Off the Beaton path

I just spent five days out in the woods, off the grid, away from it all and back to nature. It was wonderful and painful.

Though I have camped quite a bit as an adult, it has become a bit more posh each time we head out. Long gone are the days of hot dogs over the fire, usually eating as good or better in the woods than at home. Cars are filled a bit more with luxuries from home, and most have left behind tents and have upgraded to trailers. This trip was back to the roots of taking only what you can carry in and out.

Cherie's dad Jim (Beaton) has been hiking and fishing all his life, and first went to Delta Lake in 1965. He went back several times over the years with varying sets of friends and eventually his family, He took Cherie back to the lake in 2009, and she told me how beautiful the area was, and how difficult it was to get there. They brought along her son Dalton last year, so three generations shared the hidden gem side by side. This year Brian and I were invited along, and like the pictures that fail to do it justice, her stories about the joy and pain of the trek did not do the experience justice.

I hadn't done an overnight hike since I was a pre-teen, and didn't have any of the necessary equipment. They had all the tents, pack stoves and water purifiers we needed, so I borrowed a backpack from Jim, and bought some cheap hiking boots from Big 5 a couple of days before we headed out. After the months of biking and now running, I figured I was in pretty good shape, but like the foolishness of buying hiking boots days before heading out, I was mistaken that I was prepared for the challenge.

We headed out early Wednesday, driving two hours to the trail head, arriving at around ten o'clock. We were disappointed to see so many cars and trucks in the lot. There was apparently one particular spot on the lake that we were shooting for. The main trail leads to five different lakes, and ours was off the groomed trail, so we hoped that all the early arrivals were headed somewhere else.

Ready to head out.

Trout lake was the first lake on the trail, about a mile and a half into the woods. This would be the easiest part of the hike, but it was still challenging to muscle my 55 pound pack up the trail. I can be blamed for over packing on most trips, but but much of the weight was from the inflatable raft I was carrying. Jim had always fished on the lake, and it could not be easily done from shore. Dalton carried another raft on his back, and the gear was spread among the five of us, but my pack was some ten or fifteen pounds heavier than the others. The boat also had to be strapped low on the pack, so my center of gravity was definitely off.

We stopped at Trout Lake to rest, grab a drink and snack on some trail food. Though there were probably some campers off in the woods, we didn't see anyone around. We had seen one couple on the trail, walking out with their dog, but it would be the only people we would see for three days.

Big packs, enormous tree.

Trout lake

Our group

Cherie look to where we were headed. 

Shortly after leaving the lake, the trail climbed through some steep switchbacks. After about a half a mile, we left the groomed trail and would spend the next six hours bushwhacking along an unmaintained fisherman's trail. We actually went downhill initially to find a place to cross the river. We spent a few moments there to take pictures and wet our bandanas and then headed into the wilderness. As Jim said, this is where it got "interesting."

Calling the route we went a 'trail' might be a little generous. Though at times it was clear where someone had walked before, it was often overgrown and branches surrounded you like a swarm of insects, stinging and scratching. Other times we were scrambling under and over logs, climbing through rock fields, and without practiced eyes of those that had been there before, I am sure we would have become lost along the way.

The trail went near vertical at times

Lots of tight squeezes.

The route was steep enough at times that you had to grab at tree roots to climb the hill like a ladder, eyes turned constantly downward looking for the next safe place to plant your foot. There were some great spots near the river and several beautiful waterfalls where we could pause to catch our breath, and the scale of the rocks and trees had me thinking we were hiking through Tolkien's Middle Earth. Each time we headed out again, Jim would comment that the next part was more "interesting" (translation, hard).

After one final difficult section we were at the lake. Unfortunately we had another forty-five minutes to an hour of up and down hiking to get to our spot. Thankfully, when we arrived, there was no one there. I am not sure how we would have taken it if we had to continue on or backtrack to find a place to set up camp.

View of Delta Lake from the hike in.

Cherie back at the lake. 

Our campsite

Looking out toward the lake

That first night we didn't do much more than set up camp, make dinner and head to bed shortly after the sun went down. Dinners were of the freeze-dried variety, but they actually turned out to taste pretty good. The first night we had lasagna and it was fantastic, though when we tasted another batch a few days later, the taste of the first batch greatly benefited from having hiked for seven and a half hours.

