of me, and I probably would never see her again given our climbing discrepancies. I spotted Dan Jensen at the convenience store, and knew he would pass me sooner than later. I ground my way towards Highway 7, the temperature veering towards hot. Not bad though. I thought about stopping at Elbe, having already finished off both my water bottles, but had a brain fart and suffered on through to Ashford, where I got a 1.5 liter bottle of water and refilled my supplies for the Skate Creek Road climb. A motorcylist and his son sitting outside the store were all ears about all the cyclists on the road, and were quite surprised when I told them where we were headed. He seemed familiar with the Tahuya hills, and wished me luck. Dan Jensen pulled in just as I was leaving. I knew he'd catch me before long.

After I turned onto Kernahan Road a coyote crossed the road and headed into the undergrowth, traffic stopped, and the temperature though still hot seemed to cool down a little. That there were ample opportunities for shade probably also helped. Dan Jensen caught me here, and I was able to stay with him, either because he was feeling charitable, or I had found a hidden fount of strength that I was previously unaware of. I am thinking it's the former. Dan was motoring along, but at a slower pace than normal; he let on that he doesn't do well in the heat. Our pace, surprisingly, was compatible, and we made our way up the 11-mile climb at a decent pace. I had used my granny in 2007, but somehow was able to make it up on my middle chain ring this time. Thanks, Erik Moen!

Dan was the powerhouse on our Fleche team (William Tell's Arrow), and his familiar company calmed my nerves down a little bit. He is a great conversationalist and we chatted about one ride or the other, one thorny issue or the other. We even share a taste for the crass: we are both fans of South Park! We stopped to take a photo of Mount Rainier, and I knew that the "summit" was someplace close. As we got to the top, Dan and I bombed down to the bottom, oftentimes riding side by side. I probably made him hit more potholes than necessary by riding alongside him, but he didn't seem to complain. We got to Packwood in plenty of time, and found almost nobody there. Ok, first bad sign.

Day 1: Packwood to Centralia via Morton

Dan went to get real food, and I ate another PowerBar, and lubed up. In my insane quest to eat fast and leave fast, I ate my Bear Claw too fast, and was rewarded with a bout of nausea. I forgot that I have to slow down my eating in the heat. I have been faced with some chafing issues since I switched away from Bag Balm and started wearing new shorts, and I was determined to avoid this if at all I could. We left after 2o minutes; this was my first long stop of the day, but my spirits were buoyed a bit at having done the first 200k in 10:30. Things were looking good. This was my fastest ever 200 this year. The next stretch threatened to take it all away though.

I had been dreading this stretch ever since the route was announced; all I can remember of this stretch from 2007 is the heat and the headwind packing a one-two punch and transforming me into a sweaty miserable mess. I can still remember Jon Muellner pulling slowly away as I struggled to stay in his slipstream. This time however, the weather gods seemed to make up for that tour of misery. We had a rousing tailwind, and though the temperature was hot and the shoulder inhospitable in places thanks to irresponsible beer drinkers, we made excellent time. I tucked in behind Dan, and was towed at a very comfortable pace, first into Randle (where the temperature read 87 deg F), and after a nice series of hills, into Morton. I knew that relief was up ahead on SR 508, and then the piano would get dropped on our heads.

We hit Morton, and decided to stock up for the night because of the paucity of services leading into Centralia. It was a welcome break. I had a brain fart and got my card signed here. The question from the store clerk "What's this?" should have clued me in, but I must have been a bit out of it. I had (very) briefly entertained thoughts of a secret control on Alpha - Centralia Road and thought of riding on, but wisely remembered that there hadn'd been one in 2007. We ran into David Harper who was having stomach issues, but decided to join forces with us into Centralia. David is a very strong rider and we just mowed down that stretch of 508 before the first hills hit. David took off leaving me and Dan in the dust, but we reeled him in. I was feeling surprisingly good after the last few miles, using the granny not once. I knew I'd pay for this hubris on Day 2, but I was having fun. Dusk was creeping on, and we stopped at the intersection of Alpha - Centralia Road to put on our reflective gear, and turn on our blinkies for the night.

This was another stretch I had been dreading. In 2007, I had ridden this stretch with Allison Bailey, Peg Winczewski, and Allan deCamp, and gotten a few miles ahead on this road before night fell. I was just a few minutes off my 2007 pace! This was good. Very good. I was feeling really good on this stretch. The combination of Sustained Energy, and regular Nuun intake was fueling me really well. I even engaged in a little "King of the Mountain" point sprints with Dan, and he effortlessly dusted me a couple of times before letting me "win" a couple of times. ;)

David's stomach distress made a roaring comeback unfortunately; he started dropping back and I passed him hurling his guts out, and kept going albeit at a slower pace to give him some privacy. When I climbed up the umpteenth dip in the road, he was nowhere to be seen. But David is nothing if not persistent, and in a few minutes I'd see his light bobbing in the distance. We repeated this exercise a few times, and then completely lost sight of him near that rousing descent into Centralia. No deer this time! We arrived at Centralia at 10:30p to find Lynne at the Chevron eating some hot soup.

Day 1: Centralia to Elma

A few minutes after I got my supplies and lubed up again, David entered the store announcing "I am not done yet!". His confident manner gave me great hope that he would continue the ride with us. I was unable to find anything vegetarian and hot, and I settled for another PowerBar. David sat down to have a nap, and when the three of us (Lynne, Dan and I) were preparing to leave we asked him if he wanted to join us. David replied in the negative, but I was sure he would continue on after a few minutes rest. In hingsight, I regret leaving him behind.

We left after about 15 minutes and surprisingly caught sight of two blinkies in the distance: Corey Thompson and Joe Platzner. We joined forces, and started to nip away at the miles. Joe, Corey and Dan took some monster pulls: Lynne and I hung on for dear life. I found Joe to be pleasant and funny, and was a great source of encouragement and mirth. The chipseal roads of Elma Gate Road slowed us down, and we made the easily-missed turn onto Cemetery Road.

Just after we turned onto South Bank Road, I begged the three of them to back of the pace a little bit, and we slowed down for a while, stopped to eat and take a potty break. We left as a group, but Corey and Joe dropped back a little, and Lynne and I rode side-by-side talking about everything from Software Development at Microsoft (our little secret) to her kids' education and careers. We finally got to Elma at 1.30a. I had Five and a half hours in the bank. I was positively giddy.

Day 2: Overnight

Don Jameson and Ron Himschoot were manning the overnight control, and they quickly signed our cards and showed us to the food. I quickly ate some Pizza, and then Dan and I headed for our room, while Lynne headed for hers. I wasn't sure how long she planned to sleep for, but in hindsight it would have been good to synchronize our schedules so we could ride together.

I showered first, and then hit the sack, and then Dan showered, but my night was fitful as the third member of our room - whose name I never did catch - was a snorer. I even considered waking up and taking off, but put that thought quickly out of my head. We woke up at 5, and I was rather slow in the morning. I tried to leave the overnight with just a short-sleeve jersey, but Ron Himschoot in his inimitable style said "Your'e being optimistic", and then asked me to carry a long sleeve jersey to help against the cold. I was slower leaving, but Dan and I left at 5.35a, a full hour and half in the bank. This was a luxurious 600k!

Day 2: Elma to Potlatch

The air was chilly, and a bit of a fog hung in the air as we rode away from the overnight, the denizens of Elma long having hit the sack after a night of fun. Traffic was light, and lighter after the turn onto Cloquallum Road. We made decent time rolling uphill along the false flat, but two or three riders passed us, and I only seem to remember Chris Willett now. You know what they say about old age? Oh, I forget now.

Just past the jail and before the turn onto the overnight, we caught up to our companion of the night before, said our hello's and passed him. We were a little surprised when a few seconds later, he clicked up and took off. Randonneuring is not a race, right ? In any case, Dan quickly dropped me, and got into Potlatch. There was another huge crowd again here: Jennifer Chang, Corey Thompson, Joe Platzner, Andy Speier, and others. We had more than 2 hours in the bank.

Day 2: Potlatch to Tahuya via Belfair

I had a Subway Veggie Footlong sandwich, and SIR took over this little Subway; I was one of the first to leave, and enjoyed the views of the Olympic mountains across the Hood Canal. The waters were calm, and there wasn't a wisp of a wind. Dan caught up and we were a team again. The Corey-Joe-Andy-Chris-Unknown train passed us at great speed, and Dan and I watched it fly by giving us no chance to jump on. We caught the train at the Starbucks at Belfair, where it was refuelling. Andy, Corey and Joe were there again, having stopped for refreshments (and cigarettes?). We left after a 10-minute break.

That little road out of Belfair and into Tahuya has increased in busy and decreased in courtesy towards bicyclists. Dan and I were subjected to several honks and close shaves, but we rode on. It seemed to ease a little after we passed the turn onto Belfair-Tahuya Road, and this was a good thing. We made decent time to Tahuya, where we were met by a huge gathering of volunteers: Don and Elaine Jameson, Willard Goss, Pamela Creighton, and Rick Blacker.

Day 2: Tahuya to Seabeck

The Tahuya control is always an oasis, and I have great regard for those who staff it: it was hot. The wind coming off the canal cooled us a little bit, and I crashed on the chairs, as the volunteers attended to my every need: food, drink and shade. I ate prodigious amounts of food, mixed up more Sustained Energy, and got ready to leave. Jennifer Chang took off just before I did, but I never had a hope of catching her. I left a little before Dan, sure in the belief that like yesterday he would catch me before long. I was so focused on what lay next that I almost forgot to thank the volunteers, and their friendly calls to "Have a nice ride, Narayan" woke me up. I said my goodbye's and settled into getting my butt kicked.

No matter how you slice it, the Tahuya Hills aren't to be conquered; they are merely to be survived. I find that this line of thinking calms my nerves down. I tackled the first of the hills at a somewhat moderate pace. The day was quite warm, and the hills came one after the other. I remember the spot where Paul Johnson got a flat in 2007 and encouraged us to motor on. I saw quite a few cyclists in the opposite direction, all of them waving or saying hello. There was a short-but-steep stretch on Tahuya River Road that got me begging for lower gears, but I made it to the top just fine. I knew Dewatto Road would bring along some misery, with the hill just past the County line of the choice kind. I stopped in the shade for a little bit, but before long I was staring at the Olympic Mountains in the distance and the waters of the Hood Canal at my feet. I made it down the hairpin bends just fine, taking them at a nice sweep before I was greeted by the welcome chill from being near water.

I slowed down here a bit to recover for the next little bit, as I knew there were two monsters coming up: the county line hill and Holly hill. I expected Dan to catch up to me by now, but I didn't see him. I should have stopped to meet him, but I kept on, mindful of the fact that I usually lose time in the Tahuya Hills. Dewatto Holly Road is a gentle uphill at first, but that only hides what comes next. A little past Oak Lake the Mason-Kitsap county line hill looms, and with it comes one of the steeper climbs of the Tahuya hills.

As I was climbing the county line hill, a large group of cyclists bombed their way downhill. I made it up the county line hill very slowly - zigzagging once or thrice - and was met with a second group of cyclists. One of them recognized us and yelled "Go Rando!". I was still recovering from the climb, and only had a muted "hello" in return. Ok, one devil done, another one to go. I remember riding portions of this with Vic Ringkvist and Steve Hameister in 2007, and this time around stopped at almost the same exact spot to pee.

I was passed by a few riders on this stretch of road: Andy Speier and Joe Platzner coming to mind. Joe rode with me for a little bit offering encouragement and joking around and this helped me take my mind off the ride. This was the second time Joe would be a welcome break, and it wasn't the last time I'd view him as a welcome break either.

I finally made it to Holly hill and crawled my way up. Andy danced up the hill, and so did Joe. I zigzagged a few times, but traffic was rather heavy and I couldn't do it quite as many times as I'd have liked, but in the end I survived. This hill tends to be more of a drag mentally than physically as it doesn't last long enough to cause misery, but leaves a welt nevertheless. I felt the effects of this climb all the way to Seabeck, which of late has taken forever to arrive! Traffic has gotten heavier too. I finally arrived at Seabeck having lost a half-hour of my cushion.

Day 2: Seabeck to the Finish

There was a very healthy group of Randonneurs here; Corey Thompson mentioned that there was a good amount of soup and sandwiches available in the back, but I was in no mood to waste time here. A friendly face was at the counter, having signed numerous cards from years past. Jennifer Chang left just as I was about to buy my food - two bottles of Gatorade and a Bear Claw. Dan Jensen showed up just as I was leaving, and looking good. He said he had me in his sights a few times, but he either had to stop or I pulled away. I felt guilty hearing this as he had done so much to pull me into Elma, but I was again sure he would catch up.

I downed a bottle of Nuun, and then made my way out, leaving the big group behind. Some company would have been welcome but I didn't want to burn daylight. They could make time on the road; I couldn't aspire to. A first time rider of this course hears so much about the Tahuya hills that he (or she) is tempted to think that the ride is in the bag at this point, and that little remains between here and the finish really worth losing any sleep over. A good deal more lies ahead: Anderson Hill Road.

The first little climb out of Seabeck was a rude shock, but I knew what was about to hit me as I pedalled my way down the first hill on Anderson Hill Road. I made it up the first bump, grinding my way to the top. The second descent hit me, and I made it halfway up and was still pedalling when I saw Chris Willett walking his bike up the soft shoulder. There was no riding area on this section, and traffic was heavy and fast. I got off my bike and walked up all the way to the top of the second hill; even that was tough. I rode all the way up in 2007!

We finally got off Anderson Hill Road, and onto Olympic View Road, but the rollers of Clear Creek road lay next. The rollers here really slowed me down; my chain dropped off a few times, and the miles in my legs started getting to me. I remember thinking it is going to be a long way back to the finish, but Andy Speier came along and rode with me for a little bit, cheering me up and then taking off on a small hill. I finally made it to Highway 3, and another series of small hills. There was much talk of a humorous sign for Robert Higdon ("Roberto, embrace your inner kitten"), but I never saw it. Crap! Would have been a nice diversion.

A few miles before Port Gamble, Joe Platzner caught up to me, and was kind enough to ride with me to the control. I am sure he recognized that I needed a pick up. Even after almost 550k, he was full of cheer, wit and vivacity, and did a great deal to change my mood. He was full of jokes and stories; we made it to Port Gamble effortlessly.

Little known Rando Fact: Joe Platzner is all awesomeness!

I spotted Andy Speier and another rider leaving the control just as we arrived.

Day 2: Port Gamble to the Finish

I was determined to get in and out of this control quickly, but my stomach played truant. I had to use the restroom and use it bad. I was in decent physical shape, and in good spirits thanks to Joe. I bought some more Gatorade, and a bear claw and left the control. The first few miles on 104 were full of cars, but Port Gamble Road was a welcome turn. Traffic calmed and the hills returned. I had done well on this stretch in 2007, and 2011 was no exception. I found myself making slow but steady progress up the hills, and got over them in no time. I was making pretty good time for the ride, and harboured ideas of a sub-37 hour finish which would be a first in almost 4 years. :)

The rest of the ride was uneventful: I made it across the Agate Pass bridge in no time, and the rollers on Highway 305 were no big deal at all. I rode to the finish control to be greeted by a cheery Mark Thomas. A large group of riders finished 2 minutes behind me, and Mark joked that I hammered to stay ahead of them. My final time was 37:32, which was 40 minutes slower than 2007, but I think I spent more time at the controls this year. If you had told me two days ago that I would get 3 hours of sleep and spend 4 hours at the overnight and still finish in 37:32 I would have cried "Impossible!". I was near 37 hours if I had avoided that Buckley misadventure.

There was a great group of people at the finish: Chris Thomas, Mark Thomas, Lyn Gill, Corey Thompson, Jeff Loomis, Joe Platzner, Andy Speier, Bill Kennedy, Don Jameson and Jeff Tilden. More importantly, there was beer at the finish! I had a Guinness and loved it. Downed about 4 slices of Vegetarian Pizza. I got a shower and changed into decent clothing. Lyn was offering free massages to people, but I couldn't avail myself of that benefit. It was awesome of her to offer massages to the riders though. Thanks, Lyn!

Shortly after I finished, Dan Jensen and Lynne Fitzsimmons came in. Dan had suffered in the heat, but persevered and finished. Lynne rode strongly on both days and picked a tough course to do her first 600. Ken Krichman finished after her, and it was great to see riders come in with megawatt smiles on their faces. We were a bit worried about Duane, whom I hadn't seen at all at any of the controls.

