Festive 500 Part 1: Christmas Eve

Anticipation has built, plans have been laid, preparations have been made and the time to embark on Rapha's annual Festive 500 challenge has arrived!  If you don't know what the Festive 500 is all about, consult my previous post or Rapha's website for details.  

The weather appeared promising the night before but the outlook had improved as India and I sipped our coffee on the morning of Christmas Eve.  The chance of rain had dropped from 50% to less than 15% with a realistic possibility of seeing some sun!  The day looked perfect for a longish winter ride so the plan for an almost-completely-flat 100km jaunt out to Troutdale along with mighty Columbia River, south to the aptly-named municipality of Boring and back to Portland was put into action.  

We rolled out the door and headed north to the Marine Drive bike path under partly cloudy skies and in good spirits.

The bike path along the Columbia River is always prime birdwatching territory and we spotted an impressive tally of winged specimens that included four hawks, two kestrels, two blue herons, one white heron and countless ducks and gulls on our trip east.  After 25km of bike path cruising we arrived in Troutdale, gateway to the Columbia Gorge and home to outlet malls, truckstops and one seriously shitty hill.

The climb up Buxton Rd. from Troutdale's main drag is only four or five blocks long but the last couple are seriously steep and have thrown many a big wrench into the quadriceps of riders out for an easy, flat ride.  India was not thrilled as she started up the slope.  She managed the climb with grace and a good cadence despite her lack of recent mileage and cyclocross-holdover single-chainring gearing.

We got over the hump and onto the rolling hills of Troutdale Road to make our way south to the booming metropolis of Boring, Oregon and disturbed a flock of birds while blinded by the glare of sun on wet road.

I had admittedly forgotten about some of the nasty rollers on the southbound stretch of this particular road and was forced into my bottom gear several times to maintain a reasonable spin and stay in the saddle.  Winter Training Rule #6: No Riding Out of the Saddle Until March.

We arrived in Boring at the terminus of the Springwater Corridor trail, marked with a white silhouette of the Nativity...

...and splashed into the semi-flooded first sections of the Springwater, which are still blessedly unpaved despite recent transportation and recreation "improvements."  Here's to budget cuts and gravel trails!

We took the horse trail detour for a little slick tire slip-n-slide, hoping not to run into any spooky equines out for a Christmas Eve trot or unavoidable piles of droppings.  Fortunately, we had the trail to ourselves and emerged with turd-free tires.

After the seemingly interminable and nearly arrow-straight run into Portland on the rails-to-trails conversion and with just over 80km in the bag for the day, we stopped in to see our friend Kristina at Metropolis Cycle Repair who had promised bourbon and cider on Christmas Eve.  She was true to her word and served up a tasty beverages along with red velvet cupcakes, creating a perfect combination of fat, sugar, warmth, spice and alcohol in my empty belly.  Mmm... Bulleit...

We hung out, shot the shit with Kristina and coworker Matt, perused some of Metropolis's offerings and allowed our bottoms to enjoy some welcome time off the saddle before finishing the ride home.  I could have stayed the afternoon sipping another cup of cider, watched the parade of riders on Williams while fondling fancy gloves, sunglasses and 'cross bikes but there were other errands to run before Christmas Eve relaxing could begin.

Before we were able to make it out the door, Kristina managed to shove a pair of shop-branded water bottles and beer cozies into our hands, making us feel like sponsored pros and putting a smile on both of our faces.  India's happens to be more photogenic.

She rode home to a warm shower and solid food as I headed on farther North to take care of Ira and Rachel's cat Peanut Butter who is spending the holidays at home alone, which is pretty much okay with him.  He is a handsome little bastard and spends lots of time admiring his reflection in other people's camera lenses when his parents aren't in town.

We had a beer, talked about what kind of bike Jesus would ride, developed thoughtful solutions to couple of the more pressing problems facing our society and hung out in boxes.  It was pretty much an average afternoon for gentlemen of leisure like ourselves.

Unfortunately, I had to excuse myself from Peanut's company to finish my rounds and still get home before dark.  First to the local booze emporium for a bottle of vodka to pour in our Christmas Bloody Marys and then to our friend (and fellow native Georgian) Mike's beer-selling establishment for a 6-pack of fine winter ale.  After I emptied my overstuffed jersey pockets of their contents - 750ml of Stolichnaya (yes, it fit), a jar of stuffed olives, phone, cash, ID, camera, uneaten Clif bar, empty PB&J bag and gloves - we installed beers in our new cozies and toasted a proper ride on Christmas Eve!