We spent Thursday further setting up camp, fishing and exploring. We had both boats out on the lake and moderate success, but we designated Saturday as our keeper day, so we threw back all but one that had swallowed the hook. The water was so calm and clear, you could see the fish following your spinner through the water.

Brain and Cherie

Jim, Dalton and me.

We beached the boats on the other side of the lake near the base of one of the two falls feeding the lake. Dalton immediately began scrambling up the waterfalls, and after some hesitation, the older kids followed his lead. Where he was fearlessly leaping from rock to boulder, we were not as daring or limber, so there was more hesitation and four-point stances. But it was worth it when we made it to the base of the lower sheer face.

Dalton leading the charge.

Looking back at the lake before heading up.

Water through a forest.

Dalton and G-Pa

Almost there.

Beautiful, awesome power of water.

Getting in close.

On Friday, Jim, Dalton and I hiked up to Otter Lake. It was another bushwhacking and scrambling adventure to an even more remote lake. More challenge, more beauty, farther off the beaten path.

Halfway to the lake, there was a great overlook of Delta Lake. Then it was on to Otter Lake.

Saturday was a little more relaxed. We also saw people for the first time in days. Three guys were hiking through to Otter Lake. They had hiked up in the dark and camped out on the north end of Delta the night before. The hike up the hill was difficult and the trail hard enough to find, that I can't imagine doing it in the dark.

We spent the day fishing and hiking around the lake. Near the southern end, we found a stack of huge boulders, so naturally we had to climb them. There was a good view of the falls off of Angeline Lake, so we just spent a little time relaxing in the sun. There was also another example of the determination of the trees. In many places, they would grow right on top of the rocks

Jim had hiked in with a cold/flu bug, and after a few nights of sharing a tent, Dalton and I woke up with it as well. It took hold Friday night, and we both woke up Sunday morning feeling sick. Completely stuffed up, and feeling the feverish aches, it would be a long hike out.

Of course it was mostly downhill, but what was difficult to climb was a bit precarious to descend. The packs were a slightly lighter for the food we had eaten, but they were still hard to maneuver and a strain on the back. We took at least as many breaks on the way down, but each time I put the pack back on it seemed heavier still. Brian then stepped on a nest of bees and was stung several times as he crashed through the woods trying to get away. We were a motley lot.

We climbed a steep rise and were back on the groomed trail. Only two miles to go on a much easier path, but I was done in. I was feeling feverishly spacey, and my everything hurt. We made a final stop near this enormous tree so I could take in some more fluids and food.

When I put my pack back on, I tweaked something in my left hip. For the last three quarters of a mile, every other step hurt. With my more awkward gait, my back started to spasm.

I went to that place I go at the end of a marathon, where I try to mask pain with will and determination, but I went too far this time. As soon as I reached the truck and got the pack off, I started hyperventilating. It had hurt too much for too long, and something finally broke. I should have stopped, probably eaten or drank more, maybe traded packs with someone. I was sick and I shouldn't have tried to push through it. It was a mistake, and I was sorry to freak everyone out at the end of a great adventure.

We hung out in the parking lot while I took in some fluids and ate something. Initially I couldn't even lift my water bottle with my right hand without sending my back into spasm. A park ranger came by and the others chatted with him for a bit. While he was talking about another remote lake, he mentioned that only about 36 people each season hike into Delta and Otter Lake. While standing on the shore of Otter, I wondered how many eyes had seen this place, and it was great to hear that we were such rare visitors.

I am grateful that Jim invited me along with his family to hike into such a cherished place. It is not only beautifully remote, but it holds a great place in his heart, and I am fortunate to now share in it. If he heads back, I will join him, but I will definitely come better prepared next time to enjoy it all the way through.

RAMROD 2013

It was a series of mishaps, but quite the adventure.

Joe and I got a room in Auburn the night before the ride so we would be closer to the start in Enumclaw. . We had prepared everything the night before, but even so, we got up at 3:00am to give us plenty of time at the start line. Unfortunately, our prep work sort of backfired as we forgot our water bottles and Camelbak in the hotel fridge. We backtracked, losing all the time we had saved, and it was a bit of a sign of what was to come.

