Novelty Hill

The spell was strong, even our famous northwest weather seemed a little spellbound.
The bug was on the flourish. Word on the wire suggested various remedies, there was no one Panacea. After several second opinions the True Blue Friday band opted for the Hood Loop.
A few stragglers would go for Saturday. The Daimyo of this group had suggested an old fall favorite to Northbend. Unfortunately, due to logistical problems I found myself a lone Ronin at 0645 in Leschi

It was worth it.
Yet the mountain was calling from afar, Perhaps soon?

0720 with no other road warriors to be seen we took off. No trepidation here after a remarkable "training day" with Ye Merry Band of Brothers and Sisters.

By Kenmore the sun joined us, illuminating both new construction and old flying machines.







Flying down Novelty hill we arrived in the valley. Pre-informed by Geoff Swarts and others (thanx) we pre-planned our detour and did not have to swim across.

























At the QFC in Northbend be careful with that bike stand, I came out from that control to find the bike (admittedly heavy) tilted on the stand and my front rim dented and out of true.

Still magnificent sun at the Shell at Maple Valley, the last control before the finish.


















Crimson skies by the Renton airport.

Dark already by 1730


Thanks to Mark and Albert for the Moral Support

Skele- tons of fun

In search of my first R12 medal (Congratulations to our hardworking Permanent Chief, Narayan who just bagged one) I wondered what November would bring. Then I heard through the wire that Don Boothby was gathering a number of goblins for the Camano-Bellingham Witch Project.
It was a size able group of ghouls that showed at Elger bay on the first morning of November after a night of trick or treating . With broomsticks well tuned we took off with the first rays of the morning sun
Nothing like the blue shirt to bring out the little devil in me.


This is what happened to the bike of the dude who tried to drop us at Laconner


This is what happened to the dude.


We did not feel too bad since the big fish have to gobble the little ones, kinda like when the peloton gobbles the breakaway.


Caught the Stoker but the Joker was too fast


And Past and old haunt to get to Bellingham

After all said, the spell is on me.

Thanks to Don and his Stokers

Hatsumomo San

November morning sun, and the air was still

We rode together up Novelty hill

She's like an angel, but her wings

Are weaved together from carbon strings

She says her name is Hatsu-something

But I know she's from Wisconsin

She loves to play, she longs to please

And when she sings, its like a breeze

Sometimes I'm certain she reads my mind

But to her ways I'm deaf dumb and blind

Sometimes she squeaks as if she knows

The weight of rando and all his sorrows

We drag in for the final reciept

As I walk away from that hard leather seat

She leaves the glow of love behind

And memories imprinted on my mind

Thanks to Amy Pieper

About "Issaquahs Rain"

Perhaps it is pretty much passé (no pun intended) blogging now about "Issaquahs Rain". Perhaps most of us have at least in spirit moved on towards 2009. I learned from Tom Peters, who I found from Peter McKays blog about the folly of wishing time away especially at my age. So lets squeeze out more miles, fenderless runs with beer and pizza après ride, and of course memories from the fast escaping 2008.
Born of the June 7th and 8th, 2008, 600k organized by the Tilden brothers, Don Smith and Ray Mcfall, "Issaquahs Rain" is melancholy soliloquy on crossing the line. The point at which the Seattle RBA declares to me with the certainty of experience, "you are addicted Vincent". The point at which I realize that specialization is for insects, after all if we specialize we are merely learning more and more about less and less until we know everything about nothing. Conversely for an academy without walls the world is a classroom and my Brooks saddle a front row seat. The point at which things close to you begin to struggle with the unprecedented inattention to the "usual suspects". The point at which you have been hit with a missile hurled from the car of a "hater" or perhaps the moron behind the wheel turning the vehicle itself into the missile. At this point a bad day on the bike is better than a good day at work.

