Sunday, 18 October
Following up on Ring of Fire and its mockery of my goal-setting, I figured it was time for some time off the bike and a little change up for mental rest from long miles on the bike. I picked a local 10K running race that benefits the scholarship fund at the University of Washington. I had 4 weeks to recover from ROF, retool, and retrain to run 6.2 miles.
The goals I set were to reduce my bike miles and to finish the race in less than 60 minutes (I don’t run fast, either!). I failed at the first one—or, at least, bike time was not given over to running time. Somehow I managed to do all my training for the event in the morning (I got up at 4:55 once) before I rode to work. Never did I run on the weekend, and only once did I shorten up my ride to work.
My race time (53:12) was not mortally embarrassing and certainly better than the 10-minute miles I was prepared for. While there were a lot of people a lot faster than me, there were more who were slower: my time was 2 minutes faster than the average, I was 371 out of 868 runners, and 17/64 in my age group (in which nearly everyone is younger than I am). I used bike racing tactics: I took the shortest line through all the corners, and I found big guys to run behind in the headwind sections, even if I had to sprint a little to catch up to them. And I found another sport where tons of people pass me going downhill!
Most interesting to me is my recovery. I have some gentle aches and pains from 53 minutes of pounding my joints (knees, hips) but I am not tired. (I tried to ride some extra miles on my bike after the race, but one of my pedals seized—some kind of sign, maybe?) I guess that means I didn’t run hard enough, but it also means I benefited from my enormous base of miles/fitness. My goal here was not to become a runner but to focus on something besides cycling for a while, to set myself some new goals.
A bonus: only one of all my training and racing miles was rainy!
Next training program: super slow at the gym. I know that will hurt! And I'm jonesing to ride a century again, even if it's only metric and even if it's on the rain bike.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Triple century in Hood's hood
Monday, 28 September
Since there’s snow above 4,000 in tomorrow's weather forecast, and temps tomorrow aren’t supposed to reach 60 down here at sea level, I’m pretty sure I’ve just had the year’s last weekend of glorious summer riding. And what a weekend it was!
Early Saturday morning I sent the hubby off on a 300K adventure with the Oregon Randonneurs. Then I drove to Mt. Hood Meadows and set out on my own adventure. It was cold up there!! And the first 8 miles or so were downhill. Too cold for bare skin! But next was 8 miles of steady climbing on FR 44, and very soon I was shedding more layers than I had pockets for. Because this is an empty road on a busy day, I was kinda worried about encountering bears foraging for winter hibernation at my early hour. Instead, I encountered woodcutters harvesting last winter’s blowdowns. For the top several miles of the climb, there was a chainsaw running about every quarter mile. No bears to be seen.
The temperature increased rapidly as I dropped down the 17-mile descent toward Dufur. Rolling along the valley into town, I felt a bee sting me just under the collar of my jersey. Ouch—and much flapping of clothing with one free hand. Satisfied the bug was gone, I kept pedaling. Two or three minutes later, it stung again, still under my jersey. This time I slammed on the brakes, dropped the bike, unzipped my jersey, and just about stripped off all my clothes in an attempt to get the thing away from me. End result (which I could not see at the time): 4 stings. Not much to do, though, besides keep on riding (and swearing a lot from the pain).
After Dufur comes the “gentle climb” of Dufur Gap Road. It is pretty, and the views of Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams at the top are wonderful, but it is a long grind. And no ROFers to chase this time. Then down to Tygh Valley, left on 216, and eventually to Maupin. Exactly as planned, my ride buddy was sitting in the city park, eating potato chips, and checking race results with his iPhone. I found some ice cream, and then we backtracked to Tygh Valley, following the route for his brevet. A two-mile climb brings you all the way up out of the river canyon and onto what I am told is officially named the Columbia River Plateau. From there it’s sort of false flat as you head west into the trees on the slopes of the Mt. Hood foothills and then it’s about 20 miles of real climbing (with a couple short descents) back up to Meadows. There was a consistent headwind for this whole section of the ride. I love hearing the wind in the trees above my head but am not so enamored by pedaling uphill into a headwind.
