Ronde PDX, round two

Last Saturday I took my second Tour of West Portlandia by bicycle, riding all uphill (at least it seemed that way) for over five hours to finally gain the summit of Council Crest in a spring downpour.

Inspired by Belgium's Tour of Flanders, or Ronde van Vlaanderen, this unofficial, un-permitted, free ride is not sponsored, hosted, or condoned by anyone. The route is marked only by subtle yellow lions painted on the streets. I talked to one guy who said this is his third year riding the non-event, but he's never finished because he always loses the route. He told me this just moments before I watched him ride straight past a hard left turn. I yelled after him, but he didn't hear me. Maybe he'll finish properly next year.

Two climbs reach 22% grade or thereabouts and are only rideable by those with very small gears and/or very large thighs and lungs. The common technique is to insert switchbacks to shallow the grade, stopping to rest in a blessedly level driveway which is then used as a launch pad for the next attack. A third of the way up Brynwood, a climb I've never ridden in entirety, I looked back as I gasped and heaved over my handlebars to see if there was anyone behind me. Some were employing the switchback technique, a couple guys were pushing their bikes, and one was sitting in the middle of the road, legs out in front of him.

The only aid on the 50-mile course was a strategically placed beer stop manned by volunteers from The Pixie Project. They wisely suspected that desperate and delirious cyclists would be willing to pitch in a few bucks for their dog adoption mission in return for PB&J triangles and generous droughts of a tasty local brew. A few stayed too long and were later seen weaving precariously down steep hills toward the river.

The last few miles were a big tease. The marked route wanders temptingly close to Council Crest, it's radio towers rising just overhead, then dips wildly down toward the river only to lurch upward again. It continues this cycle several more times than you feel is necessary before finally pointing up a steep, narrow switchback of a road toward the summit.

The finish is anticlimactic. Once you arrive at Portland's highest point, you have to get yourself back to your car, house, or wherever it is that you came from. Riders hang out for short periods of time to cheer on the latest arrivals, but cold sets in and they're forced to move along for survival's sake. I started out with a few friends who dispersed along the way. Hans was just faster, Steve and Gary opted for alternate routes to avoid the gravel road climb to Skyline. I saw familiar faces and had company for most of the ride, including Alex, a friend of a friend who I met at said friend's party the night before. At the end, I tagged along with a few guys in Filth and Fury kits for moral support.

All in all, a Portland cycling classic that weeds out the weak and gauges your pre-summer fitness.

Flag Point Lookout

Can't believe I never posted this! A highlight of our winter--

Six months ago, I got lucky enough to find two consecutive nights' availability at Flag Point Lookout. A 14x14-foot cab perched atop a 60-foot tower, the lookout is staffed in the summer, but available to the public the rest of the year. Reservations are tough to come by--a maximum of six months in advance, and weekend dates are snatched up the moment they appear on the website.

My friend Gary, who led Patrick and I around Crater Lake three years ago, raves about the lookout and the challenging 11-mile ski in. I, of course, am immediately interested in anything that sounds physically challenging. I was also looking to get Scott and I out of town for a quiet weekend.

The morning we departed, I got home from work well after midnight. Luckily, I had packed before I left for work, but we still had some last-minute tasks to finish up before starting the three-hour drive to the trail head. The light snow year meant we could drive further up the road, leaving only about six miles to ski. Lucky for us, because it was snowing hard on the way in and fresh powder made for slow going. The first couple miles went by quickly, but the gradual climb steepened and the untracked powder got deeper.

My thighs burned from breaking trail and I could feel the weight of Scott's misery lagging behind me as he threatened to jettison the bottle of wine I planned for dinner. We were overjoyed when the tower finally came into view and even more relieved when the combination lock on the access gate opened easily.

We hauled our packs up with the pulley system and discovered a fully stock rack of wood and a pot full of boiled water on the stove. We settled in for a relaxing weekend, enjoying the snowscape even though the distant views were obscured by low, heavy clouds and steady snowfall.

The cabin decor is "comfortable spartan," consisting of the most uncomfortable bed ever, a table with one broken leg, two chairs, a podium bolted to the floor in the center and equipped with a circular laminated map of the area, wood stove, gas stove, sink (no running water) and storage cabinet.

There are plenty of places to explore by ski in the area of Flag Point, but we opted for a day of rest, reading and cards. We made necessary outings to the pit toilet, the woodshed, and for trash bags full of snow to melt for drinking and cooking water.

