Breakfast With The Leneves: Humble Pie

Date: Sunday, April 29th, 2007
Leave: 8:00AM
Return: 1:15PM
Distance: 72.3 miles
Average speed: 18.2 mph

I left home at 8AM on Sunday to meet Lon and Sally at their house in Durham by 9AM, thinking that an hour would be plenty of time to get the 15 miles from my house to theirs -- which it was not. I forgot to account for the fact that the first 10 miles of the journey are pretty much all uphill -- most significantly up the short but painfully steep hill from John's Landing up to Barbur Blvd. I rolled into their driveway at precisely 9:00, having taken a wrong turn at the very end. Happy to be ontime (it looked dicey there for a bit), but having used more legs and energy getting there than I would have liked, I scarfed half a Clif Bar filled up my water bottles and procured a couple scoops of Cytomax in preparation for a brutual few hours of chasing the ever-fit Leneves around the rural roads southwest of Portland.

We set off into a blistering pace almost immediately; I was feeling OK, but not liking pushing so hard just to keep up in the first 10 miles of the ride. Riding with Lon is like chasing a crossbow bolt. He gets into his aero bars and just hammers -- Sally glides along effortlessly on his rear wheel, and they both talk and laugh and make conversation with me while I am trying to hide the fact that my lungs are dragging along behind me. Despite my weiner status, the ride was great, nice rural roads with very little traffic and the day just got nicer and nicer as we rocketed along. There was one sketchy part along I-5, but it was only for about a half a mile to get across the Willamette.

We made our way through the mostly flat, sometimes rolling hills of the farmland, out past Champoeg park where there was some organized ride happening, and eventually all the way out to St. Paul, where we turned around. I should remark again at how nice of a morning it was (it offset the impending lump in my stomach due to knowing there was a bunch of climbing yet to come). Coming back from St. Paul, we went north into Newberg and made our way over to Bell hill. There was a bunch on construction going on, so we had to literally climb through a ditch to get where we were going, and as soon as we got back on the bikes Lon's rear wheel went flat, so we took a little breather and bar'd up for the impending climb.

This is where the bonk started. I was already about 50 miles in, and quickly running out of gas due to the accelerated pace of the day. I would estimate that I was running at 85-90% the entire time (as opposed to 60-65% that I usually do), which was quickly draining my energy reserves. So we started up Bell hill, and both Sally and Lon pulled away almost immediately. My legs were burning and I had run out of water, so I was trying to climb in the ol' slow and steady fashion, but I knew a full on bonk was on its way. Lon, the fit bastard, would ride down to me to make sure I wasn't passed out in the ditch, and then ride back up like it wasn't a hill at all. As much as I appreciate the gesture, it added to the misery. At the top of Bell, he graciously kicked down some of his water and we proceeded on.

Before the ride took place, Lon kept talking about the climbs in plural, so I knew there was more to come, but there was a little piece inside of me that hoped that wasn't true. There was a nice descent off the top of Bell and then a STEEP little 14-18% climb out, and then another steep drop down to Hwy 99. We crossed Hwy 99 and I had managed to recover a little bit, but my heart sank when we pulled off at an exit labelled, "Parrett Mountain". Balls.

Parrett Mountain was long as shit and actually a beautiful climb that I really would have enjoyed had I not been already bonking for the last 30 minutes. Lon came down to cheer me on multiple times, and even brought Sally down with him as I approached the top. While I know both Sally and Lon have been cycling for decades, it still put in perspective how much farther I have to go with this whole being a cyclist thing. It also had me cursing my steel frame, fat tires and fenders on my beloved Surly, since they both ride Titanium-framed Serottas.

The descent from the summit of Parrett Mountain was unfuckingbelievable, and totally worth the bitch of a climb to get to it -- hit 42mph and stayed there for a good long time. The only problem was that at the bottom I got a cramp and spent the rest of the way back to Lon and Sally's trying to fight off various cramps in my legs, and moving quite slow as a result; further solidifying my status as a weenie with the Leneve's. However, it was a great training ride, and while I was totally humbled by the athletic prowess of Lon and Sally, I was proud of myself for riding through a pretty serious bonk and getting some serious climbing in to boot.

Dragging Ass Along Marine Drive

Date: Monday, March 26th, 2007
Leave: 4:45PM
Return: 7:15PM
Distance: 38 miles
Average speed: 15.5 mph

My lovely family decided to go to the beach for the night Monday night, so despite the fact that I put in a 70 mile day the day before, I thought I would take the opportunity to see if I could do my long route home, which goes from work downtown, over St. John's Bridge, up to Marine Drive and home via the I-205 bike path. Normally, this route is pretty easy, albeit somewhat long for an evening ride, still, I can usually knock it out and be home by 7. It's flat and the only dicey part is if you get an easterly wind in your face on Marine Drive, it can be a long and slow trudge from I-5 to I-205.