We couldn't stay long though. We had a ferry to catch back home. We sat on the ferry exchanging tales about the ride and about PBP. Mark and Chris were very kind and offered Joe Platzner and I a ride home, on top of all the things they had done for us this weekend. Thanks very much! As we were on I-405 we got a call from Don Jameson that Duane had finished with three minutes to spare! Go Duane!

I am headed to Paris!!!

Summary of rides from March to May

2011-03-08T12:44:00.000-08:00

Things have been quiet at RandoDud land. But that doesn't mean I haven't been out on adventures. It just means I've been a slave to work, and cataloguing my adventures has acquired a priority that I am not proud of. Let's go about rectifying that, shall we?

SIR 100K: It was a cold but clear winter day, and the weather got warmer and warmer until it felt like a crisp Spring day. Amazing. I rode with several people: Mike Huber and Millison Fambles on West Snoqualmie Road, some newbies, Don and Mimi Boothby near Sammamish, but finished with Mitchel Schoenfeld. Finished in about 5 hours and change. Met with a whole bunch of friends at the finish. Mike Huber bought me a beer. It was a fun day to be out on the bike.

SIR 200k: Kevin Humphreys gave me a ride north, and the Jenses provided the hospitality. We started off with a nice downhill, but you all know what that means for the finish right? Rode with Deirdre Arscott and Bob Lepage from Canada, and Ron. The ride had one mean b***h of a hill that made me walk. No shame in that. Mark was at the top taking photos. From Arlington, I rode with the Alaskans Jacques Boutet and his wife Donna and Jennifer Chang, but the whole train dropped me before I got to Granite Falls: Mark's new favourite haunt. It was absolutely a fabulous day by now, and we stripped down to just shorts and a jersey. The nasty hills North of Sultan slowed me down, but I met a rookie at the Sultan control: Kashina. She was riding strong, and left a bit ahead of me, but I managed to keep her in my sights until she dropped me just after the last info control. The hills to the Jensen's provided the last stumbling block, and but for a bad shift might have ridden up the whole hill, but my chain fell off my granny, and I was forced to walk for about 50 yards. Finished in 12:03. Not bad. Great day for a ride.

SIR 300k: Kevin again gave me a ride to the start, but this was a tough ride. I got lost and lost about 25 minutes, and did some bonus miles and climbing. I fought all afternoon to get an hour at Kayak Point, where volunteers Gary and David provided us with Bahn Mi sandwiches (yum!) from Saigon Deli. A bunch of school kids and their guide were all ears about our activity, and wished me luck. Near Mt Vernon, I hooked up with Ken Krichman and Jason Hansen, but the Dr dropped us on the steep hills out of Mt Vernon. We rode together almost all the way to hilltop control at Lake Cavanaugh, we had about an hour and half in the bank. Not bad, but the days climbing was taking its toll one me.

Darkness fell on us near Carnation, and we rode to the manned control with about 3 hours to go, and only 28 miles to go. We did leave together, and stayed together, but I suffered a flat just near that beast of a hill near Klahanie, and the Dr was getting antsy about finishing in time. We left together, but I had mounted the tyre the wrong way, and it was going kathump-kathump-kathump all the time. Just near the bike path, I lost sight of them, and then almost all the air in my front tyre. Took about 15 minutes to patch that, and there was only Duane behind me.

I got completely lost right off that steep hill off the I-90 bike path, and slowly limped my way home, getting lost several times near the U-district. I was near the Hec Edmundson bridge when I saw Duane riding ahead; he probably just took the trail all the way. I caught up to him, and we finished together: 25 minutes to spare. They had shut down the kitchens and we got no food. Duane gave me a ride home. I got my butt kicked on this one.

SIR 400k: I rode real strong until Concrete, and then Burbee Hill Road happened. Had to stop numerous times, and that road took its toll on me and slowed my journey to Baker Lake down. I got to Baker Lake in 10:36 and the proceeded to waste 35 minutes at that control; I must have really needed it. There was an awesome support crew there: Kole, Jennifer, Vincent and Theo from Portland, who had crashed within the first few miles, but had gallantly started volunteering.

I got back to Concrete, and Bill Gobie and I rode on South Skagit Highway until the first of the rain drops fell. We stopped to don all our rain gear, and then the skies opened up. Bill had eaten a burger at Concrete and that started bothering him. He started dropping back, but I wasn't in a mood to stop in all this rain. I made my way to Big Rock Grocery where Jennifer and Kole met us. She gave me a new route sheet, and I took off after eating a banana and spending too much time out of the rain. Bill didn't know if he was going to make it, so he urged me on. Made good time until a few miles out of Arlington, when the sleep demon overtook me. I stopped at a gas station, and the rain had stopped a little. Bill Kennedy and Doulas Migden caught up to me here, and we rode together from here on until the finish. I was really sleepy, but was riding strong on the hills, and making some time only to lose it by stopping.

I tried to nap again a mile from the control and Douglas gently prodded me with a "We are only 1 mile away from the control" to get me going. Jennifer met us again at the control. Bill had thrown in the towel, his stomach having gotten the better of him. We spend all together too much time out of the rain at Granite Falls. At least a half hour or so, and then took off again. I was their navigator having done this route many many times. We got to Monroe just before daybreak, and Jennifer was there again, giving us food, and getting us permission to use the restroom. (I am never using the 7-11 in Monroe ever again).

We got lost out of the control, but a call to Mark helped us find our way. We rode together until that long climb out of the Snoqualmie Valley. I was sleepy, tired and going backwards, but Douglas and Bill zoomed ahead of me, waiting for me at the turn. We were together until the Mark Thomas hill, which I tried to ride up and couldn't. I walked up. Douglas and Bill finished a few minutes ahead of me. Joe Llona and Ken Krichman finished a few minutes behind me. I had been doing so well, and went backwards for the second half. Need to practice my control stops during extreme rain.

Been gone a while...

2011-03-03T18:08:00.000-08:00

The Year in Review...

I've been gone a while. Work will do that to you.. The only thing I've been able to do is complete my R-12. Here is a brief summary of what I've been up to since the Oregon Randonneurs 600k in May.

June 2010: Rode Snoqualmie Valley and Falls on a warm Spring day. Tried to crack the 10-hour barrier, but fell short by about 6 or 8 minutes.

July 2010: Rode the Olympia 200 on a hot, hot, hot day. Was well on pace for a sub-10 hour finish, but the heat took its toll. Rode with Kris Symer a lot, and finished with a bunch of guys as Les Lanterne Rouges. :)

August 2010: U.W Granite Falls. Luckily, I rode with Duane Wright. Had two successive flats on the Burke - Gilman trail just east of Lake Forest Park. It rained fairly steadily through the day, and I had my third flat on NE 100th St in Carnation. I tried bagging it here, but Duane would have none of it. He gave me his last spare tube, and we rode flat-free to the finish. We only had a half-hour to spare at the end. Had we flatted again, Duane would have had his R-12 streak halted. :) Thanks, Duane!

September 2010: Rode Three Rivers Cruise again. It was a warm day, and I had the benefit of new tyres for a flat-free finish. Missed a sub-10 hour finish by about 8 minutes. Crap!

October 2010: Rode Camano Island - Bellingham with Mike Huber and Duane Wright. It was a beautiful fall day, and we had some early bonus miles, but thanks to Mike's observant eyes, we caught this soon enough. Mike suffered a flat on Chuckanut, but we stayed together until Bellingham, where we had a luxurious stop at the Starbucks. Mike left us here, but we met Mike's wife and his daughters near Edison. We finished just as darkness was falling. Had pizza near the finish. The warm rides were done for the year.

November 2010: Rode Leschi-Auburn-Redmond-Leschi with Kris Symer and Peg. The weather held until just south of Woodinville when the skies opened up. I finished in about 11 hours and change. It was so hard to ride not 2 miles from my home but still have 20 more miles to the finish line.

December 2010: On a cold, cold day in December I rode Three Rivers Cruise v2. Darrington was cold as heck, with snow piled up on the side of the road. Billed as a flatter alternative to the popular Three Rivers Cruise permanent, I still found it within me to suck. Had a nice break in Clear Lake, and chased a tractor down hear Conway. No rain though!

January 2011: Went down to California, and tried to do a Permanent on New Years day, but the wind out of the south was brutal and I missed the first control by 2 minutes. The owner of the permanent was in town but stayed back home thinking it was crazy to ride on such a day! I even saw a Police Roadblock checking up on drivers at 7 am in the morning. I was waved through though. Came back home to Seattle and rode Snoqualmie Valley and Falls in 11 hours and change. I don't remember the weather on this day. :)

I also rode the Lake Washington Cruise Permanent with Shan Perera. Shan was late to the start, but caught me soon enough, and we rode together off and on. I saw Brian Ohlemeier on a training ride. Don't know if he recognized me, however. Shan and I had lunch at Renton, and stayed together to the finish.

February 2011: Work was crazy, but I still found time to do one 200. Didn't ride at all in January and it showed. Did a Redmond start for the Redmond-Leschi-Auburn-Redmond ride. Some rain until Cumberland, but two guys scared me with 30 miles to go. They predicted snow, and I hightailed it back to Redmond. True to their forecast I was greeted by gusting winds, rain, snow and hail on East Lake Sammamish Parkway with barely 10 miles to the finish. Didn't see Mark Thomas and Joe Platzner at the finish in Redmond. I've now completed an R-12. Looking forward to starting a new R-12 this year.

I dropped the ball on the 100k for the month resetting my P-12 quest in the process. Oh well.

2011 Goals

I've been lusting after PBP for about 7 years now. Work has been crazy, but I need to make time to train, or the qualifying rides will do me in. Hope to finish PBP this year. See you at the start line of the SIR Spring 200!

ORR 600K: Several lessons learned.

2010-06-12T01:19:00.000-07:00

Before anything, thanks are due to Susan France, Britt and Joshua Bryant for their time, organization, support and encouragement!

Prologue

I'd never attempted a 600 on one week's rest. This would be a first, and the source of much thought before the ride. Lots of new roads, with some familiar roads thrown in.

The sound of rain against the window wakes me up, and my first thought is "Ugh". I briefly consider bagging the ride but quickly put that away. A brevet in the rain does wonders for one's confidence. The Grant Lodge is a smallish throng of riders. IanS, Corey, Mark, Geoff, Mike Richeson, Millison, and Vincent are here ably representing the Seattle Randonneurs. Roger and Ali Holt from the BC Randonneurs are here. The riders appear chipper despite the grim weather. It hasn't started raining. Yet.

Start [Forest Grove] to Vernonia

After a few pre-ride announcements, we leave. I leave first, and am ahead for all of 20 yards when the train passes me. Mark passes me with a "You are winning!", and I find myself at the back pretty quickly. Lanterne Rouge. I keep at least some of the riders within sight, but most of them are gone. I catch up to Bill Alsup, but he too pulls ahead of me, but unlike the others he stays in sight almost all the way to the Banks Vernonia Trail, which we both have trouble finding. Bill circles back, and rides with me, and we pick up the trail after a little hunting.

The trail is quiet and the gentle grade is enough to slow both of us down. The scenery is nice. There are a few rough transitions, and a couple of times we have to ride through some heavy rock filled gravel. I walk my bike, not wanting to crash. Bill is a bit more daring, and pulls ahead. Halfway along the trial, Millison passes us, and is gone from sight in a matter of minutes. Bill seems to know the trail well, and points out some of the recent improvements.

We eventually arrive at a freshly-paved road and cannot decide if this is the exit on to SR 47. Since we had the option of staying on the trail, we ride on and the going gets tougher and tougher. Lots of potholes, loose gravel, and mud. My tyres aren't built for this, but we have come too far. We stay on course, and arrive at a very steep downhill. Bill rides down, and I walk my bike again. We are now at SR 47 but have no idea which way to go. We try to flag some cars down but while they slow down, they do not stop. Roger and Ali Holt appear and they have exited the trail correctly. We get behind them and arrive at the Coffee store. I have about an hour in the bank. A good start.

Vernonia to Fort Stevens State Park

Millison is leaving as I enter the coffee store. We exchange our hello's and he is on his way. Bill, Roger and Ali have just arrived as well. A cookie, and a hot chocolate which goes into my bottle. It has been raining for a while now, and I put on all my rain gear. My helmet cover is safely home, so on goes the skull cap, which keeps me plenty warm. Bill heads out, and we leave after about 15 minutes. The three Canadians are now Les Lanternes Rouge. The rain mostly stops now that I have put on my raingear.

We ride mostly together, chatting about this and that. I ride mostly with Ali; Roger is much faster than us. We discuss topics thorny for most people: religion, politics, and government, living in the US vs living in Canada, the economies, personal integrity, our "beloved" Prime Minister, etc etc. We also discuss the state of randonneuring, of "macho" courses, the dwindling numbers of women, and the "glamour".

Roger pulls up next to us, and so we stop talking about him. I kid. Roger is a great sport, and rides off again. We've been riding two abreast for a while now, and I am slow to pull over for a truck. I ride ahead and wave my hand in apology, but the passenger is not pleased: he gives me the finger. I laugh it off, and increase my wariness on the road.

We discuss stopping at Birkenfeld but press on, our food and water stores adequate to get us to Olney. We start to climb over the Coastal range and all that rain gear generates a lot of heat. Ali is ahead, and Roger is with me. I stop to take off my clothing, and the climb is now much more pleasant. Not too steep, but quite steady. My pace drops horribly near the top and the first drops hit me near the summit. Time for a lesson on "microclimates": the rain starts pouring just past the summit. I brave it at first, but a few wet and soggy miles later it is time to find a tree and pull everything back on again!

Roger passes me again, and we plunge together to the other side. The roads are quiet, and there is a woman walking in the sun. We are hit by intermittent showers. A lovely creek flows by. I am wet all over, but warm. We regroup and Ali tells me to keep my raingear on and take one for the team because each time I take it off we get dumped on. I keep everything on, and we eventually get to Olney. Olney is little more than a convenience store and some houses. Ali is eating a giant burrito with some very spicy looking sauce.

I make a quick stop here to get PowerAde, and then set off again, confident that the Holts will catch up. Young's River Road is idyllic with not much traffic and better weather. We are riding to the East of Young's Bay, and the Holts join me as I jot down the Info Control answer.

We set off again together staying together most of the way. The road undulates with pleasantness, and the wind isn't that brutal. As we near the bridge on 101 it starts raining hard, then harder, and Bill Alsup is on the side of the road fixing a flat.

Roger stops to assist him, and Bill seems to be okay, and Roger moves on. I see all this unfold ahead and zoom by Bill. He is just finishing up. We are now heading straight into the teeth of the wind, and the rain is a drag. We get a little confused by the turn to Alternate-101, but Roger checks with someone and it turns out that we have to go a little further than the route sheet lets on. We turn onto A-101, and a few miles later we spot Ian Shopland and Millison. There are a couple of other rides heading back as well. The wind is relentless, but the sun seems to be out. No rain. The chip-seal is a drag. A Police car circles around, probably wondering why all these bicyclists are headed to a mostly empty parking lot. I finally get to the Info Control and regroup with Ali and Roger.

Fort Stevens State Park to Tillamook

We lean our bicycles on the ground and have something to eat. The weather is looking considerably better. Off comes the raingear. There are some dark clouds down the coast and I am sure I will get rained on again at some point, but it is too warm. We leave after about 10 minutes not wanting to waste daylight or the lack of rain. The wind is out of our faces, but we have a confused wind. Now a tailwind, now a crosswind, but generally favourable. As we turn back onto 104 we spot Bill coming out of a Porta-Potty. Despite the two flats he has had he is in good spirits. I give him my spare tyre, knowing that Roger has a spare that I could use. We say our farewell's and head on down the road towards Seaside. Traffic has picked up, but the weather is looking up. The day is warm, and the sun upon the waters lifts my spirits.

We make excellent time, and hit Seaside. Ali wants to eat, and the local Pizza Hut is too slow for our tastes. We order Vegetarian Sandwiches at Quizno's, and have a sit down meal. A welcome break. We leave quickly.

There is some climbing, and I am the last one up on all of the little hills. Roger waits patiently atop the climbs for us. Cannon Beach with its beautiful rock; Arch Cape with its benevolent climb. The scenery is amazing. We regroup for the tunnel entering Oswald West State Park, and ride at a fast clip towards the end: we reach without incident.

I am slow up the Neahkannie Mountain climb, but Roger and Ali are waiting there again. They are going to stop and get a bite to eat at Nehalem. Quite a few tourists are enjoying the views, but we head further South. Roger and Ali are ahead of me, and I see them heading to a store. Mindful of being the slowest of the lot, I keep riding, my food stores sufficient to get me to Tillamook. And I am sure the Holts will catch me. I am alone now, bereft of any sense of urgency.

