The following is a detailed account of the first Cascade 1200 km Randonnee and the participation in that event of Charlie Feaux and myself by tandem bicycle. This event was conducted in accordance with the Randonneurs USA rules, but it basically all boils down to riding your bicycle over a mountainous, cross-country course of 750 miles in under 90 hours.
Prologue
As soon as I saw the announcement for the Cascade 1200 randonnee, I knew it was THE event I wanted to do this year. Even though it was to be the inaugural event, the allure of the promised fantastic scenery of the Cascades had me hooked. Over the years, I had often heard Charlie speak of the Cascades as one of the few remaining unspoiled areas of the western mountains. I was also intrigued by the format of the ride, featuring designated overnight controls to encourage a more congenial group ride. The organizers of the ride, the Seattle International Randonneurs (SIR), have a reputation as one of the largest, most experienced group of randonneurs in the US, and I was confident they could pull off this first-time event with minimal glitches.
The SIR website provided a teasing discussion of the route, complete with an innocent looking profile, and this: "While the overall elevation gain is similar to Boston-Montreal-Boston (BMB), this ride will provide most of the climbing in long steady climbs over mountain passes . . . less hill climbing and more mountain climbing." After reading the info on the SIR website, I became convinced that the Cascade 1200 would be a more relaxed randonnee, whereby I could expect to enjoy plenty of sleep, numerous photo ops, and of course a few cold microbrews along the way. Coupled with the long summer days at Washington's higher latitude, I didn't expect much night riding would be required.
I promptly brought this to Charlie's attention. He'd made no secret that he was planning for Paris-Brest-Paris (PBP) in '07, and he was still looking for his first 1200 km randonnee in preparation. Given his proclivity for the Cascades, he was quick to jump on board. Subsequently, after an evening when perhaps I'd 'drank myself too many dranks,' I mentioned to Charlie that perhaps we should do this ride on my tandem. After all, with the [typically less steep] western mountains, we'd suffer no real disadvantage on the climbs and enjoy a real advantage on the flats. Charlie readily agreed, and to prepare we completed the rest of this year's brevet rides (the 300, 400, and 600 km) on the long bike.
Day 1 - The Front Range of the Cascades, Mounts Rainier and St. Helens
Our first day started great. We milled around before the start meeting the other riders. We jokingly referred to ourselves as Team Redneck whenever someone else asked where we were from. People seemed interested that two guys from Alabama would want to do the ride on a tandem. Just before the start, I snapped the obligatory photo of some of our friends (Mark Wolff, Cary Way, Charlie Feaux, and Lou Wolff) from the Georgia brevet series.
Both Charlie and I were restless from a week off the bike, along with the hassles of travel. So we were relieved that it was finally time to be underway. I was piloting the tandem, with Charlie stoking and serving as Chief Navigator. As we rolled out, I elicited a few chuckles from the group when I exclaimed that we weren't ready yet because I'd forgotten to put it in the big chainring.
Weather was a cool, but very comfortable 60-something, with overcast skies. We rolled south along a succession of pretty farming valleys towards the first control at Cumberland. In keeping with my impression that this would be an "easy" 1200, this section was relatively flat and fast. Along about the first control, a very light misting rain began to fall, which was really only sufficient to make a mess of the bike. Here we also had our first picture taken with someone that wanted a shot with "the Alabama tandem guys." We continued south along the western approaches to Mount Rainier, sadly not visible due to overcast and low fog, stopping for lunch (and control) in Eatonville.
Continuing south, we rode along the Alder Lake impoundment, scenic save for the sections of clear cut timber harvests on the mountain backdrops. We then took a jog to the east, into the control town of Randle. Here we had sandwiches and prepared for our first major climb of the ride, Elk Pass (4080 ft.).