We met Tom at the start and joined him for the fundraising breakfast, and at about 5:15am it was light enough for them to send riders out. We took a few pictures, made the obligatory Facebook post, and hit the road at 5:25am.

Ramrod is a 150 mile, counter-clockwise loop around the mountain, entering the National Park at around mile 60. There are three major climbs along the route, with 10,000 feet of elevation gain overall. For comparison, the STP has about a third of the climbing spread out over a longer distance. Even though we had looked at the profile more times than was probably healthy, it was hard to picture what this all meant.

On paper, it would be the most difficult ride any of us had ever done, and I didn't have any reason to believe the reality would be much different.

Fortunately, the first 30 miles are primarily flat or down hill, easing us into the morning and the ride ahead. We rode in a loose group, quiet streets and sleepy riders drafting off of each other in hopes of banking a little time that we would surely spend later when the road tipped uphill. There are time cutoffs at certain points of the course, and we didn't want there to be any risk of getting pulled off the course.

We rolled into the first food stop in Eatonville right on schedule, but kept our stop brief. Shortly after hitting the road again, we passed a photographer at the top of a small rise. A longer un-named climb followed, and the meat of the day began. Drafting doesn't do you much good when you're climbing, but the plan was to stay together as much as possible, riding at a pace we could all maintain. The passes were still in the distance, but we all took this first real climb in stride.

Then snafu #2 happened. As Tom's chain had broken at mile 40 of the STP, Joe's pedals were now spinning in space after his chain snapped. We pulled over and pulled out the tools. Unfortunately, this time the pin holding the link was gone, lost in the pavement or gravel on the side of the road. Fortunately, I had a couple of extra pins in the junk drawer of a seat bag I carry around. I had bought the spares after my first side-of-the-road lesson in broken chains back in 2007, and my pack-rat preparedness was finally going to pay off.

The repair took much longer this time, and once again I wasn't very confident in my patch job. We briefly weighed the risks of pressing on, but decided to backtrack to the last bike shop we were going to see for the day. As we coasted downhill, all the bikers climbing in the opposite direction gave us confused or sympathetic looks. We were going backward, losing time and adding hills.

The guy at the bike shop put Joe's bike on the stand and looked things over. He did not have the right sized replacement chain, but he thought the repair job looked OK. We bought some more spare parts just in case and headed out, passing the photographer for the second time. I don't know if the second photo was any better, but the second time on the climb definitely was not. We had already lost 50 minutes we didn't think we had to spare, and our pace was slower on the hill repeat. It felt like the air had been let out of our tires.

We rolled under the Rainier National Park entrance, passing by cars backed up waiting to get in. The ride is held on a weekday to avoid the largest of crowds, but there were still plenty of people out on a sunny Thursday. Though we had already been climbing for 20 miles, the first of the three main climbs began once we entered the park. It was a 12 mile, 2,800 foot climb winding through massive trees and increasingly beautiful views. It had been decades since I had been to Rainier, and I can't imagine a better way to see it.

Tom had been struggling since our mechanical mishap, and the climb was taking its toll on his sore knee. We pedaled more slowly, stopped more often with the great excuse of taking pictures, but finishing before the route shut down was looking more and more remote. He had already run out of water, so we pooled resources until we could get to the food stop a couple of miles from the summit.Once we got there, we talked about how he was doing, how he was fueling, etc. As I talked about fluids and electrolytes, he looked at me and told me he was done.

Now he had told us he was done at the STP, and then made his solo comeback, but this time he was sure there was nothing left. He knee was still hurting, and he said he had bit off more than he could chew. We tried to find a way for him to get back to the start, and we were told there was someone at the summit with a radio to call it in. He wasn't quite done climbing.

Once at our summit, we were told that it would make more sense for him to head to the next rest stop rather than wait there. He could get food, be more comfortable in the shade, and most importantly, the rest stop was at the bottom of a canyon so he would get the downhill ride he had earned. Before heading out, we got a group shot with the mountain in the background.

There was a professional photographer a few hundred feet down the road, and he got a shot of us that looks Photo-Shopped. Truly worthy of the names Paradise and Inspiration Point we had just ridden past.