India was already showered and at work in the kitchen getting our breakfast casserole ready for tomorrow morning and I was excited to strip off the lycra, shower off and put my legs up to recover.  Sadly, that would all have to wait.  True to my usual form, I had missed a message asking me to stop by the local bakery and pick up a roll of their take-and-bake puff pastry for a holiday delicacy.  So, I was promptly turned back out into the cold and told not to come back without a roll of dough.  By the time I returned from my final errand of the afternoon I had tallied a hair under 98km, just shy of my goal of 100km for the first day of the challenge.  Not too shabby.

Tomorrow is Christmas and anybody who chooses to spend more of the day riding than they do hanging out in warm clothes with family, friends and pets has their priorities a little out of whack.  So, we'll be getting out on the bike for a relaxed cruise along some of our favorite close-to-town roads but keeping the distance and tempo moderate and comfortable.

Here are today's stats, which represent totals for the challenge so far.  Follow along to see the kilometers, calories and hours pile up in the next eight days!

Training to Train: A Prelude to the Festive 500

You know you're pretty far out of shape when training is required before actual training can begin and that's the situation I found myself in this December.  Other than my regular rides for transportation, I hadn't been on my bike since the last Cyclocross Crusade of the season when I ripped my rear derailleur in half and was forced to pull out of a muddy race that I was riding well in.  My year of racing ended with that moment and the sound of cracking carbon fiber.  I was demoralized by the catastrophic mechanical, without funding for replacement components and ready to spend some quality time with family before setting back into training for 2013 so I fully embraced the idea of the off-season.  Now - after a mostly healthy but sometimes unhealthy period of nearly a month spent relaxing off the bike - the time has come to shake out the cobwebs and get back in the saddle.

Inspiration and motivation can be hard to come by this time of year when the clouds hang low, days are painfully short and the sun doesn't seem to come out at all.  In order to spur myself to get out the door and onto the roads, I've decided to participate in Rapha's Festive 500 to lay down a block of quality base miles in a season when most of my competitors would be lazing on the couch.  The goal for the challenge is to ride 500km (no rollers or trainers allowed) between Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve to avoid falling too deeply into the slothful season; a sizeable but not impossible tally of distance that requires an average of 62.5km (just less than 40 miles) for each of the eight days.  Despite the apparently achievable distance, I'm going to need a little preparation to have a chance of successfully completing the Festive 500 without doing myself more harm than good.

I wasn't feeling too enthusiastic about getting out on the bike when I woke to near-freezing temperatures and a thick, gray sky one week before Christmas.  But then the snow started to fall.  Snow is such a novelty in Portland - the land of the rainy, sunless 40-degree winter - that it actually made the prospect of being out on a bike more enticing than before.  I resolved to finish my breakfast, layer myself in lycra, take to the road to explore this wintertime anomaly and put in a couple of hours to loosen the legs.  After the snow shower slowed and the clouds lifted slightly I was treated to a view of the West Hills dusted with white and knew I had to get myself up there, up in the woods of Forest Park.

Even though I love to climb, the inevitable bone-chilling descents on wet, mossy roads typically keep me confined to the lowlands during all but the warmest and driest winter days, but this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.  After all, winter training (unless you're in Mallorca, Australia or Southern California) is about hardening the will along with the legs.  The rider in those sunny climes may return with intimidating tan lines but the pale-skinned who trains through the worst that winter has to offer starts the season with a finely-honed mental toughness that is less visible but sharper.  This is the time when we re-learn how to suffer after an off-season spent in comfortable lethargy.  So, into the snowy hills we go.

I saddled up and pedaled north to cross the St. Johns Bridge into an aggressive headwind blowing in from the West.  Once in the shadow of the hills the wind abated and I made quick progress along Highway 30 to the base of Saltzman Road.  A light rain began to fall just as I made the turn off the highway onto the first uphill stretch of pavement.  I knew my body temperature would rise as I climbed faster than the temperature would drop so I rolled back the earflap of my cap and cracked the collar of my jacket to allow the 36-degree breeze to cool my core.  I was obliged to fully unzip the jacket before I rounded the second corner.