Despite heading downhill, the journey out was just as difficult as the trip in. Snow continued to fall, but was warming at the same time, turning into the phenomenon I refer to as Portland cement. Heavy, wet, and still accumulating, the stuff impeded our progress mightily. When we finally reached the car, it was surrounded by several inches of snow (we parked on dry pavement).

The Subi navigated the few miles of snowy road like a champ and we got back to Portland in time to savor a burger and a Porter at Alameda, our local brewhouse.

Fences for Fido

Fences for Fido is a Portland-based non-profit endeavoring to free dogs from chains, one by one. We volunteered at a recent fence building project.

A Frosty Winter Run

A rare weather system has brought the Pacific Northwest relief from the typical low, grey skies, drizzly rain, and perpetual sogginess, instead revealing blue skies, snow-covered volcanic peaks, and foggy puffs of breath in lung-searing cold air. Most Portlanders root for a comeback of "50 degrees and rain," but I, for one, enjoy the taste of real winter minus the snow.

I packed smartly for my trip this week, anticipating a need for running tights, gloves and hat. So yesterday I decided to take advantage of the no-wind conditions in Pasco, Washington for an extended running adventure. I waited until the sun was high in the sky (or at least as high as it was likely to get; this time of year, it slinks low across the southern sky in the narrow space between sunrise and sunset), warming the air to low twenties rather than the teens. All skin covered except my face, I donned my iPod and trotted down the busy street toward the Columbia River.

Washington's Tri-Cities don't seem to offer much in the form of recreation, but a well-constructed path along both shores of the mighty Columbia make it a decent place to run when the wind isn't howling. On this day, I opted to break out of my usual counter-clockwise routine and run the 8-mile "Bridge Loop" in reverse. Just before joining the path, I passed a flock of geese taking refuge in an empty (brown) grassy lot. Where the path runs adjacent to a park, I looked up to see a bald eagle sunning himself in a bare tree top, non-plussed by the cold. He calmly surveyed his surroundings, noting me with mild interest when I stopped to admire him.

Laboring up the incline of the cable bridge, I distracted myself from the noise of close traffic by admiring the calm water of the river. Ducks floated in the sun and ice formed in the shadows.

Despite the serene beauty, I had the trail all to myself as I shuffled alongside dilapidated barns from antique farms enveloped by modern trailer parks and gas stations. I was brought back to reality by the noise of traffic as I crossed the blue bridge, then escaped again to weave through quiet neighborhoods back to the hotel. A perfect day for a run.

Halloween Cross Crusade

“Get a costume!” You gotta be faster than that if you're not wearing a costume!” were some of the heckling calls from the frenzied area near the barriers on the upper end of the course. A rowdy crowd had gathered on the bandstand and along the course opposite, cowbells jangling and beer flowing freely. Supportive cheers favored those in costume for the day-after-Halloween race (Sunday is always the costume day in Astoria—always, even though Halloween actually fell on Saturday this year.

I arrived Saturday morning in the middle of the Men's Master C race to a field oddly quiet for a cyclocross race. Now and then a racer would come by and occasionally a cheer or weak cowbell sounded. A hard rain the night before turned the course to chocolate pudding that was beginning to solidify between rain showers.

The Astoria double header is a Halloween tradition for the Cross Crusade crowd. Teams rent houses in the coastal town, racers and their families fill hotel rooms, and the hardiest camp on the race course at the Clatsop County Fairgrounds. Sunday's costume race draws the biggest crowd, with racers arriving throughout the day Saturday for the evening's festivities.

As I made my way toward the start line for the women's race, I considered which layers to remove and which to leave on for the race. The sun was beginning to peek through the clouds, warming and drying the field. About a minute later, the bottom fell out of the sky and a torrential downpour turned the course back into a slippery, sloppy mess. Women racers huddled under the arena waiting for the rain to slack off before lining up for the start. Just as suddenly as it began, the rain stopped and the starter began call-ups for those with points to start at the front.

Despite my front-line starting position, when the whistle blew I felt the crowd swallow me as I fumbled to lock my cleat into my pedal. Solidly mid- to rear-pack heading down the steep hill after the start, I tried to find a balance between riding a fast, clean line and avoiding the pileups of crashing riders ahead of me. After making a turn through the flat field at the bottom, the course headed back up the hill. Normally a ridable grade, the mud forced a dismount near the top and my legs, strong while riding the bike, turned to concrete blocks when I tried to run the hill. And my terrible remount technique did me no favors in the short, slippery area at the top.