Who can forget that morning in Issaquah? The pre-ride anticipation, the fear of the unanticipated. Stories had been told about the reverse of this ride in 2002. Once I committed to the ride, research had suggested that a major challenge would be the various weather conditions to be experienced. I believe that it was Matt Mikul that once wrote "there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad gear" so I had hurriedly invested in a Gore soft shell to add to all the other warm gear despite the fact that the last time I was up Stevens pass three weeks earlier on the 400k I had seriously overheated. It follows that the next logistics issue was how to haul this gear. No time for major changes in bike setup I opted for a large bag in the back suspended from the saddle, light in motion would provide battery and lamp for illumination. I had spent a number of hours the day before putting all my gear together, but just before any big ride I always experience some anxiety that I have left out something. This being my biggest ride so far the anxiety was multiplied and I had no Idea how my setup would work. My biggest source of concern that morning however was the cold rain that was constantly dripping down and at some point actually pouring down in sheets. This concern would be soon forgotten as the pack left without as much as a nostalgic glance backwards, almost immediately breaking into smaller subunits and sometimes recombining with a randomness that brings to mind the math of fractals or qauntum theory as we worked our way through the Snoqualmie river valley. Climbing Stevens pass I found myself in the company of Bob Brudvik. Bob rode up to me and started a conversation in french, english would have been difficult at this point but he inspired me up that pass and I know he dropped it a notch so that I could stay with him, leaving me to wander how love and hate could co-exist so, or maybe not so perfectly. Before I knew it Stevens became even and we commenced the cold descent that warmed up and dried us up as we hit the Subway at Leavenworth. Heading up to Blewett pass, I believe it was Geoff Swarts that rode up and notified me that my brevet card had blown out of my Bento box in that stiff breeze of Eastern Washington. I lost Bob there but fortunately caught my card before it was blown away. I started pushing up Blewett alone now concerned about the rising heat. I was struggling a little bit and unknown to me the stuffed bag suspended from my seat was rubbing, Robert Higdon seemed to fly by me dropping encouraging words, I stopped tightened up my gig and kept ascending. About 1500 feet to climb I heard my name from behind and behold Thai Nguyen, Eric Anderson and James Mckee, I hastened to join them regaining some of my old form. Thai looking as peaceful as the Dalai Lama as he stroked his single speed, kept promising us the crest of the pass but it was still a while in coming. 300 feet from the crest I started struggling again and after another 100 feet it was clear, my back tire was flat. I assured the guys that I would be fine.

I rode essentially alone from that point and through a memorable wind storm to the over night at Naches; plenty of time for soliloquy.
Good morning to the coldest descent ever in my limited experience down White pass followed by a very gratifying (the fourth and last pass) climb up to Cayuse. Sharing that last continuous climb with Charlie White. After breakfast despite a poor appetite at Green water I drifted towards Issaquah until Beebe Ward picked me up near Redmond and we ran to the Finish at numbing speeds. Where we were fed and watered by a very gracious host.
I also particularly remember the Kramers video report on that ride;
"If I dont get some shelter
I think I'm gonna fade away"

So! read the poem again

On Peloton

"Peloton" was concieved during the RUSA 300k of spring 08. Eric Vigoren and Mark Thomas had organized this ride considering the fact that the earlier ACP 300k was plagued by inclement weather. The mini-peloton consisted of John D'Elia visiting from Connecticut, SIR's very own Mark Roehrig, Matt Mikul, Chistopher Gay and myself. Matt had set the quick pace as I recall early in the ride and having little faith in my own navigational abilities at that point was determined to stay with the pack. As I drafted in the slipstream earlier on that day, I had a flood of negative memories (basically digging in the dirt, to find the places I got hurt). but with the elevated levels of endorphins, that I find such a marvellous effect of endurance cycling, I was able to put a positive spin on my thoughts by acknowleging my own participation in the creation of that past pain.

A few days later at home musing over all this, I noticed that Alder outside my window in such a joyous dance in the wind. How does it get its own endorphins? And why must I run?

Well! probably because I have an Ego.

And now I am thinking that to have a Healthy Ego, if that is not an Oxymoron, is a balancing act.

If I am to take myself seriously at all, I must make good on most of my commitments, so I must avoid making commitments that I cannot keep. On the other hand I must not take myself so seriously that I have to win in every situation.

That strange insect at the very bottom of Pandora's Box is hope. To live is to hope and what can we hope for if we win it all. Perhaps that is why Lance and so many winners before him must continue to seek battle until they know loss.

I love and appreciate this new community and sport that I have found, it has given me so much freedom on the road to self discovery, even if it means going into a little debt.

Special thanks to Sam Huffman who kindly listened to it's recital as we climbed towards Washington Pass and John Kramer as we fought wind past St. Francis.

http://spokesong.blogspot.com/2008/09/peloton.html

Tribute to Volunteer

Perhaps some may recall a photo taken on May 11, 08 of a rider who threw himself on the ice atop Stevens pass during the SIR 3 passes 400k. I cannot locate that photo now, but the picture, actually the whole day is clearly embossed in my mind.

That ride brought into sharp focus quite a few things, however most deeply etched in my memory (worth more than gold), the selfless and often nameless Volunteer.

Where do I start?

The gentleman who inflated my deflated front tire atop Blewett pass during the SIR spring 08 400k while I cooled from the rising temperature on his supplies. I was so grateful I told him that if I was a French man I would kiss him. He politely recommended that I offer the kiss to the young lady nearby.

The one speed wonders that revived me with food and water at the secret control at Dubuque cutoff and then felt it their duty to inform me that I had already spent more than 15mins in the control.