Onto SR53, and then onto Miami River Road. This is my second time here on a bike, the first time was on a fully-loaded tour of the Pacific Coast with my wife. I remember this road fondly, but the sharp little climb at the start jolts me out of my pleasant memory. The road is idyllic with plenty of farms and livestock. About halfway down, I spot some deer on the side of the road and sure enough they bound right in front of me. No danger of running into me though; they just send my heart racing.

I stop to change into my night riding gear. The route eventually leaves this road and the noise of 101 annoys me afresh. I ride through Bay City, and as I pass through Tillamook, I am struck by the number of businesses that have closed down. I eventually arrive at a Shell Gas Station near the end of town, around 9.45p. 3 hours and 15 minutes in hand!

Tillamook to Lincoln City

There have been several riders through the attendant reports. Bean burrito and some PowerAde is on the menu. She offers me a ladder as a chair and my legs catch some rest. It is such a simple pleasure, this sitting. The store closes at 10 as much of Tillamook does: Roger, Ali and Bill are going to have to stock up someplace else. All dressed up for night riding, I leave around 10.05, confident that I will make more time in the next 50 miles before the overnight. A gentle drizzle starts. A few miles out of Tillamook, there is some nasty road construction (which the organizer warned us about in his ride report), and a few miles down I find progress suddenly very onerous. My rear wheel is squirming around. Sure enough, my rear tyre is going soft.

This is my first night time flat on a brevet. I remove the tyre, and by the sound of leaking air, manage to locate the spot. A piece of metal has worked its way into my tyre. I am considerably slow doing this. I am a bit tired, the rain is annoying, and there is not much light to work with. There is a goat in a small hut nearby, and my presence makes him nervous. I spend about 15 minutes trying to locate other spots of trouble, and find none. Roger and Ali ride on by, and stop upon hearing my "Hello!". I change the tube, and Roger puts the tyre back on. I have lost about 20 minutes.

We turn onto Sandlake Road, and I hear yelling and screaming from a passing car: "buy a f***ing car" he advises. Roger and Ali are ahead and get the same treatment. We regroup a little down the road, discuss the car that just yelled at us, and ride along. We have ocean views for a while. The moonlit waves make the only sounds. It is lovely and peaceful. We descend Cape Kiwanda, and ride in together to Pacific City.

Pacific City to Lincoln City

The town is sewn up. We stop at the ATM and take turns getting receipts. A 2 minute-stop. The time is now 1:05a. We head out, and we stay together till 101, but the gentle rollers carry Roger and Ali away. My tyre has meanwhile gone soft again. Also, it is raining. Not a "make the pavement wet" type of rain, but misty rain. I harbor visions of pumping my tyre over and over again and reaching the overnight, and try this a couple of times. It doesn't last. I don't like this, so I finally stop and change the tube again. I resist the temptation to just RIP the tube to shreds. I may need to patch it tomorrow. It was a brand new tube, you see?

Another half hour wasted. Not in fixing the flat itself, but in dealing with the flat. I ride slowly along. I find the turn for N Slab Creek Road, and since the mileage is just a little bit off, I start the climb. It feels like a steep climb and I crawl along. The pavement is crappy, with potholes in places. The only illumination is my eDelux. I eventually get to the top, and am back on 101. This isn't expected! I was supposed to ride 4.5 miles to the Info Control. I flag down a passing car, and it is full of teenagers, with an adult at the wheel. The car reeks of alcohol. They have no idea where Slab Creek Road is. "What are you doing here, man?", the drunk in the backseat asks, clearly questioning my sanity. "I am on a long ride, but I need to take Slab Lake Road", I say. Oddly, they seem to understand. Or they think I am crazy and oughtn't to be messed with.

They wish me good luck as they leave, and I call Josh. He informs me that I am still on the course, and that I should ride a little bit further along and will see another turn for Slab Creek Road. Well, I diverged from the course at N Slab Creek Road, so I ride back down the same nasty road again, get to 101, and climb back again. I am not pleased with myself. A ton of time has been wasted, but I resist looking at the clock.

The real Slab Lake Road arrives, and it is slow going. I am tired, sleepy and not in good spirits. I wonder how much sleep I will get, and if I should just throw in the towel at the overnight. I put these thoughts out of my head. Not enough awareness to make such a decision now. A creek keeps me company, noisily running down the hill. I finally get to the Info Control sign, and ride on, not even stopping to write down the answer. The road seems to steepen now, and I decide to take a break.

After a minute or two of napping on my handlebars (the Harold Bridge technique), I wake up, and start pedalling, but cannot clip in my left foot. Not enough leg-cleat coordination left. I am now really not amused. I get back on again and somehow clip back in, and after what seems like forever, get to the top. Now the road is twisty, I am tired and sleepy, it is dark and so cannot ride down my at usual pace. I finally find the turn off for Three Rocks Road, and get back to 101. It is starting to get light out again. I climb the remaining few rollers to Lincoln City and find the Motel 6.

Lincoln City to Logsden

I find Josh, sign in, and find out that I have taken 6 hours and 20 minutes to go 50 miles. Truly pathetic! My dreams of having a 3-hour nap are now smashed. I shower quickly, and set a wake up call for 5.30, and hit the sack. 50 minutes worth of sleep. I wake up and Bill is still not in the room. This is not good. I was hoping to ride with him partly because that would prevent a DNF. I raid the control's food stores, and head down to the lobby, and Bill Alsup is finally there. He has a half-hour to spare. I try to cheer him up the best I can.

I feel decent. There are a few other riders at the lobby, but I leave ahead of them. They catch me a few miles as I am cresting one of those endless rollers on 101. I am a little bit worried that I missed the turn onto SR229, but I haven't. The day is cool, and the clouds are ominous. As I turn onto SR 229, a gentle shower descends. The Siletz flows gently by and eager anglers descend on the river. The road meanders gently with no steep climbs, but I suspect much of it is gently uphill. We are headed upriver. Cars pass us with plenty of room, save for one gentleman who decided that startling a cyclist was fun. I arrive at the Siletz store and find three other cyclists.

I drink a cup of coffee and refuel. As I wait outside drinking my coffee, the women inside the store are telling a local about our exploits. It feels good to hear someone talk about what we do in glowing terms. I set off down the road, and the two cyclists who left before me tell me I have missed the SR 411 turn. We find it together, and then they are gone. One small bump in the road, and a few miles later I am at the Logsden store. I have about 28 minutes in the bank. Great, finally a small cushion to build on. Ha!

Logsden to Blodgett

Time for introductions. There is Keith Kohan, Jim, and David. Every time I do an Oregon 600, I see Keith fixing a flat: the last time was in 2008 on the road to Prosser. I try and get out of here as soon as I can, but everybody except Keith has already left. I stop to take a leak, and Keith flies by. Bill Alsup is behind and probably gaining. This thought cheers me up a tad. Roger and Ali are nowhere in sight. I assume they are miles down the road, and have no hope of catching them.

The dreaded "Pavement ends" sign arrives. I stop to take a photo, and set off into the rather rough gravel. I freely ride down the opposite side of the road where the only clearly rideable surface is. I jump back to the correct side when the road improves. It turns out that going uphill was the easy part. David catches up and comments that the course while meant to be a recreation of Paris-Brest turns out to be a recreation of Paris-Roubaix. I get a good guffaw out of that. My tyres are suspect, and I decide to walk down the hill and David rides away. A spill here would be most painful. The scenery is spectacular, but the rain now decides to come down in sheets with some hail thrown in for good measure. Gone is the misty rain, and it is dumping. I cover my seat with my hand, and walk down, fully aware of the loads of time I am giving back. A truck coming uphill passes me at good speed, and I turn my back to them to receive the pelting of stones.

I resist the temptation to kiss the pavement, and start riding again. I arrive at the Nashville turn. A solitary cyclist on the other side of the road turns around and starts riding with me. He is full of questions about our route and destination. I tell him we are headed back to Forest Grove, and he says he saw a lot of riders at the Blodgett store. I descend into deeper depths of self-loathing. He bids adieu and heads downhill again, while I slog uphill. The scenery is again great. It is still raining rather heavily, and I find the livestock has taken cover under the trees. Horses run around. Cows lie in the mud and watch me go by. Sheep huddle under a tree, hiding away from the rain.

The road reaches the hamlet of Summit, and then decides to go down again, but instead of a sustained descent, we climb back up again. This pattern is repeated several times, but I arrive at the Blodgett store with 20 minutes to spare. That walk down the hill probably cost me a good 20 minutes.

Blodgett to Dallas

David is at the store, but he is getting ready to leave. I buy more Burritos and PowerAde. David leaves just as I start on my second burrito. I set off again, after about 10 minutes, mindful of the clock. Traffic is heavy, and I finally find the Priest Road turn. A Honda Civic, its rear seat full of stuff pulls over and waits. It is Josh and his wife, Britt. They enquire after my general condition, and I ask them about the road ahead. "You make the turn, and you hit a hill" he says. "I hate you!", I say, not really meaning it. I ask about other riders, and I find out that Ali left at 8a in the morning, well after the control closed. Bill was also behind me, but his friend was going to come and pick him up. I was the Lanterne Rouge!

I turn down their offer of food and regret it the moment they leave. I try to motion to them, but they do not notice, and make the left turn onto SR 223. I stop right after the turn, and eat something. I know that there must be a store somewhere down this highway, and I just don't know where. SR 223 is a rolling highway. Moderately trafficked, but the road isn't ever flat.

Upon cresting one of the innumerable hills my left knee starts acting up. I see a covered bridge but don't stop to take a photo. I would regret this choice later. At Kings Valley Store, I pull in and buy two Snickers bars: Payday bars are long gone. The woman at the store asks about our ride. I downplay it, telling her I am headed to Dallas and leave quickly. The rollers commence again. A few miles down this road, and I feel a pleasant tailwind, and life is good. One one of the longish climbs, two cyclists are flying down in a full aerodynamic tuck. Other cyclists are headed this way too: this must be a popular bicycling route!

The weather improves, and the tailwind is in full session near Monmouth. I arrive in Dallas, and ride through town not sure where to stop. I finally find an Espresso stand, and pull in. 25 minutes in the bank. Not sufficient, but at least I am not losing time.

Dallas, OR to Dayton

"I'll have your strongest coffee drink", I say. It turns out to be 5 or 6 shots of caffeine, with a really scary name. A Soy Latte will do just fine, thanks. There are two teenage girls ahead of me, and they seem to break out into giggles each time they see me. I am past caring. I sit down for a few minutes, but then decide that the Coffee is too hot. I pour it into my water bottle and head down the road again. I turn onto Orchard Road, and the first of the steep rollers comes into view. After the Kings Valley Highway, I am really past caring about my speed up the hills. I put my head down and spin. This road is a never ending series of rollers. I cross Highway 20, and it starts climbing up again. I just spin away. I know I have some time in the bank, and I know I am making steady progress, so why fret ? The right turn onto Bethel Road gives me a wicked tailwind, and I fly to the next turn.

I am suffering from some chafing (must be all that riding in the rain), and stop to put on some lubricant, and stuff my face. Traffic slows down to take a good long look at me. After a short flat stretch, we climb again. This must be the Eola hills. On this climb the rain starts. I stop to pull on my raingear, hoping it will ward off the rain. The rain does stop. These pants must be magical! The rain may have stopped, but the hills haven't. One roller after the other. I finally get to the left turn onto Hopewell, and am nearly taken out by a woman making a high speed left turn. My yell catches her attention and she veers to the right, but does wave apologetically as she passes by me.

Webfoot provides the first flat stretch for a very long time, but near the end it too throws some steep pitches at me. The road surface is chipseal which doesn't help matters much either. I finally arrive at the Dayton Control. I have 25 minutes in the bank.

Dayton to the Finish

I ask when the last rider came through, and the guy at the counter says "Oh, about an hour ago". I lose hope of catching David. Some company would have helped. In the hope of getting some quick calories, I drink a bottle of Naked Mango juice. I still have that Snickers Bar that I bought at the Kings Valley Market. I put on my night riding gear and set out. More rollers. My goodness. How did this man find so much rolling terrain? The waning sun is beautiful though, and I really enjoy riding at this time of day. Oregon has some of the prettiest sunsets I have ever seen.

I am hit by the first signs of heartburn, and soon my stomach starts churning. This is not good. I seldom suffer from GI distress on rides; this must be the juice. I get to Spring Hill Road, and the juice decides to exit; and now. I stop, lean my bike against a post box, and start throwing up.

I am reminded of Eric Ferguson's ride report from Paris-Brest-Paris, where he says "Your'e not a real cyclist until you've puked in a French ditch". This brings a smile to my lips. I am wary of the amount of time I am wasting, but I have no choice. I rinse out my mouth, and continue riding. Not all of the daylight has vanished and I think I spy a red light ahead. I accelerate into the Fern Hill Road turn, but the red light is nowhere to be seen. It is now completely dark. I sense that I am near the end, and finally make the turn onto the Grant Lodge. The parking lot is mostly empty. The time is 21:45. I have taken 39 hours and change on all my Oregon 600's.

Josh and Susan are waiting patiently for me, which makes me feel terrible about being so slow, but they are happy to see me finish. I thank them profusely. We chat about the course, the lack of hallucinations, and the weather. Most of the riders finished in around 37 hours. David finished about an hour and a half before me. Even Ken Bonner took 33 hours. I grab a couple of bananas, and prepare for the drive back to Beaverton.

Epilogue

This is a beautiful course. Yes, the weather was challenging, but the rain was never miserable. The gravel stretch was a pain, but I am sure those with wider tyres enjoyed it. I would love to do this course again. It would make a wonderful PBP qualifying course!

I learned several things about myself: 1) I can survive on 50 minutes worth of sleep, 2) I can finish a tough 600 one week after I do a 400, and 3) I need to avoid Apple juice during Brevets.

SIR 400k: Fun and Games

2010-05-17T23:07:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to all the volunteers for a fantastic event: Joe and Jesse Llona, Amy Pieper, Mark Thomas, Geoff and Dorothy Swarts, Mrs and Mr Morse, the Westhaven Hippie Association, Peter Beeson, Eric Vigoren, and Maggie Williams...

Somewhere on the road just past Elma...

Espouse; Equitable; Extirpate; Erudite; Emancipate; Eve... The words ring out in the cool clear night air breaking the silence. With not a car in sight, the three of us ride abreast on the road uttering strange words.. It doesn't look like there is any method to this madness, but there is. A pattern. A little game we used to play as kids. What better than a game to keep the brain occupied, melt miles, and avoid sleep? What is this game you ask? You are going to have to read on..

Prologue

I ride towards the Park and ride in the early morning mist, hoping to hook up with Mike Huber, my ride to the start. I arrive on time, and so does Mike, and we load up my bike in the car and head south, chatting about rides, times, and food. There isn't much chance of me finishing with Mike, but he does promise that if he finds me on the morning's first ferry he will give me a ride home as well.

We wait for a long time at the light to turn left, but finally we buy our tickets and head over to a huge group of riders assembled at the Bremerton Ferry. The ferry has just arrived, and cars unload at a furious pace. Riders mill about, some fiddling with their bikes, some with their thoughts; I greet the ones I know, and share a casual conversation with a few. We board the ferry, and make a beeline for the little ropes to secure our bikes.

I register with the ever friendly Amy Pieper, who this past week rode a "headwind in every direction" 400K down in Oregon. We are treated to a singing performance, and I can hear laughter behind me. Riders seem to be calm and relaxed. More familiar faces. Mark is here, volunteering as well. The ferry is late, and we we arrive at Bremerton at 7a. There are more riders in front of the Starbucks.

Start to Shelton

Joe gives us some pre-ride instructions, and we are off. The lights split the riders faster than usual, but at one of the lights I avoid a huge group by fighting to make the light. A few riders make it along with me, and we settle into a nice rhythm, riding by the big boats and the cool waters. Two hundred and thirty odd miles must elapse before we will see these boats again, some during the still of the night, others during the pre-dawn hours of Sunday.

The tricky left turn onto 304 has us climbing a little, and I am spit out of the group. Absolved of having to maintain any kind of pace, I slow down a little and watch the train recede smoothly into the distance. I am passed by more people, and we roll by dale, farm, lake and hill along W Belfair Valley Road. I ride a little with Ron Himschoot, and he pulls away too. I see Gary Prince fixing a flat, and offer to help. He waves me on, and I continue. A few miles later he flies low, a good 10 mph faster than I.

