Days 2 and 3, St. Helens, Oregon to Warm Springs, Oregon

Day two and day three, night and day. We left St. Helens on day two with forecast of 70% rain and from the day before, we knew exactly what that meant. Temperature was to be in the 50's all day. LUCKILY there was no precipitation when we hit the the wet road at 7:AM. We were following the mighty Columbia River toward the northern edge of the greater Portland area on US Route 30. Somehow the Logging Truckers Guild got word of our journey and came out in full force to see us and provide extra tail wind. It was a near continuous parade. They were quite confident in their driving skills which they enjoyed demonstrating  by missing us by inches. When it start to rain they demonstrated their resolve by coming closer.

After a couple of hours of bonding with the Guild we dove onto a bike path below the road and were quietly riding within 100 feet of the river with only a few walkers to negotiate. One of the riders literally dove over the handle bars after hitting the steel post within 5 feet of the path's beginning. It was in the middle of the lane, designed to keep all cars and apparently an occasional cyclist off the path. After a brief catapult, he had a relatively safe landing. Firetrucks and ambulances were summoned. Chuck and I, always the last to leave the hotel, followed the sirens to the accident. The bicycle was pronounced dead at the scene. The front wheel looked like a modern art piece. The guy looked fine. He did go to the ER and was released. He bought a new bike in a well established Portland Bike shop and is back in the peleton.

The Columbia looking west from bridge. Oregon on the left and Washinton on the right

It was too wet to take many photos. You will have to take my word on how beautiful the river looked, even in a drizzle. Fairly large verdant hills in Washington State, which the Columbia demarcates, majestically blended into the river. There were a paucity of homes and commercial enterprises. I suspect all riverside property in Washington is some sort of National Park.

Chuck finishing up at Calamity Janes

Today we left the hotel in bright sunshine.  Without any view of the sky for the last 3 days, including our drive over, the blueness was overwhelming.  We started climbing immediately.  It was 50°, which is leg warmer, arm warmer, and light jacket weather.  We approached Mount Hood and could see it  from various angles throughout the day.  The road surface was perfect with only a modicum of commercial travel.  We had a very nice large shoulder and did not need constant vigilance for approaching vehicles.

Wild Lupine noted along the road all day today

Chuck not noticing Mount Hood

Pulling  out of the Sag Stop

In 1803, Lewis and Clark were the first Americans of European descent to see Mount Hood. It's peak is the highest point in Oregon at 11,239 feet with 12 named glaciers on it. You can tell it is a volcanic mountain by the  way it pops up, in an otherwise flat area. Approaching it is like approaching one of the grand cathedrals in France such as Chartes. It can be seen from a great distance and the viewer is progressively overwhelmed while advancing. Though inactive, it is the volcanic mountain in Oregon most likely to erupt, a calculated chance of 3% to 7% in the next 30 years.

Mount Hood

To see details of the rides click each of these below and then click the link that pops up:
Day 2 - Tuesday June 19, 2012

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/190818099

Day 3 - Wednesday June 20, 2012
http://connect.garmin.com/activity/191116950

Astoria to Helen Day 1

On day 0 we met all the support crew and the riders. All 50 plus riders stood up successively, stating who they were, where they were from, and why they were here. Chuck and I suspected something like this would go down and figured they might also ask what we did for a living. So when we were driving over from Portland we tossed around a couple of bullshit careers we could claim to be. Now I am perfectly comfortable with who I am and what I am, but it is always fun to instantly reinvent yourself and live it out a la Catch Me If You Can. We narrowed it down to Morticians or Jazz Musicians. Now neither of us knows shit about either profession but we weren't concerned about any type of intense questioning. Just to boost  the authenticity of the jazz musician angle I took my homemade AC-DC ( Bevis and Butthead)  T-shirt and tried to change it to Charlie Parker, but I wound up ruining it. Some of the riders had causes they claimed to be supporting and were raising money. I was convinced they were all sincere. There was heart disease, hemophilia and cancer. One very nice guy was raising money for 501C ( or something like that) dealing equal assess to marriage.We later thought about telling him marriage might be a little overrated but figured he didn't want to hear that.

At the mouth of the Columbia River. What, me worry?

I'll eventually get to the ride but while on the subject of impostors my absolute favorite ruse goes down when I am cycling alone in Italy, usually while accompanying Charlotte on her painting trips. When I first get there I will seek out the local bike shop and without exception, they will sponsor a team and sell a team kit (jersey and cycling shorts). I always buy one. Most of the time they look better than the pro team kits which is hard to explain. When I bring them back home I am the only one in town that has the kit, which is cool. While I am there and riding on the back roads, not uncommonly a car with lost Americans will flag me down and ask for directions. Usually I have studied the maps well before riding and can answer the question. I speak to them in broken English with a thick Italian accent, constantly reminding them to speak more slowly. Once, when I later made it to the town I directed two of them, they bought me a coffee and took photographs of each other with me to show their fiends back in ? Atlanta they had met an authentic Italian bike rider. 