My total distance on Saturday was 122 miles, just shy of a metric double century. Three major climbs, plus two that were a couple miles long. Most of this was the big loop from Ring of Fire, but starting in the middle. It was noticeably different to have fresh legs for 44 and tired ones for 48, when usually it’s the other way around.
Sunday was a team ride, starting in Hood River. We headed east, through the “microwave” wild fire acreage, and to The Dalles. Looped around on Eight Mile, Emerson Cutoff, and Boyd Loop to get to Dufur. On Eight Mile, the hills are tight and close, almost claustrophobic, but from Boyd Loop you can practically see forever: orchards, vineyards, mountains, valleys, trees, farms. Then we went the opposite way over my Saturday route on FR 44, down to highway 35, but turned right to head back to Hood River. I managed to stay with the group until Dufur (5 flats on other bikes and a headwind gave me recovery and shelter) and then was on my own. My only other trip up 44 was on a cloudy day, and I had no idea there were so many luscious views of Hood all the way to the top. Just past the summit, I think I could pick out what is now the top of Mt. St. Helens above a nearby ridge. 101 miles for the day.
So 223 miles in two days, a double metric century and a regular "English" century. Not a cloud in the blue, blue skies. Warm enough to be summer, cool enough to ward off heat exhaustion. Wind but not gale force. Little critters (chipmunks, squirrels, pikas) but no bears. Riding on parts of courses from at least 11 races. Great ride company for parts of both days, and great hosts in between the riding. Priceless.
It’s going to be tough to transition to riding around Lake Washington on my rain bike.
Since there’s snow above 4,000 in tomorrow's weather forecast, and temps tomorrow aren’t supposed to reach 60 down here at sea level, I’m pretty sure I’ve just had the year’s last weekend of glorious summer riding. And what a weekend it was!
Early Saturday morning I sent the hubby off on a 300K adventure with the Oregon Randonneurs. Then I drove to Mt. Hood Meadows and set out on my own adventure. It was cold up there!! And the first 8 miles or so were downhill. Too cold for bare skin! But next was 8 miles of steady climbing on FR 44, and very soon I was shedding more layers than I had pockets for. Because this is an empty road on a busy day, I was kinda worried about encountering bears foraging for winter hibernation at my early hour. Instead, I encountered woodcutters harvesting last winter’s blowdowns. For the top several miles of the climb, there was a chainsaw running about every quarter mile. No bears to be seen.
The temperature increased rapidly as I dropped down the 17-mile descent toward Dufur. Rolling along the valley into town, I felt a bee sting me just under the collar of my jersey. Ouch—and much flapping of clothing with one free hand. Satisfied the bug was gone, I kept pedaling. Two or three minutes later, it stung again, still under my jersey. This time I slammed on the brakes, dropped the bike, unzipped my jersey, and just about stripped off all my clothes in an attempt to get the thing away from me. End result (which I could not see at the time): 4 stings. Not much to do, though, besides keep on riding (and swearing a lot from the pain).
After Dufur comes the “gentle climb” of Dufur Gap Road. It is pretty, and the views of Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams at the top are wonderful, but it is a long grind. And no ROFers to chase this time. Then down to Tygh Valley, left on 216, and eventually to Maupin. Exactly as planned, my ride buddy was sitting in the city park, eating potato chips, and checking race results with his iPhone. I found some ice cream, and then we backtracked to Tygh Valley, following the route for his brevet. A two-mile climb brings you all the way up out of the river canyon and onto what I am told is officially named the Columbia River Plateau. From there it’s sort of false flat as you head west into the trees on the slopes of the Mt. Hood foothills and then it’s about 20 miles of real climbing (with a couple short descents) back up to Meadows. There was a consistent headwind for this whole section of the ride. I love hearing the wind in the trees above my head but am not so enamored by pedaling uphill into a headwind.
