In This Issue

SIR 2002 100 km Results - Sept. 21, 2002
The 2002 Mountain 100k - Jan Heine
SIR 200 km Brevet Results - Aug 3, 2002
1000 km Ride Report - Paul Johnson
Fall 600k Brevet - Amy Pieper
SIR 1000 km Brevet Results - Sept. 12-17, 2002
1000 km Ride Report - Bill Strachan
400k Summer Series Brevet - A Slow Riding Novice's Perspective - Vic Ringkvist
Planning Ahead for PBP
Road Snippets

SIR Membership Grows!

SIR has grown to 93 members as of October and we've had great turnouts at all the brevets both Spring and Summer/Fall. It's wonderful to see so much enthusiasm and it looks like we should have a large contingent for PBP in 2003! An excellent goal would be to have all SIR members there finish 100% and send our PBP ranking to the top.

Remember that all SIR info is distributed through the SIR email list on a regular basis, and the traffic is low, so sign up and don't miss out! To subscribe go to http://www.phred.org/mailman/listinfo/sir.

Wool Jerseys

The wool jersey order won't be shipped till November, but they are done!

SIR Members only: SIR roster available upon request. If you would like a copy of the roster sent to you, please contact Anne Marie McSweeney at membership2004@seattlerandonneur.org or 425-868-6796.

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This was going to be like no other brevet I had ridden before. It was not to simply be a physical challenge but an emotional one as well.

I had successfully completed my fifth Boston-Montreal-Boston in as many tries. After talking with John Lee Ellis the following morning I determined that the week and a half to the Last Chance Randonnee was simply too short a recovery period to attempt it. My attention focused on Seattle. A 1000K brevet. Three weeks. It might be doable. I'd give it a shot.

There was a larger purpose at hand here though. In the Spring I had sent out, through the Regional Brevet Administrators and Jennifer Wise's good offices in the form of the Randonneur Newsletter, a request for riders to dedicate their brevets and medals to the families of the twenty-three New York City Police officers who had died on September 11 during the attack on the World Trade Center. Three I had known. One, a sergeant, had been a former supervisor. Mssr. Robert Lepertel, Directeur of the Audax Club Parisien, generously donated a full compliment of brevet medals in their memory. For whatever reasons, the American response was only a handful. I had one more chance to fulfill my obligation. Seattle was to be my singular opportunity.

I "harassed" Mark Thomas, the RBA, with e-mails. We had met during this year's BMB. A strong rider, friendly disposition and generous of spirit. "What was the route like? How did it compare to Boston? What was the altitude gain? Was three weeks enough time to recover? How did the climbs differ from Middlebury? Anything like Saxton River?" He was patient and informative. He assured me that it was attainable.

I made my travel plans. An early morning departure from JFK Tuesday, September 10, a brief stopover in Phoenix and on to SeaTac. King County Transit seemed bike user friendly. I scoped out my route to Mark's house where he was to offer me hospitality. Public transit worked pretty well even with my bike in my new Trico Sports Case I had purchased for BMB and a duffel bag. For the final couple miles in a taxi a newly minted citizen from Calcutta, who described himself as "American-Indian," deposited me on Mark's doorstep.

The next morning brought a startling surprise. The New York Times. Mark and Chris, his wife, subscribe to it. It brought the immediacy of the day to my attention. I was not sure how I was going to observe the Day of Remembrance. I knew I had to find some private time and space for myself to mourn, reflect, regroup and rededicate to my purpose.

We went to Mark's bike shop, Sammamish Valley Cycle, tuned up a couple things and traded water bottles. He got our New York Cycle Club's distinctively designed Lady Liberty with cycling helmet logo. I had already laid out my drop bags with clothing, supplements and some food. I was ready to go. I hoped. Between still being on New York time, memories of my own involvement at the WTC crowding my mind and anxious about getting on the road, my sleep was fitful at best. 5:30AM came. I was up, showered and downstairs, meeting the other riders. Looked like there were eight of us with most starting at 7AM. At least two others would ride later and catch up along the way. Mark gave us last minute instructions and updates. Bon chance et bonne route.

We were on our way. We turn the corner. A steep incline. Never knew a brevet I liked that didn't start with a climb. The early morning mist/fog envelopes us intermittently as we hit the highs and lows of the leas and vales of the coastal countryside. Three were off the front. I, fortunately, was guided by two veteran riders who steered me through the back roads. I can certainly read a cue sheet but it doesn't hurt to have some indigenous assistance. Was it Blanche DuBois who observed "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers"?

We reach the first control. The day has begun to warm. The five day weather forecasts predict temperatures up in the 80's and down in the 50's with no expectation of precipitation. (Reminded me of a billboard I had seen a few years before upon entering Washington State while cycle touring the US: "Warning: 57 people rusted to death here last year.")

I was on my own. Somehow, while I enjoy the pleasures of riding with others socially and on brevets, I savor those chances to travel alone. I don't feel loneliness as much as I do the solitude. The opportunity to reflect. To clear my mind of the extraneous. Perhaps it comes from living in New York. Conceivably, it is an inherent element of randonneuring. Whatever the dynamic it is in its own way comforting and reassuring. It demands and defines a clarity of purpose. The memories of my friends and their comrades strengthens my resolve. I am in good hands with strong spirits.