At this point we proceeded on Forest Service roads through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest towards Mount Saint Helens. These roads we very lightly traveled forest lanes. The lower sections were deep under the tree canopy, and even though we still had several hours of daylight, the diffuse lighting under the canopy, coupled with the lush green carpet of the ferns and mosses of the forest floor, made it seem almost like we were in a primordial forest. Charlie made the comment that you'd almost expect to see a dinosaur walk out. We didn't, but shortly we both simultaneously spotted a large black shape just under the trees on our right-something we'd spot again and again-the initially exciting, then disappointing "bear stump."
We left the depths of the forest and started climbing the steeper sections of Elk Pass, which I'd guess were around 8%. We came upon a motorcycle couple that had passed us earlier, stopped on the side of the road looking at something-Mount Rainier beautifully ringed with a halo of clouds. From then on, the rest of the climb seemed to take forever. While roughly 3,000 feet elevation gain didn't sound like that much, with 160 miles in our legs it was taking a toll and a lot of time. We finally gained the pass, donned jackets and headed downhill on the last bit of daylight to the penultimate control of the day at Northwoods.
The scene at this next-to-last control of the day was something we'd come to look forward to over the next days. Northwoods wasn't a town, but really just a road junction with a store, which by the time we arrived, was closed. But at this stop, the SIR volunteers had set up a mini camp, complete with rain tent, camp stoves, and plenty of camp chairs. At their urging, we took a seat while they prepared sandwiches to order, along with coffee, hot chocolate, or hot cider. The hospitality we received at these controls was the best I've ever experienced on any organized event.
We left Northwoods festooned with the obligatory nighttime reflective wear and settled in to the final climb of the day over Oldman Pass (3,100 ft). I somehow managed to refrain from asking Charlie is this was his pass (since at 69, he was the oldest rider on the tour). Charlie wasn't feeling well, and he was steadily losing his voice. Fortunately, this climb was mercilessly much easier than the previous one, although once at the pass we still had 25 miles down to the gorge and the overnight control at Carson. After 225 miles, we arrived around 1 am, and as I dived into the hot lasagna supper, Charlie was asking for a doctor.
Day 2 - The Columbia Gorge, Yakima Reservation, and the Rattlesnake Hills
We slept at the "overnight" control until around 4:30 am, or roughly 3 hours. Given that Charlie appeared to be sick and getting sicker, I was worried that Charlie might not want to continue, and I was prepared to ride on alone if it came to that. But when I awoke, he was up and dressed in fresh riding clothes. I pulled fresh kit from my drop bag as well and we geared, fed and coffeed up for another 225-mile day. Despite the first day's easy first hundred miles, it had been a long, hard day. But, for some reason I still had hopes the second day would be easier and that we'd finish by dark and get more sleep.
Leaving Carson about 5:15 am, we headed east through the Columbia Gorge on the Washington side. At that hour, traffic was non-existent and with a nice tailwind we cruised easily, blowing through 5 tunnels without bothering to stop and push the button for the tunnels' cyclist warning lights. At Lyle, where the Klickitat River flows into the Columbia, we turned north out of the gorge and began the long climb up the Klickitat River Canyon. The Klickitat was a beautiful gently winding stream with a backdrop of steep, scruffy ridges leading up to the high plains beyond. Yesteryear, one would have likely seen a prospector or two panning the shallows, but we had to settle for the occasional fly-fisherman. This was very pleasant riding, the grade at most around 1%, but the canyon walls that towered above us were a constant reminder of the work that lay ahead.
The day had turned sunny and clear, and soon enough we were getting hot. The SIR volunteers had a secret control waiting for us in the little community of Klickitat, and we watered up for the coming steep pull out of the canyon. We saw it soon enough, a barren road tenuously stuck to the side of the canyon wall, reaching upward. Charlie likened its appearance to Sunwapta Pass in the Canadian Rockies. There was no shoulder, just like Alabama, except that the bordering "ditch" plummeted hundreds of feet down to the river. Thus, I conservatively favored the centerline-for Charlie's sake.