A few miles later, I see a rider on the wrong side of the road, and circle over to him. It is Gary. He is changing his tube again. He has no more spares. I assure him that I have 3 spares, and all he has to do is stay ahead of me, and help is assured. The beauty of being fast is that you can always wait for help. The lanterne rouges need to be self-sufficient. I press on, wary of wasting daylight. Gary flies by me again, and I hopefully will never see him again. For his sake. I arrive at Shelton and see Bill, Peg, Lesli and Jennifer. Ron is having a sandwich at a cafe, off the course.

Shelton to Cosmopolis

We make quick work of the control, and we all leave together, but I get dropped again. By the time I make it to the top of the little hill, they are nowhere to be seen. Solitude. Blissful at times. Stressful at times. I turn onto 108, and the dread of chipseal enters my mind. I almost catch Ralph and Carol, but it is not to be. Ron catches up to me with a "When did you get ahead of me?". We discuss our stops, and it turns out that he has had a nice Sandwich at that cafe. We ride through McCleary, where he bids me good day and is off down the road. I enter chipseal hell.

Monte-Elma road fills me with dread: the headwind is blowing strong, the road surface is what it has always been, and my pace has tanked. Bill and Jennifer pass me again part of a bunch of riders. There is little to do but put ones head down and crank away. "If you are going through hell, keep going" comes to mind, and I finally turn left onto Main Street.

I am slowly exiting my dark place when Alan Bell pulls up and says Hi! I ask him to not wait for me and press on, not thinking about what my words might mean. Alan says "Do you mind if I chat with you a bit?": a perfect gentleman. We ride together chatting about this and that, but a lot about Table Tennis, something his fiancée is very interested in. I play too, though I haven't played in a while. I resolve to play her, even if it means certain embarrassment.

We spy a rider ahead, but he isn't one of us. He is one of "them": fully-loaded bicycle tourers. Blue Slough arrives too soon, and we split from his way never to know where he is from, or where he is headed. The clock is a terrible dictator. Traffic free but still chip-seal bound, we make it to Cosmopolis where a huge group (Carol and Ralph, Jeff Loomis, Bill Gobie, Jennifer, Peg and Lesli) is present.

Cosmopolis to Westhaven State Park

After the usual control procedures, I leave before Alan, Bill and Jennifer. Alan is still in the loo, and Bill and Jennifer are just preparing to leave. I soft-pedal; Bill and Jennifer catch up. Alan is nowhere in sight. Shortly before the malls Alan joins us, and our tight paceline with me playing the tail cuts into the wind. I cannot ride their pace, even in their draft. Jennifer tries to motivate me into riding faster, but I beg her to go. She leaves, reluctantly, catching up to the group in no time.

The wind blows from the side, sometimes from the front, and I struggle. I struggled along this stretch in 2006, and why should this time be any different ? As I climb one of the few rises on this road, I find my rear wheel slipping and sliding. Dreading the diagnosis, I look down and sure enough, the rear tyre is slowly leaking air. I find a staple on the sidewall of the tyre, and remove it. I give the tyre the once over and as I am done replacing the wheel, Greg Taylor and Todd Black introduce themselves. Todd collects my tools from the ground while Greg engages me in conversation. We leave together, but don't stay together for long. These two are fast.

I collected some bonus miles in 2006, and I know exactly which mistake to avoid this time. I ride to the end of the beach, and find two bikes in the grass, and find volunteers Mrs and Mr Swarts and Master, Mrs and Mr Morse eager to help.

Westhaven to Raymond

I stuff my face with food, and am regaled with stories of "enthusiastic" people singing songs and forming arches for riders. I regret being slow. A woman offers a beer to Geoff and he politely declines. After a couple of vegetarian friendly sandwiches, two packs of cashew nuts. and a stashed banana, I bid them goodbye. I will see Geoff again next week at the Oregon 600. .

That unseen enemy, the wind, is now an ally. It shoves me through the pipe, and I find myself rolling along at a good clip, but not good enough to catch anybody. This is a lovely section of road, one that I have never tired of despite repeated journeys through. It does not disappoint. Greg and Todd pass me again a few miles South of Tokeland. They watched the surfers and the kites.. What a wonderful way to use ones speed!

I find myself alone again, my thoughts subdued, with the wind, and the water and the waves for company. Time flies (like arrows). I pull into Raymond, and see a small group this time preparing to leave. They stay back upon my request; I don't really want to be riding alone at night.

Raymond to Potlatch State Park

I leave quickly, my only luxury having called my wife to let her know my general location. Soon after we leave Raymond the road pitches up. Jennifer lags behind with me, while Bill rides on a few feet ahead. I try to exhort them to go ahead, but Bill rides back, and the three of us, with my sedentary pace as lead set off again. I am feeling low on energy and a few miles later I stop to eat. I've been bonking, and out come Bill's magic Peanut Butter and Chocolate Chip bars, and Jennifer's endurolytes, and my cashewnuts. Some water, and I am refreshed by the stop.

I find that I can now hold their pace, and we discuss our food strategies and the miles melt away along with the daylight. We stop a few miles before the turn onto 107 to wear our night clothing, and take bathroom breaks. We eat a little bit more, rest a little bit more. My companions are kind enough to stay with me, and I promise to ride hard for them. I pick up the pace into Montesano where we arrive just as darkness has started to fall.

There is a rider in a car, and it looks like his family has come to pick him up. I do not recognize him, but he assures us that he is ok. We buy food, water and Gatorade and eat some more. We stay for 15 minutes before setting off on the next torture fest: Monte Elma Road. Again. Luckily we spot a foot wide clean area and ride there, and this stretch too passes by quickly. We are still chatting, and it is clear that tiredness or sleepiness hasn't set in. The rare car flies by, but we can ride three abreast for a good part of it.

We make the Cloquallum Road turn, and the road pitches up again. Not steeply, but conversation ceases. There is not a star in the sky. This of course, does not bode well for the randonneur. The temperature has dropped too. I find myself under the grip of the sleep demon, and anxious to shake him off, I ask my fellow riders if they would play a little game with me.

My mother, who is a teacher by profession, got me hooked on the English language as a child. She would play little word games with me, most of them designed to bolster my vocabulary and my grasp of the language. Of course, we played word games at school too, and one of the more famous ones was the ones where you would try to keep a chain of words beginning with E and ending in E, going. The rules of the game were simple: Take turns, no repeats, only one form of a word to be used, and the words had to be found in a dictionary.

Bill and Jennifer consent. At first the words fly out fast, and the easy words are exhausted. The dynamics of the game become apparent. It is a test of memory, speed and diction. If you don't use the time you are idle productively to think of other words fitting the pattern you give other people time to think. We take turns pinning the other person to a corner, and we also learn new words in the process. Sleep has receded into some remote corner of our brain, as has the dark sky and the fallen temperature.

Our world is our game, and our lights are its only illumination. Oh, and the odd house: its dogs spooked by the sound (and probably the smell). Jennifer claims to be having a lot of fun, and we finally arrive at the turn onto US 101. Riding abreast at this point is impossible and so the game ends. We all revert back to silence. But it was great fun while it lasted. A mile or two out of Potlatch, we find a group of riders headed back to Bremerton. We arrive at Potlatch to a roaring fire and a warm welcome from the Llona family.

Potlatch State Park to Bremerton

We are shown to our seats. There are some riders sleeping in Joe's car. Joe and Jesse flit around us taking care of our every need. This control has been an enormous time hole for me. I spent about 45 minutes in 2006 trying to warm up after a chilly descent down to the Hood Canal. This time I eat two PBJ sandwiches and a Chicken-Flavoured soup. I start shivering and now I know that I am in trouble. I tell Bill and Jennifer that I am shivering and need to leave or I will never leave. They graciously allow me to leave.

I leave, and cannot warm up. I continue to shiver, and my bike shakes every few feet. I cannot control myself. A few miles later Stephen Barnes joins me. I am still shivering, and his arrival makes me pick up the pace. We chat about our entries into randonneuring, some of his long rides, some of mine and people we know of. I am still shivering. There are no climbs to speak of, and there is water nearby. By the time we reach Twanoh State Park, my shivering stops, but I am still cold. I finally warm up a few miles after Twanoh.

Just before the SR 3 turn, I run over glass. I swear and stop immediately, and Stephen and I go to work on my bike to make sure that I don't have any glass stuck to my tyres. We make the turn onto SR 3, and then onto Belfair Parkway. Traffic dies down, and we are alone with our thoughts again. Half-way down Belfair Parkway we see the first signs of daybreak. One of the greatest rewards of randonneuring is being able to ride late into the night and see the day break.

We turn onto Sam Chritopherson road, and we know that we aren't that far away from the finish. SR3's shoulder is a mess: we climb over, and then plunge back down to the water, seeing those big boats again. It has been 22 something hours since we went by those boats. I want to be done. The short and steep hill on Burwell hits me hard, but I see Stephen waiting for me at the top. We both turn onto the hotel lobby. The time is 5:50a. We are done!

Eric Vigoren and Maggie Williams offer us congratulations, food, drink and encouragement. We make a quick stop to get our cards signed, and take off to catch the 6:20 ferry. On the ferry, I see Bill and Jennifer. They finished about 6 minutes behind us. I catch Mike Huber and he drops me off home. Next week is the Oregon 600!

April's R-12: A truly last minute affair.

2010-05-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

Prologue

Cue whining music..

I have been horribly busy these last few months, often working late hours, and having no time to either commute to work by bike or do a permanent, because more often than not I was at work trying to get things done. Such schedules lend themselves very poorly to improving ones riding shape. The only day left was the last day of the month, which I had to arrange with my boss since I finished everything at work the previous day. Alan Bell rescheduled his Saturday registration to ride with me, and we met at the Haggen's in Arlington by around 6.45a.

Arlington to Sedro Woolley

We set off around 7.10a under ominous skies. I was greatly encouraged by the wide swath of clear sky to the far west and south of us hoping that as the day progressed the rains would get driven out by the brisk tailwind that we were supposed to get. It didn't quite work out that way, as there was still quite some darkness where we were immediately headed: North, and North-East.

I have ridden several times on Highway 9, but mostly only in the Southerly direction, the lone exception being the 300 where we headed North on Highway 9. Not for far though, as we turned off towards Conway on Highway 534. The road looks very different headed North, and it was like being on a new road. Traffic on Highway 9 was not bad with only the logging trucks showing signs of impatience. Wide load trucks were the best though, slowing down for us, maintaining a very good distance, and passing only when sight lines and traffic was clear.

Alan slowed down a bit to stay with me, and I sped up a little and we stayed mostly together on Highway 9. We chatted a lot, about our jobs, families, backgrounds, interests and so on. The miles melt away in such pleasant company, and you hardly notice the weather. We had been peppered by the occasional water drops here and there, but a few miles into the ride, the rain started. I had hoped that there wouldn't be much, if any, of the rain, and so left my helmet cover and rain pants at home. This would turn out to be the source of much consternation but little actual damage. We stayed warm from the slightly rolling terrain of the Highway.

Alan nearly missed the turn away from the highway, but luckily I was there close enough to avoid any Special Ks. The rain now started in earnest, but we got to the Sedro Woolley control in pretty good time. The time was 09:09.

Sedro Woolley to Bellingham

I got some Hot Chocolate, while Alan got some Fig newtons. The Hot Chocolate was truly hot and Alan suggested that I add some ice to it to cool it down so I could down it and go. Brilliant Idea! (filed away in the "Randonneuring Tips" section)

The rain had now thickened, and traffic along Highway 20 was quite busy, but we turned off on F & S Grade road, which offered a welcome respite from the traffic. I didn't even know that a "Off the Highway" route existed to Bellingham! There were a few locals out: one was clearly the local Adopt-A-Road guy, as he was walking the shoulder with an eagle eye and a trash bag. A couple of walkers looked at us and professed us "Hard-core". I agreed with them, equal measure of vanity and politeness.

We stopped briefly on Prairie Road for some clothing adjustments: I put on my skullcap. My gloves weren't soaked through and my feet were warm in my wool socks. We were among the trees so it was difficult to ascertain what the weather was going to be a few miles down the road. Old Highway 99 took us to the small town of Alger, which I would love to visit and spend some time in ("Cute Little Town", as my wife would put it). The Alger Cain Lake Road stretch, which took us past Lake Cain, Lake Reed, Lake Louise and Lake Whatcom was a lovely stretch, with lakes, verdant forests and farms: pleasing to the eye.

About halfway along Lake Whatcom Blvd, the rain stopped, even if the few people waiting for a bus in the little town of Sudden Valley looked at us like we were ghosts. There is a golf course here: I'd have to tell my brother; an avid duffer, I am sure would love play it. Seeing our shadows was much cause for cheer, even if the hill that followed made me suffer a bit. We got to Bellingham in good time.

Bellingham to La Conner

We were treated to a really grumpy clerk at this control last year, but this year there was an East Indian woman, who was polite but seemed bemused by my attire and mode of transportation. "Are you biking?" she asked me with a sort of disbelief. I bought some PowerAde, and a Bear Claw which I ate on the spot.

We made quick work of the control, and set off discussing whether we would stop at the Mambo Italiano for Lunch, a spot venerated by our very own Mark Thomas. Alan wanted to at least check it out since he had never managed to spot it, while I was wary of spending too much time at a restaurant, being fully aware of my status as the slowpoke.

We parted ways at the Cafe: I had just eaten a bear claw, had a PowerBar in reserve, and a bottle of PowerAde, and I knew this would tide me over for the next 30 miles or so, and I left Alan, and rode onto a mostly-empty Chuckanut drive. Not many tourists or locals on a Friday afternoon. I stopped a couple of times to adore the scenery while nibbling on some food. I expected Alan to catch me, but as I flew down the last hill towards Bow, I still hadn't spotted him in my rear-view mirror.

The wind hit me hard as I exited the hills of SR 11, and onto the flats of Bow. It was a W/SW wind, and it seemed like it was in my face no matter which direction the road took. We headed west on W Bow Hill Road, and my pace slowed quite a bit, with the chipseal offering another hindrance. I paused to admire the horses before the last of the small hills on Bow Hill-Edison Road, and the horses came over to take a look at what I was all about.

Alan caught me a mile or two before Highway 20 and passed me with a gentle "I am going to just putter along". I tried to stay in his slipstream but it was too much effort. I couldn't catch him while he was waiting at the light, and the result was another solo slog into the wind. I got to La Conner a little after 3p.

La Conner to the Finish

I tried to make quick work of this control as I knew Alan would probably leave ahead of me if I didn't. The clerk at the Pioneer store was familiar with our activities: she was full of questions about how far I had to go, and how ahead of time I was. When I replied "about a couple of hours", both she and the woman behind in line responded with a "Way to go". Excellent encouragement!

We left the control, and spotted a new Cafe/Bakery to our right (the right turn just after leaving the Market). This will be my preferred stop from now on, I think. Now headed in a Easterly direction, the winds turned favourable, and save for a small stop to eat on Pioneer Highway, we made excellent time. We finished a little before 6:47p, making it in a 10 h 47 minute excursion. Many thanks to Alan for sticking with me and heeding my call for a Friday ride. I was glad I played hookie from work!

SIR Spring 300K: Breathing room

2010-03-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Prologue

After a "less than stellar but still good enough to finish" performance at the Chili Feed 200, I was quite excited about this relatively flat 300. I carpooled with Jason to the start, which featured an impressive array of food and drink. I downed a donut and some coffee there to start my day off right. A lot of riders, and a lot of new faces. This bodes well! But we shall not speak of "the" ride today. There were several BC Randonneurs: Ali and Roger Holt among them. It was good to meet them after a long time.

Start to Hollywood Hills

I was in front of the women's loo when the bulk of the pre-ride instructions were given, but I heard the words "train tracks"... (I was guarding the entrance because a dude was using it). We set off into the pre-dawn hours, and a trail of red blinking taillights could be seen climbing up the little hill. I found my natural position, and chatted with Roger Holt about the fine art of recovering from injuries, though his were far serious than my own.

Roger's pace was too good for me: I backed off and fell in line with a 'bent rider who was only headed as far as Marymoor. On the descent into Lake Forest Park, the 'bent vanished, and just before the turn onto the trail, I saw Ken Krichman walking up the road. He had let a bottle fly off. Ok, I would have some company shortly I thought, but kept riding on, mindful of the narrow time cushion I had survived on a fortnight ago.