Skykomish controle. 3PM. Last stop before the major climb of the day to the top of Steven's Pass at 4,061 feet. I had logged on to the Washington State Department of Transportation's web cam in the previous two weeks. There were archived photos kept for forty hours of conditions at the top of the pass. There was a profile provided of Route 2 for the weather. With this prior knowledge I felt confident about my capacity to ride it. I think I was even a little ahead of "schedule." I had allotted two hours to the climb. At the summit I was to be half way through the day's riding. If I reached the top by 5PM I would have been on the road for 10 hours and a reasonable chance to conclude in Pateros by 3AM for a shower and some sleep.

David, Peg and I have been criss crossing each other today. We continue the pattern up the "hill". This is my first "re-experience" of climbing in the West. Sixteen years earlier I had solo toured for nine months around the perimeter of the US covering over 12,000 miles laden with panniers, low-riders, bike rack and handlebar bag. Seventy-five to hundred mile days were my norm. What struck me was the contrast between "here" and "there." Here, in the West, were fewer secondary and tertiary roads. As a consequence the grades were "gentler" but longer. There, in the East, we had more "contour" roads that while shorter in length generally were steeper (example: Middlebury Gap at 6.5+ miles but up to 15% grade) following the steepness of the terrain more closely. Halfway up a Marine Corps fighter out of Whidbey Island (you remember the Chinese spy plane incident) screams overhead narrowly navigating the gap between the ridges. Visually it is gone but the reverberations of its engines echo on long after. A more serious reminder of why I am here and why I ride. Around, on the other side of the ridge, I hear the screech of wheels and later glimpse the tracks of the Amtrak train following the winding route of the river. I wonder what it is like "down there" on "the flats." Now why am I contemplating that? I'm having fun up here aren't I? Enjoying the late afternoon sun on my back as I shift down once again (I love my granny). It is hard. It is tedious. No plateaus. Just continuous climbing. I stop about every mile. More water. More Gatorade. More Sustained Energy. More Clif Bars. More of everything just to keep me going. This is not how I remember my climbing "the West" in '86. Maybe some things have changed. Maybe it's me.

I turn the curve. What the hey!? A huge building. Ski lifts. Would anyone ski down a slope that steep. Man, gotta be crazy. A mirage. Mark is there with his car. Gawd, it feels good to be able to sit down! Potato chips (Cascade style), water, fruit. I want to go to sleep. I re-carbo/hydro up. I am refreshed. Payback time. It's thirty miles to Leavenworth's faux Bavarian decor and a Subway stop. A bit of ersatz New York. Time to hammer. David and Peg are but moments departing after me but I am empowered. No passing this time. I'm out of here.

Din-din. Control card signed I have mixed needs. Something cold to drink and warm to eat. Gu, Power Bars and Hammer Gel go just so far. Then reality sets in. Real food. Even if it is just a sandwich it has substance and texture. We leave together. Three miles out of town we are rudely awakened even if we weren't asleep. RUMBLE STRIPS! Notwithstanding our combined headlights we don't see them coming. Hey, these weren't on Mark's pre-ride notes. We avoid the shoulder for a while. Finally we settle into a good pace line. At some point Peg falls off the back. David encourages me to proceed. He'll check to see what is going on. I reach the turn off toward Pateros. I wait. No riders. I continue.

I pass the point where there was a major earthquake in 1872. The countryside is unlit. Above me is the Big Dipper and the Milky Way. The clearness reminds me of camping on a beach in South Africa or the desert of the Australian Outback. So many stars. Such enormity. Enveloped in quiet and comforted by my remoteness. This is why I ride. The moments which others are unaware or oblivious to. The seeming, as Karl Marx would put it, "dialectical contradiction" of isolation and connection. I am tranquil. I ride with certainty and assurance.

I arrive later than hoped. Unable settle down to sleep. Shower, change and eat some breakfast. Today is THE day. No longer than Thursday but the greatest amount of climbing is ahead. Pateros to Winthrop is thirty-one miles. Mark informs me the climbing, however gradual up the valley, is none-the-less climbing. I make the turn. And start climbing. But it is not simply the climbing alone.

There is something out here that we don't frequently experience back East. "Chip seal." "Aggregate." Roads on which 3/8 and 1/2 inch stone is laid down with a thin covering of oil and pressed by the traffic into the established road surface. Whatever doesn't adhere gets shunted to the shoulders. We are more familiar with macadam or asphalt pavement which are petroleum based composite that when heated, laid down and pressed creates a smooth surface. While asphalt is subject to frost heaves and cracking in the Northeast and Central US, chip seal is favored in the Southwest and West for its economy and lack of perceived need of maintenance. It undoubtedly also breeds a different kind of randonneur. The vibration is persistent, constant, unrelenting, interminable, repeated, perpetual, continuous, harsh, severe, oppressive, unmerciful, ceaseless, repetitious, recurring. In other words, it never stops. I'm ten miles into the ride. Strong headwinds, or "Resistance Training" as I jokingly call them, have been another companion this morning. They are taking their toll.

