2006 SIR 300 km Ride Report

Another 300 km Hood Canal Brevet: The Day of Vanishing Riders
Previous experience has taught me that this ride can really be a battle. Memories of torrential rain and fixed gears; cadence a bit too high on the ascents and far too low on the descents... so this time, I opt for a single speed. Three times I've ridden this route, one geared, one fixed and now one SS. I feel like this is the magic balance. The day starts fine as I cruise in my orange VW bus "Jerry" down to the start. Thinking I'm a smart guy, I find that the free parking that used to exist in Winslow has been taken over by gawd-awful developments of every sort. I resort to parking right at the ferry terminal and have to pay $15 for over 12 hours of parking because I don't have any one dollar bills. Well, good thing I bring most of my own food. I get there early enough to get dressed and decide to go lighter this time as the weather is looking better every minute. The sunrise was glorious and I've already scoped out the route from Hadlock to Bainbridge on the commute. Wind is calm over the Canal, so things are looking up. A huge stream of reflective, fendered, rain jacket wearing riders comes surging off the ferry and collect at the Bainbridge Bike Barn. I see Bob Brudvick who I haven't run into for a long time as this is my first early season in two years. He pulled me through a henious 600 km ride in 2002 and we had some awesome times in Paris, so it was great to meet up again. Ran into a few other friends and minutes later we were off. Knowing this route and willing to trust my inner instinct, I decided to take it slow and easy to Port Hadlock. The 300 km is my early gauge for fitness this time of year -I'll know how badly the Fleche will pulverize me in two weeks. Met Suzanne bobbing along on her beam bike, and chatted with Patrick Gray for a time. We were talking about handlebars when his suddenly went loose and twisted down... he didn't seem too worried and soon motored off ahead. A good chat with Paul about the economy, Mississippi and Katrina and then he had to stop for a wardrobe change. And that's when the spectre of "vanishing riders" began. After a few years of riding brevets, I'm accustomed to seeing people off and on through the day, but for some reason, this day folks were simply vanishing. It's not that I'm fast or slow, just steady, because I use Kent as a metronome and my computer for backup. I know pretty much when and where he is at any moment on a ride; one, because I've ridden with him enough times to know that he proceeds at an almost exact average pace; and two, because he doesn't waver (much). Today though was different. I had a fine stash of food (two bean/rice/cheese burritos, PB/honey bagel, banana, good chocolate, PayDays, PowerBars and peanuts) and didn't have to spend any time at controls. I do feel guilty about this though, as 60 riders piling though a convenience store with and some poor clerk is scrambling to sign cards and hand out bathroom keys, I feel obligated to contribute, but not this time. I am in and out in under 3 minutes in Hadlock and onto Hoodsport at 09:38. The Olympic Peninsula is my home, so I meet at least 6 other locals on their rides while we cruise to Quilcene. They roads may be lumpy, but they are my roads, and I love them. I finally catch up to Galvin, Kent and Dan and we head down the rolling Center Rd. chatting. And then it happens. Everyone is gone. Just like that. We whip through Quilcene and I ride on while removing my vest and heading to the Mt. Walker climb. It's long but easy, and soon I meet up with Bob again who I haven't seen since the start. We chat about PBP 2007 and the possibility of riding the Raid Alpine together. Then poof, he is gone... Well, it starts to dawn on me that this is a day I will not be enjoying the company of friends for long periods, so I keep rolling. Lots of drainages between the head of the Hood Canal and Hoodsport, so it's just time to pedal on. The gear choice for today is perfect: 39/16, about 65 gear inches. It's enough to keep a good pace on the flats, and not too big on the hills. I am aware of what lies ahead, but having done it on a fixed, I know it will be just enough to survive. Hoodsport comes quickly by 13:23 and I grab some chocolate milk, jojos and Gaucamole chips to savor with my burrito on the road later. I turn onto SR 106 and enjoy the views. It is an absolutely beautiful day in every respect. I think of the two friends I lost in the past month, one I just met this year, one I've know for over 25 years. I thank the mountain gods for giving me another day to savor and revel in the joy of just pedaling with one gear. If this was all there was, it would be good. Tom Brett and I play a sort of tag all day, but he is another one who appears and disappears at odd moments. We were in the first 2002 Shiftless Bums Fleche team together and share some of those sick thoughts while riding reasonably around the Canal's great hook, but then he pulls away. I find a few riders along the stretch to Kay's Corner and spend some time with Thai who's feeling a bit worn, but is saving himself for "the hills". Smart guy. 16:16 I see the circus tent that is our SIR control. Food, dancing and general carrying on ensue, but the merriment must wait. Greg Cox reports his knee is feeling a bit out of sorts and though I'd like to ride with him, I decide it's best for me to suffer these climbs alone. From the first, I know this is going to be a long 3+ hours. The first part of the Tahuya Hills are not bad per se; hills are steep but short. There's really only two aspects of this route I know will test me: the Four Headed Monster: the hill on Seabeck-Holly Rd. (with the chasing dog) and the three Anderson Hills, each progressively harder. With gears, I can motor at minimal speed, but with one, there is a base limit, which is about 8 km per hour. Not fast, but below it I will simply fall over and stop. This is not good. I haven't walked these hills yet and I won't -if I can help it of course. Admittedly, climbing is easier on a fixed gear, but the downhills, not so much. I have spun so high a cadence on fixed that I truly felt that my femurs would separate from my pelvis at around 180 rpm and thus have ended my fixed days. I also am too lazy to pay that much attention on descents and would rather enjoy the extreme rush of silent speed. We all find equilibrium somewhere. Halfway up up Seabeck-Holly Rd. while weaving reduced angles across the entire road, the voice of Tom calls out: "you are an animal". I take whatever ego boost I can at that point, I am not proud. As I crest the top I think, well, that was the easiest of the four... Seabeck is a beacon in the night and you can tell the woman at the counter and the guy near the stove are just plain sorry that you're flogging yourself to death for no apparent reason. 18:50 and it's time to switch the lights on. Here we go... Greg arrives as I head out, but I want to finish as I am getting a bit chilled. I put a jacket on knowing this feeling will pass in short order as I turn left on Anderson Hill Rd. Hill one. Some weaving across the road but OK... Hill two. More determination required...ouch... Hill three. Holy sh*t, I think parts of my intestines are squeezing out between my ribs... A rider comes noodling up from the dark giving encouragement as my lovely Heron and I glance awkwardly back and forth across the road looking for every slight ripple in the road that may gain the most elemental release from the pain. Unlike Kent, I don't count "one, two", I count at four beats per measure, rock and roll style, thinking of nothing but getting to the top. And I do. Not unlike doing 4000 situps. Greg catches me at the right turn on Rude Rd. and we cruise in on the final stretch. He seems pretty sprite and I am yawning but feel good. We zip over Hwy 3 and curve right... as we climb a bit more it dawns on us that this may be not right. A nice woman at the side of the road confirms our error. We head back down and try again - ah, yes, left on Bond Rd.! Soon we are on 305 and headed home. With lights blazing and enthusiasm for the finish adding to the speed, I look over and he's gone. Greg has simply vanished. No light from behind, nothing. I decide to continue, however selfish, as I figure looking for him would be futile, and soon pull in alone to the quiet control manned by Jim Sprauge, who cooked me up a nice ramen soup and accepted my card. A lovely day, but thankful the vanishing riders soon materialized again. Back to Randonneuring Stories
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Another 300 km Hood Canal Brevet: The Day of Vanishing Riders