The course now threaded its way through and around several empty horse barns, then up another hill with a slick crux in the middle. I could clean the hill if I got a running start and could head straight up the center. Unfortunately, nearly every lap presented an obstacle—bikes entangled in the mud or racers spinning out and walking. Then the four-pack of barriers, then another set of tight turns that included a steep, off-camber hill than invariably involved running. I deemed this course the most challenging to date with more time off my bike than ever before.

By the third lap, I had worked my way back toward the front of the pack and was riding with people I normally finished near. With he-man strength, I hefted my cement legs up the hill toward the horse barn and attempted to remount. As I swung my leg over the saddle, my bike, with a mind all its own, swerved abruptly into the wide green barn door. Later, my teammate Abra said she was laughing so hard she couldn't get back on her bike. “I watched you do the worst remount ever and then crash into the barn door,” she said. “I was laughing so hard and thinking 'how does she DO that?'” referring to my strong finishes despite bad technique. I finished in fourth place, my best finish yet.

Sunday morning's fog yielded to a blue-sky day with no wind for the costume race. Favorites included a sloth, a pregnant nun, a robot, and a bike-bull chasing a herd of matadors. Team Sorella Forte raced as synchronized swimmers and performed graceful maneuvers during the race. My two female teammates and I wore red Baywatch swimsuits and carried rescue boards on our backs. One of our male teammates wore swim trunks and wrote “Don't hassle the Hoff” on his back; he ran next to us alongside the course at various points.

By Sunday afternoon, the party at the “heckle pit” by the barriers was in full swing. The sun was warm and the reversed and modified course included human barriers.

Weekend crashes included going down hard as I made the turn into the arena, poised to make an inside pass when my bike slid out from under me, and a dive into the mud during one of the hard turns between the horse barns.

Four o'clock saw the last of the pro racers finish and bike-topped cars streaming toward Portland and another week of reality.

Cross Crusade #1

As I drove through downtown on my way to the Alpenrose Dairy Velodrome, I saw the throngs of runners 15 minutes into the Portland Marathon cruising along Front Street, a backdrop for the glassy Willamette River in the almost dawn light. Seven years ago when I lined up for my 10th marathon and second Portland, I had never heard of cyclocross. Now I felt only a mild twinge of envy, looking forward to a day of cowbells, pommes frites, and Bob's Red Mill oatmeal.

I pulled up behind my teammate Jeff's blue Sprinter van as I exited the freeway. Perfect timing! My race wasn't until 2pm, but I volunteered to arrive early and help set up the team tent on the front lines of the course. The dairy grounds were cool and quiet in a light fog with few signs of the chaos and insanity that would ensue.

It only took a few minutes to pop the awning on the Sprinter and erect the Showers Pass tent next to it, but early arrival is essential to enjoying the front-row view of the course. I also got through the registration line quickly and rode the course before it closed for a full day of racing with a record turnout of almost 1,500 riders turning three to six laps each of the 2.1-mile course featuring two sets of barriers, a flight of concrete stairs, and a steep hill run-up.

The Beginner Men kicked off the day at 9am. I settled in for a day of cheering, heckling and cowbell ringing. I warmed up on the trainer while I watched my friends Peter, Neal and Russ in the single-speed race. Then I went to line up for my race, fighting some pre-race jitters despite telling myself it was just for fun and it didn't matter how I finished.

When the start whistle sounded, I found myself in the middle of a situation I planned to always avoid--dozens of fast-moving cyclists rounding corners on pavement at high speed. This is why I don't road race! I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and settled into the pack as we made the third turn onto the grass, dirt and gravel course. I was farther back than I wanted to be and worried about getting boxed in, but also wanted to slow my heart rate and not feel panicked.

A long, bumpy downhill, then a sharp right turn uphill to a sharp left turn. My friend Jake (the pommes frites vendor) had warned me earlier to gear down before the climb to ride past everyone who got stuck in high gear and had to walk the hill. I remembered and clicked down several gears on the descent, then cut to the inside of the turn, riding past several riders who sling-shotted to the outside. I stood up on the climb and made another pass on the second turn before getting boxed in on the singletrack through the trees. After a couple tight turns, the course widened for a downhill straight-away then made a quick u-turn before climbing the straight-away--some good passing opportunities.