I was a little nervous about the routing off the trail, having checked it out the previous day, but there was a rider wearing a Brooks jersey (Chris Stevens), who pointed me in the right direction: he had stopped to take off some clothing. I was making good time, and when I checked my watch as I was nearing the control. I found out that I had more than a half-hour on hand. This cheered me up considerably. I finally got to the Hollywood Hills control and met Mark and Chris Thomas, manning the control.

Hollywood Hills to Beaver Creek Park

I was planning to make a quick stop of it, and when Mark told me that I had 39 minutes in the bank, I was overjoyed. "You are on target for a 15 hour finish", he said. I live right up the hill from the control, and maybe I could take a half-hour nap ?

I set off again for the next control on my morning commute route, and as I was nearing the point where the brevet route diverged from my commute route, I saw Frank Kaplan (who I mistook for somebody else), coming toward me. "Do you know where you are going?", he asked. When I replied in the affirmative, he stuck with me, and we chatted along until I got him to East Lake Sammamish Parkway. Recognizing his superior pace, I told him that he was under no obligation to stay with me. After saying his thanks and wishing me a nice ride, he set off, soon a blur in the distance.

I didn't want anybody to see me suck climbing Louis Thompson Road, and more than a few zigs and zags later, I met a smiling Gary Prince taking photos at the top of a little rise. This is where I heard of the Tofu Sandwiches at the next control. I made it to the next control to see quite a few riders leaving the control. This was another good sign. On the Chili Feed 200, I had hardly met anybody at the controls.

Beaver Creek Park to Sultan

In the randonneuring world, there are controls, and there are controls. This was of the latter kind: Food and drink of every kind was laid out in front of us. Vernonia is the gold standard of Controls, but this one was almost as good as Vernonia (they have French-press Coffee).

A smiling Geoff Swarts welcomed me along with two other volunteers whose name completely escapes me now. She even affixed a "wow" sticker on my fender. Shame on me! I had more than an hour in the bank. This was welcome news, and some much needed breathing room. I saw Jason, and Peg at the control, and this gave some hope that I would actually make decent time. I spent about 15 minutes doing control activities and eating the Tofu sandwich. Just as I was readying myself to leave, the rider in the Brooks jersey rode in, looking all classy. And so did Chuck Hoffman.

I took off again, not wishing to waste any more time, and after a easy-looking-but-not-for-me climb up Ames Lake, I found myself on the gentle rollers of W Snoqualmie Road. The day had started clearing up, and I could see signs of blue everywhere. Pacelines of bicycles littered the roadway. The day was warming up, but not enough for me to take off my jacket. I was passed by a couple of riders on this stretch, and just before the next turn on Crescent Lake Road, Chris passed me too. I was now pretty sure that I was Lanterne Rouge. No matter, I had time in the bank.

I have always suffered on Ben Howard road going East. That one sharp climb always kicks my tail. Zig and Zag to the rescue again. After that one climb things eased up a bit, but we will be visiting these parts again on the 4-Pass 600. Gulp! I thought Chris vanished off in to the distance, but somehow I got to the Sultan Coffee shop only a couple of minutes after him.

Sultan to Granite Falls

I got some chips at the Sub Shop, and mixed up the last of my Sustained Energy: two bottles worth. The next stretch was not easy. Reiner Road would take a healthy bite out of my leg. I finally got to take off my jacket and gloves. I left before Chris and the first little climb up (which I most dread for some reason) wasn't very hard. The area doesn't seem to have escaped the turmoils of the housing market: I noticed that several of the houses were subject to foreclosure. There is a lovely little descent down Reiner, and then a gentle flattish stretch after which the road takes a turn for the worse: Up. I zig-zagged my way, and I spotted a smiling Mark Thomas with his camera ready to capture every wince and whine.

Me: "I hate you" (this is a running joke between us).

MT: "Hahaahaha. It wasn't even my idea. You look like you are enjoying it though"

Me: "There is some pleasure in pain, I guess"

MT: "But not as much as watching others suffer"

Me: "You know how I console myself?"

MT: "How's that?"

Me: "I am not doing these hills after climbing 3 Mountain Passes!"

I stopped for about 10 seconds to take a breather on the last vicious stretch, but didn't stay to chat with Mark once I made it to the top. Mark didn't mind. Pipeline road offered some reward for that last nasty climb. The roads after the Woods Creek turn were something else. Chris saved me from bonus miles when he read the BL instruction on Roesiger Lake Road which I completely missed. :) When I crested the vicious little hill on N Lake Roesiger, he was gone. I got to Granite Falls eventually, losing about 10 minutes of my buffer, but I wasn't complaining.

Granite Falls to Conway

I found out that Chris had arrived here only moments ago, and so I made quick work of this control. Got myself a snickers bar, filled my water bottles (no more Sustained Energy, alas), and took off with Chris, who then dropped me promptly. When we got to Arlington, I saw him atop the steep little hill and was happy to keep somebody in my sights. A vicious crosswind greeted me on Highway 9, but there are no steep pitches here. The crosswind turned into a nice tailwind on Highway 534 and blew me into Conway in no time. I saw a blue jersey leaving Conway, just as I pulled in to the gas station there. More time in the bank!

Conway to Stanwood

Chris had gotten there a while back, and looked set to leave. I made a pact with him to ride at night, and we left together after I lubed myself and filled my bottles with Powerade. We would have the dark hours upon us in a little while, and so we put on our night gear as well. I rode behind Chris, and we made it to Stanwood in no time. Again that blue shirt was leaving the control as we were arriving. Drat!

Stanwood to Machias

We just got our cards signed. I called my wife to tell her that I was doing well, and promised to call her again when I knew of my finish time estimate. The wind was quite merciless. After we passed Interstate 5, Chris took off. 43rd Ave delivered a little kicker, but the pain was short-lived. Thank goodness. I had resigned myself to riding by myself again, seeing that I was visibly slowing down Chris, but he was within sight. I passed him fixing his water bottle cage just before the trail, and stopped there to use the restroom. Chris caught up here.

Centennial Trail's gentle little climb has always owned me, but today the story was a bit better. Although I lost Chris again, I found myself in the company of a woman who had just bought a bike, and was trying out clip-less pedals for the first time. "How long does it take for one to get used to these things?" she asked. This brought back memories of my first first clip-less pedals usage in 2001. We engaged in some friendly conversation, and the topic came around to how far I was riding today. I just told her that I was out to get to Snohomish. She mentioned seeing a lot of "you people" near the end of the trail where she got on (this meant that they were at least 3 hours ahead of me).. ;)

She took off into the distance, and I settled into a comfortable rhythm, the blinkie lights of Chris gradually fading off into the distance. I got to Machias station, and saw Mark Thomas again, signing cards in lieu of the info control question. He truly was all over the course. Lyn Gill, Jennifer Chang and Bill Gobie were preparing to leave just as I entered. Chris had already made himself comfortable.

We all know that Mark is a class act, but he goes above and beyond: He offered to come and pick me up at the finish and drive me home. Thanks Mark, for all you do.

Machias to Woodinville

After eating some chips and donning our night gear, we set off down the trail again. Chris decided to stick with me, and we rode together all the way up the climbs on Springhetti and Broadway. Broadway just climbs forever. Its several false flats are annoying to say the least, and we finally got to Yew and made it safely across 522 to the turn on Bostian. Now this road also owns me. I lost Chris here, and didn't meet him until the control. Traffic was non-existent so I survived by zig-zagging up some of the steep ones. I arrived in Woodinville at the stroke of 10p.

Woodinville to Finish

Bill Gobie, Lyn Gill and Jennifer Chang were getting ready to leave again. Chris took off too about a couple of minutes ahead of me. I figured he was cooling down, and had to take off. A scintillating descent later, I spotted Chris a half a mile away from me, and all my insane attempts at catching up to him failed. I settled into a comfortable rhythm on the trail, which was completely deserted. The tree roots were a bit annoying though, but nothing to really whine about. A few miles away from the finish I saw some blinking taillights again, and caught up to Jennifer Chang.

It had been a while since I met her (on my ill-fated DNF of the 4-Pass 600), and we caught up on "old" times. I was a little confused about where to get off the trail, and we stopped and chatted with some U-Dub students, and they eased my mind a bit. Jennifer also seemed to know the area, so we stuck together, and Jennifer let out a "So, we're going to finish" when she saw the QFC.

We rolled into the Pub at exactly 11:40. 17 hours and 40 minutes. Bill and Lyn had finished 10 minutes earlier. The kind organizers, David Harper and Gary Prince, were with Bill Gobie, sitting inside nursing their drinks, and Jennifer and I joined them. The food tasted so good.

Ron Himschoot finished a few minutes later.

Epilogue

I received a message from Jason Dul. He trounced his 17:03 previous best with a 15:11. Way to go! Bill made a habit of leaving controls just as I was arriving. I think next time I will wear some cologne.

My thanks to all the volunteers: You pre-rode in not-so-great weather, had excellent food at the controls, were all over the course, stayed late at the finish, ordered perfect weather for us, and made it a fine day to ride. See you on the 400!

SIR Spring 200K: Au Revoir et Merci

2010-03-15T22:48:00.000-07:00

Prologue

If the entries in this blog are any indication, I've been off the bike for a while. Since November. My R-12 streak - which was at 27 months - came to an end. I think Thai Nguyen is the current leader at 48+. Four R-12s: Mon Dieu! Duane Wright is not that far behind Thai. Enough about them; this is about ME! :)

5:40a: I rode to Kingsgate Park and Ride in Kirkland to be picked up by Thai. I forgot my helmet and had to ride back, which means I missed my appointed hour of 6am by 2 minutes. I didn't know this at the time, but slogging to make time was going to be the theme. We chatted about randonneuring, PBP 2007, and rides past, including Thai's 1000k-on-fixie.

The start was full of riders, fulfilling Greg's desire to go out with record participation. The Coxes, like the Thomses are one of the two ride organizers who open their homes to us. The hill to Greg's house, and the hill up to Mark Thomas' house occupy a special place in SIR ride lore. Greg has helped out more than one rider (including this one) with his endless supply of gloves, helmets, water bottles, and bike parts saving many a rider from a DNS or a DNF. The food, course, attention and encouragement are all top notch. I was a bit sad about this being the final Chili Feed. Maybe Greg will do it again in a few years time. ;)

Start to Town and Country Foods

After some ride instructions, which included the ominous insertion of "a bonus vista", we set off. I hung out safely in the back, no point venturing forward when you are going to get spit out faster than a rotten peanut. I knew exactly where this "bonus" vista would be, having ridden one of the Winter Training rides in years past up that very "vista". I was quite nervous about this ride: I was croaking. Only seeing several well-known faces (though some friends were nowhere to be found) kept my mind off my task for the day: to show up back at Greg's house riding my bicycle before 8:30p.

I rode with a huge bunch, flying down the hill on 240th street, and braking severely at times for the lights. Mike Huber, an old buddy on these rides, pulled up next to me and we started catching up with each others lives. Just before the first climb, Mike found out that he forgot his water bottles at the start. I had two, and I was pretty sure I could buy another water bottle along the way, and so I gave him one of my water bottles.

They pulled away on the climb, and the first of many chain popping offs started. I had just replaced the chain, and it kept falling off the back when I attempted to use the lowest cog in the back. Frank Wilson, stopped to see if I was ok, but I waved him on, leery of delaying him. I eventually made it to the top, and I pulled over to look at my problem. Eric Simmons and Frank stopped, and Frank adjusted my derailleur, and hopefully things would be well again. Things improved tremendously after that, but I couldn't use my lowest cog throughout the ride.

As we headed toward the water, I knew that I was in for some pain. I made it up the first little grade ok (and Frank even rode back down to see if I was ok, when my chain popped off again), but I didn't have it in me to ride the next little bit. Halfway up, I swallowed my pride and started walking. The 24" gear to the rescue! I didn't want photo evidence published, but I was in no shape to ride up that grade. Eventually near the top I got on my bike again, and Joe Platzner took a photo of me riding up that grade on my bike. I finally got to Town and Country Foods, and met Mark Thomas, Vincent Muoneke and Amy Pieper, and was told that I had a whopping 13 minutes in the bank. The first "Should I just quit?" thought just entered my mind, but I quickly put it away: there was no way I was going to DNF the final Chili Feed!

Town and Country Foods to Black Diamond Bakery

At the coffee store, I ate a couple of donuts and some salted peanuts in record time, and got back on my bike. There were four of us vying for Lanterne Rouge: Eric Simmons, Frank Wilson, David Smith and myself. (though I didn't know that Paul Johnson was behind us, having suffered an endless succession of flats). This group helped me forget my "DNF' thoughts, and I focused on getting to the next control. Another climb and no chain incidents.

Green Valley Road was as pretty as ever, with the farms, the fog, and the blue skies. I was stopped just before the Black Diamond climb to apply bag balm, and Chuck Hoffman passed me with a "stop lollygagging, and start riding". The climb went rather uneventfully, but I did have to zigzag to reduce the grade. I finally made the control to a huge collection of volunteers: Mark Thomas, Peter McKay, Amy Pieper, Bob Brudvik, and the Nussbaums. I had 8 minutes to spare. Duane Wright was leaving the control as I pulled in.

Black Diamond Bakery to Greenwater

An enthusiastic and cheerful group of volunteers will do for your brain what several hours in the bank cannot do, and that is provide welcome distraction through conversation, and lots of encouragement. When I professed doubts about making the Greenwater control it was quickly shot down by Mark and Amy with a look of absolute certainty on their faces (fakers!): "Oh, you will make Greenwater". Ralph was adamant that I would make time on the next leg: "We got here at about the same time as you did, and we finished in 10 hours and change". It is words like these that help you keep going for it's harder to quit when you know that others want to see you succeed. Thanks guys! I might have thrown in the towel here had it not been for you.

All of the randonneurs had left. I got two blueberry strudels, sat outside and and joked with the volunteers about the fastest riders, and moved on right as the control closed. The rain started on Black Diamond Road, and matured to a full-on hail session just before the "Secret" control on Cumberland-Kanaskat Road. There was also a bit of headwind, but when I arrived at the "usual" location of the control, but there was no one to be found. I soldiered on, into the wind and the hail, and the downpour, and after about 2 miles, I saw Mark Roberts on the side of the road with the SIR control sign. I stopped just enough to get my card signed and see if they had any food. But Mark and Rick Haight were both out of food, and so I went to the Cumberland store to get a Pay-Day bar.

At the left turn onto Greenwater, David Smith and I pulled over for a moment. We had 2 hours and 2 minutes to go 17 miles. I was sure I wouldn't make it, but I was determined to try. I took off at first, and the climb to Mud Mountain Dam Road had me by the @#$@#, but I got to the top, and started seeing riders coming back to make the left turn. I would have killed to be in their shoes. Dozens and Dozens of cheering faces went by, offering recognition and encouragement. The temperature kept dropping as I neared Greenwater, and I could see my own breath for the first time all day. I had no time to stop and put on clothing.

Riding with no time banked isn't a problem IF one has the ability to bank some. The prospect of a mechanical delay or getting lost was terrifying. Mike Huber was headed back the other way and rode over to my side to thank me for lending him my water bottle. I feel now that I acted rudely by not slowing down to talk to him, but I had no choice: I was focused on making Greenwater. Sorry, Mike!

I had dropped Dave Smith, and he hadn't caught up to me at all, and I suspected a DNF. Two miles from the control, he blew by me dead set on making the Control. I pulled into Greenwater at 4:06 with 2 minutes to spare. I got the clerk to sign my card, and he signed it with "4:11", which was 3 minutes outside the time limit. I had to show him my phone to get him to change the time. The store had a nice sign inside that said "Welcome, Bike Racers".

Greenwater to Enumclaw

I was relieved. The hardest section of the ride was over. Sure, 218th Ave loomed large, and so did the final climb to Greg's house, but they were minutes of effort, not hours. They were all out of Pay-Day bars, and so I was forced to buy a Snickers bar. Duane Wright was leaving the control, and I found out that Dave Smith had suffered a flat, which was why he wasn't ahead of me by a half-hour at least.

The ride back from Greenwater wasn't quite as fast as I expected, but I felt good nevertheless. David Smith again blew by me, and this time there was no catching him. A wee bit of rain also started falling at this time. The misty sort. The splash from vehicles on the highway made things dirtier than they needed to be.

As I made the turn onto Mud Mountain Dam Road, I saw two people pulled over on the side fixing a flat, and after a quick "Are you ok?" I moved on (shame on me!). The rain started hammering down, and the descent down Mud Mountain Dam road, ordinarily no cup of tea, was pretty painful. Stinging rain on ones face while going downhill in excess of 20+ mph! Yippee!