Back to the ride. Well a sane person would have labelled it an inauspicious start. I had a decent sleep, was up at 6:00 AM and knocked back three double cappuccinos before leaving the room to eat a typical motel breakfast. I have brought along the Nespresso machine with milk frother but still managed to stay within the stringent weight limits for luggage detail. No way I can ride more than I usually do and not tank up with the necessary caffeine delivered as a wonderful quality coffee. I love good coffee more than I love the green on a tree leaf, the purr of my cat and the smell a rose all put together. I once asked my niece Mary, a vegetarian, if she ate cheese and she replied  "Life without cheese is not worth living." Well it is right back at you in spades with me and coffee.


The forecast was 60% for rain. For us Georgia crackers that means a 60% chance it might rain on you for a millisecond over the 24 hour period.. In Oregon it means if you are outside all day, it will rain on you 60% of the time.We were wet 100% of time with rain coming down the full 60%, usually a drizzle, but it poured on the second longest descent. We rode with the mighty Columbia River to our left all day but it was hard to see it well. The pace was easy. At the hotel we were more soggy than tired.

Wild climbing hydrangea ( I think)

Click below and a link will appear, click it to see ride details


http://connect.garmin.com/activity/190 516688

Day -1 and Day 0, Portland

I flew into Portland, Oregon yesterday a couple of days before the ride begins. I had never been here and thought it would be a good idea to acclimate to the time zone change while checking out the area and visiting an old friend. "Roof" was one of my college roommates at Georgia Tech and I had not seen him for many years. The 'Ride through the Free World' will bypass this large city so this was only chance to see him and Portland

At the Rose Garden in the center of the city

A cappuccino at Stumptours  It tasted
as good as it looked

Roof and I had major history. The main reason I chose to go to Georgia Tech was the Cooperative Work Study program they offered. For the first 3 years the "Coops" would alternate quarters attending school and working the Coop job. The last two years were completed conventionally, working only the summer between them. The experience, we were told, would make you a more productive employee post graduation and the decent salaries allowed us to cover all expenses during the work quarter, with enough additional saved money, to pay for most of the school quarter. This all sounded quite wise professionally and noble from the responsibility standpoint. Everyone in this program appeared to have a laser like plan for the next 40 years, always looking for the best job opportunity regardless of what hell hole the nuclear power plant, or whatever, was situated. On the other hand I was primarily looking for an opportunity to live in a city where I could have the most fun while free from the choking burden of the never ending papers to write and tests to cram for, which I am sorry to say, ruined the actual college experience. In other words it was location, location and location. I could have cared less what I was doing during the 9 to 5 hours. It couldn't be too much worse than mowing lawns and working at McDonalds, my previous two 'professions'.

Approaching Mount Hood. I'm not a perspective expert but that mountain got to be more than 6 ft wide

Lenticular clouds next to Mount Hood

 Roof was also a Coop and New York City was the place we were going. We had several interviews and were hired by Pan American World Airways. This was richest airline in the World for decades but it sputtered the moment we were hired, sinking into bankruptcy at the end of our 5 years. We blamed each other for this debacle but in retrospect  it was likely not us, but the knuckleheads who hired us. In New York we had some money, a lot of energy and tons of free time. We discovered Broadway, MOMA, the Met and the Mets,  free Shakespeare in Central Park and free concerts there with the new bands at dawn of their careers: Led Zeppelon, Blood Sweat and Tears, Ten Years After, Sly,  Fleetwood Mac and others. We played basketball in the streets, a rough game there where fouls were never called, and we honed our 3 man game well enough to make it to the finals in the 3 man intramural league at Tech, losing to 3 guys on the Varsity Tech team by only 2 points. Freshman year the two of us were asked to play for Tech. They needed two more guys to round the roster to 10 men, in order to scrimmage. Our deal was no road games, no scholarship money and not even a place at the jock dining hall (which was all we really needed), So we said "no". This refusal, we decided yesterday, was very stupid. Telling everyone for the rest of our lives that we played b-ball at Tech would have added gravitas to our CVs.

The culinary experience was not so great. Our favorite restaurant was the Steak and Ale chain. Five dollars for a steak, salad, baked potato and "all" the beer you could drink. We were kicked out of every one of these in Manhattan and told not to come back. Though only a 3 letter word "all" meant something different in New York than it did in Atlanta. 


As opposed to Ga Tech, there were females everywhere.With no extra money, no car, no coeds, and not exactly Hollywood looks, I was having some difficulty at Tech handling the raging hormones of an 18 year old. How did my parents let me go there? If I hadn't had the Coop experience I could have sued them for parental malpractice. One work quarter Roof and I got mixed up with a Mafioso daughter and had to leave town a couple of days early.

The most enduring activity of which I first became passionate at the time was reading novels. Given no obligatory studying we could knock one off a week. During high school we were given a nice reading list for the summer. I recall reading the first 20 pages of Moby Dick, giving up and going to the Cliff Notes, which was too pedantic, and was similarly chucked, then finishing with the Classic Comic Book version. I aced the test and that became the paradigm. While in New York we read all the predictable intellectional and pseudo-intellectual material everyone else was reading in the late sixties and early seventies. Catch 22 was our favorite. We shared a room which was standard at time and some nights we would lay in our (individual) single bed with our own copies reading it out load to each other.