Mark pulls ahead of me to take a picture. I try to look enthusiastic. I stop to talk. On his car roof rack is a storage cone and his bike. I am facing a crisis of confidence. I'm feeling abandoned. Where are my spirits who guided me last night? Perhaps the travel, the memories, the time changes, the cultural shifts, the losses and just fatigue are exacting a price. I realize in my head that there is no room for my bike on or in his car. I am here. There is no turning around. It is no shorter going forward than it is going back the way I came. I think Mark recognizes my despair. He does the right thing. There are others to attend to. He wishes me well. I'm back on my bike.

I reach Winthrop. Azamas. While there have been some stretches of flat riding and diminution of the wind the chip seal remains. I think, "You have to be seriously disturbed to enjoy riding on this stuff." But then some folks think I'm crazy to live in New York City. It takes all kinds.

The ascent starts in earnest now. No different from yesterday except that it is earlier and the full power of the Sun is on your back with no breeze, even an headwind, to nominally cool you. The state highway maps caution you: "No services for 75 miles." Randonneuring at its most basic. Self sufficiency. It is a sixteen mile climb to Washington Pass, a two mile descent before climbing again to Rainy Pass. One hopes it will, in spite of the weather reports to the contrary, live up to its name to offer some succor to the day's efforts.

Lone Fir Campground. Mark's pre-ride notes indicate that there is a water tap at campsite 26. If you are already half beat by the time you get here (ten miles into the climb), you will miss the fact that the tap is just to your left, turn right, ride the 3/4 mile around until you get back to the entrance and see it.

On the road again. Two and a half miles from the top a woman in a pick up truck pulls in front of me and frantically runs at me. What did I do now? I stop. Not that I'm making that much headway in my 29/34 gearing anyway. "I bought a sofa and lost the middle pad to it. You haven't seen it have you?" "What color is it?" "Green. Dark green." "No, I haven't but I will keep an eye out for it. At this speed it will be hard to miss." "Well, I gave my phone number to a couple of your friends just in case." "Okay." "Are you really from New York?" "Yep." "Man, that's a long way to come to do a bike ride." "Tell me about it." "Good luck." "Thanks, we all need it."

I had hoped that Mark might be at the top of the Pass but he had indicated that he wouldn't. Be nice to get a picture at the high point (5,477 feet) of my trip. Oh well. Thirty miles to Marblemount. A series of rolling downhills with a probable secret controle tucked in between somewhere. Hope it wasn't halfway down a nice descent. Not to worry. After hitting Rainy Pass and no relief from the heat there I try to hammer as best I can. Let me explain.

The geophysical phenomenon that permits Northwestern Washington to have a rain forest environment (over 200 inches of precipitation per annum) is what can drive any randonneur crazy. "Resistance training." (Did I mention this term before?) Warm moist air is carried in off the Pacific Ocean to the Cascade Range. It rises to the top and circulates backwards and as it cools in the upper altitudes translates itself into rain. Thus accounts for the aforesaid billboard regarding "rusting." I don't know about the other riders that day, but as I am passing Diablo ("devil" en espanol, si?) Dam Lake, going downhill, I am in my granny gear trying to make headway. This just does not make any kind of sense at all. Yes, I can rationally, scientifically explain and understand it, but boy, emotionally it is whacko! Let me make this perfectly clear: I will take hills, climbs, ascents any time as opposed to headwinds.. You have some modicum of assurance that you will have a payback of some kind be it a plateau or descent. Headwinds are invisible, unpredictable and erratic. At least with a hill you know that at some point you will get to the top, even if you have to walk. But having to use my granny going downhill was too much. I just had to laugh about the absurdity of it.

Secret controle. I was also afforded a chance to stop and, ahhhhhhh, sit. Bill had hot soup and sandwiches. Refreshed and restored I was on my way.

Newhalem. General store was closed but Marblemount was not all that far away. Peg checked the time. 7PM. She left at five after. Ten after, I was gone. Halfway to the controle I blow past Peg. I'm hitting 18, 19 mph. Marblemount controle. In. Others arrive. I'm out. I've made the decision not to stop in Darrington where Mark has set up support and is the final controle after Arlington for the day but I don't tell anyone. Bad move. Always let your fellow riders know what you are doing. My decision is based on the belief I will lose too much time there. I hammer out on my way to Arlington. I make a couple stops and misread my cue sheet missing a turn. By the time I am on the return from Arlington to Darrington I've blown myself out. Any time I think I have made has probably now been sacrificed to just getting into the controle. But my mind has also been playing games with me.

For most of the afternoon and night I have miscalculated the amount of time I have to complete the 1000K. I believe that I need to leave the Darrington controle by 6AM because I need to finish the last 300K in sixteen hours. I am a man possessed. All my riding has been predicated on this distortion.

I pull into Darrington. I explain to Mark that I need to be on the road soon, without sleep if need be. He is concerned. The other riders, whom I passed on the way back from Arlington to Darrington, were concerned that something untoward had happened to me by my not stopping at the support stop earlier. It suddenly occurs to me. It is 4AM Saturday morning. I have until 10AM SUNDAY morning to complete the ride. I have in reality an additional twelve hours over what I thought. My concentration on completing the brevet has distorted my perception of what was required. I realize the time frame: BMB had ended at 10PM. I had somehow confused the times. I was also still thinking in New York time forgetting the zone changes. All the tension was released. I felt exhausted now. Spent. I could actually sleep and still have a margin to successfully complete. I showered. I slept. Finally, some repose.