The precipitation transitioned from rain into a wet, icy mix as I splashed through the muddy puddle - present in all but the driest times of year - on the left of the Saltzman gate.  I put the pavement and city behind me in favor of the mud and trees.  Every time I ride in Forest Park this line of demarcation precipitates a nearly instantaneous change in my mood.  The grit-your-teeth-and-get-it-over-with run across the St. Johns Bridge and down the industrial highway isn't always the most pleasant way to start a ride - especially on a Tuesday morning when all the dump trucks and semis are out in full force - but any angst accumulated during those few miles floats away like steam through helmet vents once tires strike dirt and tree branches reach across the road overhead.

The falling slush began to freeze a little tighter and had begun to accumulate on roadside ferns and fallen leaves as the road climbed away from the river.  I spun my lowest gear, kept my effort and heart rate in check to prevent overheating and the chill that comes from generating too much sweat on a near-freezing day.

Before I had gained 500 feet of elevation the snow had really begun to collect on the roadside leaves and fell in wet, heavy flakes on my shoulders.  The road was still a soggy bog but the beauty in the trees kept me from thinking too much about my skinny tires sinking into the slop.

The snow got thicker farther up the climb but still wasn't accumulating on the road.

Ira recently wrote that a full wool cap is too warm for Portland.  I'm inclined to agree until the temperatures drop into the low thirties!  My wool cap from Little Package was the perfect choice for this day; never too hot on the climb and kept the snowflakes out of my eyes.

The snow grew thicker and began to encroach on the road with around a kilometer left to climb.  

Two tracks diverged in a wood.  Turns out they were both mine.

I plowed my way through an inch or two of snow to reach the summit, crossed through the gate, dodged the slushy potholes on the access road and arrived at Skyline Blvd where a heavy winter stillness hung in the air.  Snow covered everything in a light blanket that blended seamlessly into the dull white of the clouded-over sky.

The road only had a light coat of snow and some tire tracks to follow so I tested the traction and decided to give the pavement a go.  I kept my speed in check and chose cautious lines but still felt a bit anxious on the frosty asphalt.  I didn't expect much traffic as Portlanders are terrified of driving in snowy conditions but neglected to take the Christmas shipping season into account.  Over just a little more than a kilometer on Skyline I was passed closely by no fewer than three delivery trucks.  I also witnessed an SUV spinning its wheels in an attempt to climb out of its driveway.

I wasn't enjoying sharing the road with nervous drivers and overworked package carriers.  The prospect of navigating the downhill ramps and tight corners of Thompson Road on a frosting of shaved ice didn't sound so appealing either so I made the decision to take my chances descending in the slush and mud of Saltzman where I could at least feel confident that I wouldn't be run over by a speeding delivery van if I did lose traction.  I turned myself around, backtracked to the snowy park entrance and followed my tracks back down the hill.

The only other mammals I had seen on the ascent had been the chilly-looking squirrels, but I passed a dog-walking couple and a young lady out for a run as I started down the hill.  They all looked a bit surprised to see me but smiled and waved back in an expression of shared excitement.

A little farther down I passed a pair of fellow cyclists on their way up and felt a hint of satisfaction at having laid down the first tire tracks on the snowy road that morning.

My fingers and toes began to get chilled on the descent - despite my insulated gloves and shoe covers - but my head and core stayed warm all the way to the bottom.  I'll be sure to tape over the vents in the soles of my shoes before the next cold ride!  A weak ray of sunshine greeted me as I re-emerged onto Highway 30 and headed towards downtown Portland to finish the ride with a cruise through the Northwest Industrial area and the Pearl District before crossing the Broadway Bridge and heading home.

The numbers are less than inspiring but I was happy to have tallied two good hours on the bike (plus a little extra time for taking photos and looking around in awe at the snowy scenery) in proper winter weather and gained a bit of confidence heading into the Festive 500.  Now for a quick clean of the bike, a good stretch and a steak-egg-and-cheese burrito for a solid protein fix!

I'll be posting stories and photos from the upcoming challenge on this blog and my flickr page, with the chance of some occasional tweets from the road to spice things up.  Follow along and be sure to get out and ride yourself this winter to start the new year off right!