"The man with the hammer" endurolytes at Maltby as the shadows of the day were growing longer. I was very surprised he knew my first name.

The other gentleman that took the co2 out of my back tire and pumped in 120 psi of air as I flatted again atop Blewett pass, this time on the SIR June o8 600k. He reassured me I was making good time while I refueled under the shade of his canopy.

"The voice" that called out "are you OK Vincent" from his truck as I temporarily dismounted to offer truce to the windgusts past Selah.

The crew at the secret control on the US12 that used their vehicles to create a windbreak and ladled out home-made chicken soup that got me to Rimrock in new form.

The early birds with the blankets and hot beverages at the bottom of a freezing descent from White pass.

The Inn-keepers at Rimrock, Pateros and Darrington that fed and bed me and got the bleary eyed rider out early enough.

The Ancien who loaned his Dear Bike so a rider could complete C1200. Who with his wife and others fed the whole group those 4 days.

My kind and jolly companion in the baggage truck who drove mile after mile while I sat and dreamed of riding the "Big One" someday.

The concerned face that got me back on my way at the Mickey Dee's at Granite Falls during the permanent from Mazama to Monroe.

The "Buff Guy" who sat patiently by his car with gas stove and noodle soup (I had a second helping) waiting for four apparitions to appear on two wheels at Marblemount.

The anesthesiologist that roamed interstate 36 by Last Chance with his truck full of "pain relief".

And on and on, where do I stop?

You are Safety Rock!

http://spokesong.blogspot.com/2008/09/volunteer.html

Notes on Cascades

On August 21, 2008 Dan Turner and Mark Thomas put on a 1000k mountain brevet, looping through 4 passes: Snoqualmie, old Blewet, Loup-Loup and Washington. Reasonable attempts were made to escape the "beaten path" using old Blewet and Denny creek road, giving a distinct flavor as compared to my previous 600k and 400k with SIR in 08. I am sure that Rick Blacker, Don Jameson and those who rode the simultaneuos 400k will remember Burbee hill.
I had misgivings about doing this ride on a carbon frame (seal-skinned), but that is all I have.
I cannot say that I missed the "Floaty quality" of titanium or the comfort the various alloys of steel because you cannot miss what you do not know, maybe some day.
There is no scientific basis here for the conversion of chipmunk-power to horsepower but chipmunks are good climbers, carry little weight and tolerate the heat rather well, so I really needed all their help. It turned out it was more like Chip n' Seal than Chip n' Dale leading the team.
For many reasons, too much to enumerate this ride was a personal Odyssey of sorts. My first season of riding with the Seattle Randonneurs, the earlier 400k had been an eye opener, exposing an Achilles Heel of rapid salt loss and muscle spasms if I push to sweating point and stay there. Naturally the following 600k was a source of significant trepidation, the ability to complete that ride suggested that with appropriate adjustments, even I could do the bigger rides, I would have to ride more with my head than depend on questionable athletic ability.
What next? I had bowed out of the Cascade 1200/1000 graciously put on by Mark Roehrig, Don Boothby and Joe Llona but had learned a lot especially from the Olsen brothers by placing myself among the riders and volunteers as a bag boy. To complicate things I had major salt loss and spasms riding the 4th and last stage of the C1200 as a permanent from Mazama to Monroe.
An Odyssey is defined by Webster as "a series of adventurous journeys usually marked by many changes in fortune. The greek word Odusseia from which the English word is derived simply means "the story of Odysseus" sometimes referred to as Ulysses.
Homers Odyssey does present us with an adventurous journey with changes in fortune for the Greek hero on his way home from Troy.
Being no Greek hero, despite some adventure and minor changes in fortune, it is more appropriate to reflect on that particular ramble under the title "Cascades".
I have however attempted to do it in the style of Homer, using hexameter and epitaphs.
The Cascades here are depicted in the image of Athena the Greek godess of war sometimes also referred to as Pallas. Not only are the Cascades beautiful, but are capable of great wrath and destruction as a visit to Windy or Johnston ridge will convince anyone.
Particular references are made to the unsightly and environmentally unfriendly practice of "clear cutting"; the "howling" descent from Loup-Loup pass into the Methow valley; the nagging left knee pain that forces the "jaded charoteer" to re-evaluate in Mazama and adjust his saddle a tad higher before slowly ascending to Washington pass in the heat, where the temperature suddenly drops and the head-winds whip up.
No matter how much he loves her, he must eventually leave her, and this he does, going on to climb the final hill to the home of Chris and Mark Thomas. Here the salty randonneur wannabe is, unlike in Homers Odyssey recieved with all the hospitality of a returning hero (or prodigal son).
The drinks were Nectar and the food Ambrosia. Thanks!

http://spokesong.blogspot.com/2008/09/cascades.html