6/23: Day 10: Essex to Shelby, MT 105 miles (& continental divide)
6/24: Day 11: Shelby to Havre, MT 101 miles
6/25: Day 12: Havre to Nowhere, MT 112 miles
6/26: Day 13: Nowhere to Wolf Point, MT 110 miles
Corresponding Quotations:
"up and over we go"
"cause i'm a high plains drifter"
"and the heat goes on"
"i was born to drive steel"
My eyelids are far too heavy to be typing right now, but I've used this excuse for a couple nights already. I'm in day four of saddle versus host, but I've found that my chamois is to blame, so we'll be stopping soon for a new set of shorts. Being able to alternate is obviously important, and I intend on doing some sort of product review and 'list of essentials that weren't in our touring books' when this trip ends. Many of you will tune out more than usual.
We've put in a fair amount of miles on Highway 2, which you can imagine a majority of by doing these mental gymnastics: first notice how large the space is between horizon lines, somehow always 200 degrees. Yellow green or brown fields, repeating. A grain elevator. Silos. RVs passing. Look into distance for the next green mile marker. Look further along as two lanes converge on the next grain elevator. Move forward while nothing changes. Feel the sun burning, sometimes the wind.
I could stop there and completely belittle this state, because it does leave an impression at the end of the day that goes beyond the overwhelming yet monotonous landscape. And many of the locals I've met so far are perfect method actors for dark comedies, yet they're in a realm that wouldn't recognize this.
The first person I noticed to be riding a lawnmower oddly was barely clothed, barreling down the side of the highway to the local bar, with a fragmented smile and waving at us wildly like tom hanks from a shrimp boat.
Our barkeep in Harlem entertained us while we waited for a match to start by procuring a pick from nowhere and breaking into a 'jj cale song with a bo diddley backbone.' Although unfamiliar at first, I found myself singing along, "I just dropped in... to see what condition my condition was in..." About halfway through, an elderly man with a tarnished buckle and a ten gallon waltzes in doing a little a heel-toe jig. I thought my afternoon plans had just been reset, but this guy's entrance meant the guitar was put down so the old man could get a throat coolant. Oh well.
The second lawnmower abuser was last night, when we slept at the most depressing RV resort/campground we had both ever seen (and having now camped in the majority of the states, I count my dad as an authority on the subject). I never learned his name or why he was so fascinated with the machine, as he only stepped off briefly to get more gas, probably an hour into the three before I fell asleep to its hum. Even after the sun went down, he just buzzed around the 'campground' in areas that appeared to be sheared close already. Odd characters make the day more enjoyable. And this is just a sampling of folks that my dad and I rode away from, trying to pinpoint the details that made them memorable.
As for the grounds of the RV resort, I'm not ready to discuss the gag-inducing bathrooms, our theories on meth use, the eighteen horseshoe pits, the dilapidated water slides and drained pools, or the fact that we were the only paying customers on a Friday night and the proprietor still wondered aloud to herself if I was one of those tent guys when I walked by. The whole place reeked of a harmony korine film in ways Ill just keep in my journal.
And the mosquitoes. There was an argument at breakfast the next morning between a local and a North Dakota gentleman over where they were more rampant. I'll soon report back, but my summers at Camp Reed, which has a fair amount of stagnant breeding grounds for the beasts, never came close. We're talking a cloud surrounds you as you climb from your tent. And when you're inside it, the pitter-patter sound of rain is constant as they stubbornly smack into your rainfly. All today we had people in convenience stores or street corners laughing at us for camping where we did. I heard, 'that's the mosquito capitol of the country' by three people in towns spread across 100 miles. Some sort of warning would be nice. (If someone is reading this and potentially heading there: it's 10 miles East of Saco, near the reservoir.)
Going back to Wednesday, we traversed the continental divide after an early rise, snapped a few heroic pictures, bowled down to East Glacier for some coffee on the balcony of their grand lodge, and ate some pastries from the local Lithuanian bakery (I should have asked the wherefore).
The section of highway leading from Essex to East Glacier was the hardest hit by garbage we've seen. As there are now open container laws here, the common practice is to stock up on cheap beer, fill an unmarked container, and lose the shiny evidence. Bless their hearts for choosing cans. While they may be an eyesore to the national park, I prefer hitting aluminum to glass and the latter variety, or the remnants of them, were tough to find along the shoulder. I'd like to think these drivers who are getting a head start on their evenings are being conscientious about us shoulder machinists, but it's likely an issue of whatever's cheaper or the difference in trajectories at 70mph.
Back to riding, we descended on the fields of a reservation, and watched as a panoramic range from Utah to Canada dropped out of view in the west. The high plains were a slow decline with a touch of wind, no tree shade to rest under, and easy going.
The rest has been a blur, and my journal is too erratic to try and piece together, but I'll list some firsts. A bee sting (and I found I don't need to carry an epipen anymore), a spider bite that's still growing, our first 1000 miles down, and our first flat tire. I just met someone doing the same route, and she was on flat number nine, so we feel fairly lucky.
The flat fixing process was over surprisingly quick, as our hands moved with such motor memory and precision it felt like I was in my ventilated hood days, feeding my mouse cells without infecting them with my own skin critters. Since some roadsides have been littered with beer bottles, 1 cc "insulin" syringes, spent shells and other sinful ephemera, I was surprised to find a staple to be the culprit. It probably used to bind a lonely trucker's magazine.
We also got in our first dog chase. I mentioned early on that we would have plastic pellet guns to divert (and not maim) an attacking dog, but the cost of an automatic model and the logistics of re-cocking a regular one while riding meant we ended up ditching it in Sandpoint. We had read accounts of dogs attacking cyclists along this route in years past, so we wanted to be prepared. We've settled on having our 'click stands' as a weapon. An excellent, cheap product of aluminum that can bear the weight of a fully loaded rig, folds like a tentpole into a six inch bundle, and will snake itself out and lock into position by holding it it vertically, one-handed. This last part makes it a perfect choice for whipping a dog while continuing to ride.
As as we rolled down a reservation road, caged dogs were alarmed in succession as we passed a collective of houses. Thinking we were clear, we were shooting fake bullets from our fingers and laughing about our plastic handgun schemes. We were twelve again. Looking in our sideview, a dog of stealth was gaining on us. His gray coat, pointed snout and lack of barking tipped us off that this was more wolf than dog. At 18 mph, he was still closing in, so we took it up to 22, which kept him at bay 10 feet back so I could prepare my clickstand for action. He didn't surge again, and gave up after about two miles, but I wonder what would have been if our path was hilly. I also dreamt I rode this trip with a samurai sword strapped to my back, which would have worked too.