A couple more corners, flat straight-aways, then a bumpy, twisting descent to the bottom of the run-up. I got up the run-up well, but did not remount smoothly, losing some of my gained ground before entering the velodrome for some loop-de-loops and barrier hopping. The course climbs as it exits the velodrome, catering to my strengths and presenting additional passing opportunities. I stood the climb and scooted past several more riders. Some more tight turns, the second set of barriers, then a paved flat to gear up and hammer. Then a 180 to the stairs. One lap down!

Much to my surprise, I continued to feel strong and moved up every lap, finally finishing in 15th place out of over 50 in the Women's Category B race. The entire last lap, I went back and forth with a girl in a blue jersey that I just couldn't seem to lose. I would pass her on a straight-away but lose ground to her on the barriers or stairs. I passed her just before the run-up, but she overtook me at the top and I just couldn't catch her again. We talked afterward--her name is Kelly and she's a student at U. of O. She's new to the area and doesn't really know anyone; it was her first 'cross race (and my second) and she had a blast. It was a fun rivalry.

The pro race is the last event of the day and truly amazing to watch. Ryan Trebon gets his 6'7" frame up the steep hill in about two strides. He doesn't even have to hop the barriers. The fluid technique and superhuman speed is something to behold.

Next Sunday, 1,500 racers will be back for more, this time at Ranier High School a few miles down the Columbia River.

40th Birthday Hike in Glacier Peak Wilderness.

That's right--I'm 40! How the F--- did that happen? And no, we didn't go to Glacier National Park--that's in Montana. Glacier Peak is one of the tallest mountains in Washington's North Cascade range and has a wilderness area named after it.

As always, my objective is to get up high--above timberline where there there's lots of granite, wildflowers and glacial lakes. To that end, I planned the first day to be long and hard, to get to the destination, so we could leisure it and enjoy the scenery for a few days. Loaded for five days, we set out up the North Fork of the Sauk River, pretty mellow at first. But two miles in, we crossed the river and started up Pilot Ridge.

The trail ascends unapologetically, gaining elevation at an astounding rate. Water sources are few and small this late in the season, so we filled up where we could and rationed well. We were tempted by a sparse campsite on the low end of the ridgetop, but the long hike to water kept us pressing on. Sweating and heaving, we only took a couple breaks on the 11.7-mile trudge, punishing ourselves for our late start. I did start to lag behind as we proceeded up the ridgeline as I found the mother lode of huckleberry harvests and couldn't resist the temptation to snack.

At about the point where we decided to rename the trip my "40th Birthday Death March," Scott said, "You know, Sherman, a lot of women just want dinner and a movie for their birthday." He even said he would have flown me to Maine for dinner at Conti's, this place that we sampled once and have fantasized about ever since. We laughed, but I knew the reward would be worth it.

We trudged into Blue Lake just moments before dark, dropping packs to scramble in different directions and quickly identify the best campsite. Then I set up the tent and our beds while Scott fired up the stove for drinks and dinner. We were well fortified on our hike with giant deli sandwiches we purchased on the way to the trailhead, so opted for the lightest dinner choice--curried couscous with raisins. Hot cocoa with Bullet Bourbon served us well as both apperatif and dessert. We watched the fog roll up the valley, settle into the cirque of Blue Lake, recede, then creep back in.

We slept until 8 a.m. when we heard a hiker calling to his partner that he was off the trail again. We had let Tucker out of the tent an hour or so before and worried that he was bothering people. Alas, he was just scouting the area for squirrels and eagerly came running for breakfast. Happy birthday to me! I opened most of my gifts at home, but Scott had brought one on the trip for me--a new Patagonia top that came in handy in the warm, sunny morning. We loitered around camp, marveling over the lake which we barely saw the night before. We even jumped in briefly (very briefly). By the time we had breakfast and packed up camp, it was 1 p.m. again, a now familiar start time for us.

Although the day would generally be an easy one, the start was a bear--a 1,000 climb out of the cirque on a steep, rocky trail, followed by a hairy descent on a narrow, loose, scree-covered and exposed slope. The view from the saddle was amazing, though! We all enjoyed a rest there, had a snack and snapped some pictures.

Once down the slope and back on the main trail, the hiking got easier and the scenery was just as rewarding as I had hoped. We hiked through the four-way junction of Dishpan Gap, then northward on the Pacific Crest Trail along Sauk Pass. You could see high peaks in every direction, for as far as you could see. It truly felt like we were far from anything. One of the most genuine wilderness experiences I've ever had.