The next eight miles were a wonderful downhill ride winding down the mountain side. After climbing through the trees, it was all hillsides and open canyons. I think I smiled the entire way down, wishing I could have somehow filmed the whole thing. We pulled into the rest stop at mile 80, wishing Tom could go on, but knowing that more difficult climbs lay ahead. And more snafus.

The second major climb of the day was actually pretty manageable by comparison. There was a small water station at the top, along with someone taking bib numbers and times. I am not sure how serious they were about the cutoff times, but we were cutting it a bit close. As we topped off our water bottles, Tom rode by in a car with his bike on rack in back. I was glad to see that he hadn't had to wait as long as expected.

Joe and I made our way down another great descent. The roads were in much better shape on this slope, and we were back in the trees again, so we flew down the hill, eyes on the road, leaning into the corners. It really does make you feel alive, the exhilaration of speed and riding that edge of comfort, made that much better for having worked so hard to earn it.

Everyone we had spoken to about the ride had said the last climb, up Cayuse Pass, was the most difficult. It was the steepest of the three, nine or ten miles long, and from what we had heard there was little shade. And of course you already had almost a hundred miles and thousands of feet of climbing on your legs. The downhill ended in a sharp left turn, and almost instantly we were climbing again.

After backtracking early on in the day, and our slow climb to Paradise, we were running behind the bulk of the riders, but there were still some other riders around us as we started up Cayuse. Like the end of the marathon though, we had kind of reached the walking wounded stage of the ride. People that were clearly tired, nearly tapped out, but still determined to finish. We kept willing our way up the slope, looking around each corner for the water break halfway up.

About a third of the way up the climb, snafu #3 reared its ugly head. This time it was a broken spoke on Joe's bike. He had brought along extra spokes, but unfortunately the broken spoke was on the drive side of his rear wheel, so without a tool to remove the cassette, we couldn't make the swap on the side of the road. Back into my bike bag of tricks to find the best $10 I ever spent.

As the link mentions, the Fiberfix is basically a Kevlar string that you can loop and tighten to bring your wheel back into alignment. The plastic tube it was packed in had disintegrated, so who knows how good of shape the Fiberfix was in. As I was trying to get it installed, one of the support vehicles pulled up to help. He was a mechanic, but hadn't pulled a cassette off a wheel before, so he called in backup. When the other mechanic showed up, the baton was passed and he went to work.

While the mechanic was working on the wheel, we realized the other guy had taken off with one of the parts, so we were stuck a bit longer. While we chatted with the driver, a rider passed by with the number 2 on his bib. Low numbers in rides usually go to volunteers or long-time participants, and it is one of those mental distractions to look for the lowest number on the road. We had seen number 2 a few times during the day, and the driver mentioned that he was probably in his early 70's. He let us know that the Ramrod ride gives out their numbers by age, lowest numbers to the oldest riders. It was inspiring, and I hope I am still conquering mountains when I am in my 70's.

Snafu #3 delayed us by the same 50 minutes as snafu #1, and once again, when we hit the road, it felt like someone had deflated our tires. The shade was completely gone, and it was 80 some degrees out. We melted. The road seemed to stretch out in some special effects sort of way, and that water stop at the halfway point just would not appear, no matter how many corners we went around.

It finally did appear out of the haze, and one of the volunteers was wetting down the riders with a spray bottle. I think we were both feeling pretty broken at that point, and I wanted to linger under the cool spray and shade, but we were running low on time. We pushed on, but split up pretty quickly. It became an individual struggle, and we had to find our own way up, at whatever pace made sense to us individually.

I finally reached the top, and after all the struggle and mishaps, it was strangely anti-climatic. I suppose I had this great vista in my mind, the land falling away in every direction, but the road ended in a T surrounded by trees. It also felt like a stumbling shamble rather than a victorious summit, but I had made it. Volunteers had set up a small pit stop on the island splitting the road, and there were cheers and water for our burned out bodies. I walked around in a daze as I waited for Joe to top that last rise.

I had planned to spread some more of Sierra's ashes at the peak of this last climb. I suppose that is why I had this spectacular vista in my mind, something worthy of the climb and a place for her to rest. Instead of the picture perfect spot I had conjured in my mind, it was a nice, simple bed of wildflowers in the shade of tall pines. Not a bad spot after all.