My total distance on Saturday was 122 miles, just shy of a metric double century. Three major climbs, plus two that were a couple miles long. Most of this was the big loop from Ring of Fire, but starting in the middle. It was noticeably different to have fresh legs for 44 and tired ones for 48, when usually it’s the other way around.
Sunday was a team ride, starting in Hood River. We headed east, through the “microwave” wild fire acreage, and to The Dalles. Looped around on Eight Mile, Emerson Cutoff, and Boyd Loop to get to Dufur. On Eight Mile, the hills are tight and close, almost claustrophobic, but from Boyd Loop you can practically see forever: orchards, vineyards, mountains, valleys, trees, farms. Then we went the opposite way over my Saturday route on FR 44, down to highway 35, but turned right to head back to Hood River. I managed to stay with the group until Dufur (5 flats on other bikes and a headwind gave me recovery and shelter) and then was on my own. My only other trip up 44 was on a cloudy day, and I had no idea there were so many luscious views of Hood all the way to the top. Just past the summit, I think I could pick out what is now the top of Mt. St. Helens above a nearby ridge. 101 miles for the day.
So 223 miles in two days, a double metric century and a regular "English" century. Not a cloud in the blue, blue skies. Warm enough to be summer, cool enough to ward off heat exhaustion. Wind but not gale force. Little critters (chipmunks, squirrels, pikas) but no bears. Riding on parts of courses from at least 11 races. Great ride company for parts of both days, and great hosts in between the riding. Priceless.
It’s going to be tough to transition to riding around Lake Washington on my rain bike.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Ring of Fire / End of Season
Tuesday, 15 September
The Ring of Fire time trial is one of my favorite races, a superb finish to a season of racing, and a nice signal for the end of summer. This year I logged more long rides as training, and I thought I was as well prepared as I ever could be. I had been working on my “ultra” nutrition all summer, I took the time trial bike in the hope of getting in some faster miles on the flatter part of the course, I was rested for the event and ready to go. I was reasonably confident of beating the 193-mile women’s course record for the 12-hour race.
However. The nagging thought in the back of my mind through all of this was that weather had severely limited my racing all year. I skipped a bunch of early season races when it was 38 degrees and precipitating (rain, snow, whatever). The first stage at Cherry Blossom was abysmal because of Gorge winds, and the first day at a training camp in May was about the worst prolonged period I’ve ever had on a bike because of incredible winds. The last stage at the Elkhorn Classic was shortened by 80% because of cold precip. But July and August had been good (too good?), and I had done at least six rides in the mountains of 120 miles or more.
My start was at 7:23 a.m. Roughly the first 60 miles are mostly uphill as you climb through forest on the SE flank of Mt. Hood. The temperature and winds were perfect. I was surprised to be offered ice for my water bottles at the first two sag stops (whatever for?). Then a 20-mile descent down to the plateau of central Oregon brought a quick climb in temperature. A one-mile climb to the third sag stop (at about mile 90) convinced me that ice was a good thing, and I stuffed one jersey pocket with it (as well as my bottles). Gradual climbing continues relentlessly on Dufur Gap Road, where I still felt good. On the long descent from that summit, my speed went from 37 to 27 when I hit the headwind, which stayed with me for the next 5 miles of rollers. The heat and headwind combo sapped my energy, and the sun baked my brain, so that when I hit the flat stretch of 8 miles along the Deschutes River, I could muster no better than 18-20 mph with a substantial tailwind. I rolled into the start/finish to start my short (27-mile) laps, hoping to get the first two on the TT bike before tired legs would probably rebel at the unfriendly gearing.
The legs were not the problem. It was my head in the heat. Two miles up the first climb I knew I was going nowhere fast. I was only mildly dehydrated, which is a state I bear pretty well; this was just inability to bear the heat, which was registered by at least one rider at 97 degrees. I seriously contemplated getting off the bike for a rest (a nap was what I REALLY wanted), but (a) there was no shade and (b) I was afraid of rattlesnakes. So I kept pedaling. I have no technology on my TT bike, but I know my pace was very slow. Amazingly, however, nobody passed me in those 27 miles, which simply meant everyone else was suffering too. On the flat stretch of river road, I had so little strength, I could not go fast enough to ride in the aero bars. My power was probably at about 12 watts.