I spied a green jacket ahead, and caught up to Duane Wright, with whom I rode to the Enumclaw control under clear skies. The time was 5:57. I had more than 25 minutes in the bank for the first time. I finally knew that I would finish the ride.

Enumclaw to the Finish

We drank Hot Chocolate, commiserated with the clerk who had been signing cards all day. Our riders were well behaved however, and she had no complaints. We all donned out night riding gear. As the clock struck 6:10, I had the hankering to move on again, so telling Duane that I would ride slowly, I took off into the fast approaching darkness.

I knew this next stretch almost by-heart, so I made my way as fast as I could, but upon starting the climb up 218th, I finally remembered that I told Duane that I would soft pedal, so I really backed off, and waited for him about a 100 meters up the climb. Duane wasn't far behind, and by virtue of his fixed-gear, had only one speed to go. He didn't weave back and forth, and maintained an even pace straight up the face of the hill. We were also joined at this point by two other gentlemen, who I didn't catch the name of, and the three of us caught Duane waiting for us at the next turn.

The next few miles are almost entirely downhill, so we all hammered to make some time, and when we got near the fire station, the two gentlemen peeled off. Duane took off again up the hill, but I wasn't that far behind. We rode in together to finish. I was so relieved! No DNF! But a new Personal Worst at the 200k distance. 13 hours and 6 minutes. As Jason Dul says, DFL (Dead F-ing Last) is better than DNF. :)

Post ride

There were several volunteers cheering for us at the finish: I saw Dan Jensen, Eric Vigoren, Maggie Williams, Greg Cox, Lyn Gill, Mark Thomas, and Peter McKay, all of whom offered congratulations. I picked up the water bottle that Mike Huber had returned. I had some incredible Vegetarian Chili, and fruits. Thanks Greg and Mary for so many years of fun.

Mark gave me a ride home, and I tried my best to butter the President by saying nice things about Apple. Time to get in shape for the 300! It promises to be considerably flatter than this one. I'd be happy to just finish that one too :)

R-1 in the books.

R-12 #2 completed

2009-07-14T21:44:00.000-07:00

Short version: Finished the Three Rivers Cruise Permanent in 10:46 to complete my second R-12. Au Revoir!

Long version, below:

I have been off to Europe for darn near three weeks, but I had some unfinished business over in Randonneuring land before I could leave: my July 200k ride. I started rather late (around 8.45 on a day that promised to be hot. (I should have left early and maximized my time in the cooler temperatures).

Start to Marblemount

- I stopped in Darrington for food and water, and met Andrew, a Coloradoan bicycle touring from Steamboat Springs, and spoke to him for 20+ minutes.

- Nice tailwind on Highway 530.

- Lots of traffic on Highway 20. Hhhmmn...

- I got to Marblemount in 5 hours. Maybe I can finish this ride in 10 hours or so?

Marblemount to Concrete

- Headwind: not bad. Heat: not so good.

- Crawled up the not-so-steep climb to Rockport State Park, and took refuge in the shade.

- Regrouped by getting more water at the State Park.

- Stopped at the convenience store in Concrete before the turn, and chatted with some teenagers on bikes. It's always great to stun the young crowd. (The bathroom was disgusting. Would not recommend this store).

- Chip-seal on South Skagit Highway as nasty as ever. The heat was bad. Traffic: low.

- Ran out of water just past the information control, and knocked on a house to get some water. A very helpful lady tied up her dog and gave me bottled water. Thanks very much!

- Rested in the shade a little bit and then took off for Clear Lake.

- Getting off the chip-seal was awesome...

- Stopped at the store in Clear Lake to get some more water, and some Ice Cream.

Clear Lake to Finish

- Had a bit of a cross-wind but felt good on the rollers of Highway 9.

- Stopped once at the bar near the roundabout to get some water and Ice Cream. Chatted with the locals drinking, who warned me that Highway 9 was a bad road for bicyclists. I headed out after thanking them for their warnings.

- Stopped again a little while later to use a porta-potty on a construction site, after getting permission.

- Finished in around 10:45.

- Yaaay! R-12 #2.

SIR Spring 600: Truth in advertising

2009-06-17T22:59:00.001-07:00

Prologue

Starting a 600 without first completing a 400 is something I have never done before. Endless promises of a flat 600 had me fantasizing about a strong finish, something very quickly dispelled by the organizer, Albert. "The course is not flat", he said while shuttling between the drop bag truck and the hotel lobby. A lot of new roads, and a lot of familiar roads awaited.

I met a lot of the usual suspects at the start. Michael Huber was there and confessed to being quite strong on the bike this year and was having grand ideas of riding straight through. I found myself on the opposite side of the spectrum. Having DNF'd the 400 in Ephrata (at about 300k), I was wondering how I would fare. My only goal was to finish, and I rode with precisely that aim in mind. I would keep my control stops short, and en route dalliances to a minimum. Three hours of sleep at the overnight would be nice, but not necessary.

Start to Ruston

I rolled out at the back of the pack, having stopped to use the restroom to apply bag balm. We stayed in a big bunch, aided by the red lights on 15th and the West Valley highway, though Bill Alsup, Duane Wright and I were already at the bottom end. I caught up to Rick Haight. Rick volunteered on the PBP qualifier of 2007, and I joked about how I begged for coffee on the road to Whitney, and Kent Peterson, mindful of not supporting outside the controls, offered a "You are only a few miles out of the control!"... He was just getting warmed up and separated himself on the initial incline of Military Road. When I crested that hill, all I could see was The Kramer on his 'bent and Rick pulling away. The pack was gone.

I somehow found myself alone on the turn onto S 360th, and thought Duane would have trouble with this turn, and as I stopped to fix my dropped chain, I saw Duane fly by the turn. I tried waiting for him at the SR 99 intersection, but he didn't show up quickly enough for me. I caught up with Bill and passed a crouched Dan Jensen, fixing a flat. Bill stopped to take a picture of the bridge and I kept riding (having left the camera at home as a time-saving measure). The trail along the water was full of runners and even some cyclists getting their bikes off their cars. I got through the tunnel, and crested the little hill to the first control at Ruston, where I was met by Robin and Amy Pieper, and Charlie White and his son.I had about an hour in the bank. This was unexpected good news.

Ruston to Waterman Point

Amy and Robin filled my water bottles, and after a brief discussion on who was behind me, I left for the next control. The left turn onto Pearl put me in the company of a few "normal" bike riders, and on a mostly shoulder-less road with cars trying to get to the start of a run. I was off the madness quickly though and onto the Tacoma Narrows bridge which shares quite a few similarities with Vancouver's Lions Gate Bridge: Great views and Green in colour.

After a nice scenic stretch next to the water in a still sleepy Gig Harbour, I found myself on some of the roads that we rode on the Tahuya 200 last year, except in reverse. Orchard Road bit me a couple of times, the first bite forcing me to zig zag. The second bite was a bit less painful than the first, and reminded me of Port Gamble Road. After some more riding along the water, Dan Jensen caught up to me, and we rode maybe a mile together before we found ourselves face to face with Eric Vigoren, manning this control.

Waterman Point to Cosmopolis

After a few cookies, some nice catching up, and a visit to the porta-potty, I took off with Dan Jensen. He was clearly a faster ride than I was, and dropped me, but I passed him when he stopped to take a picture and then went to a bike shop. On Clifton Road we passed by Anderson Hill Road, and I could only think of thanking Albert for resisting the temptation to put us on that three-headed monster during daylight hours.

This section - Clifton Road - was a low point for me. There was a nagging uphill grade, a headwind and I found myself not going fast enough for my liking. However, Feigley Road changed all that. The descent was awesome but somewhat ruined by a pickup truck illegally backing uphill to make a left turn. I wasn't going down quite as fast as I usually go, and that saved me from just rear-ending the idiot.

The day was quite beautiful and a lot of cyclists were out riding their bikes. As I slowed down to make the left turn onto West Belfair, a couple of riders stopped on the road to ask me about the ride we were on. They knew we were together, and I did my best to give them a 2-minute summary of what we do. They were suitably impressed when I described the ride I was on. I gave them our website, but I think that a few little scraps of paper with our website written on it would be a brilliant idea. We parted with mutual wishes for a good ride.

This section of W Belfair was new to me, as I had only ridden it in the opposite direction on last years Tahuya 200. More flat riding, and as I went by Bear Creek - Dewatto Road, I uttered another round of thanks to Albert. It certainly looked like he spared us some major heartburn. After a brief jaunt on the high-traffic SR3, we were led to the chip-seal hell that is SR 106. I arrived at the Union Country Store, filled my water bottles and took off again, while Dan Jensen waited to get a sandwich.

Oh, I forgot to mention this. Since my DNF because of running out of food, I kept a solid supply of food on board. This was perhaps overkill, but I figured I needed the practice. I have cycled many a time on SR 106, but never on Purdy Cutoff road. It was a lovely stretch of road, and I greatly enjoyed the shady respite it offered. My shorts were rubbing me raw, and I stopped to put on some bag balm, and traffic got backed up behind me (I thought it was a low traffic road!). Dan passed me here.

After a steady slog uphill, I made the turn onto Dayton Airport Road, but the stretch to Matlock was new terrain. Mostly flat but the wind wasn't cooperating. I made good progress and just as I got into the Matlock store, I saw Dan Jensen pulling out. I didn't see any other rider until the overnight in Centralia. I refueled at the Matlock store and stayed about 10 minutes. Gatorade, some salted peanuts and more PowerBars. When I left the store I was met with an immediate gust of wind that told me that the wind wouldn't be doling out any favours today. It was put-your-head-down-and-slog time. Some clear cuts, some forests and distant mountains. Oh, and some "transformation centers" (Euphemism for "Pray the Gay away" ?). I also spotted what looked like Nuclear Power plant cooling towers a little before Monte-Elma Road.

The wind was nothing compared to the 4 mile stretch of chip-seal hell called Monte-Elma Road. In previous years, we have ridden this entire stretch, but today was only 4.2 miles, but I was still glad to get off it. I didn't think to stop at the Bakery in Montesano this time around. Blue Slough Road was another lovely stretch, completely shaded and totally traffic free. Lovely, indeed. I arrived at Cosmopolis with plenty of time to spare. I was greatly disappointed to see that Dan Jensen had already left. I was hoping to coax him into riding a slower pace with me at night.

Cosmopolis to Westport

A lot of brevets go through towns and villages instead of cities, and you do meet a different kind of humanity here. The Cosmopolis Chevron had a nice owner who promised to keep his store open an hour later than normal and I made it a point to refuel all my food and hydration stores here to show a small measure of gratitude for such kindness. I also informed him about Bill and Duane being behind me, and that he probably wouldn't have to stay open until 10. I left fairly quickly as I wanted to get to Westport before dark.

A nice wind-aided stretch followed where the only source of trouble was the shoulder-less bridges. However, these were dispatched with aplomb, and I found myself at Westport fairly quickly.

Westport to Rainbow Falls State Park

I had promised myself a bit of a breather here, but considering the wind, I took off in about 10 minutes after filling up on water and food, and using the restroom. I knew that darkness would fall on this stretch, so I wore my reflective ankle bands, but left my jacket off. I had brought leg warmers, but it looked like that would be overkill. The shoulder was filled with debris and a few miles out of Westport I started to ride on the main road, and moved into the shoulder only when I spied a car in my helmet mirror.

To avoid psyching myself out over the distance to the overnight control, I folded the route sheet to the Raymond turn, and focused on getting my butt to Raymond. The Peninsula is a great place to ride. Mostly flat, little traffic and features the soft sounds of waves crashing on the beach. I made good time, but about two-thirds of the way to Raymond, I stopped to don my jacket and reflective vest. I also turned on my E-delux light, a birthday gift from my wife.

What a difference this light made!! It is a totally awesome light. The E6 has a yellowish light, but the E-delux throws a white light. I had it mounted on my front rack braze-on, and though there was some wheel shadow, the light was simply superb. Pricey, but good. It light up at far lower speeds than the E6 and features a standlight, which is a great addition.

I got to Raymond in good time, and since I was ok in terms of food and water, didn't bother to ride into town for either of those necessities. I had trouble getting the left turn light onto SR6 to trigger and used the pedestrian sign to get it to turn on. I was starting to feel a bit tired a few miles out of Raymond, but kept on, hoping I would see a grocery store where I could get some coffee. Having woken up at 4a to catch a ride with Duane, I was starting to feel a bit sleepy, and after about 15 miles, I saw a sign for a tavern in Lebam, and figuring I'd take a chance, I entered. A little apprehensively, I admit.

There were only two patrons (read: drunks) there, but the bartender was a friendly sort. They already knew about what we were doing, so I guessed that other riders must have stopped here for refreshments. They were full of conversation: "You have to ride to Centralia, huh? That's a far ways away", one quipped, while the other filled me up on the long and steep climb ahead of me in the next three to four miles. Not to be outdone, the first one made comments about bears, mountain lions and drunks ("like myself", he said). I never got the impression that they were trying to scare me, just filling me in on the road ahead. :)

I got Coffee with some milk and sugar and after making quick work of it, I got up to pay, but was told that the coffee was on the house. Awesome! I thanked the patrons, and the bartender and made my way out, refreshed. It was only a 10 minute stop, but it was a very welcome stop. Now fully awake (those months of drinking decaf now suddenly seeming worthwhile), I continued on. I half-hoped Bill or Duane would catch up to me, but that didn't happen. The roads were traffic free and I made excellent time, even climbing hard amid a very soft rain and enjoying the descent. I made the left turn onto Pe Ell, and only then did fold the route sheet all the way to the Centralia Control. When I got to Rainbow Falls state park, I saw a red blinky and turned left into the park looking for Paul.

I didn't find Paul. The time was now 2.05a. I had made good time, and with any luck I'd get my three hours of sleep tonight. I rode all over the park, but it looked purely residential. I started yelling "Paul, Paul", in the vain hopes that they might hear me. I met a trucker who told me that they were on a turn next to where the bridge was washed out. So, I made my way out of the park and onto a second road, where disaster struck.

I was met by three barking dogs, the smallest of which went straight for my ankle. It was too late when I realized what the stupid thing was about to do, but I had the presence of mind to kick out and off it went whining. I fought off the other two with my front wheel, and as the clearly inebriated owners fought to maintain control of their dogs, I fought with the dogs to stop them from mistaking me for food.

Finally order was restored, and I asked for help in the form of a phone call. One of the family members actually drove out to go see where the control was. (I didn't realize this). To say I was incensed at this point would be a severe understatement. My inability to find the control, the dogs, the wasted half hour all added up. I called Albert to ask about the control, but I used an F-word "adjective" to describe the control (I apologized to Albert at the finish). Albert didn't know where it was, and referred to Peter, who tried to calm me by telling me that getting mad wasn't productive. He asked me to continue on SR 6 and that I would find it. I thanked the couple and left, and a few hundred yards down the road, I was met by a girl who slowed down to tell me that "they" were setup a mile or two down the road. I thanked her and kept riding.

I got to the Rainbow Falls Control at 2.45a, about 35 minutes behind schedule.

Rainbow Falls Control to Centralia

I was met by a smiling Paul Johnson, Sheila Johnson and John Vincent. I was still seething from my lost time, and after a few minutes of ranting and raving, and poor Paul apologizing profusely, I sat down and was treated to a great array of Vegetarian food (excellent Szechuan Noodles). John took my bike, Sheila gave me food and drink, and Paul fought with Raccoons, that were trying to get their hands on some randonneur goodies.

After some pleasant conversation (I stopped being an a-hole), I left around 3a. I told them that Bill and Duane were behind me, and that I hadn't seen them for well over 200 miles. I didn't even know if they were still riding at this point. I was now feeling the effects of the 230-odd miles that I had ridden, but the last few miles went by without incident. I do remember riding by Curtis Hill Road and thanking Albert yet again.

I got to Centralia at 4.37a and was met by Peter Beeson, and some others getting ready to leave. Peter took my bike and escorted me to my room.

Day 2, 7:20a: Centralia to Morton

I told them I was good on food, and after asking for a 645a wake up call, I brushed my teeth, showered, and hit the sack at 4.45a. Yes, 8 minutes. The next instant Peter was waking me up. I brushed my teeth, changed into bike clothing and took off around 7.10am, but had to turn back when I got confused by the route sheet. Peter set me straight, and I rode on worried about the measly 2 hour buffer I had.