When Joe arrived, he was ready to head down the other side. We were still some 40 miles from the finish, but we had conquered the mountain. The rest of the way was mostly downhill or flat, and we just had to make the victory lap. After coasting down another great descent, we swung into the last food stop near the entrance to Crystal Mountain. There was the promise of a deli sandwich, and I was hoping against hope that there would be an ice-cold Coke waiting for us as well. There was, and more than the downhill ride or solid food, it brought me back around.

I started to do the math as we headed out. We needed to average about 18 mph over the last 33 miles to make it in by 8:00. I kept the math to myself, and just tried to keep the tempo high but reasonable. Each easily divisible point along the way (math is hard at mile 130) I would check in, and we were keeping pace and even building a small cushion. The route left the highway for a quieter road about ten miles from the finish, and it was finally safe to ride side by side. Can't remember a thing we talked about, but our smiles, pride and sense of relief were easy to recognize.

After one more magical descent and a stop to cross the highway, we were finally back where we started. After fourteen and a half hours on the road, losing more than an hour and a half to mechanical issues, and adding six miles just for good measure, we rolled under the finish line with ten minutes to spare.

Months of training, hundred-mile Saturdays for weeks, climbing all around western Washington, seeing beautiful places and building friendships - the challenge of the mountain kept us moving forward, and in the end we conquered it. We were sorry not to have Tom with us in the end, but I know he will be back to take on the challenge again, and I can verify that success after failure is that much sweeter.

The mountain in the distance

There are bucket-list items that toy with your brain, plans percolating in the background for "someday". the STP and running a marathon were the big ones for me, but I never did anything about them until the incident with the sunburned knees. Cherie set the hook for both biking and running, and I have been playing out the line for as far as it will take me.

As I have mentioned before, my path has been guided by a series of gentle shoves. Challenges have been made, gauntlets have been thrown down, and for the past decade I have been finding new ways to stretch my limits and celebrate this body I have been given.

There has been a ride lurking on my bucket-list for several years. It was this mythical ride that sat out on the horizon (quite literally), a ride that only the strongest could conquer. It had its own acronym, and it was emblazoned on reflective bands wrapped around seat posts of finishers. When you see the yellow strip on the bike rolling beside you, you know that the rider has gone where few have (or get to) tread.

The event is Ride Around Mount Rainier in One Day, or RAMROD for short. Like the mountain that stands so singularly on the horizon, RAMROD was the one ride that stood alone as a challenge for those that like to climb hills.

Already planning on the one-day STP, Tom proposed we get our place in line for RAMROD. Though one of the most difficult rides in the state, RAMROD is so popular that there is a lottery each year just to get in. The route runs along National Park roads, so the permit limits it to 800 riders and requires that it be held mid-week to avoid the largest crowds. If you fail to get in, your odds improve for each successive year, and if you volunteer, your odds improve another notch. So we threw our names in the hat and planned to volunteer in hopes of getting in next year.

Well, we "won" the lottery, and the three of us (Tom, Joe and myself) got in on the first try. What I didn't realize until later, was that the STP and RAMROD were only a week and a half apart. Assuming we could make it the 200 miles from Seattle to Portland, we now had a ride that was at least twice as difficult 11 days later.

What had we gotten ourselves into?

To be continued...

One of those moments

I had an unstructured weekend ahead of me. Nowhere to ride, nowhere to be, no reason to set an alarm in the morning. Plenty to do, but no deadline to get it done.

I had gone to the Mariners game with Steve on Friday night, and in typical fashion, I had left my backpack at his place. It had my laptop and the book I needed to finish this week, so I didn't want to leave it until Monday. I used to curse out loud for these lapses of memory, berating myself for the stupidity, but as I realized my mistake a half hour too late, I just sighed and told myself there was now a trip to Seattle on the schedule. Not getting any smarter, but at least a bit better at keeping things in perspective.

I spent Saturday morning tackling one or two of the boxes that still line my walls and cover my floors. I have been in and out of town the past few weeks, and unpacking has dragged out through unsettled procrastination. Putting off the next round, I decided instead to write. I am writing a bit more these days, and without my laptop I actually spent an hour with pen and paper. In some ways it seems to flow more quickly that way and it was nice to avoid the screen time.