It's a beautiful day. I look at the altitude gains for the course. Reasonably flat with some climbing but nothing like the previous two days. I'm riding north on the road between Darrington and Rockport. And then, suddenly, there IT is! It is unmistakable. The green sofa pad! Twixt mile markers 61 and 62 on the right hand side of the road next to a crash barrier. I make a mental note to get the phone number and call Kit about my discovery. She will be so pleased. (Phone was later discovered to have been disconnected.)

The controles roll by. Concrete. Whitney. Earlier in the day I had caught only a brief glimpse of Mt. Baker. Dutifully impressive but I'm frustrated by not seeing more of it. Now, on my way to Bayview (also the name of a New York State prison for women I once worked in) State Park I am afforded a more complete and inspiring vista of the mountain. My only frustration: yep, you got it. More chip seal. I'm going to send Mark the doctor bills for my carpal tunnel syndrome when I get home. Soon though I cross a bridge and am on my way to Fairhaven in Bellingham. It is narrow, circuitous, rising and falling, cut into the side of the mountain range proffering splendid views of San Juan, Orca, Anacortes, Vancouver and other islands. Cars abide by the "share the road" signs that are posted. It is cool and pleasant.

For the riders who are engaged in the SIR 400K this same weekend (Mark is multi-tasking), Fairhaven is the turnaround point. I'm riding strong. Feeling good. From behind me I hear: "Is that Biking Bill?!" I've heard that voice before. Where? Then I see him. It's Eric. Paris. 1999. We had stayed at the same hotel as a group of randonneurs from British Columbia and Texas. Eric had had his bike stolen. But here he was. We ride together. His pace is faster than mine but we stay in sight of one another. I am concerned about the final 35 miles to Mark's house in the dark. Eric promises me he will not let me get lost. We hit the remaining controles together with some of the other riders.

At Stanwood Hotel, Peter McKay has goodies for us. A young woman approaches us and inquires as to what we are doing. We explain. Oh. Then she goes back to her boyfriend. Seems he was the one who really wanted to know. Whatever. We leave. Not that we get lost but..... With Peter's help we get the turns right. Now we are riding as a pack. Six of us. Arlington. Again. Third time in three days. Final stop before Mark's house. Thirty-five miles to go. Concern about the possibility of drunks out on the road. Traffic is light but it takes only one. Then an interesting phenomenon. I'm not as fast and riding sweep. But the drivers seem to be taking extraordinary care to drive scrupulously and move as far to the left away from us as they can when passing. Must be that NYPD Auxiliary POLICE reflective vest I'm wearing. As they say in the Academy: You can never have enough back-up.

It's early Sunday morning. The final quarter mile. A dutifully challenging 15% grade. Did I mention that there wasn't a brevet I liked that didn't end with a steep climb? 4:45 AM. I'm "home." Sated. Satisfied. Exhausted. Elated. Subdued. I have consummated what I had come here to accomplish. For my friends and their colleagues there is one more dedication and medal. But more importantly there is their memory. The travails of headwinds, sixteen mile climbs, chip seal and every other impediment now fades into the insignificance they deserve. There is left the memory of friends and comrades. That is what is critical. And what makes it all worthwhile. I laugh as I weep. Pride. Joy. Remembrance. Love.

(My thanks to the members of SIR who rode giving me encouragement and support. My deep appreciation to Mark Thomas, RBA, for the superb job of running this event. A special note of thanks to Chris Thomas for not simply putting me up but putting up with a crazy New Yorker. And to Philip and Elena Thomas for giving me needed moments of amusement and cheer.)

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400k Summer Series Brevet
A Slow Riding Novice's Perspective
By Vic Ringkvist

I left my house to drive to Redmond at 0345 giving myself not quite enough time to stop for breakfast on the way. No problem though because there were donuts and sweet rolls for us at the start control, Mark Thomas' house. This is my first year as a Randonneur. I had ridden the SIR spring and the spring and summer Lower Mainland 200 km brevets and the SIR summer 300 km. I was looking forward to this, my first, 400 km ride. Terry Zmyhal got about 25 of us started at 0630 on a morning that promised an almost perfect bicycling day.

I soon found myself toward the rear of the pack pushing hard to keep riders in view so I wouldn't have to navigate my own way through the maze of streets leading from the start. I lost sight of the last riders in front of me somewhere along 156th Ave, about seven miles into the ride. At the first intersection on Yew Way I came upon a rider standing in the road consulting his route sheet. Mostly on my initiative we decided to turn hard left at that point rather than going on a bit and then bearing left. It took us a couple blocks to find a street sign that told us that we were not on Broadway as we wanted to be. We turned around and pedaled back to the intersection to find three riders that I'd met on the 300 km brevet in August, Ted Vedara, Wayne Harrington, and Larry Voth. Between us we got our directions sorted out and continued with Wayne and the stranger leaving Larry, Ted and me behind. By the time we reached Highway 9 I was in need of a bladder break, so I stopped at a clump of four telephone distribution boxes about 30 meters before the intersection. There was an asphalt ramp leading off the pavement and a small dirt parking area in front of the boxes and blackberry bushes surrounding their sides and back, concealing one from the road once he was behind them. In front of the boxes stood a telephone pole. I didn't realize it at the time, but I would be spending much more time there nearly a day later.