Roof's job is to help move the salmon through these spillways, avoiding the turbines on the Columbia River dams

Pacific Lamprey

Picketed Lead funnels the fish by the counting window

Wild Salmon move through  the counting window. Note the
small fin 2/3 of the way to tail from the dorsal fin. The farm raised
have this removed before release

Ex Future Sons in Law Trip

Four years ago I rented the movie  "A Good Year" with Russell Crowe and Marion Cotilard. It was based on a Peter Maille book and was a story of an English stock broker, who goes to the South of France (Provence), to close on the estate where he had summered as a boy and had inherited from his recently deceased grandfather. The short critique: Miscasted Russell Crowe, laughably predictable plot, poor screenplay (Provence is way cooler than ever depicted by Peter Maille) and annoying loose ends. Despite these shortcoming, I loved almost every second  because it looked soooo good. At the end I intended to find out where it was filmed and go there with bike, ASAP.

Bonnieux, an historic "hill village", population approximately 1500, is in the heart of Provence. It has one hotel on the edge of town and next to the bakery. I hatched a plan to go the next summer during the Tour, stay in this hotel for a week  while riding in the area every day. The bonus : The Tour de France announced a 2009 stage up the Giant of Provence, Mount Ventoux. All I needed was some buds to ride with.

Many years ago I met Camiel, a kid from Holland whose parents were life long friends of our best friends the Culllinans. Camiel took up bicycle racing as youngster and I rode with him periodically through the years when he visited the States  Seven years ago Megan Cullinan, (Camiel's age) was married and he and his mother came to the wedding. They stayed at our house for a week. We rode everyday and I got to know him fairly well. At the end of stay, I took him on a ride to make him "an offer he couldn't refuse". On the ride and after a few preliminary questions about his availability status, the age his friends were marrying  etc, I told him that if he would marry my daughter, Sarah, at that time unattached, bright, attractive and so on, we would sell the house we had bought for her while in college. This house had allegedly appreciated 7 fold in 3 years during the ridiculous housing bubble. I told him, if successful, he could have the all money from the sale, to buy a house in Lake Coumo, Northern Italy ,where he was living and working as an industrial designer

"Is this the way it is done here in America?" he querried
"Not so much now" I replied "But I sense things are changing in this direction"
"Are you doing this so you can have a place to stay in Italy and someone to ride with?"
"Is there something wrong with that?"

Well it never happened and being a reasonable person, who is only half Sicilian, I held no grudge. Within weeks of watching the movie I emailed Camiel another "offer he could not refuse". I told him if he would pick me up at the airport in Milan in his car, with a bike rack, and drive us to the South of France, I would cover the hotel, meals and gas. The next day he replied that it WAS an "offer he could not refuse" and the trip was on. Meanwhile Sarah had had a steady boyfriend Greg for several years, and they had recently split. He is also a cyclist and I had ridden with him often. The breakup was friendly and  we continued to ride together when visiting Sarah in Baltimore. He had never ridden in Europe and I asked him to come along . Though nothing was ever official, I had been independently referring to each of them in conversation here in Macon as my "ex future sons in law". A trip with the two of them seemed like some sort of a meaningful theme.

Bonnieux

The town looked better in real life than in the movie.The hotel was perfect. The riding fabulous, as always in Provence, with little rain. We followed the tour on TV and waited for the stage up Mount Ventoux, which was within riding distance of our hotel. Luckily we learned the road up the mountain had been completely saturated with spectators who were camping for days. For the first time ever, the mountain portion of the race course was to be closed to all traffic, including bicycles, the entire day of the race. We easily altered our plan a bit and headed to the Giant the day before the race.We knew the atmosphere would be identical to our prior race day mountain rides. The the top 2/3 of the road would be lined with previously described partying fans.

I can still remember how good this baguette sandwich  was.
My favorite riddle in life is how is it that every baguette in France
is outstanding and I've not had a single outstanding  baguette in the States

Hanging out with the young guys presented only a few problems. They were faster on the bike, which I expected, but were a little slow in the morning. This was only an issue on our Mount Ventoux ride. We were an hour away by bike and the temperature was forecast to be around 95. Had I been with my contemporaries, we would have left at 6:00 AM and been to the top of the mountain before the real heat of the day. Unfortunately we left from the famous town of Bedoin at the start of the 32 km climb at noon, temp well above 90.

Typical Ride Day

Fields of lavender are common throughout Provence

Outside Gordes

We started out together riding the first 3-4 miles of a 3% incline at an easy chatting pace. When we arrived at the Forest, we were looking at a near 10% grade for almost 6 miles. The road was packed with fans and there was no room to even stop, much less turn around and head back. Once peddling, it was nonstop to the top of the mountain. The plan was to meet at the top and descend  together on the other side of the mountain, where there would be very little traffic and no spectators. There was no Plan B and I had to make it.