When I rolled into the start/finish after 139 miles, I told them I was done and got off the bike. There is air conditioning in the lodge, and I spent some time lying down inside, cooling off. Then came food and liquids. And then I could enjoy the general party atmosphere that dominates the parking lot around the finish line at this race. After about 2 hours, it occurred to me that I didn’t feel lousy any more and I could probably ride my bike. I still had 3/4 of an hour left in my 12, so I got back on the bike and put in 13 more miles. It was a beautiful time of day to ride: the sun was setting behind the Cascades, the temperature was in the 70s or low 80s, and Mt. Hood reigned supreme over the plateau. My legs still had lots of miles in them, even if my clock did not.
Your race here finishes wherever you are on the course 12 hours after your start. I happened to be at mile 13 on the 27-mile loop; backtracking involves a climb of at least 2 miles, so I chose to keep going “forward.” Within a mile, a car came in the opposite direction and the driver stopped and told me she had been sent out to pick me up. (The car had passed me dozens of times during the day, so I knew she was with the race.) My husband, who was attempting the 24-hour version of this race, was asking for me because his heat exhaustion and dehydration were so severe they were sending him to the hospital. 14 miles in the car under those circumstances seemed to take longer than they would have on the bike.
Hubby had been sick several times, been rescued by another rider’s crew, collapsed, and agreed that the hospital was the place for him. He had a support crew who would take him to The Dalles, which meant I didn’t have to sit in the ER with him in my sweaty exhausted dehydrated state. MCMC gave him 3 liters of fluid and sent him back to the race; there were 6 hours left in his 24 when he got back to Maupin, but he did not get back on the bike. I am so grateful to Mandy for retrieving me, Adrian (Adrienne?) for taking care of him, Ken for taking him to the hospital, and countless others for their genuine concern. I was clearly the bad wife, however, because other riders asked me for updates on his condition at least every 15 minutes. I have no cell coverage in Maupin and thus had no news, and his condition didn’t seem too complicated, but I guess I was supposed to be trying every means available to get updates from the ER (which is nigh impossible even when communications are good). Ironically, his recovery was faster than almost anyone else’s simply because those 3 liters went straight into his bloodstream while the rest of us had to wait for absorption into our systems.
The disappointment for both of us was huge. This had been one of our big goals for the season, a training focus for a long time, and a lot of thought had gone into our preparation. I am thankful of course that our hopes were dashed only by weather and that no one suffered long-term effects (a majority of racers were ill). But it doesn’t escape me that I planned, trained, and set goals specifically for this race—for naught. Sure, I am somewhat gratified that I felt really good on all the climbs, that my training worked, and that I really like my LandShark. Nothing hurt, I just had no energy.
Since the race failed to be a happy end-of-season benchmark, my recovery ride the next day included one big climb up from Maupin toward Grass Valley. There was virtually no traffic and nothing to limit the panoramic view at the top. Whenever I stopped to take pictures, I could hear nothing but birds and bugs and dead wildflowers rustling in the breeze. I could see some of the peaks I had “friended” this season: Hood, Jefferson, Washington. It was sweltering again, but I didn’t care. This was the end of my summer and reminded me how truly grateful I was for all the miles I put in this year. The camera could not capture the expanse and the simultaneous senses of freedom and desolation.
So for the end of my season I am left with disappointment but also the increased desire that comes from a sad result. But even more I am left with the peace and sanctuary that were so much a part of all my long rides in 2009.
The Ring of Fire time trial is one of my favorite races, a superb finish to a season of racing, and a nice signal for the end of summer. This year I logged more long rides as training, and I thought I was as well prepared as I ever could be. I had been working on my “ultra” nutrition all summer, I took the time trial bike in the hope of getting in some faster miles on the flatter part of the course, I was rested for the event and ready to go. I was reasonably confident of beating the 193-mile women’s course record for the 12-hour race.