After a few miles on SR 9 I caught Ted and Larry and we rode on together to the first control at Arlington, Ted leading most of the way. At the control we met up with Wayne who, I began to suspect, waited at each control for his friend, Larry, before going on alone. Ted and I shared a quart of chocolate milk and we removed leg warmers and the four of us left the control together. But a couple miles east of Arlington Wayne pulled away from us and within a few miles was out of sight. The ride to Darrington through the beautiful Stillaquamish Valley was easily the most scenic part of the whole ride with hills and forests framing sunlit fields.  The control at Darrington was a room at the Stagecoach Inn. It had been used as control and sleeping quarters for the 1000 km riders who had started in Redmond on Thursday and had ridden to Arlington before going to Granite Falls, Sultan, over Stevens Pass down to Rt 97 at Wenatchee and then north to Winthrop, over Washington and Rainey Passes back to Darrington before taking a dogleg to Arlington and back to Darrington. From Darrington on their route was the same as ours. They had to be back at Mark's house by 10am Sunday, a half-hour later than the cutoff for the 400 km riders. Wayne and Shane Balkovetz, a friend of Ted's - I'd met him also on the 300 km ride, were there but Shane was about ready to leave and did so a few minutes after we arrived. Mark had sandwich fixings, chips, watermelon and other goodies for us. He said we were the last riders he had to sign in. He had been up for two nights manning the controls for the 1000 km riders and today the 400 km riders and seemed happy to be going home.

The four of us left the Darrington control together but soon Wayne was again pulling away from us, but this time not as quickly as before. Indeed, though he was out of sight well before we got to Rockport, as we made the turn onto Rt 20 we could see him part way up the long gentle grade to the west. We caught him before the top of the hill and I tried to use him as a shield against the stiff up-river breeze all the way into Concrete. Just as we reached the Baker River bridge at the edge of Concrete we met Shane headed east. "I can't find the Chevron station," he said. He hadn't gone far enough. We spent about 20 minutes at the control, about the same amount of time we'd spent at each of the two prior ones. Now there were five in our group and we rode together to Sedro-Woolley where Larry suggested we stop at the Dairy Queen for a shake. No one argued with him. Even drafting behind Wayne wasn't particularly effective against the stiff breeze from the west. My knees were beginning to ache from the effort.   While we were drinking our chocolate milk shakes, Shane told us about his high-tech riding shorts, the chamois of which is made of a NASA developed material that remains at 98.60 F regardless of ambient temperature. Later I started wondering if there might not be a market for heated saddles, handlebars, and booties. Actually all one needs for winter time riding is three pair of the electric socks that ice-fishermen use, one pair to wear on the feet, the second to wrap around one's favorite hand position on the bars, and the third pair to wrap around the saddle. Even with all the batteries they'd require they'd still be cheaper than air fare to Arizona.

Leaving the Diary Queen, Shane got caught at a stop light. The rest of us continued on - back into the head wind on Cook Rd. As soon as we were on Cook Rd. something started beeping and Ted pulled out what I thought was a cell phone, but he couldn't make contact with whomever was trying to call him. Later I learned that Ted and Shane carry short range radios so they can communicate with each other on these rides. Going west on Cook Rd, Wayne once again pulled away from us. He is an amazingly steady rider. He makes it look as though he could ride a two by four set on edge for a mile without ever dropping off. His handlebars are about 30 inches wide and he uses wide tires, which I suspect help in that respect. But his cadence is also remarkably steady, even during shifts it never varies. If I were tailing him at the top of a hill I'd always lose five or six feet to him while shifting from my small chain ring to the middle ring. Even shifting down to the small ring, which is effected much more efficiently that up-shifting on my bike, I'd still lose distance. On the other hand I never gained on him when he shifted.

When we turned south on Pulver Road we had the wind on our beam and the riding became easy for the first time in many miles. I dropped Ted and Larry and caught Wayne as he was turning back west on Rt 20. I led the way to the control at the Whitney Texaco, the half-way point. My knees were hurting badly enough now that I was becoming concerned that if they continued to worsen I might not be able to finish. At the same time I was developing a sore left Achilles tendon and a sore butt - neither of which was going to keep me from riding. It was the knees that I worried about.  Ted and Larry arrived at the Texaco five minutes after us, but there was no sign of Shane. Riders before us had left their surplus water for us around the front of the store - a couple partly empty gallon jugs and several liter bottles. I was a bit concerned that pranksters may have added something to the water, but the possibility didn't seem to occur to anyone else. I also worried about Shane making the turn onto Cook Rd in Sedro-Woolley. There's a lot of traffic at that point and the road is not well marked. Maybe he got off course. But twenty-five minutes after we'd arrived Shane showed up. He'd had a flat. He'd tried to call Ted on the radio to inform him but all Ted had gotten was a few beeps.