Just before the Forest

They were out of site in an embarrassingly short time. I was alone, in my smallest gear, max power output. Many years ago when I was a medical student at the University of Florida, I provided medical assistance for an experiment on marathon runners at a race.This was engineered by the famous Dr.Cade, inventor of Gatorade, and a  kidney professor there. The race started at 9:00 AM, but it was June in Gainesville..We discovered that ALL the runners we studied had a rectal temperature of 105° at 9, 18 and 27 miles.(They came into a tent at these distances for blood tests, sweat analysis, which was collected in a rubber examination glove they were wearing while running, as well as vital signs)

Well it was probably warmer here on Mount Ventoux than in Gainesville that June. Also the temperature was not steadily dropping when we ascended, as it does in our humid North Georgia mountains. Halfway through the famous Forest, I realized I was working harder in this type of heat, than I ever had previously done, in the 30 plus years I had been riding. Realizing that this was the oldest day of my life, I started to worry about dying of a heat stroke, as did the famous Tommy Simpson, in1967 when he was the #1 ranked professioanal rider in the world. He died during this race that year, near the top of the climb. A monument was erected on the side of the road at the spot of his death, one or two switchbacks from the peak.

I started to ruminate about the possibility of joining Mr Simpson's fate, and concluded this was not such a bad way to go, in fact a bit on the heroic side. I apologized to everyone I had ever crossed, which took several miles to cover and begged forgiveness. I pondered the various tunes I would have like played at my funeral.  There are several great ones by Tom Waits. Of course Sid Vicious'  My Way is the ultimate in your face version, but drips with a bitterness I don't have. I settled for David Bowie's  Space Oddity and began to softly dribble out the lyrics, assuming this would be reported to my wife in the event of my death, and she would subsequently make sure it was blasted on a nice sound system at the funeral

After the Forest I entered the usually very windy last 5 or 6 miles. Fortunately the wind was bearable and  a  slight change in the steepness allowed  me to shift to a bigger gear. A minimal temperature drop was just enough to feel comfortable.  At that point I was able to enjoy the ride. I knew I would make it. I took back all the above apologies and began passing a few  riders

We made to the peak and there was a store and a gazillion other riders. Most of Ventoux was heavily forested at one time but the timber was harvested for ship building beginning in the 12th century. The wood was considered superior for some reason. I suspect it was the tree's ability to withstand the constant winds. Venteux translates to "wind"  in French and it blows greater than 56 mph, 240 days of the year. The top is limestone giving it the appearance of being snow capped at all times.

It would have been impossible because of the crowds to go down the way we ascended. There are two other ways to get off the mountain. Neither is quite as long as the race course. Camiel demonstrated his superior descending skills by riding most of the first 2 miles of the descent with one hand on the bars and taking photos with the other. This  was obviously very fast but long enough that I was able to get into the kind of trance most downhill skiers experience when on a very long slope. The slightest lean changes your direction and you subconsciously shift your weight to glide through the turns with as little braking as possible. The rail is a joke; it's only purpose to serve as a marker for the search party as you sail over it at 50 mph into oblivion.

This is Ground Control to  Major Tom,
Your circuit's dead there's something wrong.
Can you hear me Major Tom ?
Can you hear me Major Tom ?

Major Tom:
Here am I floating on my my Ti bike..
far above the moon..
planet Earth is blue
and this I like to do.

Every small village has a fountain for drink or cool down 

After we "conquered" Mount Ventoux we had a nice victory dinner at the best restaurant in town, right across the street from our hotel. We ordered a bottle of red wine with a Mount Ventoux label and it was pretty good. We made a toast to this Giant of Provence: " Today we kicked your butt, tonight we drink your  blood"

The next day we met up with Chuck who was in the area with wife and youngest daughter Callie. He rented a clunker and we rode a short distance to a Category 3 climb to watch the race go by, leaving us enough time to make it to a small nearby town where we could find a bar with TV to watch the " big boys "duke it out up Ventoux.

Waiting for the race

The Peleton

That's Chuck with red shirt and you can see Armstrong (above) with the Astana jersey and dark socks, the last guy in the photo.This was his come back year at age 37. Despite no significant racing over the previous 3 years and one of the oldest guys ever to even show up for the Tour, he managed to come in third place and get on the podium in Paris.

The ex futures at dusk in Bonnieux
Are they discussing  "what could have been?"

ANNOUNCEMENT:  6/15/2012 HEADING WEST TODAY

Armstrong Est Tomble'

I've always been a sports fan. I've been lucky enough to personally witness a few iconic sporting events. In my younger years I played and followed baseball. In high school, it was basketball, but I never attended any significant games. I like football on TV, but rarely even go to a live event. My current favorite live and TV sport is professional bicycle racing. In 1984 when American Greg Lemond was competing in the Tour de France, delayed TV coverage was first carried in the States. Since then, I have followed the Tour closely on TV, and have gone over to France to follow it five separate years. In 2003 I was able to watch Lance Armstrong win his closest Tour de France victory. One particular day was the greatest ever.

