The Girls' Ride

CODY, Wyoming, 1995

My running partner, Rickie, talked me into attending a weekly event known as The Girls' Ride one summer Wednesday after work. Until now a running purist, I loaded my K-Mart Huffy onto the cheap trunk rack I attached to my little Ford Escort and arrived at the bike shop a little before 7 pm. Maybe a dozen women of various ages (plus a couple of guys) rolled away from the shop and up the hill toward Red Lakes for a rollick along the singletrack that flowed through canyons and along ridges, pausing occasionally to pass around Scary Mary's flask of whiskey as we admired the sprawling Wyoming evening landscape.

Our arrival back in town coincided nicely with the onset of darkness and we convened at the Silver Dollar Saloon for pitchers of Killian's Red and potato chips dipped in ranch dressing (we were starving and the grill was closed). We knew nothing of Night Riders and had no need to lock our bikes outside the bar.

Recognizing the limitations of the Huffy, the following week I took a rental bike from the shop. The week after that, I bought the bike, a lightly used purple Cannondale M500, aluminum with no suspension. The Girls' Ride was a habit and an addicting one. I groped my way through Thursdays on a hangover and lack of sleep, often rolling into bed around 2am. But they were so worth the fun and camaraderie of our Wednesday night escapades.

During the next two years, our adventures included missing sunset and feeling our way along the trail in pitch dark, or if we were lucky, by moonlight; trips to the emergency room when a fellow rider crashed while A) riding too fast along a dark trail, B) riding the stairs by the Buffalo Bill statue, or C) riding too-steep sections of slickrock near the petroglyphs; expeditions that involved car shuttles and late-night flat tires; and best of all, the group getting so big that we banned boys altogether and started splitting into groups.

My last summer in Cody, 2000, it was common to have 20-30 people on a given Wednesday night. This in a town of 8,000 people!  The Cannondale, front suspension added, served me well for 9 years and the boy I met one Wednesday night in 1997 is still with me today.

The First Century

Last weekend I completed my first century. Sure, I've done three 100-mile mountain bike races, but until now I've never ridden that far on the roads. The Harvest Century raises money for Community Vision. The sponsor of my cycling team, Showers Pass, is the presenting sponsor of the event and asks that we volunteer.

Two years ago I froze my ass off at an aid station after getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle otherwise known as Washington County. Last year I stood in the pouring rain policing the entrance to the beer tent. This year I registered early and scored a position as a course marshal which meant I would actually ride the course. Along the way I was expected to ensure turns were adequately marked and provide directional guidance if there was confusion.

As soon as it was light enough, we were released to ride the course. I left in front to get to the first intersection I was supposed to marshal, then waved riders through the turn until the pack turned to a widely spaced trickle.

I generally consider myself to to be fairly well connected in the Portland cycling community. I rarely attend an event, drop by the shop, shred a trail, or even ride around town without running into people I know. But I began to notice that I knew no one here! The century crowd is different. More casual. More recreational. Sure, there are guys out there who want to finish first or within a certain time, but this isn't a race. There are no prizes. It's a cycling tour with lots of rest stops. At the second rest stop, I finally saw a couple I knew--Mike and Betsy were riding as an on-course mechanic and medic.

Riders pedaled through rural Washington and Yamhill counties, Portland's bread and wine basket, on everything on two wheels from $8,000 carbon road bikes to big box store commuters, recumbants to mountain tandems. They wore everything from team kits to soccer shorts, RAGBRAI and RAMROD (knowing what those stand for is part of becoming a cyclist ;-) )jerseys to cotton t-shirts.

Unlike the past two years, it was a fine day for a bike ride. The day started cool with low clouds and a bit of fog, but it warmed up to the mid-60s and the sun came out sporadically. Well-stocked rest stops (salted red potatoes, donuts, oranges and bananas, candy, sandwiches, chocolate milk, Nutella and graham crackers) were roughly 15 miles apart. The pastoral scenery included orchards and vineyards, organic farms, acres of dahlias in bloom, llamas and alpacas, goats, stables and kennels. We crossed the Willamette on the Canby Ferry just before entering the Wilsonville Rollers--a series of steep ups and downs that are just long enough to be taxing after 75 miles, but short enough to prevent the legs from finding a groove.