American Powers in Europe

As our two main presidential candidates bicker about America's role in the world and the relative merits of their own foreign policy ideas, we have heard almost no discussion of the rapidly-evolving situation in Europe.  We've heard their ideas about how to counter Chinese command of international trade, how to ensure that our young people have the education and resources needed to compete with the best and brightest minds and reestablish America's place as a leader in world affairs, but neither man has stood up to address the weighty problem of Belgian dominance in the newly internationalized sport of cyclocross. With the United States hosting the first non-European World Championships in Louisville this February we need a leader who is willing to take a stand and deliver concrete results, who is able to step boldly into the fray to challenge the Belgians on their own ground and beat them at their own game.  The man we need for this job is not running for national office this November, isn't campaigning in swing states on a bus tour, but can often be seen wearing the American flag.  That man is Jeremy Powers.

Image © Photopress.be

The Rapha-Focus rider is clearly on a tear.  After the stellar 2011-12 season where Powers won nearly every stateside race he entered, dominated the US Gran Prix of Cyclocross and put in a commanding ride at the National Championships in Madison to capture the Stars-and-Stripes jersey that had previously eluded him, many riders would have been happy to continue dominating American races and content themselves with the role of national 'cross hero.  However, Powers has other ideas and greater ambitions for himself and the future of American cyclocross.  These ambitions were on display last Sunday in Tabor where Powers laid out his foreign policy agenda, went toe-to-toe with the entrenched Flemish superpowers on a classic Euro-style course and delivered a groundbreaking best-ever finish in a World Cup cyclocross race for an American.  Even the highly partisan Sporza commentators agreed that Jeremy Powers has indeed arrived on the international scene.

After his second-row start just behind the rainbow stripes of Neils Albert, Powers found himself in the scrum of the main field, riding shoulder-to-shoulder in a fight for position through the tight s-bends of the Tabor course while the lead group of usual suspects rode smoothly in single-file, establishing a slight gap and conserving precious energy.  On the second lap, Powers was running in 14th position while Sven Nys pushed the pace ever higher at the front, forcing the rest of the field to dig deep to hold his wheel.  Only Lars Van Der Haar, Klaas Vantornout and Kevin Pauwels seemed able to match the accelerations of the Belgian Champion.  Despite his flying start and obvious good form, Nys' race looked to be over with seven laps still to go when he suffered a broken chain.  Unflappable as always, the cool-headed veteran casually coasted his Colnago toward the pits as the race was took shape without him.  Van Der Haar led a group of five - now including Neils Albert and Czech upstart Radomir Simunek - while Powers worked his way through the chase group 20 seconds off the pace.  After trading his carbon-fiber hobby-horse for a proper chain-driven machine, Nys showcased his strength and skill in a methodical assault on the field, picking his way through twenty-odd top professionals as if they were lapped traffic.

Image © Photopress.be

By the time the Cannibal from Baal joined the chase group, Powers had moved to the front of the pack and was driving the chase, fighting to keep the gap to the leaders under the critical 30-second mark.  The Europeans were happy to let the Yankee test his strength in an effort to close the gap and he received little help at the fore.  Powers managed to pull his group to within sight of the escapees, creating the possibility for riders to attempt to bridge the gap.  Nys hung around in the bunch for long enough to catch his breath before striking out on his own in pursuit of the leaders in the final laps.  Seeing the opportunity, Powers gamely attempted to follow the wheel of the Belgian master.  Try as he might, the American champion was clearly outmatched and quickly dropped by Nys, who went on to pick off Simenuk for a solid fifth-place finish.  Powers - whose legs were suffering the ill effects of the early fight for position and his efforts leading the chase for nearly half the race - was nipped by Bart Aernouts in the sprint for sixth but was clearly pleased with his finish.

Despite the personal and national history that Powers made with his strong ride, the Belgian armada was intractable as ever in Tabor.  Powers and Van Der Haar were the only non-Belgian finishers in the top eight and Sven Nys showed that he was clearly the strongest man in the field and is still a powerful force to be reckoned with despite (or perhaps due to) his age.  Despite the possibiliy that he may not have the skills, fitness or tactical accumen to go head-to-head with Nys, we did see that the unbeatable form Powers exhibited in the first rounds of the USGP this season is good enough to propel him to new heights in Europe while continuing to break down barriers and make history.  After seeing what he was able to do in this first round of the UCI World Cup, we're still left with some exciting questions about the rest of Powers' season.  What could he achieve with a front-row start?  Could we see him on the podium of a World Cup this season?  What could he do in Louisville if he is able to maintain his strong form and things go his way?  Is he the best-poised rider to prevent another Belgian podium sweep at Worlds?