Just before the top, we encountered Lou Wolff. I was confused at seeing him here, since he was still at the overnight control when we left, and it took me some time to comprehend that he was no longer riding. As we rolled past him, I asked what happened, and was Mark [Wolff] and Andy [Akard] okay. He responded that, yes they were fine, still riding, and that we'd talk later.
Gaining the plain, we proceeded in gently rolling farmland towards Goldendale. I could see the genesis of that name, since in sharp contrast to the overwhelming greens of yesterday, everything here was golden brown. We had arrived in the arid plains of Central Washington. However, a glance over either shoulder rewarded one with views of Mount Adams and Mount Hood.
We stopped briefly at the control in Goldendale, had a Subway and then headed out north across the Yakima Indian Reservation. This took us over Satus Pass (3,100 ft), although I don't recall it being difficult. We then had a long stretch of rolling highway to Toppenish, with a tailwind and losing altitude the whole way. The uninterrupted boring highway, the easy cycling and warm sun soon had us both about to doze off. We pulled over under the shade of what must have been the first roadside tree for 20 miles and took a much needed nap.
When we arrived in Toppenish it was hot, maybe 90F. We opted for a sit down meal in an air-conditioned restaurant, along with Cary Way. Lou Wolff was there too, and we discussed the reasons for his abandon as well as how Mark and Andy were doing.
We left Toppenish with Cary Way, headed northeast across the Rattlesnake Hills. The terrain was prairie-like, slightly rolling irrigated farmland. The irrigation infrastructure was quite extensive, and tall, 2-bladed windmill water pumps dotted the landscape throughout endless rows of crops, orchards, and a few vineyards. The cue sheet warned "NO SERVICES 53 miles" but we had nearly full bottles and were rolling well.
Then we turned left. Suddenly I became aware that something was wrong. I asked Charlie why we were only going 10 mph in hopes that he was taking a brief break to soft-pedal. He wasn't, and was probably wondering the same of me. Cary seemed to be getting on no better. After a mile of this I was hot, tired, and exasperated. We stopped to check the tires-surely one was low or a brake was dragging. Nope. We went another mile then stopped again with another rider in the shade of some trees near a farmhouse. I had reached a low point, one that would turn out to be my worst one of the ride. However, when we stopped the other rider motioned for us to look back from where we'd come and when we did it was immediately obvious we'd been climbing. However, in looking ahead the terrain gave the complete illusion that we were riding on flat ground. Things seemed a little better now, since 10 mph was a respectable speed for climbing I didn't feel so bad.
But there was a problem: "NO SERVICES 53 miles." With the hot climbing I was going through water fast, and since our road stretched to the horizon, it was obviously going to continue for a while. I reckoned that I'd have to stop and beg water at a farm. We continued on while I worried over my water situation, when we suddenly came to a dip in the climb and there where I needed it most, was an unannounced SIR water stop.
One of the things I find so fascinating about these very long rides is how fortunes can change so quickly. You can go from cruising effortlessly along to desperately trying to survive, or visa versa, in a matter of minutes. This unannounced water stop was my reversal of fortune. Within a matter of minutes we had resumed and topped the climb, with full water bottles, and began the first of two roaring downwind descents that had us hurtling downhill at 54-57 mph! This eventually led us back down to the Columbia River, where we took a break at the Vernita rest area.
At this point, we were going to cross the river and turn across and then into the wind. So a group of 4 single riders, including the one fixed gear rider, joined us. Unfortunately, just across the bridge we turned right where the cue sheet said "yes, up THAT hill." It was the particularly steep but short, straight up the hill climbing that Charlie and I so often encountered riding at home. Charlie cranked out the power and we showed the single riders that tandems can climb by dropping the lot of them on that hill.