However. The nagging thought in the back of my mind through all of this was that weather had severely limited my racing all year. I skipped a bunch of early season races when it was 38 degrees and precipitating (rain, snow, whatever). The first stage at Cherry Blossom was abysmal because of Gorge winds, and the first day at a training camp in May was about the worst prolonged period I’ve ever had on a bike because of incredible winds. The last stage at the Elkhorn Classic was shortened by 80% because of cold precip. But July and August had been good (too good?), and I had done at least six rides in the mountains of 120 miles or more.
My start was at 7:23 a.m. Roughly the first 60 miles are mostly uphill as you climb through forest on the SE flank of Mt. Hood. The temperature and winds were perfect. I was surprised to be offered ice for my water bottles at the first two sag stops (whatever for?). Then a 20-mile descent down to the plateau of central Oregon brought a quick climb in temperature. A one-mile climb to the third sag stop (at about mile 90) convinced me that ice was a good thing, and I stuffed one jersey pocket with it (as well as my bottles). Gradual climbing continues relentlessly on Dufur Gap Road, where I still felt good. On the long descent from that summit, my speed went from 37 to 27 when I hit the headwind, which stayed with me for the next 5 miles of rollers. The heat and headwind combo sapped my energy, and the sun baked my brain, so that when I hit the flat stretch of 8 miles along the Deschutes River, I could muster no better than 18-20 mph with a substantial tailwind. I rolled into the start/finish to start my short (27-mile) laps, hoping to get the first two on the TT bike before tired legs would probably rebel at the unfriendly gearing.
The legs were not the problem. It was my head in the heat. Two miles up the first climb I knew I was going nowhere fast. I was only mildly dehydrated, which is a state I bear pretty well; this was just inability to bear the heat, which was registered by at least one rider at 97 degrees. I seriously contemplated getting off the bike for a rest (a nap was what I REALLY wanted), but (a) there was no shade and (b) I was afraid of rattlesnakes. So I kept pedaling. I have no technology on my TT bike, but I know my pace was very slow. Amazingly, however, nobody passed me in those 27 miles, which simply meant everyone else was suffering too. On the flat stretch of river road, I had so little strength, I could not go fast enough to ride in the aero bars. My power was probably at about 12 watts.
When I rolled into the start/finish after 139 miles, I told them I was done and got off the bike. There is air conditioning in the lodge, and I spent some time lying down inside, cooling off. Then came food and liquids. And then I could enjoy the general party atmosphere that dominates the parking lot around the finish line at this race. After about 2 hours, it occurred to me that I didn’t feel lousy any more and I could probably ride my bike. I still had 3/4 of an hour left in my 12, so I got back on the bike and put in 13 more miles. It was a beautiful time of day to ride: the sun was setting behind the Cascades, the temperature was in the 70s or low 80s, and Mt. Hood reigned supreme over the plateau. My legs still had lots of miles in them, even if my clock did not.
Your race here finishes wherever you are on the course 12 hours after your start. I happened to be at mile 13 on the 27-mile loop; backtracking involves a climb of at least 2 miles, so I chose to keep going “forward.” Within a mile, a car came in the opposite direction and the driver stopped and told me she had been sent out to pick me up. (The car had passed me dozens of times during the day, so I knew she was with the race.) My husband, who was attempting the 24-hour version of this race, was asking for me because his heat exhaustion and dehydration were so severe they were sending him to the hospital. 14 miles in the car under those circumstances seemed to take longer than they would have on the bike.