Despite all these questions and the pressure on his shoulders, Powers remains upbeat and enthusiastic.  He currently sits in 10th position on UCI points and will hope to add to his total as the season progresses to secure the best possible starting position in the stacked grid in Louisville.  His stated goal for this European campaign is a top-five World Cup finish and he'll have perhaps his best chance tomorrow in Plzen on a course where he has performed admirably in the past.  His 10th-place finish last year was his best World Cup result to that date and he stands well-poised to better that result when he takes the start on Sunday.

No matter who is in the White House this February, American 'cross fans can rest assured that Jeremy Powers stands ready to represent the United States at the highest level of international cyclocross and in Louisville at the culmination of this already historic season. Now, if we can just get him to leave that toadstool helmet in his hotel room...

Shred Camp Day 2: North Fork to Flagline

Day one was supposed to have been the warm-up.  It was supposed to have been a mellow cruise to stretch our legs, acclimate to the high-desert trail conditions and build some confidence for a serious ride into the hills on day two.  Instead, we all rode about ten miles more than we wanted to and by the time Chris and I made it home from our after-hours caper down Phil's Whoops we had clocked over 50 miles in the saddle.  As we had already done a pretty good job of murdering our friends on one unnecessarily long and difficult day, we agreed to a slight scaling-back of the plan for day two of our Oregon Shred Camp.  The main objective still remained: scaling the daunting 4.5-mile climb from Tumalo Falls on the North Fork trail, then connect to the Metolius-Windigo and Flagline trails for a traverse through alpine meadows before a roaring descent on the South Fork trail.  This loop is a rare treat as a large section of the Flagline trail is closed until August 15 to protect fragile elk calving grounds.  The window of time between that date and the time the snow flies at 7,000 feet is short and we were compelled to seize the opportunity.  India and I might get a chance next year, but Chris and Laura may never get another shot if we didn't make it happen today.  It was going to hurt, but we were getting our asses out of town and into the boonies, physical torment be damned!  In the interest of fun over collecting maximum suffer points, we chose to load up the car and gas it out to the Skyliners trailhead rather than saddle up for the 20-or-so extra miles necessary to complete the ride from town.  This departure from our regular "we'll-just-ride-from-the-house-road-miles-don't-count-anyway" attitude felt a little unnatural, but was valuable practice at making smart riding decisions. 

India was happy to have fresh legs at the trailhead.

We pedaled our warm-up miles on the Tumalo Creek trail, heading westward towards the falls where we made use of the facilities, topped up our stores of water and prepared ourselves for the long climb out of the valley.  We headed up the gravelly trail to the overlook and paused to take in the scene. 

Laura reaches the Tumalo Falls overlook.

The View.  Sort of okay...

After soaking in all the natural beauty we could stomach, we pointed our machines westward and upward to continue the climb.  Our progress was slow, not because of our mediocre climbing abilities but because of all the damn waterfalls that kept popping up alongside the trail.  I'm not sure how we could be expected to descend fully into our respective pain caves when we're constantly being yanked out of the darkness to look at scenes of snowmelt cascading over basalt between the desert pines.  If you count the big-daddy of Tumalo Falls, we put our feet down to stare in oxygen-deprived wonder at something like seven different waterfalls.  Pretty frustrating, I'll say.  

Look guys, a waterfall!

Seriously, another waterfall?

Finally, the trail took a turn to the Southwest and we left the distractions of Tumalo Creek for a sparse pine forest and some quality time in the suffer zone.  The misery of climbing could really begin now that we had our sightseeing out of the way, or so we thought.  

India spins her way up through the forest.

Laura manages to fake a smile or I snuck up on her and scared it out of her.

Shit, is that another waterfall?  I can't go on like this.

We emerged from the tree-covered hillside trail into a marshy creek bed criss-crossed by a series of log bridges.  We practiced our bridge hopping and dropping skills, splashed the dust and sweat off our faces with icy creek water and proceeded onward.  We still had plenty of climbing yet to come before we reached the fabled calving grounds where we hoped to spot some elk still hanging around with their calves.

India demonstrates proper bridge riding form by looking ahead rather than at the natural beauty all around.  Look where you want to go.