At the top, we emerged into yet another environment. Sand spilled upon the edges of the roadway and the terrain was flat and what wasn't cultivated was dotted with desert scrub and tumbleweed-the high desert. We eased our pace and amused ourselves trying to time riding under gigantic crop sprinklers that occasional sprayed across the road. A couple of single riders enjoyed our wheel as we pulled across and then into the wind towards the day's penultimate control at Mattawa.
We once again enjoyed the wonderful SIR hospitality at the control, and after a quick sandwich, we departed with about 6 single riders in falling darkness; so much for plans of finishing the day before nightfall. We traversed rolling farmland with little traffic. Off to the left were the lights of what I could only guess was a huge dam on the Columbia.
As it got completely dark, I started having problems due to my battery headlights being overwhelmed by the bright lights of some of those drafting us. The light spilling on us from behind was destroying my night vision. We didn't mind the single bikes drafting, but now I had to ask them to back off our tail so I could see. I don't think they understood, and eventually we just had to stop and let them go on.
Charlie told me he was really getting tired at this point, but I felt great, actually fresh. I had gotten to that point in the ride where I'd reached "steady state." For me, that's the point where I have gotten as tired as I'm going to get, and as long as the fluids and calories continue, so will my legs. In fact, my legs started actually feeling stronger.
As we turned onto the last 10 mile stretch to the overnight control at Quincy, it started sprinkling and threatening rain so I put it 'on the floor' as Charlie says. We caught a fast paceline of singles and rolled into the control just before midnight. After 440 miles, I felt like I'd just started and Charlie even seemed to be on the mend. We enjoyed excellent chili, a shower and rolled out our sleeping bags for the night.
Day 3 - Moses Coulee, mid-Columbia Plateau, and Loop Loop Pass
We got up around 4:30 am the next morning and enjoyed a nice breakfast, and prepared to leave. Charlie seemed completely recovered from his bout with the crud. For the past two days we'd done around 225 miles each, finishing 2-3 hours after dark. Today's route was only a paltry 165 miles, so I was confident that we'd easily finish in daylight, and I neglected to install the fresh headlight batteries I had in my drop bag.
As we were rolling out of the control at something after 5 am, Andy [Akard] was just arriving. I was surprised by his arrival so close to the control closing time, and knew he'd have to ride on with little or no sleep. As I was contemplating this, the road we were on suddenly turned into a construction area with gravel over tar. Over Charlie's protestations, I became convinced that we'd missed a turn and were off route. We turned around and started back but only got a quarter mile when we met more riders, all obviously going the correct way. We'd never been off the route and Charlie was dead on the whole time. So, for my lack of faith in Charlie's navigation, we got a half mile of bonus miles, all actually on route.
At Ephrata, we turned north on a quiet road that led into the Mosses Coulee, a picturesque farming valley set between columnar basalt cliffs (thanks to Andy's write up for that geological tidbit). These cliffs reminded both of us of those we'd encountered on Lon Haldeman's Desert Training Camps in southern Arizona, except that many of them had a curious yellow appearance, almost is if coated with sulfur. We had a pleasant ride through the Mosses Coulee valley for next 20 miles, the only designation of the cue sheet being numerous "CAUTION: Cattle guard" warnings. This was in fact very sparsely populated open range, and the cue sheet had warned "NO SERVICES 75 miles" except for the upcoming SIR control at Farmer. Then, coming to US 2, we headed west out of the Mosses Coulee, climbing onto the mid-Columbia Plateau, and the control at Farmer.
The control at Farmer was like a scene from "Little House on the Prairie." Farmer was a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. On one side of the road were some silos, the other a one room wooden building reminiscent of a schoolhouse, complete with wood-burning heater. It appeared it was now used as a community gathering place or some sort, although evidence of any community was lacking. There was nothing else, no houses even, just rolling fields of wheat or corn, as far as I could see.
>From here we turned north into the wind, onto a road that was straight as an arrow as far as you could see. And that was a long ways, since in addition to being straight, the road also went up. We could see riders both ahead and behind us, looking like ants ever so slowly inching along a landscape of agricultural plain that stretched from horizon to horizon. After an hour, we took a bathroom break, and could look back and still see the control at Farmer.