After picking up my backpack full of electronics, I headed back to the eastside. Not ready to go home and face the boxes, I decided to check out a brewery that my friend had recommended. It is within a mile or two of work, but I had not made the time to stop by. Like most small breweries, they had a tasting flight of small pours so you can sample their creations. I haven't brewed in a while, and I was chalking this up to research into my next batch.

The bartender looked very familiar, though for the life of me I could not place her. Strangely, I had run into someone that I hadn't seen in a decade just a few hours earlier, so maybe I was just feeling a wave of connection. I did not see a click of a recognition in her eyes, so I assumed she reminded me of someone I could not place.

I pulled out my book to read. I have been having trouble lately shutting things out and falling into a book. I am still trying to resist the pull of signing up for cable at the house, hoping to spend the time reading and writing instead watching tv. Fortunately the novel I am reading now is different, quirky and good, so I could feel myself being pulled out of my world and into the one on the page.

As I sat there reading and working my way through the tasting flight, left to right, light to dark, a woman from Florida stopped by to chat. She had not seen the tasting flights so common to these breweries, and the curiosity of it made her stop by. As we chatted, the bartender cooed at and kissed a baby rocking in a carrier on the table in front of me.

With the good writing awakening my imagination, the room took on a strange feeling of family and familiarity, in a place I had never been to, having only stopped by on an impulse. Just one of those moments where a layer of fog and routine is peeled back, and your senses feel peaked to peek behind the curtain.

Then this song came on over the sound system. I don't remember it getting a lot of airplay when it was new twenty-five years ago, so it was odd to hear it after all this time. It is not right on the nose, but it does speak to time and moments passing us by while we aren't paying attention. It was a nice moment.




A million young poets
Screamin' out their words
To a world full of people
Just livin' to be heard
Future generations
Ridin' on the highways that we built
I hope they have a better understanding

Check it out
Goin' to work on Monday
Check it out
Got yourself a family
Check it out
All utility bills have been paid
You can't tell your best buddy that you love him
So check it out
Where does our time go
Check it out
Got a brand new house in escrow
Check it out
Sleepin' with your back to your loved one
This is all that we've learned about happiness

Check it out
Forgot to say hello to my neighbors
Check it out
Sometimes I question my own behavior
Check it out
Talkin' about the girls that we've seen on the sly
Just to tell our souls we're still the young lions
So check it out
Gettin' too drunk on Saturdays
Check it out
Playin' football with the kids on Sundays
Check it out
Soarin' with the eagles all week long
And this is all that we've learned about living
This is all that we've learned about living

A million young poets
Screamin' out their words
Maybe someday
Those words will be heard
By future generations
Ridin' on the highways that we built
Maybe they'll have a better understanding
Check it out
Hope they'll have a better understanding
Check it out
Maybe they'll have a better understanding
Check it out
Maybe they'll have a better understanding
Check it out
Hope they have a better understanding
Check it out.....

Seattle to Portland in one day

What a ride.

We had been training for months, and the day was finally here. All the miles were in, and we just needed to do our best to keep it together for 210 more. When training for a marathon, it is in some ways much harder to push through a long training run than to run the full distance on race day. Those Saturday 20 milers on your own can be a lonely slog compared to the energy of the crowd taking on the challenge together.

Preparing for the dual biking challenges has been quite different. Sure there were mid-week rides where it was just me and the pavement, but the long rides on the weekend were with a rotating set of companions. You still have to peddle every stroke and climb every hill yourself, but you are not by yourself. Shared trials and adventures make the road a little easier.

As the car drives, it is about 150 miles from Seattle to Portland, but sticking to quieter roads and side highways, the STP bike route is 204 miles. As if that wasn’t far enough, three of us decided to ride to the start. It was only an additional six miles, and mostly downhill, but still, it didn’t seem like the wisest strategy.

My upstairs neighbor woke me up at 2:00am, a half hour before I planned to get up, so I had extra time to get ready and ponder why I do these things. We met at Joe’s house and pinned our numbers to our jerseys and bikes. I was rather surprised to see Tom walk in the door a bit later. He had tweaked his back a week or two earlier, and I didn’t think he was going to be able to ride. His posture still looked a bit out of whack, but he was determined to go as far as he could. Half the battle on these things comes down to sheer will, and he would have to lean on that pretty hard before the day was over.