We passed by a group of spandex-clad "fitness riders" standing around chatting as if they were sipping espresso outside of a cafe before the weekly club ride, took our left turn onto the Metolius-Windigo trail and continued the uphill grind into the sky.  

Chris managed the climb handily aboard his monster-truck 29er.

When we popped out of the forest into a broad expanse of alpine meadow, the scenic grandeur finally got the better of Chris.  He tossed his bike down in annoyance at the constant diversion from watching his heart rate zones and focusing on belly breathing.  We probably should have gone on a road ride...

India climbs above the meadow.

We traversed a few miles in this fashion, up and down between stands of pine and meadow floors, with a couple of creek crossings of various size.  

India gets hub-deep on this one.

We also found some snow.

With all of Mother Nature's distractions, we would have a snowball's-chance-in-August of enjoying the rest of this ride.  Turns out, that's a pretty good chance.

India and Laura traversing the meadowlands.  See any elk?

We also found more snow.  It required a serious class-4 snow scramble, but thanks to the superior vertical stiffness of my carbon-soled cycle-slippers I was able to manage it.

Shortly after we exited the meadowlands the hungers started to hit.  Even though we aren't so great at pre-ride planning, India and I are really good at bringing lots of food and a solid lunch on trail rides.  If we're carrying backpacks anyway, we might as well put something good to eat in there rather than subsisting on science food and trail dust all day long.  We found a sunny patch of grass, kicked off our shoes and settled in for a proper trailside meal.  

Mmm.  Turkey Sandwich.

We are also quite adept at murdering bags of chips.

After we had polished off our victuals and lounged in the sun a while longer, the group consciousness inevitably shifted towards thinking about beer.  Of course, none of us had the foresight to bring beer with us so we would have to continue our ride and descend back to the stocked cooler waiting in the car.  But that's why we came all the way up here, right?  Along with experiencing novel and more horrible forms of suffering on the 3,000-foot climb, we pedaled our asses out into the boonies for the indescribable ecstasy of ripping downhill through a high-desert forest on a foot-wide singletrack, pedaling not because you have to but because you can go faster, feeling the edge of traction drifting through corners as tree trunks zip past your handlebars while thought-vision blurs into a stream of gray, brown, blue and green where the only things that matter are the trail and the patch of rubber where your wheels meet it.  

I didn't take many pictures during the descent, but did take a break to document the ladies conquering a rocky drop-in.  

India demonstrates why you don't grab a fistful of front brake over the front of a drop.  Yikes!  The low-and-narrow bars of Fly - her twitchy XC racehorse - don't help either.  She managed to stay in control and rode away cleanly.  

Laura shows proper form, loose and relaxed with weight over the back wheel.  Georgia smooth.

After the rolling descent down the Flagline trail, the crew paused at the trail junction to discuss the finish of our ride.  After looking at the map, we elected to skip the South Fork descent and proceed West along Swede Ridge to end our adventure with a descent of the Whoops trail that Chris and I had ridden but not seen the evening prior.  Spirits were high, and a few more miles of extra riding (mostly downhill) sounded like a good idea.

Shred buddies at the Swede Ridge shelter.

Once again, I was too busy struggling to hold Chris's wheel on the descent of Upper and Lower Whoops to take any photos and plenty has been written about the radness of these trails.  We got rad, practiced our jump skills, and arrived at the bottom with stupid grins on our dusty faces.  

India doing her best Frida Kahlo impersonation.

India and I did some clip-hops over a pile of dirt, then set out to pedal the pavement back to Skyliners trailhead and collect the car and cooler while Chris and Laura enjoyed a well-deserved rest.  We returned with a trunkful of beverages, toasted our suffering ability and descending prowess, and loaded the car up for the windows-down cruise back to town for showers, beers and a brewpub dinner.  

Shred Camp Day 1: Bend

"These poor fools.  They have no idea what they're getting themselves into," I thought to myself as we rolled into the Portland airport Wednesday evening in our sagged-out sedan bristling with bicycles and stuffed with all manner of adventure supplies.  It was sometime after 10pm when we collected Chris and Laura from the terminal, tossed them into the backseat and headed east toward the dry side of the Cascades and the mountain bike megalopolis of Bend, Oregon.  Being a highly experienced trans-Cascadian midnight driver, India settled into the captain's chair and banged out the entire journey in one monster pull behind the wheel.  We arrived in Bend sometime after 2am, tossed bikes into the garage, knocked back a beverage or two and hit the sack for some well-deserved rest after a long day of traveling.  The beatings would commence promptly the next day.  

