Mood:
celebratoryTopic: 1998
I considered skipping the chapter on our fourth day as it was a rest day, but then I realized that I haven't given any indication so far of what camp life on The Big Ride was like. So here are two more chapters recounting the evening of Day 3 and Days 4 and 5.
And on the Fourth Day, We Rested
The first sixty hours of the GTE Big Ride cost me nothing except tired muscles, aching lungs, and a few dollars for antacid tablets and a new tube from the bike tech. On the eve of our first rest day in Kennewick, Washington, that was about to change. Up until now, I had been largely at the mercy of the ride organizers, staying on route, camping in my designated spot, eating the food provided, and running so far at the back of the pack that I didn't have time to stop to buy lunch. Once my gear was located and my tent was set up on the grass of the Columbia River Park in Kennewick, however, I would be left to my own devices for the next thirty-six hours. Comparatively, they would be expensive hours.
My spending spree began with June chatting in that charming, Maine accent of hers about her desire for a margarita. Although I don't often drink, I do love Mexican food, and I was itching to get into town and see something other than plowed fields and Port-A-Potties. Plus, I hadn't talked to Hans since my flat just outside Pit 1 on the first day and was on the hunt for a pay phone. It didn't take long before June had persuaded me to skip dinner at the meal tent in favor of a hike into town. Apparently it didn't take much for her to persuade Ron, either, and soon after we had established camp and showered, the three of us headed down a path along the river we somehow knew would lead to town.
We hadn't gone far when we found a bar that served margaritas and nachos--hardly a Mexican restaurant, but close enough to suit our needs. After June was happily sucking down her drink and we had ordered dinner, I excused myself to call Hans. He answered quickly. It became clear early in the conversation that he was feeling left out and a little jealous, and that was why he had followed the ride as long as he did on the first day. There was no anger in his voice, however, nor any sign of disappointment in me. We were friends again.
I told him about the changes in weather and landscape and about my need to sag each day due to route closure, flat tires, or exhaustion, either mental or physical. He said he was wearing the silver Big Ride dog tag I had given him around his neck, as he planned to do every day while I was on the road. Several people at work had asked him about it and begun following the Big Ride's progress from the website that was updated daily with photos and information about our mileage, the weather, and vignettes about individual riders and their experiences on the road. He said he was looking forward to calling family and friends to give them an update on how I was doing. We ended the call by confirming our date to each see The X-Files Movie the following Wednesday, my next rest day off the bike, and I promised to call so we could compare notes.
I returned to my nachos and Sprite feeling much lighter than I had since Hans and I said good-bye three days earlier. June, Ron and I talked about where we were from and which American Lung Association bike treks we had done previously--me being the only one for whom this was the first organized ride.
June and I also compared notes on our asthma. Hers appeared to be worse than mine, as she had already experienced several courses of oral steroids and owned her own nebulizer, a machine that released liquid albuterol in a mist form to break attacks that a normal inhaler wasn't strong enough to handle. To date, I had never been hospitalized for asthma, nor had I ever used oral steroids. The previous winter I had needed my first doctor administered nebulizer treatment, but no mention had been made of me needing to own one. Though a disease was the last thing I wanted to have in common with someone, it was reassuring to meet this woman who had more experience with asthma and with cycling.
The bar was nearly empty, but by the time we left, my throat was feeling scratchy. I assumed it was from secondhand cigarette smoke. It was an early warning sign, but I didn't take it very seriously, thinking it would be gone by morning.
It was twilight when we arrived back in camp. Several riders were sitting along the edge of the Columbia River, watching the colors in the sky change. The river was wide along the edge of the park and swift. Typically, I am drawn to water. That night, however, I found the Port-A-Potty, found my tent, and went straight to sleep.
Day Four, our "rest day," went by just as swiftly as the river I hardly noticed and was hardly restful. I woke to a beautiful, sunny morning and ate breakfast under the Big Tent with Cynthia and Zoi, enjoying the Froot Loops so much I went back for a second bowl. Cynthia, on the other hand, was using this ride to make a conscious attempt at weight-loss and was very careful about what she ate. Zoi and I were concerned about her putting restrictions on her food intake as the miles we were putting in burned calories fast, but she wouldn't be swayed.