We set out from Joe’s, cold, and a mixture of sleepy and amped. As promised, the route was pretty easy, and it was nice to avoid the line of cars queuing up for a place to park. We met up with our fourth rider Matt in the mass of humanity and walked our bikes to the start. So many miles, and so many crazy people who get up early to do this for fun. All those early Saturday mornings and hilly afternoons to get ready, and it was finally time. Here we go.

I have ridden the STP in two days several times, and made one ill-fated, solo, one-day attempt in 2009. Joe and Tom had done the two-day ride last year, but the route was all new for Matt. He had done several 100 mile rides in preparation, but without the point of reference of the actual course, he was understandably nervous in the days leading up to this. Of course none of us knew what the last 50 miles would feel like, but we tried to ease our anxiety by discussing lots of “what ifs” in the days leading up to the event.

I swore I would never ride the STP again in two days. There are simply too many riders. The event has grown to over 10,000 bicyclists trying to share the roads to Portland. The STP is a bucket list item for many, and it attracts riders of widely varying ability. To be able to bike safely and comfortably in crowds, you need to feel confident in what the riders around you are going to do. With the roads over-crowded with veteran and newbie bikers alike, it no longer felt safe to me.

Of the 10,000 riders, roughly 2,000 attempt to ride it in one day. The experience and skill level was likely to be higher, plus we set out earlier than most, so that meant fewer riders sharing the road. Even so, we passed a fire truck with a rider on a back board at mile two, and an ambulance tending to another rider at mile six. Very sobering. We needed to be careful.

The morning passed quickly, and we saw the sun rise over Lake Washington as we rode along the boulevard. Then it was on through Renton, Kent, Auburn, Sumner and to the “Hill” in Puyallup. The mile-long hill is the only major climb in the first hundred miles, and they call it a “rite of passage you must conquer.” It is definitely challenging, but it was much easier this year with all of our hill training.

I waited at the top for Tom to make the climb. He was going to have the toughest time on the ride, and I wanted to have him draft off of me as much as possible. Depending on how fast you are going, and how closely you stick to the rider in front, you can save as much as 30% of your effort by riding in the wind shadow. Whenever possible, I tried to keep Tom in my hip pocket. He joked that he would have the image of my race bib burned into his retinas like a ghost image of staring at a TV too long.

Just before Yelm, Tom called out to pull over. He had broken his chain. Joe and Matt were on ahead, so Tom called to let them know to stop as I unpacked my tools. The pin had stayed in the link, so it made the repair much easier than typical, and we were back on the road within ten minutes. We tried to keep our stops as brief as possible in hopes of banking time for later in the day when we would slow down, but we decided it was worth the time to have a mechanic look at his repaired chain forty miles later at the half-way point of Centralia.

It turned out he was missing the roller for the link that broke, and it was making shifting a bit difficult. The mechanic ended up pulling a link out and also tightening a spoke while he had the bike up on his stand. We ended up being in Centralia for almost an hour, but it was worth it for the peace of mind.

The second half of the ride is hillier, and of course you already have a hundred miles on your legs. We were slowing, but it still looked like we could make it in by 8:00 if we kept a reasonable pace. We skipped a rest stop or two to make up time, but we paused at the top of the Napavine hill to get some homemade banana bread. The same family has been coming out for 20 years to raise money, and the cinnamony goodness tastes that much better when your body is depleted.

We climbed and rolled our way through Winlock, Vader and Castlerock, and the hills took their toll on our pace. Rather than tear up the hills and wait at the top, I pedaled a bit easier to keep Tom in sight. We stopped for food at Lexington and lingered a bit longer in the shade. We had sixty miles to go, and were about to cross into the furthest any of us had ridden. We were also about to cross into Oregon by way of Longview.

On the two day ride, they shut down the Longview Bridge every 15 minutes to allow the bikers to ride over en masse. The one day riders are on their own and must share the bridge lane like any other roadway. It was another nervous unknown leading into the ride, but we made the climb up and over the Columbia and the rapid decent down the other side without incident.