The plan was for a mellow, 15-20 mile cruise at Phil's Trails on the edge of town where we would explore the network of swoopy singletrack, get a feel for the dry, dusty summer conditions and loosen our legs up for a longer, more epic-er ride on the following day.  We suited up, adjusted tire pressure, installed smiles on our faces and rolled out.  

For those who haven't been to Phil's Trails, they are a winding spirograph of criss-crossing dirt where any ambitious rider could ride until exhaustion without being more than 10 miles from downtown Bend.  We headed in with no map, no plan and a full tank of excitement to ride some classic high-desert trails.  

I was looking sharp, as usual in my classic Loose Nuts jersey.

The ladies were feeling chummy and happy to be riding together again.  India and Laura have been shred buddies since they started riding off road way back in Athens, GA.

India rode some rocks...

then critiqued Chris's form over the chunky stuff.  Clearly, he's doing it wrong.

Laura got rad, then got a little too rad and stuffed it in a dusty corner.  High desert moon dust is good for the complexion.

We navigated with caprice and intuition, hoping to wander around for a while before finding our way to the top of Phil's legendary Whoops trail, a rollicking downhill joyride of jumps, bumps and berms that would be a perfect finish to our first day on the trails.  We didn't think we could manage to get ourselves lost in a  However, the trail gods were feeling mischievous and sent us down a track to the southern end of the network, far from the the Whoops trail and even farther from food and beverages.  We managed to have some fun along the way, but the going got rough somewhere close to mile 30 when supplies of water and food dwindled or ran out entirely.  The ladies were getting hangry, Chris and I were sharing the last drops of water in my hydration bladder and everyone agreed that we needed to get the heck out of there and to a brewpub in a hurry, Whoops be damned.  Just in time to salvage the last drops of morale and pedaling impetus from our dusty and bedraggled crew we found our way to somewhere that looked familiar, got the heck out of the woods and pounded the pavement back to our abode for a quick cleanup of bikes and bodies before the zombie trudge to 10-Barrel's fabulous brewhouse where delicious combinations of meat, starch, hops and malt were consumed with zest.  Chris and I made plans to return to the trails later that afternoon to get our dose of whoopiness, but returned to the house with full bellies and tired legs.  Siesta time called out to us and we were powerless to resist. 

When Chris rousted me from my slumber sometime around 5:30, I looked up at the sun-filled heavens and begged for a few more minutes of bliss in my laid-back lawn chair before our trip back to the trails.  When I finally got my ass in gear and into baggies, the sky had turned dusky and India reminded me to take lights.  "We won't be out long enough to need these, but I'll take them to make her feel better," I thought.  I had forgotten to consider the fact that the sun sets rapidly in the desert and the top of Phil's Whoops was 10 uphill miles away.  Chris and I kept the pace hot, racing the last bits of daylight until the morning's ride caught up with us and we were forced to slow it down or risk blowing up altogether.  Then came the 3-mile slog up a powdery fire road to the top of the trail.  If you've ever ridden mountain bikes with Mr. Chris Tavel you probably know that he hates climbing, especially on fire roads.  I'm sure there have been some terrible ascents in Chris's past but that evening's climb must have been among his least favorite of all time.  Ask him about it sometime.

When we finally reached the top in the last minutes of twilight and looked down the trail that twisted into the darkness between the trees, we knew we'd be descending in the dark.  Sweet.  We had left a warm house full of food, beer and pretty ladies, thrashed ourselves until we could hardly pedal anymore, dragged our asses up a double-track covered in 3 inches of chalky dust to the top of a ripping descent that we won't even be able to see.  Nice work, dumbass.  The temperature of the parched air was dropping rapidly and the forest wasn't getting any lighter, so we dropped in and used our zen master skills to navigate the swooping berms and invisible tabletops of the shapeless gray path through the black forest.  Whoops, indeed.  Somehow, we made it to the bottom unscathed.  I pulled the little 3-LED headlight out of my jersey pocket, affixed it to the handlebars thinking, "I'm sure glad India made me bring this thing," and we set about picking our way out of the woods.  After cussing our way down rocks and roots banging our shins, toes and knees on Ben's trail for who knows how far we came to a fire road, took a left and arrived at the pavement that would take us downhill and back to town.  Despite the warmth of our relief and the heat still radiating from the asphalt, the chill in the air bit through our short-sleeve jerseys as we mashed our big rings towards home, taking turns at the front like breakaway companions.  