While not a pass, this climb was substantial, culminating at 3,200 ft. Finally, we arrived at what was described as a "fast, windy descent" back to the Columbia River at Chelan. This turned out to be the only descent that we really couldn't enjoy. The road was in bad shape, with gaps and heaves in the pavement, and the winding curves precluded any real speed potential. Not to mention, it had begun to rain.
After this bumpy, nerve-racking descent, during which I had to stop once to rest my arms from all the braking, we crossed the river, rode out of the rain, and headed north on US 97 alongside the river. This was an annoyingly busy highway, with a surprising amount of up and down, considering it ran along the river. After 25 miles of constant heavy traffic, we thankfully turned off on Old 97 in Brewster. This led us to the day's penultimate control at Malott, and the base of the monster climb for the day, Loop Loop Pass (4,020 ft).
>From the control, the cue listed the summit of the pass at mile 13.3, and when I asked one of the SIR volunteers how far was it until the climb started, he replied "about two blocks." As would become the pattern, it began to drizzle as we ascended. It was curious how quickly our environment changed once on the climb. Not only the rain, but now we were leaving the arid, high desert region of east-central Washington, and reentering the much wetter, luscious forests of the Cascades Mountains.
Regardless of the 550 miles in our legs, we floated up the climb, often not even using our lowest gear. Still, 13 miles of climbing takes a while, and as we neared the top the rain started coming down in earnest. About a mile from the top we stopped and put on more clothes, gloves and rain jackets, so we'd have time to warm up in our wet clothes before the descent. Fortunately, while talking with the SIR volunteer about the climb, he had also clued me in on the descent. He said it was a good, wide open road and that we'd be able to "let it roll, even on the tandem." We did. Disregarding rain and falling darkness, we zoomed by several single bikes at what had to be nearly double their speed, never touching the brakes. It was the first and only time Charlie ever complimented my descending. I'll never forget that compliment. (Normally, he gets on to me for using the brakes.)
Despite our easy climb and bombing run descent, it was getting dark and we were wet and cold, with still 25 miles to the overnight control at Mazama. My knees felt like blocks of ice, as we gingerly eased on the power as best we could to generate some heat. In a few miles we came upon a convenience store and stopped to warm up with some coffee. Another rider was there, and after a brief respite, the three of us left for the final run to Mazama.
It wasn't until after we left the store that I realized that my primary "low beam" headlight was fading fast and that I'd neglected to load or even bring spares from my drop bag. I was using lithium batteries which give a good steady output . . . until they die. Within 2 minutes my primary was completely dead. I knew my secondary "high beam" headlight had the same batteries I'd used on the 600 km brevet, since it was only intended for intermittent use. I was kicking myself for being so confident we'd make it in by dark. But our new friend had a generator hub, and he kindly allowed us to ride beside him, sharing his light. Without him, we'd have been forced to retrace our route to the convenience store for fresh batteries. I used my secondary light for the faster, downhill sections, or when meeting a car, leaving it switched off most of the time. Despite this, and a missed turn in Winthrop, we arrived at Mazama none the worse about 11:45 pm.
Mazama was not really what I'd call a town. More like a small resort area. The control was actually at the Mazama Inn, which was a collection of cottages in almost a dude ranch setting. The really nice thing about it was the accommodations. Whereas the first two nights were spent sleeping on a school gym floors, at Mazama Charlie and I had our own room. The wonderful SIR volunteers even toted our drop bags to our room for us. A private shower, real bed, and space to air out (and hopefully dry) our gear was wonderful. I felt so civilized by the whole thing that I even took time to shave before turning in.