And I want to mention a few riders we've met. Yesterday we passed a family of five from Oregon, riding to DC. Mom steered the tandem with one of her nine year old triplets behind her (and a trailer) while dad maneuvered a three-seater with the other children plus trailer. I exchanged business cards with one of the triplets who was active as copilot and corrected me as I spoke of an upcoming mileage estimate. The way the kids hand signaled into a rest area was painfully cute. This was the mother's lifelong dream and the dad might not have a job when he returns, but he's given up fretting about such things.
A couple my age from Minnesota (and steering the same steel Surleys as Dave and I) were cruising West. We could tell that these guys just inflicted smiles as they rode, and we yelled back and forth as semis drifted between us until they joined our side and we did the inevitable 'gear assessment' that happens among loaded riders. They were documenting all the riders they met with a video camera, asking what propels them. I look forward to watching the finished piece when it eventually goes on his website (my dad has the address in his tent, but he's asleep right now). Also, I have to tip my cycling cap to those who ride West, as the prevailing winds move East across this part of the country. I was regrettably honest with them when they asked how our ride was going: I said, 'mostly downhill and with a tailwind' before thinking of their direction. Crushing news for an already sun-bleached afternoon (but karma came in the form of a staple a few minutes later).
And lastly John. Another Surly advocate in his Mid-sixties who would have crossed our path on the continental divide if he hadn't ignored the closure of the Going to the Sun Road. Just one day after a rider was rescued from the top last week because he snuck up, camped, and was buried in snow, John went for it. He was eventually tracked down by a ranger the age of his hypothetical grandchild and John set him strait: he would be continuing to the top and then he would go to Maine. The ranger conceded and told him to not do it again. A 6667 foot pass isn't something one typically repeats in this sport, they move on to the next hurdle. I like his gumption. The road ended up opening on Thursday, the day after we were slated to give it a go.
Finally, I began reading 'Around the World on a Bicycle' by Thomas Stevens, published in the 1880s. Most websites on touring mention him because he's the first on record to cross the US, and he did so on a 50 inch penny farthing (the big wheel, little wheel combo). His excitement once hitting the eastern seaboard took him across to Europe and Asia, and finishing in Japan. Since the two volume set fetches high prices, I recommend downloading it free from Archive.org in the high-res pdf form that includes some excellent etchings (it has fallen out of copyright, so archive.org is legal). Many websites offer the text version for $10, so watch out. It can easily be loaded on your iproducts (this means you, Claire).
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Catching Up: June 21st & 22nd
Day Eight: Libby to Marion, MT, or, "people tell me slow my roll." 70 miles.
The only day of this trip that I want to redo. It was supposed to be a shortcut from our map, but didn't end up getting us where we wanted. Our alarms forgot we were in Mountain Time, our tents had puddles indifferent to the trenches dug around them, my driest top layer was getting soaked as I packed it up and the freaking bunnies just pranced around to mock us in their simple contentment. We grabbed enough BenGay at the Rosauer's grocery that I now have more 'pain relief' lotion than all of my hygiene products combined. I finally ditched my deodorant because bicycles don't have the aura of a motorcycle that magnetize women; I don't foresee impressing anyone. And anyway, one man tents have never been successfully incorporated into pickup lines.
20 miles of shoulderless road and a stormy headwind later, my speedometer dial fell and broke (which prevented me from knowing how terribly we rode, pace-wise). We struggled the next 30 miles to keep a decent gait, and wondered if it was a deceivingly long hill. When we hit a campground at mile 70, my knees wouldn't unlock (front of knee this time) and I moaped about because we weren't making the time we wanted. Dave was okay with the decision to cut the day early, as he worried how the next day would go with me having just spent the last five miles grunting.
Why the pain? Likely because I was favoring my big chainring over the last couple rides, never bothering to gear down for a stopped start or a bigger climb. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. I never said I was a cyclist, I just got strong-armed into this trip, I know so little about this sport it's pathetic.
We bear-bagged our food, ate pesto'd rice and spam with a round of checkers, and turned in early.
I should add a highlight: while riding in that shoulderless patch of road, some movement in a pasture to the left caught my eye: two whitetail deer had caught up to me and matched my speed. I kept turning towards them and back to steer my course; they were doing the same, trotting along and keeping us neck and neck. It only lasted 400 meters before they peeled off to go back and entertain the next sappy sucker, but I'm pretty sure one of them smiled at me.
Day Nine: Marion to Essex, MT, or, "It is happening. Again..."
94 miles.
I was cooing the above words to my knees early on in the morning, as they tend to take a couple hours to realize that I need them to cooperate. Since my right knee, below the cap, was worse and likely quad-related, I kept this foot unclipped while my clipped-in left overcompensated with its upswing. I love that I get to experiment on my body over the course of a few days and act like I know what's going on.
We were correct about the previous day's apparently endless uphill (I only had two elevation points on the map to work with), since we got a solid 15 of cruising before meeting up with a 'rails to trails' section (a movement in Montana that my dad donates to). Because he also went swimming with his cellphone a few days prior, we wasted some pedal time at Verizon in Kallispel. To get even, I convinced him to catch half of the greece/argentina game in Whitefish, a town that I could probably describe by copy and pasting my thoughts on Sandpoint. I could see myself living there, for sure.
As my knee was showing improvement with less stinging and tweaking, my dad stopped for an A&W float as I stretched outside. A man small-talked about my trip and in a matter of 90 seconds we had a mental treasure map to get to his property on the Flathead River and the hide-a-key should we need a shower in the cabin he was finishing. His hands were full of meals for his family so he was slowly backing towards his truck. It was a tad awkward, because we were too tired and slow to show our gratitude, but we did manage to slip him our card with info about our trip and FHSSA. His name is Henry, and we're pleased that he'd try to support us, even before he knew why we're doing this. Do we look THAT dismal and dirty? Perhaps.
So we booked it through West Glacier, which I don't recommend. One could spend weeks along the trails of this national park, but our entire goal of going to this region was to ride up Logan Pass (the going to the sun road) which is still snowed in from winter. I've been lucky to visit in winter and summer, and my dad used to coach a running camp here, so please don't blitz this park if you get the chance.
Essex lies at the chain-up area for Marias Pass.
The unfinished cabin was a mile down from the highway, the water that cloudy glacial aquamarine. Our tents were set on the porch, and the shower was glorious. I wore everything I had to bed (except my extra skivvies). We didn't freeze.