Compared to the mountain centuries I've done, this wasn't especially hard--just 35 miles longer than what would have been a comfortable ride. The frequent rest stops and casual pace made it easy to keep going. And the following day's cyclocross race a little more challenging!

Solitude and Singletrack

I woke up stiff and sore, feeling every day of my almost 42 years. But when I unzipped the tent at 6:30 am, the sun was already high and the sky clear blue. I made coffee, walked the dog, had a light breakfast, read for a while and cleaned up camp. Too cold to sit around. I slowly filled my Camelback and changed into riding gear. With no other tasks to aid procrastination, I threw a leg over my aging Stumpjumper and slowly pedaled toward the trail, a mere 20 yards from my campsite.

My legs protested at the effort of the first 100 uphill yards. Then they settled into an easy granny gear spin as we started up the switchbacks toward the fire lookout. Only 50 degrees, despite the warmth of the sun, and the only sounds were the wind whispering in the pines and my heavy breathing. I startled a deer as I crossed the forest road onto the main trail.

Having company might have lent more enthusiasm to the ride, but it wasn't long before I was enjoying the solitude of the quiet forest and the comfort of my own leisurely pace.

Not quite 30 minutes uphill to the lookout where the sun was warm but the wind cold, so I didn't linger. A short but fun downhill led to another road crossing where I startled another deer before starting a short, steep climb followed by more mellow climbing. Then another short down, a right turn, short climb to the beginning of a 3-mile descent, twisting alongside a clearcut and dropping over roots, fast and furious.

The last time I rode this trail, I was with a group and on my Niner single speed. Today I was grateful for the gears, legs tired from a week that included two races and a quad-busting hike, plus a road ride and a trail run. Only two months away from a 100-mile mountain bike race I entered months ago and this is supposed to be a training ride. Instead, it's just a pleasant solo spin on my favorite trail system, finally clear of snow but not yet eroded from too many treads rolling over it.
My shoulders are relaxed and still, hands firmly (but not too firmly) wrapped around the bar ends, chest forward, legs pumping a steady cadence as I deftly steer Stumpy up and around and around and up. Still breathing hard, but my heart rate has settled into a sustainable rhythm.

Finally, I crest the high point of the ride and start down a series of wide switchbacks. They would be so fun if the trail weren't paved in pea-size gravel, inviting the tires to slide out and dump me in the brush. Til now, I haven't seen a soul, save five deer along the way. But I roll through the main trailhead and see two cars and riders getting ready to roll. Then my favorite part: the sweetest three miles of single track I've ever ridden, smooth and fast and flowing, requiring only the occasional brake check until the switchback down to the creek crossing, then mostly downhill back to the campsite...where I was disappointed the ride was over.

But I felt a bit smug as I enjoyed my post-ride beer in the sun as others rode past to begin the climb...

The Last ('Cross) Crusade

Photo by Matthew Haughey.

Well, no call-up today, so no pressure to get out fast. Would be nice to get a decent start, though. Oh good, my number group was called third. Close enough to the front. The Master A's are off. Thirty seconds. Right foot clipped in and pedal poised near the top. Horn goes off. I push off. Clip in. Pedal, pedal. Click, click. About 10 people just passed me.

We head down a paved hill, then enter a gravel flat with a foot-wide clear path down the middle. There's a bottle-neck as riders jockey for the clear line. I get cut off twice. I should be more aggressive in these situations. No, I should stay safe and sane. It's a long race with plenty of opportunities to get ahead. No need to risk a high-speed crash on gravel right at the start. But really, I need to be more aggressive.

I tuck into the single file line around the first turn and hold my position on the short downhill. Another bottleneck as riders aim for the narrowest point of the puddle. Sissies. I keep left, plow through the puddle and pass two. Still staying left on the bumpier line toward the first run-up, I pass three more. But I'm on the wrong side for funneling around a pile of boulders and have to squeeze in. It's my turn, but a rider from behind tries to force me out. No time for courtesy here; I push my way through.