I had ridden Centralia-Alpha road in the other direction with Peg and Allison in 2007. It wasn't that terrible, but then I was in great shape that year. This year would be payback. I saw Matt Dalton and another rider fiddling with their bikes at the base of the initial climb, but they started back up, and disappeared around the turn, before I could get to them. I slowly climbed the initial leg, and as it flattened out, I saw Peg down the hill behind me.

She caught up to me on one of the steep sections, and when I hit the top. she was gone. I just slogged through this section. I knew I would be losing time, and I didn't care. I just wanted to make the Morton control on time and I would see what I could do after that. SR 508 was another hard stretch. I didn't have energy and I started stopping to eat my PowerBars. Apart from one nasty climb SR 508 was all right, but my legs weren't. It was just that the 250 miles I had ridden the previous day were getting to me. I took frequent breaks to adjust clothing and eat.

When I am tired, I try and ways to introduce some humour into my ride. One such instance was when I saw a mailbox with the name Studhalter on it. I don't know if you know my sense of humour but it leans towards the juvenile. My immediate reaction: that last name would be a death sentence to a woman. She might as well have been called Ugly. I know this is not funny now, but for some weird reason, it offered me comic relief for a few miles. Eventually SR 508 flattened out and I was riding next to a nice river, and arriving into Morton. I saw Peg leaving the control. She would be the last rider I saw on the ride. I wish I had ridden a bit fast and left with her, but it was too late.

Morton to Enumclaw

I had about 3 hours in the bank when I got into Morton. Feeling tired despite having taken many a breather everywhere I decided to stay about 15 minutes. I bought some Powerade, some salted Cashew nuts, Sprite, more PowerBars and some jojos. The jojos were very poorly made, but I still ate them knowing that there would be some more climbing. I used the restroom, chatted with the friendly clerk, and rested my head on the table.

I filled the Powerade in my water bottle and left Morton on SR7 with a nice crosswind. Shortly after the control, the road tilted up, and traffic was pretty high. The jojos I ate gave me horrible heartburn, and I didn't like this section as a result. The shoulder was inadequate, and I slowly made my way up the climb. I stopped a few times to "adore the scenery". I got to Summit Cr at 1700+ feet, and then had a nice descent into Elbe.

I tried to stop at the bar, but it was overrun by bikers (the motorized kind). One of them commented "So, you made it here all the way from Canada, eh?", looking at my BC Randonneurs jersey. I left the area before they started "joking" more. The wind was now in my face, but Alder Cutoff saved me from the wind, and threw me onto a hill, with cars buzzing by. There was a fantastic downhill on SR 161, and we turned onto Orville Road.

Now, I had great dreams for Orville Road. I was hoping it would be a quiet road with no traffic and lots of views of Lake Kapowsin and Lake Ohop. I stopped to eat off the side of the road, and was met by the rudest honk off a guy driving a huge pickup. He gave me the "get moving sign", but all he had to to was go around me. When I motioned for him to go around me, he threw up his arms in disgust. I wasn't very happy with this, and said "hey", and threw up my arms in disgust. He drove a few feet away and then stopped to backup, but there were other cars behind him, and he just took off. I kept a wary eye out for him.

Pickups, pickups, and more pickups. The surface was not the greatest either, and it had the kind of short choppy lumps that were pretty annoying. My heartburn showed no sign of abating, but my appetite was still there. The grades on some of the gravel roads that led off of Orville Road were unreal. I stopped to admire as an SUV drove down one of those inclines, and progress was slow. It seemed like some sleep would help, but there was nowhere I could stop and nap.

The right turn to stay on Orville Road helped the quality of the people on it. I stopped to admire another nice view before a descent (or I may be making this up). After a few miles I stumbled upon some grass by the side of the road (near an entrance to an RV Park), and napped for a good 20 minutes. My aim was twofold: to allow Bill Alsup to catchup, and get some rest. The constant steady stream of traffic was my way of making sure I didn't sleep for a few hours.

Of all the signs you want to see in this world, "Volcano Evacuation Route" is not what you want to see at the end of a 600k. But my sleep had refreshed me, and though I wouldn't say I powered up the hill, I got there in good time. My mother called to talk. Talking to her was refreshing, even if she didn't understand why I was doing it. I turned left on to familiar roads now, having done the Redmond - Carbon Glacier only last month. The small climb just past Buckley was a kicker, but I arrived at the Enumclaw Control with plenty of time to spare.

Enumclaw to the Finish

I bought some Sprite, some salted cashew nuts, and a couple of PowerBars, and I knew that I would finish in under 37 hours. That felt good. I helped a woman operate the gas pump (she didn't know how to get that thing started). I left after about 15 minutes. The next section was completely known, except the little stretch past Main Street in Auburn (Leschi - Auburn - Leschi permanent). As I rode up the last little incline, my bike suddently downshifted, and the chain fell off, but only after making an awful noise. I stopped to put the chain back on, but I found that the chain had wedged itself between the chainstay and the small chainring. This was not good. I knew there was a killer descent onto Green Valley Road, and I could basically walk my way to the finish in under the time limits.

I tried doing all kinds of things, jiggling it, trying brute-force, and finessing it. Nothing worked. I flipped my bike over and started to work on getting the chain off, when a car pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride somewhere. He was a cyclist himself, and when I told him about the ride, he immediately parked his car, and came over to help. We discussed our options, and he said he didn't haveto tools to get the chain off. I replied that I did, and he offered to get the thing off. After what seemed like 10 minutes of jiggling, he finally pulled it off! He was my saviour! And, I didn't even get his name.

I thanked him profusely, and he didn't even complain about having to work on a dirty chain! I wasted about 30 minutes in the process. Oh well. I knew that the finish was less than an hours ride away. The descent to 212th and then onto Green Valley Road was awesome. Green Valley Road was uneventful, but this was the first time I rode in this direction. It felt completely different. I felt strong on the bike, and soon I was cruising past Main Street and onto heavily trafficked roads. I could finally relax. I was going to make it. It is possible to finish a 600 without a 400. I finished in 37:39.

Albert was there at the hotel lobby. The room had Beer, Pizza and snacks. I shoved my face with whatever I could get my hands on, and then called my wife to let her know that I finished. Albert told me that Duane had decide to end his ride someplace near Cosmopolis, and decided to get a room in Aberdeen. I met Karel from Montana. As I was getting ready to hit the showers, Bill finished. He was only 20 minutes behind me, but he had really hammered to the finish. He had a lot of off the bike time that really added up. Karel and I discussed some permanent options that he could do if he wanted to try for an R-12. The Colbert-Metaline falls permanent (seldom ridden) was something he expressed some interest in, but it isn't rideable in the winter. Talking to him made me realize how lucky we all are to have such a living thriving randonneuring community right at our doorstep. And our weather. I know we love to complain, but atleast we can do 200's in the winter. Montanans cannot.

Thanks to all the wonderful volunteers on this ride. The Rainbow Falls control was excellent and so was the support at the overnight. It was a great 600. And it most certainly was NOT flat.

Epilogue

Duane had sent word that he would like me to call him, and when I did, he offered to come and get me. I thought his car was still in Auburn and so he was coming down with his friend to come and get his car. I showered and waited for Duane, and talked with Karel. When I left the hotel, I found out that Duane had driven down just to get me. It turns out that Duane had already retrived his car in the morning, and was just offering to come and pick me up. Duane's Nice!

SIR 400k Pre-ride: A rookie mistake.

2009-05-22T16:50:00.000-07:00

I will update this post with photos once I have had a chance to upload them.. :(

Short version

DNF!

Had the beginnings of a cold. Didn't bank much time at any of the controls. Had 26 minutes at Farmer, where I just stopped to take a picture of the hall. Had an hour and 8 minutes at Pateros. Lost time on the section to Twisp. Nice headwind and a crosswind. Rode strong over Loup Loup pass. Had about 40 minutes at the Omak Store. Made good time on Columbia River Road, but ran out of food about 5 miles from the turn onto 155. Called Shane and Chantel, who came and picked me up: he said I was slurring my words, which is not a good sign.

In hindsight, I should have just asked him to bring me some food and continued, but I didn't want to get support outside of the controls. I learnt that I needed to carry more food than necessary. This was particularly stupid, because I carried lots of food for the first 75 miles which lasted me almost till Omak. So, it is not as though I am stupid all the time, but, in this case, with no support until Electric City, my mistake got magnified.

Long Version

Prologue

Duane and I drove together to the start, and had a nice dinner with the pre-riders at a restaurant in Ephrata. We Woke up early, and got dressed up for the early morning chill. It was cold at the start, maybe in the 40s. There were several of us: Geoff Swarts, Matt Dalton, Mark Thomas, Mike Norman, Thomas Martin, myself, Duane Wright, Tom Brett, and Bob Brudvik. This was an almost entirely new route to me. The only section that I was familar with was the section on 97 from the 97A intersection to Pateros, and the section from Pateros to Twisp, both of which I rode on the 2006 1000k. Not what I would call "hard".

Ephrata to Farmer

The first section was to go through the Sagebrush Flats, and the Moses Coulee. "A whole lot of nothing" quipped Mark Thomas. Kent Peterson that quotable ex-randonneur once said of the Sagebrush Flat "It gets the 'flat' part its name for the same reason that three-hundred pound tattooed Harley riders are sometimes named '"Tiny'. It is a description that stuck to me. Since there were no services for the first 75 miles, I was well stocked up with food and water: I had 3 Bananas, 3 PowerBars and 12 Pepperidge Farm cookies in my bag, and two water bottles. I stashed a 1-liter bottle of water in my Carradice.

The road tilted up immediately, and Duane and I quickly dropped back, while the group took off ahead of us. Duane was riding his fixed-gear, an insane choice considering the length of some of the climbs and the descents. To top this off, he had just ran a marathon the previous weekend. Not my idea of a recovery ride. The terrain was mostly dry, not much vegetation except sagebrush. The first few miles were mostly up, and once we got to the "top" of the climb, we had a nice descent on which I lost Duane. I descend like a rock, and Duane was on fixed-gear. I didn't know this then, but this was the last I would see of Duane for a while.

After a couple of bone-jarring gravel stretches of just a few feet in length, I got to a T-junction. The route sheet said make a left turn onto Highway 2, and that didn't register until I started riding towards a sign that said Highway 2 West. This was a steady climb again, and I soft-pedaled several times to let Duane catch up. But he was nowhere in sight. I had a bit of a tailwind as I approached th Farmer Control. I took a few pictures and checked th clock, and sure enough, I only had about 26 minutes in the bank.

Farmer to Pateros

My mental strength on rides is directly proportional to how well I am riding. If I am too close to the cut-offs I am not at my happiest. I ate a couple of cookies and left immediately from Farmer, and was met with long rollers. Spectacular views of the mountains everywhere, but the immediate vicinity was mostly farms. The rollers on this stretch were vicious. The paucity of training miles showed. Every mile there would be a road cutting across, going to some farm, but apart from that there was precious little.

I turned onto McNeil Canyon Road and was met with more uphills, but a little while later, I stopped to see if Duane was behind me. I thought I saw his jacket, but I wasn't too sure. I kept on and after some climbing, I saw a sign that said "McNeil Pass Summit". I hadn't expected to be climbing a mountain pass, but this was another pass climbed. The next few miles were all downhill, and I lost altitude like I have never done before: I didn't touch the brakes once, but the winds were vicious. Tucking in helps lose in minutes what one spends hours to climb.

I thought about stopping at Beebe park for water, but I had a half a bottle. I thought about turning back, but decided to keep going to save time. The day was warming up and I stopped to take off some clothing, and who should swing by but Shane, who gave me a hearty hug. I hadn't met him since we rode the Three Rivers Cruise permanent right after PBP 2007. It was fun catching up with Shane and Chantel. I got some water from him and took off again, aided by a nice tailwind. Familiar roads again. I rode this stretch at night in 2006 and it was good to see the sights during the day. I got to Pateros a couple of minutes before noon, and had about an hour and 12 minutes in the bank.

Pateros to Twisp

Shane was here to sign my card, and I filled my water bottles again with the left over water from the previous riders. Apparently the other riders had left only 15 minutes earlier, but coupled with my 10 minute stay here, I was 25 minutes behind. I had no chance of catching up with anybody. I left without waiting for Duane, figuring that his superior speed would help him catch up. The road follows the Methow river, and the wind was picking up a little bit. I had a headwind for the most part, and it turned into a cross-wind after a few miles. I saw people on boats coming down the Methow, and stopped to take pictures of interesting road names, bridges and the river itself.

I was heading straight towards an area with dark clouds and about 10 miles, I was pelted by a brief shower of sorts which dried off almost immediately. I went by the store in Carlton not buying anything as I still had a PowerBar, a Banana and about 7 cookies. Just before the Highway 20 turn off, I knocked on a house for water, but nobody was around. I just filled up water from their hose. I now had about 50 minutes in the bank. Not very good with a mountain pass coming up.

Twisp to Omak

I decided to just follow the route sheet instead of the discussed Lower Beaver Creek Road. The road tilted up for a bit, but flattened out for pretty much the rest of the way. I first tried accelerating every few hundred meters and then slacking off, but that burned me too quickly, so I just started pedalling at a consistent rate. The shoulder was not that awesome, but the grade was quite gentle. I reached the summit of Loup Loup pass in about 2 hours and 18 minutes, which put my speed at just about 5-6 miles an hour. I took a few photographs, and then left.

The descent from Loup Loup for the next 7 miles was something else. Going West on this Pass would be a bit of a pain, but I was going down this time. I had a steep pitch after 7 miles and that got me crawling again, but it wasn't for very long. I really enjoyed that 7 mile stretch: it was my high-point of the ride. I stopped to eat the last of my cookies and got to Omak around 7.20, but not before I got confused about the Main Street turn (it was 2 miles further than advertised). I had 40 minutes in the bank. Not very much, but I still had a shot at finishing.

Omak to DNF

I always pictured Omak to be a cute little town, but sadly it wasn't. Oh well.

I bought and stashed three Bananas for the road ahead. I filled up my water bottles, and then sat down to eat the Cheese Burrito that I also bought. I thought for an instant if it was adequate food, and then I remembered thinking that Shane would be some 40 miles up the road in Nespelem. Figuring that I would last 40 miles on the food I had, I waited for Duane. A bunch of kids on bikes chatted with me as I waited. I told them that I was headed to Nespelem, and they said "Wow! That's far", almost in unison. I also dressed up for the night. I made two critical mistakes here: I forgot to buy a Starbucks DoubleShot and extra food. My plan was to restock with Shane and Chantel.

Around 7.40, I figured I had to get a move on. I left Omak and turned right on to Columbia River Road. I expected it to be a very quiet road, which it was. The road surface wasn't bad either. I thought the road would follow the river downstream, which meant a whole lotta downhills, but sadly that wasn't true. The road was rolling, and I ate the first of my Bananas a little too quickly for comfort. I was feeling strong however. The hills weren't that bad and the wind had completely died down. Darkness set in, and the only things I heard were the buzzing of my tyres, critters and barking dogs. After a brilliant Sunset, I saw the Columbia River flowing to my left, and the road tilted up again. I was treated to a most spectacular moonrise above some lake, which I enjoyed greatly.

I eat a lot when I climb a lot, and this meant that I was eating the second of my bananas even before I got to about the 20 mile point. I still felt good. After about 10 miles, I ate the last of my bananas and that was when I knew I was in trouble. I thought I still had 10 something miles to go before I could possibly get my hands on food, but I was wrong about that too.

Usually pretty good about just being in the present and not worrying about the road ahead, I started thinking about the 70 miles or so that I had to the finish. This was my first clue that I was "off". I stopped for about 5 minutes to try and gather my thoughts, and I started riding again. The road tilted severely up, and I found myself having no energy to turn the pedals. I was falling asleep on the bike, and zig-zagged up this climb, whose top I couldn't see. I was completely demoralized. I knew that there would be nothing open in Nespelem, and I knew that I didn't have the energy to get to wherever Shane was.

I thought I could stop somebody and get some food, started flagging down cars, but nobody stopped. It didn't look like I was going to make it to Nespelem. It is very hard to identify the exact process by which one says "I am going to DNF", but mine came half-way up the climb to Nespelem. I was tired, hungry, and demoralized. I started walking up the hill, thinking if I could only get to the top of this climb, I would be ok. After all, I had more than an hour in the bank. But even walking felt hard.

I called Shane to let him know that I was done. I was apparently slurring my words, and not really coherent. I sat down and a car pulled up. It was a driver asking if I needed help. I asked him to give me a ride to Nespelem where Shane would come and pick me up. Shane and Chantel showed up a little while later. I got something to eat, and we loaded up my bike in their car and went looking for Duane, who I had not seen since that climb to McNeil Pass. We couldn't locate him. We loaded up the car and headed back to Ephrata.

