soon?!?
Okay, so my last entry promised an update on the Lance Armstrong ride “soon.” Did I remember to mention that it was going to be “soon” in Dees time? Whole other temporal animal.
pre-ride twitters
July 30, 2006. 4 AM. The clothes are pinned with my corporate sponsor’s logo and hung by the door with care, Shiki’s rear tire tube is miraculously still holding air after having been hurriedly replaced twice last night (I swear, the whole damned wheel is cursed!), and my radio alarm is burbling happily to itself. I tug on the bike clothes and nibble on whatever my nervous stomach will let me swallow. Grab my pre-chilled water bottle full of Nasty Artifical Sports Drink™, clip into the pedals, and head to the trainyard two miles away to catch the one of the first few trains out of the garage.
I hop off at the Library train stop downtown to transfer to the yellow train (appropriate color for the occasion!) that will take me northward and Lanceward. My cell phone’s teeny weeny Web browser tells me that the train is here, but the rails are emphatically, insistently empty. Ya know, transit guys, that Web site is supposed to be based on GPS sensors attached to the trains, not on where we all wish the train was. That way, when all of your trains get detoured due to a malfunction on the day of a huge bicycle ride in Portland, you don’t leave some poor chump stranded at the Library train stop waiting through three cycles of lame “the train is here” time-wasters. ‘Sokay, I’m not bitter.
On a whim, I head east one stop and overhear the blue train’s driver saying that all the yellow trains are stranded on the east side of the river, and they’ve gotta bus us all over. Hmm. Bus capacity = 2 bikes. Current occupants of train = 5+ bikes. A bunch of strangers and I phone the Lance ride headquarters and tell ‘em that dozens of riders are likely to be at least a half hour late. Then my new Utahan friends follow me across the Steel Bridge’s dedicated bike path and to the first working Yellow Line stop. Twenty minutes later, we’re all crowded into our respective places behind the starting line just outside the Portland Meadows dog track. Yes, dog track. Cute, eh? I half expected to be chasing a mechanical rabbit for 70 miles.
start
Lance gave us all the standard “rah, rah, go get ‘em” encouragement, and then the organizers introduced Jimmy Fowkes. This kid bounced back from a brain tumor to do a 40-mile ride, ace his academic schoolyear, and raise $27,000 for the Lance Armstrong Foundation. We all tipped our helmets to Jimmy, and then got ready to ride.
The start was much smoother this year—no one had to cool their heels for two and a half hours in 50-degree pre-dawn chill. Instead, it was only about a 30-minute wait for me, with all the hot coffee I could pour into myself. Thanks, organizers!
We streamed onto the roadway along the Columbia River, with scenic Portland International Airport on our right. The cross-wind stirred a few drops of reality into everyone’s bubbling enthusiasm, and the bikers soon clumped into packs. I had trouble finding a cluster that wasn’t going too fast or too slow, but finally settled into place right next to the course marshals on their tandem (who happened to be fellow Team Bag Balm-ers Jason and co-worker Lynne-with-an-E).
In an eyeblink, we landed at the first rest stop. Food, water, pee, flee!
rollers
In Troutdale, we 70-milers (plus the 100-milers) turned southward and went through rolling hills south of the Sandy River. A couple of riders and I took turns pulling one another through the countryside, before a traffic signal finally separated us. I kept trading places with the course marshals, too: they’d zoom ahead on the downhills and flats, and I’d reel ‘em in on the uphills. Miles of this, and then lunch.
urp
Well, I say “lunch,” because it was midway through the ride. But it was only ten o’clock in the morning. Still, I took a longer break and ate more than usual, because it would be a long, solitary haul to the next rest stop. We had descended a steep grade to enter the state park, and I was hoping not to have to re-ascend it directly. I mean, we’d have to climb those feet again one way or another, but all things being equal, we’d all prefer the indirect route. Fortunately, the course organizers are not evil, so the course did indeed take us back up the gradual way.
No matter how long a ride is, I always have the most trouble about three-quarters of the way through it. That’s where the riders are spaced the farthest from one another, and it’s also where the food in your stomach turns into bricks.
To add insult to injury, Shiki refused to drop into her granny gear the one time in the ride when I needed it: a long and rude uphill. Plenty of carnage on that slope—people were dismounting left and right and walking the rest of the way. Once, when it felt like my body weight wasn’t enough to turn the cranks any more, I stopped to “eat” a shot of caffeinated goo and give my lungs thirty seconds of rest. But I didn’t have to push the bike. Not one step. I got back on and made it to the top without further interruption (and having made up several brand new cuss words).
From there, it was a few uneventful yet annoying miles to the penultimate rest stop. If I kept my heels down, my quads cramped. If I pointed my toes, my calves cramped. It wasn’t a matter of cramp avoidance, but rather one of cramp relocation.
All it took to put everything right, though, was a little more banana and NastyAde™. The trip to the final rest stop blipped right by like a DVD chapter.
they call the wind something, all right
We turned westward again at the Troutdale airport, and smack into a 15-mile-an-hour headwind. Thanks, Ma Nature. Appreciate it. Do ya want me to keep saving you from the Republicans, or doncha?
That last chunk of mileage was agonizing. The big landmarks came into view so quickly - the 205 Bridge, the Portland airport, the Interstate Bridge - but my wind-reduced speed meant that my legs would have to fight a long time to bring those landmarks into the foreground. “I can put up with anything for 15 miles.” “I can put up with anything for 10 miles.” Until there was no need to put up with anything any more, ‘cause the finish line was here!
As I crossed the finish line, a rousing holler gave away the location of my own personal cheering section. Thanks, Lynn and Av! (That’s Lynn-with-no-E: different from the course marshal who watched over us bikers.) They were volunteering at the Meadows to cheer in all us riders, but (ahem) they had my race number written proudly on their volunteer t-shirts.
one more thing…
I hugged my gals sweatily, parked Shiki alongside her fellow steeds, and clicked on over to the after-party. I filled my plate with carbs and protein, dumped it off at a table, and went to round up the audio crew. See, I’d pre-arranged a little something with the Lance ride staff, and I needed to check in.
This really nice dude with a wireless microphone was going around interviewing folks about their experiences at the ride. Whaddaya know, he just “happened” to pick me. So I gathered up the gals and we all had a little chat. Went something like this:
He: “So, which ride did you do?”
I: “The 70-mile.”
He: “What part do you remember the most?”
I: “That long, steep uphill right after lunch. That was really ‘nice.’”
He: “And who’s this with you?”
I: “My girlfriend Lynn and her daughter Avalon.”
He: “And how old is Avalon?”
Lynn: “She can tell you.”
Av: (grabs mic) “I’m five!”
We exchange small talk about their volunteering and my spiffy bike jersey, which has names of cancer patients written on it.
He: (to Av) “So, what do you think of this guy?”
Av: “I yike him. He’s my stepdad.”
I: “Which brings me to my next point. I’ve been carrying a little something in my patch kit for 70 miles.”
He: “What is it?”
I: “It’s a ring.” (removing ring from patch kit box) “We’ve always had a bit of a ‘bikey’ courtship, meeting on bridges and bike paths all over Portland. So this seems like the perfect venue to ask this question.” (on knee) “Lynn, will you marry me?”
Lynn: (to Av) “What do you think, kiddo?”
Av: “Yes.”
Lynn: “YES!”
The couple hundred bikers and runners in the food tent burst into happy applause, and we enjoyed the congratulations of lots of kind folks as we finished our feast. The wedding’s in March. See you there.