The first run-up: I swing my leg over, coast a bit, then step down and start quick-stepping up the rocky, muddy hill before I even get my bike on my shoulder. A din of cowbell and shouts of encouragement. I may have passed a couple here, but I'm not sure. Head down, left arm swinging, right arm locked around my frame. I remember the squats and lunges I did last week. I can do this.

Crest the top, gasp for air, swing right leg over saddle, stab at the pedals until I find the sweet spot with my cleat. Five, six, maybe eight pedal strokes before the barriers. Swing leg over, step down, lift bike high to the side and jump once, step, step, jump again. Run, run, swing, stab. I really need to work on my remounts; I'm about to get eaten alive. Still, I gain ground as I pull away from the barrier and sail past several others on the long gravel flat.

Breathing starting to stabilize, heart rate under control, the adrenaline of the start is fading and I start to find my groove. Coming up: a steep, off-camber descent that I know I can ride well if I get a clear shot. In preparation, I move into the drops. There are two lines, left and right. Scanning ahead, evaluating the throng, wanting to set up for the most open side. The entrance is completely clogged with riders off their bikes or dismounting. Not good. I downshift and slow my cadence, giving myself time to evaluate, plot.

Spectators always gather where the viewing is most likely to yield excitement. I hear screaming and cowbells, even cymbals. A bike lies across the left line, mid-hill. At the last second I swerve right around a woman pushing her bike toward the precipice. Don't hesitate. Just do it. A little brake to check my speed, then I let off. It looks slippery. Too much front brake could make the rear end start to slide around to the front. Fuuuck, I say. Out loud? Maybe. My stomach is in my throat. But then I'm down.

A turn to the left, then a hairpin to the right, cross a bridge, left turn, hairpin right, then a slight downhill to the singletrack. Looking to see who's in front of me. Can they ride it? Or will they freak out, walk, wreck or otherwise impede my progress? Can I shoot around one or two before we get there? No, it's too late. Tuck in, ride it out.

I'm right behind Tori. I lock onto her rear wheel. She can do this. But in front of her: one walking on the left, another sprawled in the brambles on the right. Tori shoots the middle and I follow. Over the roots, down then up then down, keep the pedal up so you don't bash it on the rock. Hard right turn onto the pavement. I'm still locked onto Tori's wheel. Nice job there, I think but can't say.

Water is streaming through my shorts. I'm sitting in a mud puddle.

The pavement is a neutralizer. Anyone can do this. I lean into the first turn. I pass. I get passed. A hard right and the track narrows. A puddle, more gravel, then the second run-up. I down-shift (big ring for the pavement--won't like that when I remount at the top). Elbows and cleats. Handlebars and derailleurs. I pass. I get passed. The usual clumsy remount and we're off again, downhill, hairpin at the bottom, then left, then right. A slight uphill; I stand and pass again. Flat, straight, then left into another uphill. I stay left in deeper mud but pass again. Stand the climb; another pass. A long, flat straight.

There's a pack ahead. I want to pass, not be passed. I'm closing in. Then a 270 through some mud and trees before dropping back into the gravel pit to close the loop for the first lap. Whoa! I hadn't seen this on the course preview. Not hard, but requires single file. Brake. Lean. Point. Shoot. Then down the first hill.

Repeat.

There's a girl in orange. We trade positions a couple times. I pass her on lap 3 as we exit the singletrack. She got pushed over and I heard her say ow. I asked if she was okay as I shot past. But she catches me at the top of the second run-up.

Mud in my eye. Blink blink. I try to wipe but my glove is so muddy it doesn't help. Racers wear mud masks. Faces all look the same. My vision is blurry. Did I lose my left contact? Great, mud in one eye, no vision in the other. How many more laps? Maybe just one. That would be good.

I stand and scoot by Orange Girl on the climb to the straight-away by the fence. Hammer. We're lapping the beginners now and have to pick and choose a way around. I take the left side. Bumpier but clear of riders. I swoop in front of a whole pack just before the 270. I check my watch. Maybe this is the last lap? Give it all you got. Click click click the rear derailleur. Big gear to hammer through the gravel pit, through the mud puddle, downshift for the soft stuff behind the boulder pile. Above me, I see riders heading out for another lap. Oh, no! Can I do it? Yes. Yes I can. One more is good.