The only day of this trip that I want to redo. It was supposed to be a shortcut from our map, but didn't end up getting us where we wanted. Our alarms forgot we were in Mountain Time, our tents had puddles indifferent to the trenches dug around them, my driest top layer was getting soaked as I packed it up and the freaking bunnies just pranced around to mock us in their simple contentment. We grabbed enough BenGay at the Rosauer's grocery that I now have more 'pain relief' lotion than all of my hygiene products combined. I finally ditched my deodorant because bicycles don't have the aura of a motorcycle that magnetize women; I don't foresee impressing anyone. And anyway, one man tents have never been successfully incorporated into pickup lines.
20 miles of shoulderless road and a stormy headwind later, my speedometer dial fell and broke (which prevented me from knowing how terribly we rode, pace-wise). We struggled the next 30 miles to keep a decent gait, and wondered if it was a deceivingly long hill. When we hit a campground at mile 70, my knees wouldn't unlock (front of knee this time) and I moaped about because we weren't making the time we wanted. Dave was okay with the decision to cut the day early, as he worried how the next day would go with me having just spent the last five miles grunting.
Why the pain? Likely because I was favoring my big chainring over the last couple rides, never bothering to gear down for a stopped start or a bigger climb. Rookie mistake, I'm sure. I never said I was a cyclist, I just got strong-armed into this trip, I know so little about this sport it's pathetic.
We bear-bagged our food, ate pesto'd rice and spam with a round of checkers, and turned in early.
I should add a highlight: while riding in that shoulderless patch of road, some movement in a pasture to the left caught my eye: two whitetail deer had caught up to me and matched my speed. I kept turning towards them and back to steer my course; they were doing the same, trotting along and keeping us neck and neck. It only lasted 400 meters before they peeled off to go back and entertain the next sappy sucker, but I'm pretty sure one of them smiled at me.
Day Nine: Marion to Essex, MT, or, "It is happening. Again..."
94 miles.
I was cooing the above words to my knees early on in the morning, as they tend to take a couple hours to realize that I need them to cooperate. Since my right knee, below the cap, was worse and likely quad-related, I kept this foot unclipped while my clipped-in left overcompensated with its upswing. I love that I get to experiment on my body over the course of a few days and act like I know what's going on.
We were correct about the previous day's apparently endless uphill (I only had two elevation points on the map to work with), since we got a solid 15 of cruising before meeting up with a 'rails to trails' section (a movement in Montana that my dad donates to). Because he also went swimming with his cellphone a few days prior, we wasted some pedal time at Verizon in Kallispel. To get even, I convinced him to catch half of the greece/argentina game in Whitefish, a town that I could probably describe by copy and pasting my thoughts on Sandpoint. I could see myself living there, for sure.
As my knee was showing improvement with less stinging and tweaking, my dad stopped for an A&W float as I stretched outside. A man small-talked about my trip and in a matter of 90 seconds we had a mental treasure map to get to his property on the Flathead River and the hide-a-key should we need a shower in the cabin he was finishing. His hands were full of meals for his family so he was slowly backing towards his truck. It was a tad awkward, because we were too tired and slow to show our gratitude, but we did manage to slip him our card with info about our trip and FHSSA. His name is Henry, and we're pleased that he'd try to support us, even before he knew why we're doing this. Do we look THAT dismal and dirty? Perhaps.
So we booked it through West Glacier, which I don't recommend. One could spend weeks along the trails of this national park, but our entire goal of going to this region was to ride up Logan Pass (the going to the sun road) which is still snowed in from winter. I've been lucky to visit in winter and summer, and my dad used to coach a running camp here, so please don't blitz this park if you get the chance.
Essex lies at the chain-up area for Marias Pass.
The unfinished cabin was a mile down from the highway, the water that cloudy glacial aquamarine. Our tents were set on the porch, and the shower was glorious. I wore everything I had to bed (except my extra skivvies). We didn't freeze.
Note: all is well from a truckstop in central montana...days behind on email and blogging. maybe ill get caught up tonight if the cell coverage is this good.
Day Six: Sandpoint to Sandpoint, or, "I don't roll on Saturday." Zero miles.
A well deserved rest after a tough five days. If they get rest days in the Tour or the Giro, then I don't feel bad. My mom brought her vintage trailer, Miss Montana, and my sister brought her pup, Ike. We pretty much ate food and sat around the grassy area sandwiched between some railroad tracks and a beach on Lake Pend Orielle. This was a summer hang out for me as a kid, as we trailer trashed on our property just 20 minutes away by boat (10 on a good one). Gone is the rope swing behind main street to make way for a highway extension, but the buildings remain old and classic western, with façades aimed at a ritzier or boozier clientele that don't even need to snowbird far from the ski resort that looms above town. My parents will likely join this community when they retire.
Washed clothes, caught part of a match at the irish pub for lunch, and avoided the sun as my ears were blistering. I also likely spent too much time on my mom's wifi laptop (thus the pictures updated for each post). It was everything a rest day should be: relaxing with your bare feet in the grass, carbo/protein loading, and sitting around with your family, yelling expletives when the trains roll by every 30 minutes. You can't offend if you can't be heard.
We were pleased to have the ol gang together in Sandpoint for the day off, and they likely won't be around for the next one. Also, my dad and I have trouble admitting we want another one, because we're silently competitive.
Day Seven: Sandpoint to Libby, MT, or, "goin' up goin' over to montana"
100.4 miles.
The above may be a poor choice for a quote because we were riding flatland and not cresting Lookout Pass on I-90, but Montana is 'up' no matter how you view it. We actually were on a potholed sideroad, riding side by side when we realized that the transition from paved to dirt must have been the state line. We were in the thick of of a conversation about fathers, grandfathers, who taught us to fish or ride a bike, and other tidbits that only come about on father's day. My dad has mentioned that a major challenge for him this year with his father was to find and ask the questions that would make the most of their limited time together. Not quantitative but qualitative. It's interesting to find out what those questions were, and think about what I would ask given a limited timeline, or why I would hesitate in asking them right now. We called Grandpa Fuller from Hope, Idaho (the east side of the lake). He sounded more distant than ever, but his words of love and blessing for our little adventure made me crack a teary smile. That's all I want to say.
We enjoyed a half day of sun, a lightening storm, and father's day dinner at a cheap steakhouse-like joint (with two other groups of cyclists...so we knew it would be worth it). We then walked across the street to the camping plots behind the chamber of commerce, where bunnies had done their deeds in droves and made it difficult to walk to the bathroom without killing one. I would have taken pictures, but rain began, and would continue for 18 hours.
Day Six: Sandpoint to Sandpoint, or, "I don't roll on Saturday." Zero miles.