After breakfast, Cynthia, Richard--an experience cyclist from Seattle
whom I had come to know in pre-Ride meetings and who had advised me to buy the Rodriguez I was riding so I could be ensured a good fit--and I wandered into town. We were in search of a bike shop. We caught a bus into Kennewick from a stop not far from the bar where I had had dinner the night before and arrived at a cycle shop brimming over with Big Riders scavenging jerseys, well-padded shorts, tubes, mirrors, locks, lube, patch kits, and energy bars. I was hoping to find a blue replacement lens for my Rudy Project glasses, but was out of luck as the shop didn't carry that brand. I would have to wear them with the clear lenses I'd brought that offered no relief from the sun. Nor was I able to find any tubes to fit my small tires. For my only purchase, I chose a monster bike lock that I would soon discover was too heavy to be practical for everyday use. Then the three of us crossed the street to a grocery store where I picked up a new hairbrush and a laundry bag to hold my dirty clothes.
The afternoon consisted of doing laundry at a small Laundromat next door to a physical therapist's office in a strip mall. Behind the glass window that read, "Tri-Cities Physical Therapy" stood a coat rack with someone's colorful GTE Big Ride Tyvek jacket hanging from one of the hooks. Something about that seemed humorous, and I stopped to take a picture. I also took a picture of the calf of a rider who had tattooed the Big Ride's red, white, and blue bicycle logo there.
The Laundromat turned out to be the place to be if you were a Big Rider, and it was fun to talk to people I hadn't yet met. I learned more about Richard, who as far as I could determine had been content to live a life always slightly outside the mainstream. When we had met, his long, silver hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Before the ride, he had cut it much shorter into a traditional men's style, though there was something about his demeanor that still suggested "hippie." At the very least, he seemed to typify the outdoorsy, well-educated, independent thinking Seattleite who had lived in the Pacific Northwest long before grunge music arrived on the national scene. Throughout the day, and into the days to come, we discussed religions, morality issues, and lifestyle choices, as Richard found me receptive to certain topics he admitted he couldn't discuss with many people. I was struck by his views, and by the depth of thought and research that had gone into shaping them, and found myself forming a new appreciation for this person with whom I had only a few weeks before determined I had little in common.
Cynthia, however, was friendly as always, but her open, smiling face stood in sharp contrast to the fierceness with which she guarded details about her life at home and about her personal views. All I learned was that she had young children and worked in a high-tech job in Ohio. She obviously had a brain and knew how to use it, but what was going on inside it was anybody's guess.
When we had finished our laundry and eaten lunch at the take-out pizza counter a few doors down, we headed into town to see a showing of the newly released The Truman Show at Columbia Center Cinema. Inside the theater, I had to keep reminding myself where I was. In four days on the road, I hadn't yet learned how to anchor myself in a moment and in the particular place I happened to be. Instead, my mind kept slipping away, trying to find some match in my memory with a movie theater I'd been in before, perhaps in Michigan or California, to tell me where I was. In the air-conditioned darkness, Cynthia's exhaustion got the better of her. She drifted off during the movie, and awakened startled and embarrassed. Richard and I agreed the movie was a great start to the summer season, and made plans to see The X-Files Movie during our next day off.
During our rest days, OK's Cascade Company, the catering crew traveling with us, provided only breakfast, leaving us on our own for dinner. The three of us were running low on energy, and were happy to find a Shari's restaurant just down the road. We were even happier when the manager found out we were with the Big Ride and drove us back to camp after dinner.
I said good night to Cynthia and Richard as soon as we arrived, somewhat surprised by the little squeeze Richard gave my hand before heading in the direction of his own tent, and retired early to repack my clean clothes and organize my bag which had become disheveled in an amazingly short period of time.
Sometime later, I was awakened by Richard whispering outside my tent. "Kristine, you need to get up and attach your rain fly." He moved down the row of tents in the dark awakening others, and we all drowsily emerged, fastened our rain flies to protect ourselves from the drizzle that had begun, and crawled back inside to sleep. It was a good sleep, and, as I was learning would be the case most days on the Big Ride, morning--as did night--would come too soon.