Swing, step, lift, hug frame to body. Head down, arm swinging, legs lunging upward. Frantic cheering. Cowbells go wild. Near the top, I hear the announcer: they're finishing up now. Okay, this is it. Orange girl is just behind me. I can see her to the right. I push harder. From the crest, just meters to the finish. I risk running over a clumsy remount. Sprinting now, as hard as I can go. Head down, pushing bike. Wow, no one is passing me. Two more steps. Orange girl shoots past and across the finish line.

After the finish chute, we high five, heaving and gasping. Another Cross Crusade season is over.

"The Velodrome Was Full of Women"

Alpenrose Dairy in southwest Portland. Opening day of the 2010 Cross Crusade series. It was a pleasant but overcast day with cowbells ringing and aromas of hot steel cut oats, waffles, and french fries wafting from the expo area.

Since I finished in the top five overall last year, I was lucky enough to get called up to the front of the start line. As I surveyed the sea of women amassed behind me, I was grateful not to be at the back of the pack. "That is a lot of women on bikes!" I thought to myself.

The start whistle blew and in about 20 seconds about 20 riders had already passed me. I'm a terrible starter. I've never been quick off the blocks, either in running or cycling. On a day like today, a good start would come in handy. After just a few hundred yards, we dropped into a rutted and dusty technical descent that curved through a horse pasture and made a 6-inch drop in a 180-degree turn at the bottom before climbing steeply back to the velodrome.

The first lap is always chaos as the field inevitably bottlenecks in a technical or narrow section. Today was no exception, but I managed to circumvent a crash at the bottom of the hill and power my way up past several riders. For the rest of the lap, though, it seemed like I just got passed. A lot. I was not having a good race.

By lap three, the tables were starting to turn. Those who went out hard were starting to tire and fade. I still felt strong and focused on riding clean lines and taking advantage of passing opportunities. The two climbs on the course were my best friends; every lap I passed at least a couple people on each climb.

Unfortunately, they would often pass me back as I struggled to remount my bike after a barrier run. I've never been known for my grace or coordination, and the dismount and "superman" mount unique to cyclocross do not come easily.

In the end, I was satisfied with my 7th-place finish (out of almost 70 riders in my field). But the best part of the day was seeing so many women having fun riding bicycles. I can't even remember who, but after the race someone was telling about watching the from the top of the velodrome. The course enters the velodrome and snakes its way around in a series of spirals and s-turns before exiting. From above, you see a steady stream of lycra flowing in a pattern.

"The velodrome was full of women," my friend said. Awesome!

Tis the Season for Mud and Cowbells

It seems a bit early in the season to break out the Michelin Muds and the rubber boots, but today was a pretty perfect day for not much of anything other than a cyclocross race. So I started my second 'cross season off with a tradition I began last year--entering one race prior to the start of the Cross Crusade series.

I like to get a practice run under the belt before subjecting myself to the madness of the Crusades (680 racers at Barlow today vs. the nearly 2000 that will undoubtedly turn out at Alpenrose Dairy next Sunday. Still recovering from a cold I've been nursing ever since last week's 7-hour ride in the rain, I vowed not to over exert myself but to use this as a warmup/practice/trial run for the rest of the season. Well today's performance leaves nowhere to go but up!

Today was the most pathetic performance of my short 'cross career. One big fiasco--beginning with missing my start and rolling through one disaster after another. The start thing--I was lined up on time with all the other ladies, listening carefully to all instructions. But I couldn't quite hear which group was starting first and assumed it was the Master As since they always started first at the Crusades races last year. Well, apparently the Bs went first and they were 100 yards away by the time I realized my mistake.

I took this as a blessing in disguise since it forced me out of the race and I could just ride my bike at a comfortable pace and kinda get the hang of this 'cross thing again.

Did I mention that it was muddy? And not just in places, but the whole course. And racers had been churning it to bits for hours. It was a 1.6-mile loop of slippery, off-camber muckfest. A thick, gooey mud that clung to the rear triangle and the front fork/brake pad area to prevent the tires from rolling. On the back side was a treacherous downhill slip-n-slide leading up to a knee-high barrier and a steep, rooty, run-down followed by a horrendous run-up bolstered by railroad ties spaced way too far apart.