Previous experience has taught me that this ride can really be a battle. Memories of torrential rain and fixed gears; cadence a bit too high on the ascents and far too low on the descents... so this time, I opt for a single speed. Three times I've ridden this route, one geared, one fixed and now one SS. I feel like this is the magic balance.

The day starts fine as I cruise in my orange VW bus "Jerry" down to the start. Thinking I'm a smart guy, I find that the free parking that used to exist in Winslow has been taken over by gawd-awful developments of every sort. I resort to parking right at the ferry terminal and have to pay $15 for over 12 hours of parking because I don't have any one dollar bills. Well, good thing I bring most of my own food.

I get there early enough to get dressed and decide to go lighter this time as the weather is looking better every minute. The sunrise was glorious and I've already scoped out the route from Hadlock to Bainbridge on the commute. Wind is calm over the Canal, so things are looking up.

A huge stream of reflective, fendered, rain jacket wearing riders comes surging off the ferry and collect at the Bainbridge Bike Barn. I see Bob Brudvick who I haven't run into for a long time as this is my first early season in two years. He pulled me through a henious 600 km ride in 2002 and we had some awesome times in Paris, so it was great to meet up again. Ran into a few other friends and minutes later we were off.

Knowing this route and willing to trust my inner instinct, I decided to take it slow and easy to Port Hadlock. The 300 km is my early gauge for fitness this time of year -I'll know how badly the Fleche will pulverize me in two weeks. Met Suzanne bobbing along on her beam bike, and chatted with Patrick Gray for a time. We were talking about handlebars when his suddenly went loose and twisted down... he didn't seem too worried and soon motored off ahead. A good chat with Paul about the economy, Mississippi and Katrina and then he had to stop for a wardrobe change. And that's when the spectre of "vanishing riders" began.

After a few years of riding brevets, I'm accustomed to seeing people off and on through the day, but for some reason, this day folks were simply vanishing. It's not that I'm fast or slow, just steady, because I use Kent as a metronome and my computer for backup. I know pretty much when and where he is at any moment on a ride; one, because I've ridden with him enough times to know that he proceeds at an almost exact average pace; and two, because he doesn't waver (much). Today though was different.

I had a fine stash of food (two bean/rice/cheese burritos, PB/honey bagel, banana, good chocolate, PayDays, PowerBars and peanuts) and didn't have to spend any time at controls. I do feel guilty about this though, as 60 riders piling though a convenience store with and some poor clerk is scrambling to sign cards and hand out bathroom keys, I feel obligated to contribute, but not this time. I am in and out in under 3 minutes in Hadlock and onto Hoodsport at 09:38.