A well deserved rest after a tough five days. If they get rest days in the Tour or the Giro, then I don't feel bad. My mom brought her vintage trailer, Miss Montana, and my sister brought her pup, Ike. We pretty much ate food and sat around the grassy area sandwiched between some railroad tracks and a beach on Lake Pend Orielle. This was a summer hang out for me as a kid, as we trailer trashed on our property just 20 minutes away by boat (10 on a good one). Gone is the rope swing behind main street to make way for a highway extension, but the buildings remain old and classic western, with façades aimed at a ritzier or boozier clientele that don't even need to snowbird far from the ski resort that looms above town. My parents will likely join this community when they retire.
Washed clothes, caught part of a match at the irish pub for lunch, and avoided the sun as my ears were blistering. I also likely spent too much time on my mom's wifi laptop (thus the pictures updated for each post). It was everything a rest day should be: relaxing with your bare feet in the grass, carbo/protein loading, and sitting around with your family, yelling expletives when the trains roll by every 30 minutes. You can't offend if you can't be heard.
We were pleased to have the ol gang together in Sandpoint for the day off, and they likely won't be around for the next one. Also, my dad and I have trouble admitting we want another one, because we're silently competitive.
Day Seven: Sandpoint to Libby, MT, or, "goin' up goin' over to montana"
100.4 miles.
The above may be a poor choice for a quote because we were riding flatland and not cresting Lookout Pass on I-90, but Montana is 'up' no matter how you view it. We actually were on a potholed sideroad, riding side by side when we realized that the transition from paved to dirt must have been the state line. We were in the thick of of a conversation about fathers, grandfathers, who taught us to fish or ride a bike, and other tidbits that only come about on father's day. My dad has mentioned that a major challenge for him this year with his father was to find and ask the questions that would make the most of their limited time together. Not quantitative but qualitative. It's interesting to find out what those questions were, and think about what I would ask given a limited timeline, or why I would hesitate in asking them right now. We called Grandpa Fuller from Hope, Idaho (the east side of the lake). He sounded more distant than ever, but his words of love and blessing for our little adventure made me crack a teary smile. That's all I want to say.
We enjoyed a half day of sun, a lightening storm, and father's day dinner at a cheap steakhouse-like joint (with two other groups of cyclists...so we knew it would be worth it). We then walked across the street to the camping plots behind the chamber of commerce, where bunnies had done their deeds in droves and made it difficult to walk to the bathroom without killing one. I would have taken pictures, but rain began, and would continue for 18 hours.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
"i put my foot to the floor to make up for the miles i've been losing"
Note: I'm told by the webmaster that the donation page is working again.
Also, we are nearly at the $2000 mark for donations, and this is truly exciting for us.
finally, I went back and added a handful of pictures to each day's post. Feel free to get your scroll on. Happy Father's Day.
Day Four: (6/17) Wauconda to Colville, WA 74.9 miles, 6:12 in the saddle. One Pass: 3000 v.feet climb.
We awoke freezing at elevation, but made up our coffee and cereal on the lightweight burner to get us going. I had to marionette my feet with my pant legs just to get my shoes on, which was a bad sign. A couple minutes on the bike and I was grimacing from the upswing of my pedal (fascia of the biceps femoris…) Perhaps the charges I made up our second pass in the 7th hour of the day before were unwise. So my Dad suggested I drop my seat an inch and ride flat pedal for the day, which ended up working. The prescription NSAIDs didn’t hurt either.
Also, I had more to say about our salmon the night before. First off, smoked salmon isn't the best choice for dinner when staying at elevation in black bear/cougar country. Half way through my second sandwich, this crossed my mind, but I was still salivating and the damage was done. I loosely attached my cup and bowl to the two plywood entrances to the house before bed and kept some mace beside me. My dad awoke to 'something bigger than a dog' pawing around outside during the night. He was eyeing the powertools in the corner as a possible defense, but my cookware never fell off the doors. The downpour washed the footprints in the mud of whatever was out there (and our own...it was a good rain). Oh the mystery.
Once we were in the sleepy logging town of Republic, I watched my dad eat a breakfast for four at Mel’s, and the silver-haired waitress didn’t think twice because she said this was THE place to eat for cyclists before tackling Sherman Pass. We also, unwisely, grabbed some groceries. Why my dad chose to buy PB&J in glass jars right before our largest single ascent is beyond me; he didn’t even crack them until we hit the next town (which I’m confident sold these items). The ascent took three hours, and we found a rhythm of 30 minutes of spinning, then a 3-5 minute break for water, snacks, and a changeup of albums (Dave likes to climb to ‘Thick as a Brick,’ but I go for whatever pop/dance albums use a drum machine.) Oh yeah, we only use the right earbud, as I know this worries people.
We were looking forward to the 15 mile descent from the pass but by the top the rain had picked up to sleet, and we were fairly miserable going down with our stinging faces. We found some coffee, cruised lazily into Colville and began eyeing some big trees across from an Arby’s on the highway that we could tuck our tents into as the branches willowed to the ground. The rain continued to pour. A little asking around lead us to the County Fairgrounds, where we could set up under a tree near some noisy horse trailers. It was $5 for the night, and had warm showers (my first wash of any kind since, uh, my house). Things you shouldn’t say.
Day Five (6/18): Colville, WA to Sandpoint, ID. 115.2 miles. 7:53 in the saddle.
Still dreary and sprinkling, this would be our second overkill day of the week to meet up with family in Sandpoint.
The first 30 miles climbs slowly out of Colville to a lake, before dropping switchback into a speck named Tiger. I learned that my dad’s first Triathlon ran a majority of this course backwards, and his stories reminded me that I can’t swim well at all, and that I would have almost drowned right there with him if given the same racing circumstances. Duathlons sound way more appealing.
The switchback down was glorious as we didn’t see a car in either direction and the clouds finally broke. Resting near the Pend O’Reille River, we got to lather with sunscreen for the first time and eat an ice cream bar to boot. The WA-20 route rolls along the riverside sine-like until a severe uphill that leads to a fun drop into Newport at the border of Idaho. We stopped for a coffee and some simple sugars at a Safeway and relaxed to the sounds of a hillbilly band of high-schoolers banjoing and fiddling away.
I had been working all day on getting my average trip speed up, for no reason other than to push what we could do in a given day, so the last 30 miles included a large bag of sour patch kids AND gummy worms. I figure I can afford to live frivolously with a ride like that. We stopped for a picture when my dad hit his first official Century (the 100 miler status), and kept on to meet my Mom in Sandpoint, with her travel trailer and huge dinner set out for us.