 In 1955 our family traveled from Memphis to Chicago to visit my grandfather. My dad took my brother Joe and me to old Comisky Park to see the White Sox  host Ted Williams, the greatest hitter ever, and his Red Sox team. My brother was fan prodigy and knew both line ups well. He was a huge White Sox fan because there were no teams close to Memphis and Chicago was home town to many of our Sicilian relatives. On the other hand, I was a goofball with no vested interest in the game's outcome. Not yet seduced by the passions of tribalism, I had no understanding of the home team concept. I was there for the spectacle.

Over the 80 years where old Comisky park stood, less than 10 players have hit a home run completely over the top of the upper deck and into the streets. That day Williams did it twice, once foul and then fair, the latter a three run shot that was the difference of the game, Boston winning 9 to 7. My brother was distraught over the outcome. I was just stunned by the William's hits. I was too young to understand parabolic trajectory. All I knew was ball appeared to be still rising when it left Comisky Park. I pondered how far it must have gone, my grandfather's house? St. Louis? Memphis?

In 1992 I was in Atlanta. Fulton County Stadium to see Otis Nixon make his fabulous running up the wall catch to save a home run and keep the game going.  The Braves went on to beat the Pirates by one run that night. Weeks later they met the Pirates in the best of 7 National League Playoffs. I attended game 7 when " The Miracle in the Ninth" occurred. The Braves were down 2 to 0 coming in for their last at bat of the season. They managed to score 1 run and with 2 outs, Francesco Cabrera hit a single to left field with the bases loaded. David Justice trotted home from third to tie the game. Sid Bream, the slowest man in Major League baseball, was the on second base. He made it to third looking OK, but the Pirates third baseman must have put a car battery down his pants, because the wheels started coming off as Sid headed home. Barry Bonds, the Pirates left fielder, had the worst arm in  major league baseball. A play at the plate is always sensational, especially if it ends a game. This one would end the season. He was called safe. The play was so close I still can't really tell if he was out or safe, despite the many times I've watched it replayed on TV.

In 2012 is somewhat uncool to say you are an avid pro cycling fan.  The sport has been tainted by the drug scandals and many amateur racers like to whine how much better they would be, perhaps equal to the pros, if they partook. Though never testing positive, as Lance Armstrong likes to say "despite being the most tested athlete of all time", many feel he had more than taken advice from his medical staff.  His American predecessor Greg Lemond was a household name in Europe through the 1980s but he did not alter the landscape for riding here in the USA. When Lance started wining the Tours in 1999, his story with cancer was very well known, and TV coverage was much more widely distributed. Many in the USA enjoyed watching Lance beat up on everyone else in the world while maintaining the Texas swagger. I personally feel I owe him a huge debt. Lance greatly increased the respect and acceptance we riders now enjoy from the previously not so friendly drivers here in rural Georgia, and I suspect, many other states. Let's face it, we are slowing the cars and usually we are not even commuting, just staying on the road for hours, winding up exactly where we started.

In 2003 Lance Armstrong was attempting to win the tour for the fifth time which would tie the previous greats: Frenchmen Jacque Anquetil and Bernard Hinault, The Spaniard Miguel Indurain, and the greatest ever, the Belgian Eddy Merckx. Seven friends and I flew over to the French Alps and rented 2 cars. We rode many climbs and watched some of the most famous race climbs firsthand. Four of us made our way to the Pyrenees  to see the last few decisive days. Lance was primarily dueling with Jan Ulrich, the German, previous winner of one tour and frequent second place finisher

We were staying in the city of Lourdes (see earlier Blog). Having been in the country over a week and attending many races, we had learned the rules concerning when you can be on the race route, and when the roads were cleared of all traffic, including cyclists. We mapped out a route that would bring us from Lourdes to the Race Course at the bottom of the famous Col du Tourmalet. We would climb and descend it, go through the small town of St. Sauveur and pick out a bar where we would could watch the race live on TV after our ride. We would then ride up to the top of Luz Ardiden, the race finish line, and back down to the selected bar. These last 2 climbs are graded "beyond category". We added all the projected  times, and calculated we could just make it.

Mike, Chris, Eddie and I before the ride

We first had to ride out of Lourdes. Unfortunately we were staying in the very center of the town, at the hotel closest to the famous curative waters.  It took much longer to get out of there than expected. We had to weave in and out of  clusters of various clients making their way to the waters. We saw a group of individuals sharing an identifiable extra chromosome and another group with an identifiable chromosome deletion. Every road had a wheelchair lane, and most of the non-afflicted patrons walked in the streets. This put us behind schedule. We had to change the plan from a warm up to an all out four man pace line to the bottom of the Tourmalet. I hate to ride hard without a warm up. By the time we got there, I was toast.  The plan was to then go at our own pace up to the top, meet there, take a few pictures, and descend together.