A Change of Pace
I awoke the next morning to find the rain had turned camp into a maze of mud puddles. Although the drops themselves had stopped, everything was wet, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't be fair to say the morning had an ominous feel about it, but I certainly didn't feel as optimistic as I had on previous mornings. It was impossible to completely dry my tent before folding it up and stuffing it back inside its sack and the Purple Monster. All I could hope was that I finished the day's seventy-seven miles before the wetness from the tent soaked into my clothes and sleeping bag, a somewhat laughable goal given my track record so far.
Richard found me in bike parking and asked if it would be all right if he rode with me for awhile. I was still nervous about my bike handling skills and my endurance level, and I welcomed the company of a more seasoned rider. I hadn't even made it out of camp before I was able to benefit from his experience. On the dirt road leading out of the park, I flatted my front tire and Richard changed the tube for me, taking the time to explain the steps he took in removing the tire and the tube, locating the hole in the tube, wiping the inside of the tire with a cotton ball to pick up any debris that might cause another puncture, sprinkling baby powder into the tire to reduce friction, partially inflating the new tube before inserting it into the tire rim, zipping the tire back on with my Speed Lever, and fully inflating the tube.
This was my fifth flat in as many days. This was also the fifth flat I had had repaired by a kind male. My feminist tendencies, stemming all the way back to fifth grade when I proudly wore a pink T-shirt that said "No Way, First Lady--I Wanna' Be President" in glitter and pledged to get a Ph.D. so people would have to refer to my husband and me as Mr. and Dr. Happily Ever After, had all but been obliterated by these first days of the Big Ride. I had yet to miss them. Out here, practicality seemed to be the name of the game, and if someone else was willing and able to do something better and faster than I was, I was grateful for the help and not shy about asking for it.
Thanks to Richard, we got on the road before camp closed, picking up Zoi on our way out. She had bought handlebar extenders for her bike in Kennewick the day before. They curved back over the original handlebar, giving her the ability now to alternate hand positions throughout the day and hopefully to rid her wrists and forearms of the pain she'd been suffering. She also had followed the example of some of our more creative fellow riders and purchased hard-sided storage lockers for her gear to replace the duffel she had been using. Her morning had started badly when the crew member in charge of the G/H gear truck refused to allow Zoi to deposit her lockers, arguing that the truck wouldn't be able to hold everyone's gear if every rider switched to this kind of storage container. After much argument, Zoi had won, at least temporarily, but she was obviously still upset as she recounted the incident for me.
At the edge of camp, the route headed toward the wide Columbia River. In those first moments, my fear of bridges resurfaced. Then, I had to submerge it again, pedaling with my eyes straight ahead and my legs maintaining an even, determined rhythm as we rode single file over the Blue Bridge, onto Highway 12 headed east, and over another bridge across the Snake River.
Just outside of Kennewick, we encountered long, rolling hills through yet more shrub steppe and alternated taking turns in the lead. The sky was brightening, but it was still a gray, hazy day. In the pit of my stomach, I could feel my emotions roiling around with the breakfast my body was still attempting to digest. It was as though all my hope, joy, and pride had been burned out during that long, hot, windy stretch through the Hanford Reservation two days before. All that was left was a resignation to be on the bike and to face whatever happened to be around the next curve or over the next hill as I encountered it. I climbed hills on the bike with determination, but derived little pleasure from Richard's compliments on my strength. I stopped to rest without embarrassment. We shared conversation as we rode which I appreciated, but I could not shake the feeling of apprehension that had settled in my body.
My companions informed me we were riding through the Columbia River Gorge as we neared Pit 1 at the eighteen-mile mark. I had heard plenty about this region from my parents and sister after their first trip through here and from friends who traveled here for summer music concerts. It was not as grand as I had expected and was quite industrial as the part we were pedaling through seemed to be used as a port for container ships. In brighter sunshine or a brighter mood, I might have been able to find its beauty. This morning, however, we just kept pedaling toward the pit stop in Madame Dorian Park.