These last few days had been dreary, cold, and filled with hours of solitude, as we rode single file and didn’t stop to eat in places that allowed for meeting too many people. But one thing we’ve learned is that riding a hefty Long Haul Trucker, armed to the teeth with camping gear is a magnet for cycling enthusiasts. Random people walk across the street to shake hands, want to know our preferences on tires, or want to tell their greatest touring adventure (or dream). It’s not really a bragging thing, it’s just plain excitement.
(Resting in Sandpoint, as we speak.)
Recovery on the Western Slopes
BAM.
The Fairgrounds at Night
Catching the first Rays to charge our music players, Washington.
Dave hits his first Century, Idaho.
Also, we are nearly at the $2000 mark for donations, and this is truly exciting for us.
finally, I went back and added a handful of pictures to each day's post. Feel free to get your scroll on. Happy Father's Day.
Day Four: (6/17) Wauconda to Colville, WA 74.9 miles, 6:12 in the saddle. One Pass: 3000 v.feet climb.
We awoke freezing at elevation, but made up our coffee and cereal on the lightweight burner to get us going. I had to marionette my feet with my pant legs just to get my shoes on, which was a bad sign. A couple minutes on the bike and I was grimacing from the upswing of my pedal (fascia of the biceps femoris…) Perhaps the charges I made up our second pass in the 7th hour of the day before were unwise. So my Dad suggested I drop my seat an inch and ride flat pedal for the day, which ended up working. The prescription NSAIDs didn’t hurt either.
Also, I had more to say about our salmon the night before. First off, smoked salmon isn't the best choice for dinner when staying at elevation in black bear/cougar country. Half way through my second sandwich, this crossed my mind, but I was still salivating and the damage was done. I loosely attached my cup and bowl to the two plywood entrances to the house before bed and kept some mace beside me. My dad awoke to 'something bigger than a dog' pawing around outside during the night. He was eyeing the powertools in the corner as a possible defense, but my cookware never fell off the doors. The downpour washed the footprints in the mud of whatever was out there (and our own...it was a good rain). Oh the mystery.
Once we were in the sleepy logging town of Republic, I watched my dad eat a breakfast for four at Mel’s, and the silver-haired waitress didn’t think twice because she said this was THE place to eat for cyclists before tackling Sherman Pass. We also, unwisely, grabbed some groceries. Why my dad chose to buy PB&J in glass jars right before our largest single ascent is beyond me; he didn’t even crack them until we hit the next town (which I’m confident sold these items). The ascent took three hours, and we found a rhythm of 30 minutes of spinning, then a 3-5 minute break for water, snacks, and a changeup of albums (Dave likes to climb to ‘Thick as a Brick,’ but I go for whatever pop/dance albums use a drum machine.) Oh yeah, we only use the right earbud, as I know this worries people.
We were looking forward to the 15 mile descent from the pass but by the top the rain had picked up to sleet, and we were fairly miserable going down with our stinging faces. We found some coffee, cruised lazily into Colville and began eyeing some big trees across from an Arby’s on the highway that we could tuck our tents into as the branches willowed to the ground. The rain continued to pour. A little asking around lead us to the County Fairgrounds, where we could set up under a tree near some noisy horse trailers. It was $5 for the night, and had warm showers (my first wash of any kind since, uh, my house). Things you shouldn’t say.
Day Five (6/18): Colville, WA to Sandpoint, ID. 115.2 miles. 7:53 in the saddle.
Still dreary and sprinkling, this would be our second overkill day of the week to meet up with family in Sandpoint.
The first 30 miles climbs slowly out of Colville to a lake, before dropping switchback into a speck named Tiger. I learned that my dad’s first Triathlon ran a majority of this course backwards, and his stories reminded me that I can’t swim well at all, and that I would have almost drowned right there with him if given the same racing circumstances. Duathlons sound way more appealing.
The switchback down was glorious as we didn’t see a car in either direction and the clouds finally broke. Resting near the Pend O’Reille River, we got to lather with sunscreen for the first time and eat an ice cream bar to boot. The WA-20 route rolls along the riverside sine-like until a severe uphill that leads to a fun drop into Newport at the border of Idaho. We stopped for a coffee and some simple sugars at a Safeway and relaxed to the sounds of a hillbilly band of high-schoolers banjoing and fiddling away.
I had been working all day on getting my average trip speed up, for no reason other than to push what we could do in a given day, so the last 30 miles included a large bag of sour patch kids AND gummy worms. I figure I can afford to live frivolously with a ride like that. We stopped for a picture when my dad hit his first official Century (the 100 miler status), and kept on to meet my Mom in Sandpoint, with her travel trailer and huge dinner set out for us.
These last few days had been dreary, cold, and filled with hours of solitude, as we rode single file and didn’t stop to eat in places that allowed for meeting too many people. But one thing we’ve learned is that riding a hefty Long Haul Trucker, armed to the teeth with camping gear is a magnet for cycling enthusiasts. Random people walk across the street to shake hands, want to know our preferences on tires, or want to tell their greatest touring adventure (or dream). It’s not really a bragging thing, it’s just plain excitement.
(Resting in Sandpoint, as we speak.)
Recovery on the Western Slopes
BAM.
The Fairgrounds at Night
Catching the first Rays to charge our music players, Washington.
Dave hits his first Century, Idaho.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
"get higher on your hill so your big black cloud will come"
Apparently the site for donations is not working. We are getting to the bottom of it. thanks for getting so close to contributing!!.
Day Two (6/15): Diablo to Winthrop. 71.1 miles. 5:28 in the saddle.
2 passes: 4000 vertical feet climbed.
Day Three (6/16): Winthrop to Wauconda. 95.6 miles. 7:52 in the saddle.
2 passes: 4600 vertical feet climbed.
Right out of Diablo we were climbing. With little let up it took 31 miles to reach the summit of Rainy Pass, which is aptly titled as the drizzle began 5 miles in.
By the top, it was snowing mildly, with a fair amount of wind. We were fighting with Canadien Jays for our sandwiches (shielded by a sign) when an elderly couple yelled from there RV to come inside. Generosity seems to boundless among fellow travellers (we've had people check on us as we were taking breaks as well). The couple said they grabbed an extra pot of snow for us from the side of the road since they had just passed us as we crested. Coffee coffee coffee. So simple, yet really made the chill a bit more bearable.
Rainy Pass is a fake out though. You have to bundle up in preparation for the windchill of a descent, but it only lasts a few miles. Disappointingly at the road's sternum, we stripped back down (well, I did...Dave doesn't have the natural blanket that I carry) and started up another 900 vertical feet to Washington Pass. I was having a blast: singing, catching snowflakes on my tongue, bare chested, cape/jersey flapping. The snow was heavier, but we were grinning wide; this would be the largest downhill we'd ever earned.