The final fifty miles through Oregon are primarily on Highway 30. There are a few hills in the beginning and end, but it is largely just a long, gradual climb into Portland. I stuck behind with Tom trying to help him make it to the finish, but his energy was flagging and he was getting slower with each mile. He pulled off at a gas station around mile 165, and we went inside and each grabbed a soda. I had told him on a previous 90 degree STP day that the combination of sugar and carbonation had revitalized me, and he wanted to try anything at that point.

We sat outside on the bench and chatted, and soon he pronounced that he was done. His eyes were swimmy with fatigue, and he said he was having difficulty holding onto the handlebars. He had come this far, but didn’t think he could climb another hill. His wife was waiting in Portland, and he would call for a ride. Rather than wait at the gas station, he wanted to ride the five miles to the next rest stop and call it a day there.

We met up with Joe and Matt and shared the bad news. Tom had ridden pretty well on the five miles to the stop, but he was still convinced he was done, and I thought it was the right call. The three remaining riders headed out to ride the last thirty miles together, our new goal to make the finish line before 9:00 when the said they would start taking it down. We had to fly to make it, but latched on to a train of riders and were soon cooking along at 20 miles an hour.

After a few miles, I felt like I had enough to go faster, and we pulled out and passed them. We had our own three-person train going, and our steady speed climbed to 21, 22 and 23mph. It was unexpected, and I have to say it felt great. It was pretty amazing to have this much left in my tank after riding 170 miles, and it felt like we were one well oiled machine. There are a couple of hills before crossing over into Portland, and after flying down one, I was sustaining 29 miles per hour climbing up the next hill. I think taking the hills at an easier pace earlier in the day allowed me to finish strong.

We climbed over the Saint Johns Bridge with ten miles to go, and 9:00 was still a possibility. A wrong turn led to a short delay, and traffic signals near the finish had us looking at the ticking clock. There is a string of stop lights in the last half mile, and we seemed to miss each one. We had three minutes, then two, but we finally rode beneath the banner right at 9:00. It is always a bit anti-climactic with the stop-and-go over the last half mile, but it was still very satisfying to cross the finish line.

After receiving a cheer and our “One-Day” patch, we found our support crew in the crowd. We saw Tom’s wife, but were confused that Tom was not with her. It turns out, he had climbed back on his bike and he was now riding his way to the finish. We were pretty amazed because I didn’t think he had it in him to walk to the parking lot for a ride, much less get back on his bike.

The story would find out later was that after calling his wife, he stretched out on his back in the grass at the rest stop. He closed his eyes and was probably working through his day and how it had ended too early. Eyes still closed, he heard a woman say to her husband/boyfriend, “C’mon honey, we can do it. We are so close. It is only 30 more miles. We can make it.” Lying there with his eyes closed, Tom imagined she was talking to him, and he thought, “You’re right, I can do this.” And he did.

Tom rolled in about 40 minutes later. We felt a bit guilty for leaving him behind, and I asked him later if we should have pushed him, encouraged him on. I was convinced he was beyond that point, and he agreed. I guessed, and he confirmed, that it ended up being easier for him to ride alone that last stretch, riding at his own pace and not worrying about slowing down the group. We didn’t quite finish as a team, but we all finished. The months of weekend rides together had made that team, and we supported each other as much as we could, but sometimes you have to make it through on your own grit and determination.

Speaking of our team, Joe, Tom and I signed up for Ramrod in their team category, wanting either all or none of us to get in this year. When we signed up, Joe put down as our team name “Sierra” who had passed away a week before. It was a really nice gesture, but then he had jerseys made as well, so we rode together looking like even more of a team.

With her name on my chest, I decided to bring a bit more of her with me to remember my dear friend. I put a photo of her on my top tube bag, and slipped a small container of her ashes into my jersey pocket and carried her all the way to the finish. While we waited for Tom to roll in, I drifted off and placed her ashes under a tree near the finish.

I previously had no idea what to do with her ashes. Though I took her with me to many places, we didn’t really have a special spot that was “ours” beyond the backyard at the old house where we would unwind together. The night before the ride I decided that the finish line was meaningful to me, our team name, and to friendship in general. It just felt right.

I am proud of how we did, both individually and as a team. It is no small thing to ride over 200 miles and no small blessing to have good friends to ride alongside. It made the finish line that much sweeter. Thanks team.