The Olympic Peninsula is my home, so I meet at least 6 other locals on their rides while we cruise to Quilcene. They roads may be lumpy, but they are my roads, and I love them. I finally catch up to Galvin, Kent and Dan and we head down the rolling Center Rd. chatting. And then it happens. Everyone is gone. Just like that. We whip through Quilcene and I ride on while removing my vest and heading to the Mt. Walker climb. It's long but easy, and soon I meet up with Bob again who I haven't seen since the start. We chat about PBP 2007 and the possibility of riding the Raid Alpine together. Then poof, he is gone...

Well, it starts to dawn on me that this is a day I will not be enjoying the company of friends for long periods, so I keep rolling. Lots of drainages between the head of the Hood Canal and Hoodsport, so it's just time to pedal on. The gear choice for today is perfect: 39/16, about 65 gear inches. It's enough to keep a good pace on the flats, and not too big on the hills. I am aware of what lies ahead, but having done it on a fixed, I know it will be just enough to survive.

Hoodsport comes quickly by 13:23 and I grab some chocolate milk, jojos and Gaucamole chips to savor with my burrito on the road later. I turn onto SR 106 and enjoy the views. It is an absolutely beautiful day in every respect. I think of the two friends I lost in the past month, one I just met this year, one I've know for over 25 years. I thank the mountain gods for giving me another day to savor and revel in the joy of just pedaling with one gear. If this was all there was, it would be good.

Tom Brett and I play a sort of tag all day, but he is another one who appears and disappears at odd moments. We were in the first 2002 Shiftless Bums Fleche team together and share some of those sick thoughts while riding reasonably around the Canal's great hook, but then he pulls away. I find a few riders along the stretch to Kay's Corner and spend some time with Thai who's feeling a bit worn, but is saving himself for "the hills". Smart guy.

16:16 I see the circus tent that is our SIR control. Food, dancing and general carrying on ensue, but the merriment must wait. Greg Cox reports his knee is feeling a bit out of sorts and though I'd like to ride with him, I decide it's best for me to suffer these climbs alone. From the first, I know this is going to be a long 3+ hours.

The first part of the Tahuya Hills are not bad per se; hills are steep but short. There's really only two aspects of this route I know will test me: the Four Headed Monster: the hill on Seabeck-Holly Rd. (with the chasing dog) and the three Anderson Hills, each progressively harder. With gears, I can motor at minimal speed, but with one, there is a base limit, which is about 8 km per hour. Not fast, but below it I will simply fall over and stop. This is not good. I haven't walked these hills yet and I won't -if I can help it of course.

Admittedly, climbing is easier on a fixed gear, but the downhills, not so much. I have spun so high a cadence on fixed that I truly felt that my femurs would separate from my pelvis at around 180 rpm and thus have ended my fixed days. I also am too lazy to pay that much attention on descents and would rather enjoy the extreme rush of silent speed. We all find equilibrium somewhere.

Halfway up up Seabeck-Holly Rd. while weaving reduced angles across the entire road, the voice of Tom calls out: "you are an animal". I take whatever ego boost I can at that point, I am not proud. As I crest the top I think, well, that was the easiest of the four...

Seabeck is a beacon in the night and you can tell the woman at the counter and the guy near the stove are just plain sorry that you're flogging yourself to death for no apparent reason. 18:50 and it's time to switch the lights on. Here we go...

Greg arrives as I head out, but I want to finish as I am getting a bit chilled. I put a jacket on knowing this feeling will pass in short order as I turn left on Anderson Hill Rd.

Hill one. Some weaving across the road but OK...
Hill two. More determination required...ouch...
Hill three. Holy sh*t, I think parts of my intestines are squeezing out between my ribs...

A rider comes noodling up from the dark giving encouragement as my lovely Heron and I glance awkwardly back and forth across the road looking for every slight ripple in the road that may gain the most elemental release from the pain. Unlike Kent, I don't count "one, two", I count at four beats per measure, rock and roll style, thinking of nothing but getting to the top. And I do. Not unlike doing 4000 situps.

Greg catches me at the right turn on Rude Rd. and we cruise in on the final stretch. He seems pretty sprite and I am yawning but feel good. We zip over Hwy 3 and curve right... as we climb a bit more it dawns on us that this may be not right. A nice woman at the side of the road confirms our error. We head back down and try again - ah, yes, left on Bond Rd.! Soon we are on 305 and headed home. With lights blazing and enthusiasm for the finish adding to the speed, I look over and he's gone. Greg has simply vanished. No light from behind, nothing. I decide to continue, however selfish, as I figure looking for him would be futile, and soon pull in alone to the quiet control manned by Jim Sprauge, who cooked me up a nice ramen soup and accepted my card.

A lovely day, but thankful the vanishing riders soon materialized again.

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