At the entrance, our motorcycle safety coordinator was standing in the intersection, motioning to us it was safe to make the left turn across traffic into the parking lot. We stopped only long enough to use the Port-A-Potties before walking our bikes out to the road. Along the way, we encountered a man with a flat attempting to re-inflate his patched tube with a small hand pump. I offered him the use of my Topeak Master Blaster, a nifty, full-size bike pump that attached to my bike's top tube when not in use and had a small pedal at the bottom that flipped down so it could be used as a floor pump. The cyclist was impressed, as were his friends. I admitted that my ownership of the pump was the result of having a husband who insisted on doing product research prior to purchasing almost anything. I left out the part that in this instance I had ignored Hans's process and bought a hand pump first, which had caused me to bend the pin in my wheel, before I returned it and succumbed to doing my research. As the pump got passed around from man to man, Richard offered to stay while the men used it, then catch up to us, if Zoi and I wanted to ride on alone. So the two of us set out to tackle the next thirty miles to Pit 2 in Walla Walla.
Then the real misery set in. As the morning turned to afternoon, the heat of the day increased, and the sun crept out from behind its cloud cover. The road was mostly uphill, though on a gentle grade, and we were doing our best to maintain a steady pace. Our legs for the most part were fine; other body parts in more intimate contact with the bike, however, were definitely not. We complained that with all the money we had spent on our bikes and with all the technology that goes into bike and gear design, you'd think someone could come up with a comfortable saddle. We had seen other riders, usually the older ones, with pillows strapped to their seats or overstuffed, leopard print fake fur covered saddles that they could sink into. Although I knew those could not be the most efficient solutions to the problem, a large part of me wished to pass a pillow factory. Instead, I was riding a very flat men's racing saddle shoved as far back from the handlebars as possible, because it was the only one R & E Cycles could find long enough to accommodate my apparently disproportionately long thighs. Every few minutes, I could see Zoi shift position on her saddle, reminding me how uncomfortable I was, and causing me to shift as well. This constant attention to pain made the miles even longer.
We passed a few pairs of riders and were surprised to see that already by Day Five, several of the men had given up attempting to be discree and had taken to peeing mere feet from the pavement in plain view. Some of them even waved at us or said hello as we rode by, as thoug some Mr. Manners of the cycling world had instructed them that this was the polite thing to do in just such an instance. I had to admit to being slightly envious that it was so simple for men, especially since I had yet to relax my muscles enough to pee successfully en route even when hidden from the road. I regretted not buying the funnel and tube system I had seen advertised for women cyclists, because even though I would never have the dexterity to use it on the bike as it was intended, it would have been useful to have in the bushes!
We needed to be in and out of Pit 2 by 2:00 p.m., and were worried we weren't going to make it. We were starving, but knew we couldn't afford to stop for lunch until we'd passed through the pit stop. This was the first time I'd experienced real hunger while cycling. I might have found it more amusing or encouraging if it weren't for the fact that the hunger was mixed with nausea. As we neared Walla Walla, we began pedaling through onion fields and the smell was horrible. The onions were everywhere, lying by the side of the road and even on the blacktop, obviously dropped from the back of trucks during transportation. Ever since the summer during college when I had worked the opening shift at a Taco Bell in Ann Arbor and had been forced daily to chop onions until they seeped through my skin and I could taste them on my tongue, I couldn't stand anything about an onion. These large, sweet globes excited other riders, who peeled and ate them raw and whole by the side of the road, as though they were apples instead.
At last it seemed Zoi and I had stumbled across the solution to our time-crunched hunger. Rising out of the onion fields was a convenience store and gas station! We stopped long enough for Zoi to run in and buy a couple of candy bars. As we straddled our bikes in the parking lot, racing to eat the chocolate before it melted all over us, Richard caught up to us and handed back the air pump. Chocolate truly is the panacea for all ills biking related, and my spirits were buoyed as the three of us reentered the roadway.