We took advantage of an obscure stream for water and shortly after an irresistible meadow for lunch. Pondering the map, I surmised that we had traveled three miles in three hours! Time to get a move on.

The views and easy hiking continued for another mile and a half, then we dropped into and across a high valley, climbing back out of it toward our intended camp at Reflection Pond. Mostly in the trees until the junction right before the pond. Here we saw the first people we had seen all day--two climbers headed down from Glacier Peak and a Forest Service ranger completing her weekend patrol. It was nice to be out on Sunday night when all the weekend warriors are safely home.

Reflection Pond sits in a saddle between the Sauk and White River valleys with exceptional views in both directions. The sunset behind Sloan Peak was riveting! The stars were bright and clear. For the second night in a row, we watched the fog roll up the valley, climbing up the headwall into our saddle. It receded again, and again settled in for the night.

We had at least an hour to spare before dark this time, but still split up camp duties. Dinner was pasta with homemade pesto and sundried tomatoes--which I could not find and though I had left at home. So just pasta and pesto. And cocoa or hot tea with more bourbon as we toasted 40 years.

Reflection Pond sounds quite romantic and sits in a scenic locale, but in fact is a stagnant breeding ground for mosquitoes and offers little privacy from the trail. So instead of a total layover day, we agreed to move camp two miles to White Pass, the originating point of the day hike I had planned. Despite the best intentions of rising early, it was after 8 by the time we started hiking. Tucker nearly revolted--he whimpered a little when I lifted his pack from the ground, but relented and saddled up. But the two miles went by quickly, with well maintained, level trail. We saw several marmots--big hoary marmots, not the smaller yellow-bellied ones I know from Yellowstone.

Just before White Pass, we met a couple from Michigan who had just vacated camp there. They were doing our loop in reverse--apparently rangers discouraged people from going the way we went due to the lack of water on the climb. In the end, we preferred our direction since it gave us a short, easy day at the end when we had to drive home.

With camp newly established in the basin below White Pass, we set out on an afternoon dayhike to Red Pass. The round trip was less than five miles and reaped so much more than that in scenery! From Red Pass, you have a clear view of Glacier Peak and Disappointment Peak, the White Chuck glacier, and a spectacular glacier-carved valley that invited wandering in for days! Originally, I had wanted to scramble along the ridge crest to several rocky peaks along the way, but we were tired (I'm 40 for crying out loud!) and Tucker seemed a tad overheated. It wasn't a hot day--maybe mid-70s--but with little shelter from the sun, the small but steady climb had taken its toll. We enjoyed the pass for an hour or so, then headed back to camp slowly, letting Tucker rest in the few shady spots along the way. He even laid down in a shallow stream--a sure sign he was hot since he hates water! In the warm afternoon, we voted to save fuel by having our bourbon with Tang--not a bad drink that my neighbor later informed actually has a name--a TicTac.

The next day, we would move four miles, dropping 3,000 feet back into the river valley to camp at Mackinaw Shelter, a rustic lean-to in the dense, virgin forest floor. Reluctant to descend out of my alpine paradise, I wanted to spend the morning in camp, relishing the place before hiking out mid-afternoon. The morning was blessedly overcast after the previous day's baking sun and we had our first rain of the trip. Clouds battled blue sky for several hours until an afternoon thunderstorm reminded us it was time to go.

The trail down was necessarily steep, but gentler than the climb up. We dropped off the ridge and into gradually deepening forest as the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. Close enough to scare Tucker, but far enough away to savor. Down in the woods, we stayed almost completely dry.

Mackinaw was our first campfire of the trip. The well placed fire ring an abundance of wood seemed to insist upon it. We were joined by Zach, a climber turned back from a solo attempt at Glacier Peak in the thunderstorm. We down miso soup and macaroni and cheese while he had freeze-dried mashed potatoes. And the last of the bourbon with hot tea.

Day five was an uneventful hike out (if you consider an encounter with rude horsemen and hiking through piles of horse shit uneventful)in the shade of the forest,crossing several small streams and descending gradually to the car. Tucker jumped with joy when we hefted our packs; he seemed completely recovered and eager to head out. When we arrived at the car, I imagined him spotting his cozy bed in the back and yelping "Praise L.L. Bean!" I think he thinks we went to live in the wilderness but ran out of food and had to come home.