15 miles of white knuckles later, it was pesto chicken pizza, another rain storm, a clothes drier, and the luxury of a KOA Kabin. Yeah yeah, we didn't rough it again. Whatever, we were done arguing with the clouds.
NEXT DAY.
We knew we would have to push stupidly hard on two days this week to catch nightfall in Sandpoint, Idaho on Friday (family time). This was one of them.
Winthrop lies 10 miles from the base of another pass: Loop Loop. (I should also plug Winthrop here because it's such a cute town with covered wooden walkways instead of sidewalks, all done up western style.)
2100 v.feet on this one, mostly rainy, and with decent sized shoulders for the majority. BUT, the closest we've come to being hit was here. The shoulder had thinned, and we were tucked nicely against the metal guard rail, lets say 6-8 inches off. BTW, we both have mirrors to see when we should tuck in, and make a habit of doing so. Anyway, an ambulance comes up on us (without sirens, mind you) and makes no attempt to move a over (no oncoming car either). I've come ot expect the burst of wind and spray, but seeing that his fat vehicle was riding the white line another 6-8 inches off my shoulder sort of gets at one's nerves. I guess the EMT response time would have been excellent though.
40 flat miles and a footlong sandwich later, we went for pass number two: Wauconda. This one climbs 2500 v.feet over 24 miles in a stepwise manner that allows for a little flat cruise here and there. Again, this was with a constant rain (I'm trying to stay posi about it..but as I write this 24 hours later in a thumpthipittip tent...its getting old) . When we reached the almost top (to the camping/grocery on our map) we found a building a month from reopening.
After a short talk with a guy only present at the empty shop for the phonebooth, we were unfurling our sleeping bags on a dry surface: in the house he was building (roof and four walls were solid, inside just framed). We ate another dinner of salmon and cheese (more on this later), chased a bird out of the rafters and collapsed. I had only ridden this long once before, and that was without mountain passes.
Drinking coffee in the morning in Diablo:
Dave Rides:
Sweating in the Snow:
testing gravity:
Our shelter for the night:
Day Two (6/15): Diablo to Winthrop. 71.1 miles. 5:28 in the saddle.
2 passes: 4000 vertical feet climbed.
Day Three (6/16): Winthrop to Wauconda. 95.6 miles. 7:52 in the saddle.
2 passes: 4600 vertical feet climbed.
Right out of Diablo we were climbing. With little let up it took 31 miles to reach the summit of Rainy Pass, which is aptly titled as the drizzle began 5 miles in.
By the top, it was snowing mildly, with a fair amount of wind. We were fighting with Canadien Jays for our sandwiches (shielded by a sign) when an elderly couple yelled from there RV to come inside. Generosity seems to boundless among fellow travellers (we've had people check on us as we were taking breaks as well). The couple said they grabbed an extra pot of snow for us from the side of the road since they had just passed us as we crested. Coffee coffee coffee. So simple, yet really made the chill a bit more bearable.
Rainy Pass is a fake out though. You have to bundle up in preparation for the windchill of a descent, but it only lasts a few miles. Disappointingly at the road's sternum, we stripped back down (well, I did...Dave doesn't have the natural blanket that I carry) and started up another 900 vertical feet to Washington Pass. I was having a blast: singing, catching snowflakes on my tongue, bare chested, cape/jersey flapping. The snow was heavier, but we were grinning wide; this would be the largest downhill we'd ever earned.
15 miles of white knuckles later, it was pesto chicken pizza, another rain storm, a clothes drier, and the luxury of a KOA Kabin. Yeah yeah, we didn't rough it again. Whatever, we were done arguing with the clouds.
NEXT DAY.
We knew we would have to push stupidly hard on two days this week to catch nightfall in Sandpoint, Idaho on Friday (family time). This was one of them.
Winthrop lies 10 miles from the base of another pass: Loop Loop. (I should also plug Winthrop here because it's such a cute town with covered wooden walkways instead of sidewalks, all done up western style.)
2100 v.feet on this one, mostly rainy, and with decent sized shoulders for the majority. BUT, the closest we've come to being hit was here. The shoulder had thinned, and we were tucked nicely against the metal guard rail, lets say 6-8 inches off. BTW, we both have mirrors to see when we should tuck in, and make a habit of doing so. Anyway, an ambulance comes up on us (without sirens, mind you) and makes no attempt to move a over (no oncoming car either). I've come ot expect the burst of wind and spray, but seeing that his fat vehicle was riding the white line another 6-8 inches off my shoulder sort of gets at one's nerves. I guess the EMT response time would have been excellent though.
40 flat miles and a footlong sandwich later, we went for pass number two: Wauconda. This one climbs 2500 v.feet over 24 miles in a stepwise manner that allows for a little flat cruise here and there. Again, this was with a constant rain (I'm trying to stay posi about it..but as I write this 24 hours later in a thumpthipittip tent...its getting old) . When we reached the almost top (to the camping/grocery on our map) we found a building a month from reopening.
After a short talk with a guy only present at the empty shop for the phonebooth, we were unfurling our sleeping bags on a dry surface: in the house he was building (roof and four walls were solid, inside just framed). We ate another dinner of salmon and cheese (more on this later), chased a bird out of the rafters and collapsed. I had only ridden this long once before, and that was without mountain passes.
Drinking coffee in the morning in Diablo:
Dave Rides:
Sweating in the Snow:
testing gravity:
Our shelter for the night:
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
"...feels good 'cause it's early."
Day One: Anacortes to Diablo Lake, WA
88.86 miles. 6:12 in the saddle.
It's late in the day and I want to see if this Ishmael guy in my book ever finds work in his sea port town...
So let me try brevity.
First off, we have been warned to take it easy on the first day by many a touring cyclist. It was nice to run into a few today as well (one of which was celebrating her two new knees with a jaunt through the Cascades...)
7 am woke in the morning with... French press, hot cereal, cheesy photos with our back tires in the salt water. Thanks Brad for those things and leading us out of town. First 45 miles were a blur (flat, blue skies, snakes and hummingbirds). Then burgers, shakes, too many photos, coffee AND espresso.
Dave hit the blurry eyed wall around mile 68 (this means you stop, drink a liter or two, eat an energy bar and start pedaling slowly as these things kick in, hopefully within five minutes.)
6 miles later I hit that same wall. When you get to this place, and shake your head disapprovingly at the hill in front of you, you can feel your brain sloshing and lagging behind where your eyes have focused. Everyone should try ţhis.