We pushed toward the pit with a good pace and had nearly arrived when the recumbent bicycle Richard had built himself got a flat tire. We stopped in front of a take-out burger stand where several other Big Riders were enjoying lunch while Richard rolled the ailing bike to the curb and told us he didn't have what he needed to fix it. He would have to flag down a SAG vehicle. Before Zoi and I pushed off, however, Richard produced a small glass vial and asked me to carry it. Prior to the Big Ride's beginning in Seattle, Richard had pedaled to Neah Bay on Washington's Pacific Coast. There he dipped the rear wheel of his bike in the ocean and collected this vial of water before pedaling with it back home to Seattle. He had vowed to carry the water vial across the country and to continue on past Washington, D. C. at the other end of the trip to dip his front tire in the Atlantic. He asked me if I would carry the vial, as he wanted it to travel by bicycle across the entire continent.
I protested, "I haven't ridden an entire day's mileage yet. Maybe you better ask someone else."
Richard smiled and refused to change his mind. "You're going to make it."
I placed the vial in the pouch of my CamelBak, and Zoi and I set out again carrying this liquid treasure and the weight of another man's vision. We pedaled into Washington Park at 2:00 on the nose, just in time to hear Karen shouting that the pit was closing. After we filled our water bottles and stopped quickly at the Port-A-Potties, we headed back out in search of food.
Not far down the road we found a Taco Bell, leaned our bikes unlocked against one of the windows, and ordered and ate altogether too much food. We sat among other riders and crew members, and learned that one of the riders had been assaulted with a pop bottle thrown from the window of a passing van. Luckily, the rider was shook up, but not hurt. The police had been called as throwing anything at a moving vehicle, including a bicycle, was a felony, but no one held much hope that the perpetrator would be caught. Most of the rest of us had had rude comments yelled at us from passing vehicles and had witnessed a crudely handwritten sign hung along the route that read, "Bicycles make good targets." As we all agreed we would be happy to put distance between ourselves and Walla Walla, I thought of my new Big Ride friend Susan who was a teacher in this community and who had proudly passed out small, white, onion shaped pins with the town's name stamped in gold to riders at breakfast. The news of these things would surely sadden her on what should have been such a triumphant day.
I followed Zoi back out onto the route, which led past an elementary school and a row of small but charming houses before dumping us back on SR 12 East. Our bodies seemed to have adjusted to the saddles, and our hunger was gone, but I had a completely new complaint. This was the first full-sized meal I had ever eaten in the middle of a day of riding. It sat in my stomach as if I had skipped the tortillas and beans and eaten an entire can of lard instead. I was even more sluggish than usual, and as a result, even more whiney. If Zoi had wanted to ride off and leave me, it certainly wouldn't have been a challenge. We rode through a construction zone on pavement that was alternately pocked and ancient and smooth, new, and perfectly black, before heading back out into farmlands. An hour down the road the lard had melted and redistributed itself to other parts of my body, and my need for a nap was much less acute.
My need for a Port-A-Potty, however, was strong--that'll teach me to drink a large Mountain Dew with lunch. Luckily, we were now riding through slightly greener pastures, and there were trees and shrubs shielding some of the rolling fence lines from the highway. I waited by the road with the bikes while Zoi tried to find suitable seclusion in the brush. A male cyclist rode by and called out to her, while she was clothed and still searching, "I can still see you!" My sphincter muscles clenched even more tightly at his rudeness, and I anticipated several hours of pain before I would be able to find a Port-A-Potty at Pit 3. Zoi, however, returned several minutes later, successful.
My turn. I headed toward the line of bushes behind me, finding a relatively secluded spot behind a tree. Although I had been able to find no literature on the women's long-distance cycling skill of peeing by the side of the road, I had picked up a few tips from some of the other Washington riders in recent days. Supposedly, it helped to relax all the right muscles if you held onto a branch of a tree and leaned back to take some of the weight off your thighs. I grabbed a branch with one hand, and held my lycra shorts forward with the other, taking care to position myself on the hill so as to not soak either shoe, leaned back and tried to imagine myself relaxed. This was no small task, and for several moments I feared I would fail as I had previously. Today was apparently my lucky day, however, and when I finally emerge from seclusion, I had a wide, triumphant grin on my face.
"I did it!" I called to Zoi, who understood that this really was an accomplishment for me, and didn't laugh. At least now, hopefully, I could put the threat of a bladder infection behind me and enjoy the trip more easily.