On the ride north from Whitney to Bellingham we met 15 or more riders headed south. Although I've never met him I recognized Kent Peterson by his large, bright yellow luggage box on the rear of his bike. I recognized none of the others. We met the last rider only a couple miles south of the Red Apple control in Bellingham, so I figured that although we were riding dead last, we weren't too far behind. Remarkably, my knees were no longer bothering me. That quickly they had gone from what I thought was going to be a serious problem to a non-existent problem. I suspect it was the rest at Whitney and the fact that the wind that we had been beating into all afternoon was now pushing us northward. My knees were never again a concern. The sun was setting when Wayne and I, once again ahead of the others, reached the control. There we found a middle-aged fellow and a younger gal saddling up to head south - the last riders ahead of us. I didn't ask their names but I did ask the fellow what he had found to eat and he told me he'd had a taco from the grocery's deli but that others had reported that the sandwiches were pretty good. I remembered that I had promised to call my wife when I got to Bellingham. We live in Ferndale, 25 kilometers away, and it dawned on me then that I could have called her from Whitney or Sedro-Woolley and asked her fix up enough pasta to feed five hungry bicyclists and bring it to the control for us. It was too late now, so I had a bowl of sesame noodles, a quart of milk, a bag of potato chips and some crackers. Afterwards I got to thinking that if we'd had bowls and spoons we could have shared a gallon of ice cream or even bought a loaf of bread and some meat and pickles and mayonnaise and fruit and had a mini-picnic on the sidewalk. We didn't. Maybe we will on the next ride.

Ted and Larry had come in again about five minutes after us and Ted was speculating that the two riders who had been leaving the control when Wayne and I arrived had been Peg and Paul who were completing the 1000 km brevet. Ted had met them just south of the control.  Both Larry's and Wayne's bikes seem big and heavy so I asked them why they use mountain bikes. Larry's reason was that he didn't learn about randonneuring until after he had gotten into mountain biking. He said the mountain bike gave him the flexibility to ride both off road and on the road. Wayne's answer was that his bike is a hybrid and he rides it because of his philosophy regarding these rides; that is, that he views them as tours. He said, "All I need do is finish before the cut-off. When I can no longer finish the rides within the time limits I'll buy a lighter bike." I looked at my 19 pound, 12 ounce, skinny tired bicycle and realized that once I can no longer finish within the time limits I'll have to buy a fishing rod or a set of golf clubs.

Wayne's bicycle particularly interested me because of its handlebars which consist of a straight bar about 30 inches long with drops bolted or riveted on each end and brackets connected to the drops on which he mounts his lights. On the top bar he has attached a set of aero-bars. His shifters are mounted next to the aero-bar pads.  We spent an hour at the Bellingham control, mounted our lights, pulled on leg warmers, jackets, reflective vests and shoved off southward. This was my first night time ride with other people and I found it an almost unique experience. The only thing that compares is being on the bridge of a navy destroyer during night refueling where only a few things can be seen and the rest of the world is so dark as to be non-existent; at the same time you realize that something is moving fast, but is it the ocean or the ships, the road or the bikes? What I saw was four riders ahead and their blinking tail lights and the reds and yellows and greens of their reflective clothing. And the moving gray road beneath us. Nothing else. And Chuckanut Drive made the experience all the more remarkable. First a tunnel of trees that for several miles eliminates the rest of the world and then the opening up to the bay with the lights on the far side and the first quarter moon shimmering across at us. That night time experience on Chuckanut Drive, alone, was worth riding 400 kilometers for.

After a short stop at the Texaco station at Whitney (Larry needs water at every control and we feared that La Conner might have folded up and stored away their sidewalks so there'd be no access to water by the time we arrived), we rode on to the alternate La Conner control, the Station House Bar and Grill. The barmaid and both bar patrons were waiting for us. They knew we were coming because they'd already signed in two other cyclists, the presumed Peg and Paul. All three were intensely interested in our ride, proving, I guess, that nothing exciting happens in La Conner after their sidewalks are stored. The younger and more snockered of the patrons was most interested in us. He kept explaining that the other riders were riding 600 miles. We asked when the others had checked in and were surprised to learn that they had left only ten minutes before. The young guy followed us outside and hefted Ted's Lightspeed. But Ted mounts an apparently full Carradice bag that is so large he probably has to check it at the airport, so the poor fellow didn't get the bike very far off the ground. He was impressed. He said, "If you had the time we could share a bowl". Ted had to explain to him that we were trying to finish a long ride and a bowl or even a beer would likely finish us. The last we heard from him as we rode away was a warning, "Now, you be careful of those cars out there".

Because I'm familiar with the route between La Conner and Stanwood, I led the way. Coming around the corner on Fir Island I was riding in the center of the lane with Wayne on my rear wheel when I struck something unseen but what I assume was a fist-sized rock. The front tire hit it so hard that it went cannoning off to the left and Wayne in an effort to avoid any other projectiles that might be coming his way veered sharply also to the left, running over several of the center road markers. I'd hit the rock so hard I was relieved when the tire didn't blow off the rim. But still I kept waiting for it to go soft. It didn't. Just south of Conway on Rt 530 we began to see blinking red lights ahead of us. Riders ahead! As soon as we crossed the railroad onto Old Pacific Hwy, Shane came to the front and blasted off, apparently intent on catching the presumed Peg and Paul, before they reached the Stanwood control. Wayne hung with him but I saw no reason expending energy trying to catch someone on the road that I was going to catch anyway once they stopped. So I hung back. Unfortunately Shane dropped his radio and we all had to stop to pick it up. Nevertheless we arrived at the control right behind a couple riders who, indeed, turned out to be Peg and Paul. Peg seemed fit and totally unfazed by her ride. Were I a skeptic about the possible extent of human endurance you could not have convinced me that this lady had just ridden 922 kilometers. Paul, on the other hand, was feeling the effort. Later I asked him how much sleep they'd gotten the night before and he said, "Oh, last night we got lots of sleep - three hours. But the night before we only had an hour and a half and that's what's killing me".