Day 4 - Washington and Rainy Passes, Skagit and Sauk Rivers
At 160-something miles, day 4 was essentially the same length as day 3 . . . on the long side for the last day of a 1200. After three days in a row of mistakenly thinking we'd finish in daylight, I was taking no chances. I loaded fresh batteries from my drop bag, and Charlie and I planned a 5 am start. Since we'd started just after 5 am on day 3, and only just finished before midnight, I was wary of the midnight cutoff time for the final Arrivee in Monroe. While we should have been able to expect a lot of downhill after the first 30 miles of climbing up Washington and Rainy Passes, followed by lots of fast flat riding like the first hundred miles, we'd had lots of surprises on this ride by way of unanticipated climbs.
By leaving so early on the last day, we missed the catered breakfast. However, I did grab another round of last night's pasta, and we were off. It was nice to know that we were attacking the toughest part of the day right at the start. We were climbing well, and soon started to catch a few singles bikes. Others were catching us as well, and it became obvious that many had decided to forgo breakfast for an early start.
The climb's lower reaches wound through the heavily forested Okanogen and Wentachie National Forests, bisecting the North Cascades National Park. As we climbed higher, it predictably began to drizzle and the scenery became absolutely stunning. The mountains on both sides rose into the foggy mist in heavily timbered, yet jagged ridges. Numerous streams and waterfalls cut down them at ridiculously steep angles. Long sections of the remaining climb were visible, but the mountains were so jagged and irregular that it was impossible to tell where the road would dissect a pass. We paused for a few photo opportunities, and then all too easily we rounded a switchback and arrived at Washington Pass (5,477 ft). We had our photo snapped at the pass sign, then put on our jackets for the short descent before the last remaining hurdle, Rainy Pass (4,855 ft).
The descent was intensely cold but mercifully short. However, we still managed to reel in several single bikes that had passed us on the ascent. As we passed one group, someone yelled "Roll Tide, Roll!," knowing we were the Alabama tandem team, but of course not knowing I went to Auburn. As an aside, we'd become notoriety's of sort with the other riders and crew. Partially, I guess, because we were the only tandem (another had started by dropped out), but also perhaps due to being known tongue and cheek as "Team Redneck," the Alabama tandem guys. Whatever the reasons, we enjoyed much conversation, compliments, and had our picture snapped by others numerous times. It was kind of fun being a bit of a celebrity.
After Washington, the climb to Rainy from that side was trivial. We shortly arrived at the pass completely shrouded in fog and mist, temperature in the low 40's. At the pass was a sign, which I could barely make out through the rain and fog, for the "Rainy Pass Picnic Area." Given current conditions as well as the name of the pass, I couldn't imagine there was much call for its use.
>From this point, the ride was theoretically all downhill. But, we still had 138 miles of riding! We began the descent wet and cold, so I aimed to make it at least as short as possible. Team Redneck rolled downhill on the tandem like a silver train. Even though we were wet, riding into low 40 deg air at 50 mph speeds, we were having fun blowing by single bikes like they were standing still. We caught all the ones that had passed us on the climbs, plus a few more. As the steepest part of the descent eased, we again were pleasantly surprised to see another unannounced SIR stop, serving up hot coffee, cocoa and cider. Those guys really know what they are doing!
>From this point on, the majority of the fast descending was over. We were gradually losing altitude, but the upslope wind, which the SIR guys had warned us about meant that we had to pedal. Still, it was easy cruising. We were once again in the temperate rain forests of western Washington, and everything was lush, green and wet. Even the pine needles were so filled with moisture that they drooped in a lazy arc, and weighed heavily upon their similarly drooping branches. Underneath the evergreens, where the ground actually began was not readily identifiable for the thick cover of ferns and mosses that covered it like a gigantic deep-green sponge carpet. We passed through the Mount Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, around the crystal green Ross Lake, and then along the Skagit River into the control at Marblemount, or rather, past it. Thankfully, Charlie hit me in the back and woke me up as I was cruising right past the control, totally zoned out.