Back on the bikes, we leapfrogged up and down the hills with a couple of other women and rolled into Dixie under a gorgeous blue sky in full sunshine. Dixie was as small and quaint a town as its name might imply with well-maintained, decoratively trimmed, two story gingerbread houses lined up neatly along a friendly sidewalk. We stopped at a small, old-fashioned grocery store for more candy bars and ate them outside on the porch, partly as a reward for the sixty miles we'd ridden already, and partly as a chance to gear up for the climb that awaited us on the other side of town.
We had only ten miles to go from the grocery store to Pit 3 at the elementary school in the next town of Waitsburg. Even as Zoi and I alternately pedaled and walked up the hill out of Dixie, I began to hope that for the first time I would make Pit 3 under my own power. Richard's water vial was still in my CamelBak. His expectations that I would finish the day nibbled away at the corner of my mind.
When we finally reached the top of the three-mile climb, Zoi went zipping down the other side. I, on the other hand, approached the downhill every bit as cautiously as I had all the ones leading up to it. I allowed myself to coast for a few moments, then applied the brakes to lessen my speed and convince myself I could stop if I wanted to, before letting them back out and testing them again a few moments later. Zoi was now long-gone from sight.
Despite my trepidation, however, neither the joy of coasting nor the sensual combination of the afternoon's golden light, fragrant fields, and smooth, hot asphalt was lost on me. I was ecstatic when I finally reached the bottom of the hill and coasted to a stop in front of Zoi, patiently standing by the side of the road and looking back at me.
"Karen drove by and saw me standing here and asked what I was doing. I told her I was waiting for Kristine to come down the hill! They're closing Pit 3, but she said we should just keep riding into camp." Zoi smiled as she relayed this. I had to wonder yet again why she bothered with me. She seemed happy enough, though, as she climbed back on her bike and led me the last ten miles into Dayton. On the edge of town, we passed Richard, flat repaired, heading in the other direction. He waved, crossed the road, and fell in line with us.
"I knew you'd make it!" he shouted. "I wanted to come out and escort you into camp."
"It's all because of Zoi," I said. "She's been pulling me all day."
"Oh, I knew you were going to be okay as soon as I saw you pulling us up that hill this morning while you were still in your big chain ring."
I am sure Richard knew that at this point in my still novice cycling career, my climbing hills in big gears had much more to do with stupidity than strength. Although I had been careful to choose a bike with a triple chain ring to give myself extra climbing options, I had not yet trained myself to shift down before attempting a hill. This probably accounted to some degree for the frequency with which I walked. It probably also accounted to some degree for the speed with which my power on the bike increased in the early part of the journey.
Zoi, Richard, and I cycled into downtown Dayton just before 6:00 p.m. It was Friday night and the town had an air of excitement about it, something I attributed more to the town's preparation for a weekend of parades and antique cars than to my own exhilaration at finally finishing an entire day's mileage. As we rounded a corner into camp at Fishing Ponds Park, Ron stepped off the sidewalk, and recognizing my accomplishment, called his congratulations with a genuine smile on his face. I grinned back, unable to help myself even if I'd wanted to.
We parked our bikes on the fenced-in basketball court that would house them overnight and soon discovered that the camp's various services were the most spread out they had been to date. It was a quarter mile walk from bike parking to the camping area, followed by a lengthy, muddy search through a ravine at the bottom of a rock cliff for the gear trucks and our luggage. By the time we had located and hauled our gear to our tent sites, dinner was well under way. We skipped showers and headed straight for the catering truck, joining Ron, Randy, Grant and several other Washington riders. The meal's particulars are now lost from memory. All I remember is how satisfying it felt to sit under the red and white striped canopy with friends and relax knowing that I had reached a new milestone in my progress on this journey, two if you counted my success by the side of the road earlier in the afternoon. The morning's trepidation had completely dissolved, never having met the obstacle of which it forewarned. I pushed my empty plate to one side, leaned back in my plastic folding chair and smiled to myself and anyone else who cared to notice.
Finally, I was a Big Rider.