The sidewalks were still laid out in front of the Stanwood control, the Stan-wood Hotel and Tavern with its long brightly lit porch in front with a dummy lying next to the door with a note pinned to its back that read, "Place orders here" and music and people coming and going. Quite a contrast to the dimly lit Station House Bar and Grill with its two bored patrons. Peter Mckay was there manning the control. He was quite enthusiastic - maybe it's his nature, I'd never met him before. "They had live music here until midnight", he said. When Wayne rode up Peter shook hands with him and said, "You must be Larry".  "No, I'm Wayne." He signed Wayne in and turned to me, shook my hand and said, "Then you must be Larry". Five minutes later he finally got to meet Larry. Larry had never mentioned that he was a notoriety. We chowed down on the food and drink that Peter had for us and he gave us a couple corrections to the route between Stanwood and Arlington, namely that 43rd Ave was really 204th Ave. Unfortunately we assumed that we'd all be riding together so weren't concerned that everyone heard about the changes. About four miles beyond Stanwood Peter passed us in his car, going home. He beeped his horn at us. Further on we stopped at an intersection to insure we made the correct turn. As I pulled up I released my right foot from the pedal and stepped down onto the shoulder of the road. I hadn't noticed that the shoulder was about eight inches lower than the pavement and I took a tumble. I ended up on my back with the bike still attached to my left foot dangling upside down above me. Nothing injured, nothing damaged - just embarrassment.

Wayne and I arrived at the Arlington Chevron control first with Shane, Larry, Peg and Paul arriving soon after - but not Ted. I grabbed a cup of coffee and a package of Oreos and went to the counter to pay for them. The cashier, a gruff, bearded, middle aged fellow, named Glenn, looked at me and asked how old I was. "Sixty. Why, do I get a senior discount?" "No, I'm just wondering what a sixty year old man is doing riding his bicycle in the middle of the night." It was three o'clock. "Well, you see -----." I started to explain to him that some of us were hard up for challenges. But he interrupted. "I mean, why would they let you out of the home?" Glenn later came outside where we were resting and waiting for Ted. He said, "Yeah, these bicyclists come in here tonight buying power bars and Gatorade and wanting rice cakes. Rice cakes! Hell, buy a bag of potato chips, dump the chips out and eat the bag. Same thing. They buy all this power food so they can be strong and healthy and what do they do? They go out and ride their bikes on Highway 9. Now, does that make any sense at all? I've had to turn away six people already tonight because they were too drunk to buy a six pack. Hey, I turn DUIs in. There's a cop on the next block just waiting for my call. If I don't call him often enough he'll call me, 'Glenn, you're not giving me enough business'. Larry tried to tell him that he thought he was doing the right thing turning in DUIs, but Glenn was wound up. "Hell, I don't care about them. Let them kill themselves if they want. But 95 percent of the time they go out and kill someone else and walk away unscratched." I guess we all have to appreciate people like Glenn, even if he thinks some of us shouldn't be released from the old folks' home.

Peg and Paul finally shoved off and a few minutes later Ted showed up. He hadn't heard Peter's corrections, had gotten too far behind the rest of us and had ridden right on by 204th Ave. When he got down to 35th Ave he finally flagged down a taxi and got proper directions.  Back on Highway 9, Wayne and I again dropped Shane, Larry and Ted and soon passed Paul but it took us several miles before we caught and passed Peg. When we finally got to the intersection of Rt 9 and Broadway we decided we'd better wait for the others so no one would get lost in the soon to be increasingly complicated route - seven heads should get us back to Mark's house better than one or two. I remembered the telephone distribution boxes just beyond the intersection that I'd stopped at for a pee break Saturday morning and suggested we could wait there. It was five minutes before five.  About fifteen minutes later Shane and Peg arrived at the intersection and we motioned them down to where we were. Shane asked what Wayne and I were up to hiding out in the bushes. He promptly lay down on the asphalt ramp perpendicular to the roadway with his head almost resting on the road. "You can't believe how good this feels", he said. I was a bit concerned that a car would come along and drive over his head, but the possibility never seemed to occur to him. Peg came down and carefully laid her bike on the dirt and promptly pulled out a cell phone and made a long call to what must have been a very close friend - it was after all five o'clock on a Sunday morning. Were I a skeptic about the extent of human endurance you could not have convinced me that this lady had just ridden 982 kilometers - making a phone call when you could be resting? A few minutes later Paul arrived and made some remark about this being a spooky place. I guess he was referring to the way our tail lights reflected off the phone boxes in our otherwise dark alcove. Shane, who I thought was asleep, piped up, "Yeah, we're doing our own Blair Witch Project". Paul leaned his bike against the telephone pole and promptly lay down in the dirt and within a couple minutes was snoring. Peg, having completed her phone call was sitting on a steel cover of some underground infrastructure and Wayne had wandered up to the intersection to look for Ted and Larry. After a few minutes he came back. No sign of the boys. Time passed and I noticed that Wayne had sat down and even Peg was now lying on her side on the steel plate. I decided to try to doze sitting up because I didn't want to lie back on my Camelback and I didn't want to remove it. So I crossed my arms on my knees and lay my head on my arms but every time I started to doze off I'd start to tip over which would wake me. After awhile I gave up and wandered up to the far side of the intersection to look for Larry and Ted.  After about five minutes of looking up the road I thought I saw a white light that hadn't been there before. Slowly the light diverged into two lights and eventually I could see that one was a halogen and the other an LED. The boys were on their way. Before they arrived Wayne came up to the intersection and together we escorted them down to the Blair Witch control. Larry explained that he had gotten so sleepy he was afraid of crashing so they had stopped at a Texaco station and napped for about 20 minutes on a picnic table.