We ascended individually and yours truly was immediately bringing up the rear. This was a spectacular ride. The climb is 17 km and last 14km has an average grade of 8.5% . Most of the road was lined with spectators, many who had spent the night, and had nothing to do but drink alcohol and cheer all of us amateurs. There was an estimate of nearly 10,000 cyclists riding the last two climbs before the peleton arrived. I had a religious experience towards the top of the mountain. I literally rode into a cloud, stayed in it a while, then rode out of it. When clear, I could see the peak of the mountain (which helped maintain some hope of getting there) and the large cloud below. We gathered at the top, took a few photos in the first few switch backs. Being behind schedule necessitated a faster than planned descent, that had a similar profile to the ascent. Towards the bottom there were few switch backs, just long winding stretches of near 10% decline. We clocked a maximum speed of 62 mph. We sailed through the small town without slowing. One of us pointed to an acceptable looking bar, the others, like bombardiers over a Japanese ship, quietly nodded they had seen the place.

Me descending the Tourmalet ( note rock in back pocket)

At the base of this last climb we were about 10 minutes behind schedule. Luz Ardiden is a 15 km climb and the last 14 km averages 7.7 %  It was every man for himself.  I was dropped by my friends as if I had a rash during a leprosy epidemic. I had been out of drinking water for a while, hungry and tired..When I reached last few switch backs, I saw the others coming down. I made an immediate 180 at the top without taking any photographs. At 1 km from the bottom I was ordered off the bike by the gendarmes, and had to walk the last part, which was not too bad. We made it to bar, ordered a boat load of crepes, the only food they were serving, and took a spot on the floor, close to a large TV.

The real race was well underway and we watched the peleton climb the col d'Aspen, a category 2 climb in that direction, then descend en mas to the base of the Tourmalet. The impostors were immediately dropped and contenders began to battle it out when they reached the small town of La Monge, about 5 km from the peak  Ulrich, nicknamed the The Kaiser, attacked Armstrong close to the top and this looked to be the definitive winning move. Armstrong, appearing to struggle, managed to bridge the gap just before the peak. The lead group of a dozen riders reformed. Predictably, they went down the mountain like kamikazes, and fortunately, with no mishaps.

We ran out of the bar to cheer the lead group just before they started their last climb to the top of Luz Ardiden. After a turn off the main rode they started up, and I would have to say, with a bit more speed than I did. Armstrong attacked early and brought only Iban Mayo the Spaniard for Euscatel (orange jersey) and Ulrich. After a switch back or so, Armstrong, leading, and perilously close to the adoring crowds, had his handle bars snagged by a fan's souvenir musette bag. He was down in instant, as was Mayo on top of him. French TV and radio were screaming  "Armstrong est tomble', Armstrong est tomble' "  Ulrich was just far enough back to navigate around the pile. This sent us to our feet, as if our rising would get Armstrong off the ground. We were screaming like high school girls at an Elvis concert and likely not making the best impression on our hosts at the bar. 

Armstrong did get up quickly, and while peddling to catch the leaders, had his foot slip out of the peddle. He fell off his saddle, landing with his privates on the top tube. He managed to stay upright and was able to realign himself properly. This sensational move further escalated our delight. The leaders more or less soft peddling, waited for Armstrong, something he had done for Ulrich when the Kaiser was victim to a mishap during a previous Tour. Armstrong caught the leading group, rode with them briefly and attacked again leaving everyone. At this point we were hysterical. The last time I recalled being this excited was when Marilyn Monroe sang Happy Birthday to JFK.

Armstrong Down (but not out, photo by l'equippe)

He managed to put almost a minute of time on Ulrich and that was more than enough to insure he would win the Tour, as he did about 3 days later, by his narrowest margin. Our ride back to town was as surreal as the ascent through the clouds. We were in a pack of 9000+  riders. Nearly everyone must have been lodging in the Lourdes direction. Cyclists covered the entire road. We were on a small D road going slightly downhill.  The draft was a jet stream. We were doing 30 miles an hour. At any point, there were cyclists as far as the eye could see in both directions. Most appeared to be as pumped as we were, having been there for one of sport's greatest days. The 30 kms back to Lourdes was absolute best I ever felt on a bike. Having eaten only crepes, however, I totally bonked just before we reached the city. I had to sit on the sidewalk, unable to stand. My friends resuscitated me with a Coke and a baguette. I eventually limped back to our hotel. While they were resting, I snuck over to the curative waters.

The Chinese Ham and Cheese Ride

This was my last weekend to ride two 100 mile treks in two days. Chuck, who will be doing the first 8 days of the Ride Through the Free World, was on board for the same distances. On Saturday we decided to do an old favorite we call the Ham and Cheese Ride. The HCR is as follows: from North Macon to the Macon State College area, then down to Byron, home of the famous pop festival circa 1970 that Chuck attended, then on to Knoxville, Roberta, and Mussella, where we purchase and eat the ham and cheese sandwiches, then two thirds of the way to Forsyth, and then finally back home. The usual ride is 80 miles. To get another 20 miles we have to add a long loop to Forsyth before returning. It's that extra loop we label the Chinese Ham and Cheese Ride - it's the regular ride and "dem some."