Hubby had been sick several times, been rescued by another rider’s crew, collapsed, and agreed that the hospital was the place for him. He had a support crew who would take him to The Dalles, which meant I didn’t have to sit in the ER with him in my sweaty exhausted dehydrated state. MCMC gave him 3 liters of fluid and sent him back to the race; there were 6 hours left in his 24 when he got back to Maupin, but he did not get back on the bike. I am so grateful to Mandy for retrieving me, Adrian (Adrienne?) for taking care of him, Ken for taking him to the hospital, and countless others for their genuine concern. I was clearly the bad wife, however, because other riders asked me for updates on his condition at least every 15 minutes. I have no cell coverage in Maupin and thus had no news, and his condition didn’t seem too complicated, but I guess I was supposed to be trying every means available to get updates from the ER (which is nigh impossible even when communications are good). Ironically, his recovery was faster than almost anyone else’s simply because those 3 liters went straight into his bloodstream while the rest of us had to wait for absorption into our systems.
The disappointment for both of us was huge. This had been one of our big goals for the season, a training focus for a long time, and a lot of thought had gone into our preparation. I am thankful of course that our hopes were dashed only by weather and that no one suffered long-term effects (a majority of racers were ill). But it doesn’t escape me that I planned, trained, and set goals specifically for this race—for naught. Sure, I am somewhat gratified that I felt really good on all the climbs, that my training worked, and that I really like my LandShark. Nothing hurt, I just had no energy.
Since the race failed to be a happy end-of-season benchmark, my recovery ride the next day included one big climb up from Maupin toward Grass Valley. There was virtually no traffic and nothing to limit the panoramic view at the top. Whenever I stopped to take pictures, I could hear nothing but birds and bugs and dead wildflowers rustling in the breeze. I could see some of the peaks I had “friended” this season: Hood, Jefferson, Washington. It was sweltering again, but I didn’t care. This was the end of my summer and reminded me how truly grateful I was for all the miles I put in this year. The camera could not capture the expanse and the simultaneous senses of freedom and desolation.
So for the end of my season I am left with disappointment but also the increased desire that comes from a sad result. But even more I am left with the peace and sanctuary that were so much a part of all my long rides in 2009.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Getting closer
Friday, 14 August
You have to understand, good pie crust is in my genes and is part of my heritage. My mother and my grandmother made such fantastic pie pastry that, as a child (and even to this day), I preferred pie crust to pie filling. They taught me well, and I can make a flaky, wondrous delight with flour, shortening, water, and a few grains of salt. But then shortening was condemned as the root of a lot of evil, so I substituted canola oil. Definitely not the same, but passable, and more work. Then my husband gave up wheat, which cuts out the whole flour thing. But apple tart is his dessert of choice, and it's gravenstein apple season, so I must bravely go forth and try to learn new pie-making skills.
The first recipe I found was a flop. It basically said you could substitute rice flour for wheat flour, and butter for shortening, and you'd be happy with the result. NOT. If you're not a pastry maker, it's hard to explain, but gluten is the thing that's in flour that makes a pie pastry too heavy and ugh-ly if you work the pastry too hard and beat down the gluten. So, if you start with gluten-free flour, it's pretty much a no-brainer that you've got a headstart to heavy and ugh. It came out like rich (that's the butter), dense, chewy pastry instead of a light flaky wonder.
Then I got some sound advice from a true pastry chef (thanks, Laura!) and inspiration from a county-fair, blue-ribbon pie making queen (that's you, Judy)--both of 'em bike racers. And did some more research in that giant cookbook called the internet. I narrowed my choices down to two recipes. Both called for weird things not in my cupboards (potato starch, xanthan gum, sorghum flour), so I had to go shopping.
I have to digress here. I have a "thing" about trying to make foods into things they're not just so they look like other foods. Tofurkey comes to mind. There are so many good foods out there that if you choose not to eat one (turkey, in this case), why not just admit you don't eat turkey and not pretend to yourself that you're eating dead poultry when you pretend to others that you don't eat dead poultry? I'm a vegetarian, but I try not to eat overprocessed foods--and most of those tofu-derived, fake meats fall into the category of things I don't buy. What's this got to do with pie crust? Well, maybe pie crust is meant to be just shortening, flour, salt, and water, and if you choose not to eat one of those ingredients, maybe you should just be content to eat apple crumble instead of having your pie and eating it too.