In case you're not familar, cyclocross was started a couple hundred years ago when some drunk Belgian decided he wanted to ride his skinny-tired road bike around some steep, muddy, off-camber, hairpin turns, occasionally getting off to carry the bike over several obstacles. For some reason, modern cyclists have continued the tradition, although installing narrow knobby tires for slightly better traction and wearing colorful spandex skinsuits to distinguish themselves for the spectators.

I flailed around the course like a beginner, unable to pull off a decent remount and stabbing repeatedly at my pedals before finally clipping in. My Michelin Muds served me well, as I could spin through sections that others had to walk or "run" (this amounted to sliding backward twice as far as you went forward, resulting in three times the effort to make progress--I experienced this myself numerous times until I quite trying to run and just walked).

I slipped and nearly fell on the first barrier; I learned my lesson and just walked all the rest. There was a side-sloping fenceline where spectators gathered to heckle and jeer. I had the most success riding high, right next to the fence, but always faltered at some point. I overheard one of the hecklers talking about someone who grabbed onto the fence and used it to stay steady and upright--I tried it and it worked!

Hecklers also shouted instructions, encouragement and insults from one of the offcamber hairpins--one that you approached in an out-of-control downhill direction then had to somehow shift your momentum uphill and around the corner without falling down or sliding into the row of spectators. On the third lap, I thought about dismounting and handing my bike to the loudest heckler and saying, "here, you do it."

But he probably already had.

Adventures in Hotel Huffys

Let's face it: as cyclists, we're constantly sizing up other cyclists (and their bikes) and categorizing them. There's the newbie commuter in street clothes on a big-box "mountain" bike, the wanna-be pro racer who rides to work in full team kit, the homeless guy towing all his belongings and a bag of cans in a homemade trailer, the social/fitness riders riding three up on mid-level road bikes, etc. Then there's the ultimate sizer-upper of all, the Bike Snob.

It's human nature to scope out other people and establish where you fit into the hierarchy. I graduated to clipless pedals quite some time ago, now ride a fairly nice bike, and even own a team kit (although I refrain from wearing it on simple errand-running missions), I think I fit into a category of relatively nondescript cyclists seen in cities across the nation.

Due to the nature of my job--I spend three nights every week in hotels (a different hotel each night) and traveling with a bike is not a viable option--when I get the opportunity to ride a bike provided by the hotel, I take it. A bike greatly expands the territory available to explore and gives me an outdoor exercise alternative to running.

Invariably, hotel owned bikes are heavy and of poor to mediocre quality, often having come from big-box retailers and even more often not receiving any regular maintenance. On a good day, the tires are hard and the chain is freshly coated in WD40. I seldom have room to pack a helmet and cycling clothes and so end up tootling out of the hotel parking lot in whatever workout clothes I ferreted out of my rollerbag--usually a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt or running top, a sports jacket if it's cool. And the hotel-issued helmet which almost never fits properly despite being of the "one-size-fits-all" variety. Dorked out to the max.

When I ride, I usually give a nod or a wave to fellow riders. But dressed as such, I try to remember that my exterior does not reveal my inner cyclist. I am not in the club. The kit-clad roadies have me squarely pegged in the "newbie commuter" hole and even though I could drop most of them on a good long climb, I'll get no respect with my current appearance. So I keep my head down and pedal on by.

I've even been known to take questionable hotel bikes on mildly inappropriate adventures. In Spokane I discovered a park with dirt trails just off the Centennial Trail. I quickly accepted that the rugged singletrack was beyond the performance of the machine I was riding, but that didn't stop me from riding to the top of a steep, rough, dirt road. The combination of suspect brakes and the too-wide seat that prevented me from shifting my weight back made the descent quite an adventure.

The rusty clunker from the Travelodge in Sidney, BC, carried me to the top of a small mountain where I locked it up to run on the summit trails. In Medford, I once took the three-speed city cruiser on a rolling, 14-mile round-trip journey to Jacksonville.

Moral of the story: all Huffy riders are not as they seem.