It started misting almost immediately after we had mounted our bikes. My glasses got fogged up but I could see over them. I really don't need my glasses although they do make reading street signs easier and keep bugs out of my eyes. Wayne on the other hand can't see without his. He told me about riding in the fog once where he couldn't even see the stop signs. The sky began to lighten as we rode along Broadway. We stopped at the SR 522 crossing to wait for the others who arrived in the same order as before, first Shane and Peg and then Paul riding alone and finally Ted and Larry. By the time we reached 156th Ave it was light enough that we could read our computers and the street signs. We didn't stop again until we reached Mark's house.  Mark signed me in at 24 hours 48 minutes. I used his bathroom, washed my hands and face and before I came out Shane and Peg arrived. Shane and I said our farewells and I told him I'd see him again next spring. "What, not riding the 600?", he asked. I could have explained to him that at the finish of the 300 km brevet I knew two things: 1) that I wanted to ride the 400, and 2) that I could finish the 400, but now at the finish of the 400 I couldn't say the same about the 600. I think that riding around the Olympic Peninsula in October in 40 hours or less is best left to those with more experience or less sense than I. But by next spring ---- By Golly, by next spring-----. Pedaling out of Mark's driveway I met Larry and Ted. With their arrival the summer series 400 km brevet ended. A minute later I met Paul. With his arrival the 1000 km brevet ended.

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Planning Ahead for PBP
From the RUSA web site

• Distance: 1200k (750 miles)
• Time Limit: 90 hours
• Rider Check in: August 17, 2003
• Bike Inspection: August 17, 2003
• Start Date: August 18, 2003
• Finish Date: August 22, 2003
• Award Ceremony: August 22, 2003
• Start Times:
  • Monday August 18 8:00pm - 80 hour group
  • Monday August 18 10:00pm - 90 hour group
  • Tuesday August 19 5:00am - 84 hour group
• Qualification Criteria: To enter PBP 2003, the rider must complete one full Brevet series (200k, 300k, 400k, and 600k brevets) in the same year as PBP.
• Brevets done the year before will not count toward PBP qualification. The brevets should be ridden in sequence between March 1 and June 15, 2003. Per ACP mandate, the rider must have a RUSA membership number beginning with the 200k.
• Entry Form: The official PBP 2003 entry form will be sent to all RUSA members in May of 2003.
• Entry Policy: Entry forms are accepted from Randonneurs Mondiaux member organizations only.
• The ACP will not accept individual entries. Per ACP mandate, all USA entrants must be members of Randonneurs USA and submit their entry via RUSA. RUSA members can enter PBP by sending the PBP entry form, payment and all other required documents to RUSA before July 1. RUSA collects and collates the forms, ensures they are correct, puts them in alphabetical order, sorts them into categories by start time and sends the forms to the ACP in France along with one large payment in Euros. Riders receive their PBP registration packet of information directly from the ACP around August 1.
• Entry Period: Entry forms are accepted between June 1 and July 1, 2003. No early entries are accepted. No late entries are accepted.
• Field Limit: 3,500 riders
• Documents Required:
  • Completed PBP entry form including Brevet certification numbers
  • Four self-adhesive self-addressed mailing address labels
  • Letter from physician - stating that rider is in good health
  • 2 Passport-size photos of rider
  • Proof of medical insurance
  • Payment of entry fee: checks only; no credit cards
• Age Limit: riders must be 18 years of age or older
• Entry Fee: $125.00 (approx)
• Start/Finish Area: St. Quentin en Yvelines, (near Versailles) France
• Nearest Airport to start/finish area: Orly-Sud
• For further information: Order the RUSA PBP Yearbook. See the Souvenir Items link.

Note: All participants are required to make their own travel arrangements for PBP. RUSA is not a travel agency and does not handle air, hotel or rental car arrangements for riders. Contact a travel agent to make your reservations.

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Road Snippets

Two randonneurs/riders with associations to SIR passed away recently.

The death of Mike Rohacek was brought to our attention by the posting of "RBA Obituary" to http://www.topica.com/lists/ultracycling, by Lois Springsteen on September 10th. Mike would "commute" down from Anchorage to either Seattle or Davis in order to participate in the PBP qualifying series conducted in 1994 and 1995.

John Wagner reported the passing of Ralph "Awesome" Harris, and provided the attached photo. Ralph is an inspiration to many in both RCC and SIR. The photo shows Ralph cycling the roads near his home in Hamilton, Montana. Ralph and his wife Betty relocated to Hamilton from Redmond several years ago. If anyone has stories or additional pictures about Ralph please send them to john.m.wagner@boeing.com. John would like to prepare a memorial album for his family. -Submitted by Tom Brett 10.02.02

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