We were really worried about Duane, but he showed up around 9.30. He had ridden through the night after taking several catnaps. That was pretty good. We drove back on Sunday, stopping at Ellensburg for a nice lunch.

I rode Redmond-Carbon Glacier the following week in 10:43. My first sub-11 hour 200k in a while... That kept my R-12 streak going :)

SIR 300K: Well, I finished.

2009-04-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

Prologue

I haven't had the time to sit and and write a detailed report, and I forgot my camera. So, this is going to be just like all my previous reports: boring! Geoff gave me a ride to the start, and I found out something very interesting about him. Can't share, though. The ferry ride was fun: I sat near Jan Heine and had a nice little chat with him. My first memory of Jan is hearing him say that he wanted to finish the Tahuya 300 before dark (2006), and being in awe. I searched for Mike Huber, but I couldn't find him for some reason.

This is SIR's 15th year: it was great to meet John Wagner, one of the founders of SIR. Ron Himschoot introduced him, and John spoke a few words to us, before we set off. I had a few goals on this ride: 1) No candy bars (dentist's orders), 2) Finish, and 3) Get off Highway 9 before dark. I accomplished #1 and #2.

Start to Joseph Whidbey State Park

Very few sections of this route are new to me, so navigation wasn't going to be a problem. The first 20 miles were a touch cold, and I historically take a while to warm up. I rode with Rick Groth for long periods on this stretch. I also met his wife, Julie, who stopped at quite a few spots to take pictures of us.

There are two dogs about halfway into Highway 525 and they were in their usual spot, but they were too tired to give any chase. Greg Cox bounded by with a cheery hello: he had to drop Mary off at the airport, and had started late. The turn onto Libbey Road marked the first new section of the ride, but I loved it, as it took us off of Highway 20 traffic. We hugged the water, and arrived at the first control, where quite a few folks: Ole Mikkelsen, Ron Himschoot and Geoff Swarts were manning it.

Joseph Whidbey State Park to Bellingham

Ken Carter was indeed riding near me. Hhmmn. After mooching a banana off of Ron, I took off. I had been bonking a bit before the the Libbey turn, and it felt good to get something in the system. The water at the park had been shut off right after it opened, which was very weird, but there was a gas station not a mile away from the control, and I stopped there for food and water. The clerk there was very kind, and full of questions about our ride. She had moved up here from Oregon, and was enjoying it so far. I took this opportunity to take off my booties, but left the leg warmers and the skullcap on.

I spied Ken a little ahead of me, but instead of making the turn onto Golf Course Road, he kept going. He turned around after I called out to him a couple of times, muttering a "I wasn't paying attention" with his thanks. We rode a little while together sharing tales of not having enough miles in our legs. His superior climbing took him away, and I never saw him again. Or maybe I saw him near Mount Vernon. Don't remember.

I crossed Deception Pass during a nice long break in traffic, and found Rick again. We swooped down the descent on Deception Road together, and I passed another tandem on Satterlee Road. I saved Sylvia (new?) from a wrong turn (though she would have dead-ended pretty soon had she kept going), near Thompson Road. She wanted to wait up for her buddies, and I kept on. On the descent to the Farm to Market turn, the tandem went by. Instead of making the turn, we all pulled into the gas station together.

This wasn't a control, but should have been. It was fairly far to the next control with almost nothing in between until Bellingham, so it was a good stop. Several randonneurs and randonneuses had the same idea, but after food and water and more clothing adjustments, I set off again. Thai on fixed-gear, caught me near the Museum on Bayview-Edison Road, and disappeared. I found out that the nature foods store at the corner of Bowhill Road and SR 11 had closed. They had some good stuff and I have stopped there at least a couple of times.

I stunk pretty much all the way through Chuckanut drive, but since I didn't see anybody for a while, assumed that I was the last. Chuckanut was beautiful as always, and traffic was moderate. I made it through the core of Bellingham without getting lost (though I almost missed a left turn). Crossing I-5 was, well, fun.

Bellingham to Deming

I found a cheery Dan Turner manning the control with an assortment of goodies. He warned me that Deming was a better place to get food, and signed my card. The store had the most dour-faced convenience store clerk in the world (he even trumps the one I met in 2007 in Mount Vernon). He didn't want anything to do with me, except money of course. Dan gave me a brief run down of the next few miles, and renewing my promises to ride his 300k, I took off.

This stretch was extremely pretty, as I was able to see the snow covered peaks in close proximity, and the wind seemed like it would be favourable the moment we turned south. The fluttering flags were a great comfort. I was sad to leave Highway 542, but we shall see more of it, and at a slower pace to boot, courtesy of Dan (he promises a climb up to Artist's point). The moment I turned onto Highway 9, I felt the tailwind. I met Peg at the control together, eating an Ice Cream, and I resolved to get some for myself.

Deming to Arlington

Wanting to get off Highway 9 before dark, Peg and I left the control together, and rode in a pace line for a while, but the conversation was too good to ride like zombies. So, we pulled next to each other, started yakking it up, and the next few miles just blew by. Peg has an excellent sense of humour, and we tease each other almost constantly on one thing or the other, but all in good fun. For a while there we were doing good time, but eventually I tired and Peg slowly pulled away. She wasn't very far away, and I could still see her. We regrouped near Sedro-Woolley, where she ate something and I made a phone call to the Home Department. When she stopped to put on her night-gear, I caught up to her yet again, and were joined by a smiling Jim Jensen, who apparently rode 20+ bonus miles, having missed the SR-9 turn. Jim usually rides a tandem and was clearly missing his navigator, Ann. Instead of being 2 hours ahead of us, he was near the back of the pack.

We all dressed up, and figuring the temperatures would drop, I wore my skullcap, and was really warm for the next few miles. We stayed mostly together till Arlington, but I think Jim and Peg got there a few minutes before me. The Tandem (the Sneed's), and two other women also pulled in shortly after. Another rando reunion at the Arlington Haggen's.

Arlington to the Finish

I spent about 25 minutes here, and I don't know why. A combination of poor planning and general tiredness. I need to get back to my in-and-out-of-controls-quickly mindset again. However, sometimes you need to rest a while to recuperate, and I took off first, knowing that Jim and Peg would catch up to me. I almost missed the turn onto the Centennial Trail, but made a U-turn and got on where I was joined by the two.

The gentle uphill grade of the trail gets me each time. I soon dropped off the back, and while I could stay near them, the gap wouldn't close . The downhill bits on the trail had me catching up to them though, and we rode through Machias to the information control. Ron, with the thoughtfulness of a very experienced randonneur, had included the Info Control question on the route sheet, so there was no need to whip out the card. I made a mental note of the answer, and set off again. We rode together tight and fast on Lowell-Snohomish road, but my riding companions pulled away near the climb.

The climb: Luckily for me there were no witnesses. The two red-blinkies were gone by the time I got to the left turn on 41st avenue. I spent some time there recuperating from the climb, but it wasn't over yet. I knew I would finish, and typically near the end of rides, I lose all motivation to get there as fast as I can: the road curved left and then right, and with that the steep climbing would be over. Mukilteo Boulevard is a never-ending series of rollers, but the last few hundred yards are all downhill.

Ron Himschoot and Mark Roberts were at the finish with pizza, and Peg was just about to hit the showers. I ate the last two slices of veggie pizza (colossal mistake), and the Sneed's, Sylvia and another woman whose name I didn't catch, all finished. Sylvia wanted veggie pizza, and there was none left. Very sorry about that, Sylvia. I showered, and after a bit of a nap, got a ride home from Mark Roberts. What a fun way to celebrate SIR's 15'th year!

ORR Birkie 200: A thorough soaking

2009-03-28T17:43:00.000-07:00

Prologue

Happy birthday to my dear Father-in-law.

What is the definition of a rainy ride? According to David Huelsbeck, it is any ride where one needs to stop and wring the water out of ones socks. By that definition, the 2009 Birkie wasn't a rainy ride. But by most peoples' definition, this one was a soaker.

Having missed the Chili Feed 200k for the first time in 3 years, the Birkenfield 200k in Oregon beckoned. After months of Permanents, it felt great to start with a new group of people, renew old acquaintances, and ogle new bikes. Despite the weather forecast calling for some rain, there were more than a few of us. This is a brevet of great vibes for me as my brevet personal record was set here in 2007. Of course, I had a whole lot more miles in my legs then than I do now. Today, completion was the goal.

I had two layers on top: a synthetic inner layer and a wool jersey on top, topped off by my Showers Pass jacket. I wore Pearl Izumi shorts and Ibex Leg warmers, with my prized Chili socks, with booties on top. I neglected to wear my rain pants and my helmet cover, and would pay dearly for this.

Start to Vernonia

There was a slight drizzle, but the dark skies tempered any enthusiasm. After a few words, the group took off, and the lights of Forest Grove even at that early hour, broke up the pack quite quickly. And of course, my pace didn't help matters either. I was by myself before long, and tooling along, when Joe Platzner came riding by, and we chatted for a few minutes before his natural pace took him gently away from me. Gales Creek Road meandering along the eponymous creek has some nice vistas of the mountains, and the rain made the greens pop out.

The climb up to Timber was much easier last time around. It was raining heavily by the time I reached the clear cut top, and plunged down the other side. We wouldn't climb for a while. My gloves were soaked through, but I was warm everyplace else. I should have found an awning and stopped to put the last remaining stuff on, but I was too dumb. The Vernonia control is always well-stocked: in 2007 it saved me from the cold. I kept turning the pedals thinking of the well-stocked Vernonia control. Hot Coffee or hot Chocolate was sure to be served, along with muffins, nuts, donuts and cookies. Just as I was entering the control I saw Cecil leaving on her beautiful Sweet Pea. She looked cheery despite the conditions. She almost always is. We shouted out our hello's and she went on by.

Vernonia to Birkenfeld

The control didn't disappoint. There was a huge group still there, and Peg was there as usual to give me grief. I had Del retrieve and sign my card: I was too far wet to consider touching my card. I had two cups of excellent (french press) coffee, by far the best I have had at a control. I stuffed my face with Cookies and nuts, and spent about 10-15 minutes at this control, just recovering in general. Paul Johnson was also there, and we caught up some. I took off, but not before I heard Peg share "too much information". :)

It was still raining, and as I took off for the info control, I didn't even realize that I had forgotten to put on my rain pants and my helmet cover. I pulled over at the school and saw Paul Johnson go on by as I covered the last of my exposed areas. My face was the only area left uncovered. I would have made the Taliban proud!

I pulled up next to Paul, and we shared memories of wonderful rides (that dry and hot 1000k in 2006), to make us forget the current drudgery. Ron Himschoot, that fount of wisdom, calls randonneurs "too dumb to quit". Having signed up for this ride despite knowing the weather forecast, I could find very little to change his opinion. Peg, Lesli and Sara were pulled over fixing a flat, and I just assumed that they were heading back to Stoney Point Road: they hadn't yet.

Everybody stopped at the info control, but I knew the question, and the answer, and just made a U-turn and headed back. Stoney Point Road climbs gently, and offers more of a chance to admire the scenery. I half-expected Paul to catch up to me again, but somehow that didn't happen. It was raining in earnest now, and I stopped every 5 miles or so to wring out the water from my gloves. I would squeeze my fingers together in a fist and more water would come out.

I have always cruised on this stretch: I do not know why. We had a monster headwind in 2007, but I still made good time. This time, it felt like there was a tailwind, and I cruised by. I should have noticed that the water was flowing in my direction. I was headed generally downhill. Quite a few riders were headed back to Vernonia, and I calculated - correctly - that most of them were hours ahead of me. I passed a pensive Bill Alsup, and reached the Birkenfeld control. There was a small group there trying to warm up, and stay next to the heater.

Birkenfeld to Vernonia

I bought some food and huddled up, and warmed myself. I ordered the biggest Hot Chocolate they sold, and drank it down. It was pretty demoralizing to have to go out in the rain again, but I took off again after about 15 minutes, warmed up considerably. The ride back to Vernonia was mostly a very gentle uphill, but the winds were generally co-operative. I made it to the Coffee shop with grand plans of another excellent Hot Chocolate.

Vernonia to Glenwood

I have long wondered why some coffee shop workers have lousy reputations. They supposedly ignore people and do not have the right attitude. I had never been exposed to this kind of behaviour before, but I guess there is always a first time. I am being generous when I say I got my "Hot Chocolate": it was neither. I ate my cookie, told Peg (and Lesli and Sara) about the general standard of the refreshments, and took off, confident that they would catch me before the Timber climb.

Rain, rain and more rain later, I climbed the Timber incline. My rear-view mirror showed three hard-charging randonneuses, who I tried to beat out for "person of the mountain" points, but Peg cheated and beat me (she stood on the pedals) :) I am the heaviest of the lot but somehow they bombed ahead of me, leaving me quite shocked. I finally caught up with John, who has a very interesting name, and pulled into the Glenwood control.

Glenwood to Finish

There were quite a few bikes at this control, and we made quick work of this control. None of us argued when the clerk commented that she hadn't seen rain like this for a very long time. John and I left together, but not before the trio of Lesli, Peg and Sara. Just before the tavern on Gales Greek Road, they pulled into the covered area, and I thought they were pulling over for clothing adjustments. It turns out that they had another flat. We were rewarded by a nice tailwind. This has always been a great benefit of this ride. A nice 10 mile jaunt to the finish, but I somehow got separated from John.

About 3 miles from the finish, a stranger made his (?) appearance: the Sun. We had about 15 minutes of dry weather on this ride. John and I pulled in together to the control, where our cards were signed by a smiling Sam Huffman. We were done! I chatted with Susan and Sam for a little while, and then took off for Beaverton.

I am wondering if I can get David to change the definition of a rainy ride to gloves and/or socks!?

Work is a four-letter word...

2009-03-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

February

Work pressures have dominated my riding, and I have been able to duck out just enough to continue my R-12 going. I met up with John Vincent and Peg and rode Leschi-Auburn-Leschi on February 21st. It was a fun-day and we stuck mostly together. Traffic was light, and my right leg didn't complain much, except that little stretch past Auburn. Peg has an amazing sense of humour, and teased me all day. Our back-and-forth kept John entertained, I bet. I don't remember how long we took, but it certainly was a great day to ride our bikes, even it was a tad cold.

March

I pre-rode the 100k, and rode most of the day with Ralph and Carol Nussbaum. Walked up that brutal hill again, but didn't walk up any of the other ones. We had some snow, sleet, hail, rain, and icy rain for parts of the ride, but never to give one much trouble. Near the finish, on Lake Washington Blvd, the tandem turned on the jets, and I got dropped for good.

I think I finished in 6 hours and change, and right after I finished we had sustained pea-sized hail for about 20 minutes, and I was glad to be sitting in the comfort of the pub, sipping on a nice beer and eating nachos instead of slogging through it.

I was supposed to volunteer at the Golden Gardens control, but the ride got postponed, and since my nephews were coming over the next week, I couldn't make the new date. One of my spring traditions has been broken (volunteering at the Spring 100k).

Last Chance 200.

2009-02-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

Prologue

I am the past-master of postponing things until the last moment. I have pulled off several last day of the month rides to extend my R-12. There is a certain pleasure - maybe it is relief - at continuing your streak under dire circumstances. After successfully hurting my left knee and some tendons/ligaments/whatever on the outside of the right knee and not very sure about completing a 200k, I joined Albert Meerscheidt and rode the Snoqualmie Valley and Falls permanent. Again. This time, for January.

Ride.
- Met Don Boothby near Snohomish.
- Broken Chain just after we said bye-bye to Don. Albert fixed it in a matter of minutes, and we were off. This is the second time in January that Albert has saved my ride.
- A huge group of people caught us on Highway 9 (they had left an hour behind us), and we rode together to the control in Lake Stevens.
- Chatting with Albert was great. He kept my mind off of my leg.
- Uneventful ride to Sultan, and a nice heavy Sandwich.
- Ben Howard wasn't bad. I started slowing down with some pain near West Snoqualmie Road, and realizing that my knee was opening up more, I closed it (keeping it in line with the red tape on my handlebar).
- 20 miles later, pain gone. I limped into North Bend.
- We dorked up, and left North Bend to light tailwinds. The descent down the mountain was awesome.
- Saw a nasty accident near Tolt Hill Road. 4 cars, not good. Walked around, and had no cars for a few miles, save for those who were making U-turns on 202.

Finished in around 12 hours and change.

R-12 streak extended!