At this point, we knew we'd easily make the cutoff, and it became just a matter of cranking out the last miles, which always seem to take the longest. With 778 total miles showing, we arrived back in Monroe to applause and cheers, just before 8 pm. Someone took charge of the tandem, and someone else pushed cold beers into our hands. As we signed in and surrendered our brevet cards, Charlie and I shook hands. I was happy to be done, and proud to see the now Ancien Charlie, complete a very difficult first 1200.
Reflections
Of the three 1200 km randonnees I've now completed, I found the Cascade was the most challenging. The variations in terrain and environment, but mostly the greater total climbing made it so. Though I had a tougher time completing BMB, that was due to physical problems and not difficulty of that course (although it's plenty difficult). This ride was also, by far, the most scenic and beautiful of any I've done, randonnee or otherwise. Coupled with the absolutely fantastic organization and support provided by the SIR folks, the Cascade 1200 is an outstanding randonnee, which I predict will become very popular.
I obviously had underestimated the difficulty of the ride, as only the first and last hundred miles could really be called easy. Still, despite all the additional climbing (someone later told us their altitude-equipped computer registered over 47,000 ft), and Charlie's flirtation with sickness, we had relatively little trouble completing the ride.
With all the rain we'd encountered we both had some saddle trauma, and that was our biggest compliant. One aspect of doing such an event on the tandem is that during the later days of the ride, the squirming around that we all do, in search of a more comfortable, or should I say less uncomfortable position begins to effect the other rider. In other words, whenever I'd shift around it would also inadvertently "shove" Charlie's saddle around under him, and visa versa. The result was that we both probably moved around a lot less, and suffered more discomfort than we might have on a single bike. But that was more than compensated by the camaraderie of riding with Charlie, whom I was privileged to do this ride with. He did great work as navigator, was a steady stoker, and really poured on the power whenever we needed it.
Post Script - Equipment
I am inevitably questioned about bike setup and associated equipment, so I'll briefly discuss that aspect. We rode my tandem, a Santana Sovereign aluminum, with the stock 40 spoke wheels. Gearing was modified to fit my riding style, with a 53/39 double crankset instead of the standard triple, and a 12-34 rear cassette. There were a few steep pitches on our brevets when we could have used lower gears, but our low of 39x34 was more than adequate for everything we encountered on the 1200. Shifting was handled by bar ends, which have the added benefit on a tandem of telegraphing shifts to the stoker. Bar ends shifters also allow use of Dia Compe 287V brake levers, avoiding the need for travel agents with the V-brakes. We had no bike problems.
We used a small rear rack supporting a Carradice Nelson saddlebag for our clothes and sundries. Both of us were using our well-broken in Brooks B-17 leather saddles, as well as SPD sandals. For lighting, I had twin Cateye Micros using lithium batteries, setup for high-beam, low-beam operation. These worked well, but are marginal when compared with my single bike setup of Schmidt generator hub and Lumotec headlight. But then again, we weren't expecting to do much night riding.
Initially, I'd mounted 32c Panaracer Palsa tires. But I didn't like the way the raised center treads cornered and threw up water on our wet 400 km brevet. So, I swapped those out for Conti 28c Gatorskins. Those proved to be great tandem tires, although I think they ride a little harsh for single bike use. We had absolutely no trouble with them, and their smooth round profile handled great on our wet, high-speed descents.
Despite the recommendation on the SIR website, we rode the bike sans fenders. In the southeast, when it rains, IT RAINS. In my experience you get soaked no matter what you wear and fenders don't help except for the first 2 minutes. However, in the drizzly rains of the northwest, I could see a real benefit to fenders. On several sections I would've had relatively dry feet (well maybe just damp feet) if we'd had fenders. Plus, there seems to still be a whole lot of volcanic ash just waiting for a little drizzle to transport it onto your bike. And who couldn't enjoy the idle amusement provided by the creative rear mudflap customizations of the local SIR riders? Next time I'll probably take mine and try my hand a creative mudflap reflective decoration as well.
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