The whole day was a slight uphill as you follow the river up to the Cascades. A lot of waterfalls to be seen, of course. The final 10 miles of today got steep enough that we were spinning at a cool 4.5 miles per hour at times. Maybe it was the 70 before them, or maybe it was the overkill of cotton shorts, 15 power bars and full size crescent wrench that I chose to carry (among other dumb items that will get sent home when we get to the post office tomorrow).
The town of Diablo has a few free plots down by the river and the folks nextflap to us had us over for some cherries and a fire. Tonight I learned about mine-proof tank construction in Qatar (great job!) and the migratory patterns of Washington's grapes and how the world thinks their fancy drinks hail from the Napa Valley.
I can tell a conversation will be worthwhile when I approach a group of older strangers who are discussing the finer points of The Big Lebowski.
See you in a couple days when I recover from the 4 (5?) gigantic hills that dwarf anything we'll see east of Montana.
Welp, I fail at brevity. If you want the cliff's notes just look at the map at the top of this blog.
Back Tire in the Water, Anacortes
Brad & Dave riding out of Anacortes towards the refinery (the one with the explosion..)
Mossy Boat:
CONCRETE, WA:
Dave's rediculous organization skills:
88.86 miles. 6:12 in the saddle.
It's late in the day and I want to see if this Ishmael guy in my book ever finds work in his sea port town...
So let me try brevity.
First off, we have been warned to take it easy on the first day by many a touring cyclist. It was nice to run into a few today as well (one of which was celebrating her two new knees with a jaunt through the Cascades...)
7 am woke in the morning with... French press, hot cereal, cheesy photos with our back tires in the salt water. Thanks Brad for those things and leading us out of town. First 45 miles were a blur (flat, blue skies, snakes and hummingbirds). Then burgers, shakes, too many photos, coffee AND espresso.
Dave hit the blurry eyed wall around mile 68 (this means you stop, drink a liter or two, eat an energy bar and start pedaling slowly as these things kick in, hopefully within five minutes.)
6 miles later I hit that same wall. When you get to this place, and shake your head disapprovingly at the hill in front of you, you can feel your brain sloshing and lagging behind where your eyes have focused. Everyone should try ţhis.
The whole day was a slight uphill as you follow the river up to the Cascades. A lot of waterfalls to be seen, of course. The final 10 miles of today got steep enough that we were spinning at a cool 4.5 miles per hour at times. Maybe it was the 70 before them, or maybe it was the overkill of cotton shorts, 15 power bars and full size crescent wrench that I chose to carry (among other dumb items that will get sent home when we get to the post office tomorrow).
The town of Diablo has a few free plots down by the river and the folks nextflap to us had us over for some cherries and a fire. Tonight I learned about mine-proof tank construction in Qatar (great job!) and the migratory patterns of Washington's grapes and how the world thinks their fancy drinks hail from the Napa Valley.
I can tell a conversation will be worthwhile when I approach a group of older strangers who are discussing the finer points of The Big Lebowski.
See you in a couple days when I recover from the 4 (5?) gigantic hills that dwarf anything we'll see east of Montana.
Welp, I fail at brevity. If you want the cliff's notes just look at the map at the top of this blog.
Back Tire in the Water, Anacortes
Brad & Dave riding out of Anacortes towards the refinery (the one with the explosion..)
Mossy Boat:
CONCRETE, WA:
Dave's rediculous organization skills:
"Let me begin..."
Day Zero: Anacortes, WA (Mile Zero)
I hadn't planned on saying much about the night before the trip. It should have been an easy drive north, a test drive of our stove and spam in the field beyond the marina, and a solid sleep. Seeing as my dad and I have few plans beyond 'go east, eat when hungry, drink
before thirsty,' the day was unexpectedly great.
With giant burritos from Malena's in Ballard churning in our guts, we drove up Mount Erie (south of Anacortes) to see one of the prettiest views you can quickly get to north of Seattle (without a passport). I'll skip the sentimental stuff I have with this particular mount right now, but I couldn't help thinking about the 2500ish miles between here and the Lake Erie canal I get to cruise alongside in a few weeks.
After unloading the bikes at the marina, we sat down on some grass wondering if the 'will return at seven' sign at the marina office meant tonight or tomorrow. Either way, we were eyeing a great (and apparently free) patch of growth next to a late 1800s steam dredger.
Within 30 seconds of my dad throwing his arms behind his head on the grass, a fellow named Brad rolled up on his fixed-gear, visibly excited about seeing our Surlys, and their ridiculous panniers. It was quickly obvious that Brad loves cycling, whether it be touring,
cyclocross, or tris, and his probing questions initially come off as "do you have any idea what you're doing?" but I was quite wrong about Brad.
Hmmm, I fear this drawing on a tad so I'll just fast forward to me setting up my sleeping bag on the captain's bed on the bridge of a $2,000,000 yacht with a pleased stomach of mango ceviche, feta sweet potato fries and one of the finer IPAs this side of India. Iţ was a night of great conversation covering how john deere motors end up propelling ocean-worthy yachts, why a good book and energy bar is all we need to carry and perhaps why owning 17 bikes might complicate your marital status.
Brad's generosity and excitement for living, cycling, and getting conversation going with his sailing buddies and girlfriend to support FHSSA was an early jolt that we didn't see coming. The best part: it wasn't even his boat, he was just getting it prepped for it's next
voyage.
Oh also, since a few of you will ask, I couldn't find any nautical afghans, as I kept my snooping to a minimum...
_______________________
Picture Time:
With Mike & Allison at Mt. Erie Lookout, Anacortes
With Brad, and our home for the night behind us.
Sleep like a captain:
I hadn't planned on saying much about the night before the trip. It should have been an easy drive north, a test drive of our stove and spam in the field beyond the marina, and a solid sleep. Seeing as my dad and I have few plans beyond 'go east, eat when hungry, drink
before thirsty,' the day was unexpectedly great.
With giant burritos from Malena's in Ballard churning in our guts, we drove up Mount Erie (south of Anacortes) to see one of the prettiest views you can quickly get to north of Seattle (without a passport). I'll skip the sentimental stuff I have with this particular mount right now, but I couldn't help thinking about the 2500ish miles between here and the Lake Erie canal I get to cruise alongside in a few weeks.
After unloading the bikes at the marina, we sat down on some grass wondering if the 'will return at seven' sign at the marina office meant tonight or tomorrow. Either way, we were eyeing a great (and apparently free) patch of growth next to a late 1800s steam dredger.