Although it's not officially summer until June 21, temperatures tend to approach 100 degrees by this time of the year. Either Chuck or I (most likely Chuck) must be living right, as thus far this year we have been shown great mercy with consistently benign temperatures. We began at 7:30 AM. It was 59 degrees with low humidity, light winds, high of 82, all in all, an invigorating atmosphere

After leaving Macon we eventually crossed Highway 80 and hit the "country roads" with little traffic and smooth pavement. Our first town is Byron. On the way we passed a prison where we typically slow down and stare at the visitors, who have parked along the road, and are walking to the front gate. I always have a prying compulsion to ask them the story behind the incarceration of their loved one. I have enough sense not to of course, but it is fun to speculate the crime based on appearance of the visitor. Just before Byron there is a long climb past an old boy scout camp.  At the summit I was shocked to see my favorite cedar tree with 90% of the top apparently blown off by what I guess must have been a small tornado. The diameter is just under 6 feet, about the length of my bike.

Largest cedar tree I have ever seen

We are very fortunate in Georgia to have what seems to be an infinite number of paved roads, most of which are in excellent condition. Some of these roads are so sparsely traveled you have to wonder why they were paved in the first place, much less repaved after showing just the earliest signs of wear. Georgia is the largest state east of the Mississippi River and half the people live in the greater Atlanta area, leaving plenty of room for us to ride. Somehow I do not think there is a honest explanation for these wonderful country roads. I would speculate there is a generous allotment on both state and county levels due to the sinister influence of those who build the roads. I'm certainly not complaining as this is a windfall for us cyclists.

As we were leaving Byron, having made one of the few required turns on the entire trip, the road suddenly looked very strange. It seemed impossible to me that we would have made a wrong turn and I feared we might have been simultaneously afflicted by one of three possible neurological ailments: a jamais vu seizure, Alzheimer's disease, or a right brain lesion. The first possibility, a jamais vu seizure, is best described as the opposite of the familiar deja vu spell, where you suddenly feel the sensation of being in a familiar place when you aren't. Don't panic, it's completely normal to have an occasional deju vu episode. It is, however, abnormal to have them often, which could mean a partial seizure, usually due to old head trauma. A jamais vu spell is the inverse of deja vu whereby a familiar place suddenly seems strange, as if you have never seen it before. This sensation is frequently a partial seizure and is more likely due to something bad, like a brain tumor. The second possibility, early Alzheimer's disease, would certainly explain the inability to recall or recognize a place I had been to 20 times in the past but it's typically not so aggressive that it arrives between breakfast and lunch. The third option, a secondary effect of a right brain lesion, would result in poor visual spatial ability which could cause an idiotic wrong turn, but as best I could tell I had no other related difficulties. Thankfully the problem wasn't any of these three, but rather a less cataclysmic yet somewhat more alarming diagnosis: we simply got lost - and impressively so in a familiar small town not far from our own. This realization is not the sort of confidence builder I am looking for considering I'm set to start traveling  3,700 miles in a matter of days, through all sorts of strange new roads and alien towns. 

Old Lemond fan with Z jersey through a canopy pecan grove

After leaving Byron we rode through a number of fully mature pecan groves alternating with peach groves. Georgia is known as the peach state but both South Carolina and California produce more. We do grow one third of all the pecans in the US and are the number one producing state. It is our second largest money crop behind cotton. Marijuana is supposedly in there someplace, but it's hard to get accurate numbers.

Dickey's Peach Packing Plant and Store

Many of this years peaches have already been picked. At Dickey's Packing Plant, in Mussella, I enjoy seeing the crop move along the conveyor belt and be sorted into boxes. The plant was built in 1936.  It has a spit level tin roof with attractive lines, an open air high ceiling set up for coolness and breeze, and pine floors in excellent condition.  It is impossible to carry the peaches on the bike but we occasionally have a freshly made peach shake. A word of caution: this shake is great going down, but sits in the stomach like a pound of nacho chips and a six pack. We took a pass this time and went straight for the ham and cheese sandwiches at the store across the street.

General Store  Mussella

Garmin file Chinese Ham and Cheese Ride 

(Click above to see ride)

Prior Post Update
As a follow up to the last entry, Charlotte returned safe and sound from Tuscany and weathered the interrogations well, although she was a bit miffed I had not come to her defense. I regret to inform that the investigation into my almost murder has come to a screeching halt because officer Poncherello has been assigned to the case. Turns out officer Poncherello was the same officer who handled a certain grand theft auto case a few years ago.  He reminded me that he was the young Georgia highway patrolman, (GHIPS) assigned to the case back in 2008 when I first reported my black 1985 El Camino stolen. During that case I testified that my beautiful, cherished, car/truck hybrid would be easy to identify because I placed a custom-made bumper sticker I designed reading I Swam the Rio Grande on it in order to give the vehicle the attitude I thought it needed. Needless to say someone couldn't take a joke.

Foul Play

My departure from the deep and unbearably hot South is rapidly approaching. This week I took the Serotta to the shop for an overhaul and some gear changes. I had planned to pick it up the next day and ride it this weekend, making sure there were no problems before commencing my 3,700 mile trek through the Free World. A good rule of thumb: never do anything mechanical to a bike and then load it up for a trip without a day or two of test riding. Inevitably something will not line up, or worse will fall off the bike (this usually happens when I work on it).  The right peddle broke into 2 pieces a week ago, but luckily I already had the replacement. The shop put on a 13-29 on the rear cog which should be adequate for the mountains out west.  I kept the chain to go with this cog set as they have previously worn together a bit. A mismatch in wear results in the chain slipping over gears when peddling hard. It was miracle I was able to find both parts and it works perfectly.