We retured to a couple of mildly worried ladies with our tale of foolishness and pointless suffering, enjoyed a couple of beverages to take the edge off and made ready to hit the sack.  We had been in Bend less than 24 hours and already had over 50 miles in our legs.  So much for starting off easy with a mellow leg-stretcher on the first day...  We were all feeling pretty beat up and the prospect of a truly "epic" ride tomorrow had everyone a little worried.  To avoid repeating the mistakes of today, we opened the map, agreed on a solid plan and tucked the trail map safely into a hydration pack for trailside reference.  I assured our sturdy crew that the trails would be radder, the views grander and the whole ride generally awesome-er than anything that we had ridden today and went to sleep dreaming of elk in alpine meadows.  

The Trail Gods Made Me Do It: A Prelude to Shred Camp

Over the last three years or so of adventuring in the wilds of the Northwest, India and I have developed a persistent habit of getting ourselves in over our heads when we head for the woods on two wheels.  Through a combination of overconfidence, under-planning, audacity and plain ignorance we have set out on and somehow survived some truly absurd but occasionally revelatory bike rides.  

This April, we set out to ride the East Fork Hood River Trail.  We were itching for a mountain bike ride and the trail looked to be at a low enough elevation that it wouldn't be covered by snow.  Foolishly, we did no further research.  As we quickly discovered, the trail had been completely washed off the riverside by a massive flood that came through several years ago and dragged an entire campground away with the trail attached.  

We portaged our bikes upstream over under and through scattered trees in the flood zone hoping to find a clear section of singletrack on the other side of the disaster area.  We passed by the remains of trail bridges, campground picnic tables and other chunks of man's feeble infrastructure that the swollen river had tossed aside like so many Lego bricks.

Eventually, the fact that the trail truly did not exist anymore became clear.  By the time we stubbornly conceded this reality we had gone too far to warrant turning back, so we looked at the map and decided to make for a gravel road that paralleled the trail on the eastern side.  After a cross-country hike-a-bike through the trackless woods, we found the road that appeared to offer an easy exit.  Not half a mile up the road, we hit snow.  Then it got deeper.  

We postholed and pushed our bikes through the crusty slush and the boggy roadside ditches for at least four miles until we emerged to the highway.  

We have plenty of other tales of ill-concieved death marches that I won't bore you with today, but I relate this one little story to illustrate the fact that anybody who blindly follows India and I on a bike ride is a damn fool and had better have a taste for prolonged periods of suffering and discomfort.  Most of the poor souls who have had the misfortune to ride with us can attest to the fact that rides we strike out on tend to be longer, harder and more painful than anticipated, advertised or necessary.  Despite repeated adventures of similar style, we haven't learned to plan more carefully or do extra research but have adapted by carrying more food and water and increasing our threshold for misery.  It's a fact of our lives that we've grown to accept and have learned to compensate for.  

Unfortunately, Chris and Laura - our old friends from down south - haven't ridden with us in recent times and were at least mostly unaware of the terror they would soon face when they packed bikes and boarded flights to Oregon for several days of mountain bike rides this August.  India and I were left to plan the itinerary, placing our poor friends at the mercy of the cruel-hearted trail gods who drag our fingers in Ouija board fashion across dotted lines on maps.  What will soon follow is the story of those four days: Cascade Shred Camp 2012.  Don't forget your compass and space blanket, we might to be out a while.

Rapha NW Gentlemen's Race 2012

Last weekend, India and I joined a band of miscreants connected to the shadowy organization known as VeloDirt for a little bike ride up around Mount Hood.  This little bike ride happened to be the 2012 Rapha NW Gentlemen's Race and would take our team of six over a 121 mile course and up 12,000 feet of climbing.  The story of our day's adventure can be found on the VeloDirt website, penned and photographed by yours truly.  It was a great day and a resounding success on all accounts.  

More photos from the ride are up on the Flickr page.  Check out Jason's flickr as well as John Prolly's gallery for some other views of the day.

Tomorrow we head to Bend for a mountain bike vacation with some old friends from down south.  Look for stories and photos from our fat-tired adventures very soon.