It started off well-enough, a quick slice through downtown to Northwest Portland and out St. Helens Drive to highway 30 towards the St. John's Bridge. However, just as I was turning from St. Helens on to Highway 30, I started to feel a little queasy and shaky, not exhaustion sickness or even really nauseous, just a bit off, almost like the feeling of too much coffee on an empty stomach. I drank some water and tried to ride it off, but it wouldn't go away, and it started to sap some of my energy, so my pace slowed. In retrospect, I think it was due to my lunch of extra-spicy Thai food, probably not the brightest thing for me to eat before even a low-effort ride like this.

To make things even lovelier, just as I was starting to climb up the hill to the base of the bridge, my Achilles tendon began to nag, and by the top, it began to hurt, which slowed my pace even more. I decided to keep going since Mandy wasn't home anyway, and the ride straight home from the St. John's Bridge isn't much less than finishing out my planned route anyway. It was right about this time that it started to rain rather steadily.

The ride through St. John's was nice enough and fairly quick. It's a little sketchy at the base of the bridge to get onto Lombard and head North, but it's certainly safe and doable. Once onto Lombard, there are few lights and a nice, wide shoulder for a ways out past Pier Park to Columbia Blvd. There was a pretty gruesome-looking accident on the corner of Burgard (Lombard) and Columbia, with several police, firemen and EMTs on the scene. They didn't look like they needed the services of a bike-riding computer programmer, so I decided to ride on by.

Turning again north onto Lombard proper, I made my way up to Marine Drive at Kelley Point where I discovered that I would indeed be the frustrated recipient of a fairly brutal head-wind for the next 10+ miles, which goes wonderfully with a turning stomach and a sore Achilles. Wonderful. Cycling is great for these kind of moments because your options are:

1. Turn Around
2. Keep Going
3. Call someone to pick you up

Being a male under 80 years old without any broken limbs, option 3 is not possible, and I had already evaluated and turned down option 1 miles earlier, so my only option was to keep pedalling. This is the point in the journey where my internal dialog starts to sound like an insult comic:

"You fucking idiot, you could be drinking a beer and reading a book by the fire place, or meeting some friends at the pub like a normal Portlander. BUT NO!, as if 70 miles yesterday wasn't enough, let's work a full day and instead of being happy with the normal and respectable 8 miles home, let's do 40! Jackass."

The good thing about all of this self loathing monologue is that it ends up passing the time pretty efficiently, and before I knew it I was on the east side of I-5 plodding along the Columbia River. I love this part of the ride, but it sucks a whole lotta balls with a 20 mph wind in your face and rain coming down on you. I had pretty much completely bonked by this point too, so I was just trying to keep moving forward. This was turning out to be either an excellent exercise in mental conditioning, or a completely ridiculous and all-around stupid idea. I felt like I was weighed down with rocks, and more than once, I checked my tires to see if they were flat; that's how sluggish I felt.

Then I remembered that I had a nice, juicy steak in the fridge at home (still ~20 miles away). I began to mentally picture the steak on the grill, and my pace quickened a little bit. I remembered that I had a Clif Shot in my pocket and I quickly devoured it, drank some water and my pace picked up a little more. I finally found myself in a nice, steady rhythm and made good time the rest of the way to I-205.

The I-205 bike path heading south has some rolling hills, and gradually gains elevation as you get closer into Portland. I was feeling a lot better, still pretty tired, but not quite so maligned as before, although my Achilles was still really sore. The big difference was the lack of a headwind, which was enough impetus for me to get a good pace rolling and get home and put that steak into my face.

Without fail, it is this point in the journey, tired, wet, sore and just south of miserable that some skinny little perky road racer guy in full Velo kit on his $5000 Kestrel rolls up on you and wants to talk shop while your lungs are dragging on the pavement behind you. Of course, this guy was super nice and was riding fast enough that I had to take secret gasps of air during our conversations to keep from talking like Stevie from Malcom in the Middle. Portland is FILLED with these guys, not all of them are nice, mind you, but most are, and anytime you start to think you are in shape or doing well on your bike, you will inevitably be knocked down a few rungs by these annoying little waifs. Anyway, this guy was cool as shit and we rapped for a bit, and I turned off at Foster Road and made my way down Woodstock and home to my wonderful steak and a cold beer.