Within 30 seconds of my dad throwing his arms behind his head on the grass, a fellow named Brad rolled up on his fixed-gear, visibly excited about seeing our Surlys, and their ridiculous panniers. It was quickly obvious that Brad loves cycling, whether it be touring,
cyclocross, or tris, and his probing questions initially come off as "do you have any idea what you're doing?" but I was quite wrong about Brad.
Hmmm, I fear this drawing on a tad so I'll just fast forward to me setting up my sleeping bag on the captain's bed on the bridge of a $2,000,000 yacht with a pleased stomach of mango ceviche, feta sweet potato fries and one of the finer IPAs this side of India. Iţ was a night of great conversation covering how john deere motors end up propelling ocean-worthy yachts, why a good book and energy bar is all we need to carry and perhaps why owning 17 bikes might complicate your marital status.
Brad's generosity and excitement for living, cycling, and getting conversation going with his sailing buddies and girlfriend to support FHSSA was an early jolt that we didn't see coming. The best part: it wasn't even his boat, he was just getting it prepped for it's next
voyage.
Oh also, since a few of you will ask, I couldn't find any nautical afghans, as I kept my snooping to a minimum...
_______________________
Picture Time:
With Mike & Allison at Mt. Erie Lookout, Anacortes
With Brad, and our home for the night behind us.
Sleep like a captain:
Sunday, June 13, 2010
[Title Pending]
Well here we go. Our ride to Anacortes will be here in an hour, so I'll soak up as much World Cup as I can as I update this. Once again, Mike and Allison are generously making the trek to the Anacortes possible.
We'll likely sleep at the Marina in Anacortes tonight, since it's close to our official start point at the docks and warm food is a quick hop from the gravel parking lot where our tents will go up.
Dave is already making some adjustments with needle and thread to his rain booties, and his bags are about 55-60 pounds (without water).
My gear is about the same weight, and I'm fretting over which novels to take. I've been collecting light editions of some classics over the past couple months from Capote, Marquez, Dosteovsky, Forster, Melville, McCarthy, et cetera. Although they all fit, I need to throw a few out.
I also loaded a few novels as PDFs onto my itouch, but I'm not confident my eyes will approve.
Our fundraising was up to $700 after the first week of emails went out, but I have some insider information that there will be a good jump when I get an update from FHSSA next week.
We've received a few offers of food and shelter along the way from family and friends (and even a generous offer from a member of the record trading website where I frequent), which is pretty exciting.
Dave had a hard, but worthwhile day with his brothers and parents yesterday, so there's a lot on our minds beyond the difficulty of this next week: The Cascades.
I guess I'll sign off and get a shower, since there won't be too many of them this summer.
Piles of Stuff (click photos for detail)
Elevation Guide for Week One:
See you in a few days.
We'll likely sleep at the Marina in Anacortes tonight, since it's close to our official start point at the docks and warm food is a quick hop from the gravel parking lot where our tents will go up.
Dave is already making some adjustments with needle and thread to his rain booties, and his bags are about 55-60 pounds (without water).
My gear is about the same weight, and I'm fretting over which novels to take. I've been collecting light editions of some classics over the past couple months from Capote, Marquez, Dosteovsky, Forster, Melville, McCarthy, et cetera. Although they all fit, I need to throw a few out.
I also loaded a few novels as PDFs onto my itouch, but I'm not confident my eyes will approve.
Our fundraising was up to $700 after the first week of emails went out, but I have some insider information that there will be a good jump when I get an update from FHSSA next week.
We've received a few offers of food and shelter along the way from family and friends (and even a generous offer from a member of the record trading website where I frequent), which is pretty exciting.
Dave had a hard, but worthwhile day with his brothers and parents yesterday, so there's a lot on our minds beyond the difficulty of this next week: The Cascades.
I guess I'll sign off and get a shower, since there won't be too many of them this summer.
Piles of Stuff (click photos for detail)
Elevation Guide for Week One:
See you in a few days.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Less than Two Weeks...
I know donations are trickling in after talking to some family and friends, which is wonderful, thank you everyone (I'll get some totals from FHSSA soon).
The 'practice run' weekend went well. Dave's 3 day, 198 mile trip had tons of rain, a flat tire in a downpour, and a kind local offered a dry garage to fix it in, but he had no hitches with his gear, which is great. (I'll update this post with his pics/thoughts when I get them).
My ride was 2 days and totaled 162 miles, with rain for about half of it. I weighed my gear when I got home: bike without bags: 30 pounds. with bags: 65 pounds. I'll make some adjustments, but the weight will likely increase for the full ride.
The island route I posted a map of last week was gorgeous, even in the rain, but the return trip down the I-5 corridor into Everett and sprawling towns was terrible; beyond the Skagit Valley I don't recommend this route, especially due to the one foot shoulders across the 529 bridges between Marysville and Everett (a biking map suggested this route).
I was fortunate to stay at an organic farm near Mount Vernon, through an old Camp Reed connection. The stay was quite educational for me, and I encourage anyone who is into farming with a heart check out their site here. They are a newish company, and will be coming down to Seattle weekly for share deliveries. Also, their chickens get a new pen location every 8 hours, which you can't say about any other farm in our area.
I don't expect to have as hearty a breakfast throughout my trip, but I can dream of it. So a big thank you to our hosts for their backyard, discussions, breakfast, and my gigantic sandwich for the ride home. And thanks to Mike and Allison for doing the trek with me.
The 'practice run' weekend went well. Dave's 3 day, 198 mile trip had tons of rain, a flat tire in a downpour, and a kind local offered a dry garage to fix it in, but he had no hitches with his gear, which is great. (I'll update this post with his pics/thoughts when I get them).
My ride was 2 days and totaled 162 miles, with rain for about half of it. I weighed my gear when I got home: bike without bags: 30 pounds. with bags: 65 pounds. I'll make some adjustments, but the weight will likely increase for the full ride.
The island route I posted a map of last week was gorgeous, even in the rain, but the return trip down the I-5 corridor into Everett and sprawling towns was terrible; beyond the Skagit Valley I don't recommend this route, especially due to the one foot shoulders across the 529 bridges between Marysville and Everett (a biking map suggested this route).
I was fortunate to stay at an organic farm near Mount Vernon, through an old Camp Reed connection. The stay was quite educational for me, and I encourage anyone who is into farming with a heart check out their site here. They are a newish company, and will be coming down to Seattle weekly for share deliveries. Also, their chickens get a new pen location every 8 hours, which you can't say about any other farm in our area.
I don't expect to have as hearty a breakfast throughout my trip, but I can dream of it. So a big thank you to our hosts for their backyard, discussions, breakfast, and my gigantic sandwich for the ride home. And thanks to Mike and Allison for doing the trek with me.
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