Then trouble arrived. First the guys at the bike shop discovered that the bottom bracket, the spindle that goes through the bottom of the frame, attaching to crank arms (which hold the pedals), was completely shot and half disintegrated. Parts had to be ordered, which precluded riding the bike this weekend. If that wasn't enough, then came the coup de grâce. Gabe, the part time shop guy and full time engineering student, with some keen powers of observation, noted a very precarious set of lesions on the inside top part of the front forks on both sides. The front forks attach the hub of the front wheel to the front part of the frame. If fragile, it would likely break on a down hill, when weight is transferred to the front of the machine. This breakdown means a face plant to the asphalt in a millisecond, possibly with the two broken ends of the fork going through the neck on the way down. While I'm no trauma doctor, that's got to hurt real bad.

Mind you this wearing was not a simple crack. These were deep grooves possibly caused by a hard or sharp object that had attached to the tire, then rotated up and became trapped by the front brakes next to the forks, thereby cutting into them as the revolving wheel acted as a power tool. But this sort of damage on both sides and equal? Hard to believe.

Another, some might say paranoid explanation, was that someone with access to the bike, removed the front wheel with its easy quick release and hack-sawed into the forks from the inside. I would not have been able to notice the alteration, unless I took off the front wheel and turned the bike upside down to inspect it for this very specific damage. This cutting would most likely not be a problem with a regular ride, however, when I'd be descending mountains, like those that populate the northwest United States for example, with my chest splayed over the handlebars for maximum aerodynamic benefit, greatly shifting weight to the front fork, then suddenly, BOOM, it fails!  That would be curtains for the rider, yours truly. No open casket at the funeral. (Though if the forks really were sticking through my neck, I can picture a short film black comedy, documenting the facial expressions of naive mourners viewing the casket at the wake)

Gabe with the crime scene evidence. Note the groove one inch from where the forks join.

I was stunned and somewhat alarmed by these suspicious circumstances. The evidence at hand appeared to suggest Foul Play. After foreplay, and a play at the the plate in baseball, foul play is my next favorite type of play.  But not when I'm the victim. We discussed it at the shop and decided it was prudent to notify the Bibb County District Attorney's office. They sent detectives there to investigate the gruesome details and then on to my house for a victim interview. They asked me some standard police questions such as "Who had access?"  "Who might have lingering jealousies of my riding ability?" "Who managed the business assets?" "Who knew how I like to attack a steep downhill at full speed rarely touching the brakes?" and most startling "Who would most enjoy seeing me dead - my face erased by road-rash with a bike fork through my neck?"

The detectives were surprised by the long list of suspects I provided, as well as a bit confused by my twisted logic for their individual motives. For instance, they found it unlikely that every one my business partners would benefit to the extant I claimed. Also, mowing the lawn at night with tractor headlights beaming into the neighbor's bedroom windows was, the investigators agreed, totally obnoxious, but didn't rise to the usual motive to commit a capital crime.

At my insistence the FBI was called to help.  Because of their federal national jurisdiction, I supplemented my initial list with a number of out of state suspects.  Although I had not seen some of them in years, I ingeniously suggested their absence would be a perfect cover. After going over my comprehensive and thoughtfully conceived list of the people the FBI should question, they asked if I needed to look at the white pages in the phone book to make sure I had not overlooked anyone. I was a bit disappointed they did not know the motives for these types of crimes are more likely for profit than passion. I would have suggested the yellow pages.

The investigation took a decisive turn when they asked to interview my wife, Charlotte. When I told them she was out of the country at her yearly painting trip, well away from the scene of the  "accident," as they were euphemistically labeling it, their eyebrows tickled their pathetic toupees.  "Out of the country?" they responded coolly, the plot was coming into focus.

To make a long story short, they have issued an arrest warrant in this case and Charlotte will likely be apprehended for questioning when she disembarks in NYC upon her return to the United States. Hopefully she will be able to explain what appears to be rather damning evidence. On one hand, I am ecstatic my death was prevented. Unfortunately though, things are not going well here; it turns out the FBI can be unpleasantly direct in their interview techniques and perhaps took a few of my quotes out of context. In any event, my business partners will now not talk to me and the neighbors are circulating various community petitions that have dampened many of my daily activities such as: my speed bag work outs, my night time mowing and chainsawing, and my precious time on the rollers with my "operatic accompaniments" to my rock and roll CDs

Nobody knows the Godfather Part I and II better than I do. It helps that I have seen them more than 10 times each. What a resource these movies have been for me throughout my life. It's time to reach in there and pull out yet another vignette/solution to this quandary. I've got it!  Time for young Michael to go to Sicily for awhile - as Clemenza said, "Time to take a vacation."

 I'll be leaving for my Ride Through the Free Word in two weeks - I'll be checking the bike forks daily.