But I had to try. So this afternoon I stood (in my helmet and cleats) in the "natural foods" section of my supermarket (what are all the other foods they sell--"unnatural"?), pondering sorghum flour and other things I'd only seen as so many words on nutrition labels. I thought the recipe calling for xanthan gum would be the way to go because it only called for two things I didn't already have. But xanthan gum is $13 for a little package, and really what was I going to do with a pound of xanthan gum? So I opted for the white rice flour, sorghum flour, and potato starch recipe because those three items together cost less than xanthan. Not cheap, but not $13. Oh, and I also bought some shortening, on a tip from Laura.
My recipe rubbed against my pie sensibilities. Adding an egg is cheating! And no thanks, I don't want cinnamon in my pie crust. I'm not sure about vinegar, but I know a lot of people use it. Basically, though, I followed the recipe, substituting shortening for some of the butter. It rolled out better than my previous GF attempt and it hung together better in the pan. It smelled good while it baked (that was the apples, though), and it got nicely brown and a little crispy on the edges. Then we had to wait for it to cool.
I think I'd rate this attempt at a B+. It is definitely better than store-bought pie crust. I had more pastry than pie, so it was maybe a little thicker than it should have been, and thus a little heavier. The bits of the rolled edges were close to the "real thing." One noticeable difference is that rice flour is grainier than wheat flour, so at first bite the pastry is toothier. But when you eat the crust with the filling (like most pie eaters do, I suppose), it's really really close to a wheat flour crust. With some tweaks, I think this recipe will be a keeper. Maybe I'll have to let the PruPieMaster be teh judge....
BTW potato starch is pretty cool stuff. It's kind of like cornstarch, but heavier and not as...flighty. I'm looking forward to working with it some more.
You have to understand, good pie crust is in my genes and is part of my heritage. My mother and my grandmother made such fantastic pie pastry that, as a child (and even to this day), I preferred pie crust to pie filling. They taught me well, and I can make a flaky, wondrous delight with flour, shortening, water, and a few grains of salt. But then shortening was condemned as the root of a lot of evil, so I substituted canola oil. Definitely not the same, but passable, and more work. Then my husband gave up wheat, which cuts out the whole flour thing. But apple tart is his dessert of choice, and it's gravenstein apple season, so I must bravely go forth and try to learn new pie-making skills.
The first recipe I found was a flop. It basically said you could substitute rice flour for wheat flour, and butter for shortening, and you'd be happy with the result. NOT. If you're not a pastry maker, it's hard to explain, but gluten is the thing that's in flour that makes a pie pastry too heavy and ugh-ly if you work the pastry too hard and beat down the gluten. So, if you start with gluten-free flour, it's pretty much a no-brainer that you've got a headstart to heavy and ugh. It came out like rich (that's the butter), dense, chewy pastry instead of a light flaky wonder.
Then I got some sound advice from a true pastry chef (thanks, Laura!) and inspiration from a county-fair, blue-ribbon pie making queen (that's you, Judy)--both of 'em bike racers. And did some more research in that giant cookbook called the internet. I narrowed my choices down to two recipes. Both called for weird things not in my cupboards (potato starch, xanthan gum, sorghum flour), so I had to go shopping.
I have to digress here. I have a "thing" about trying to make foods into things they're not just so they look like other foods. Tofurkey comes to mind. There are so many good foods out there that if you choose not to eat one (turkey, in this case), why not just admit you don't eat turkey and not pretend to yourself that you're eating dead poultry when you pretend to others that you don't eat dead poultry? I'm a vegetarian, but I try not to eat overprocessed foods--and most of those tofu-derived, fake meats fall into the category of things I don't buy. What's this got to do with pie crust? Well, maybe pie crust is meant to be just shortening, flour, salt, and water, and if you choose not to eat one of those ingredients, maybe you should just be content to eat apple crumble instead of having your pie and eating it too.
But I had to try. So this afternoon I stood (in my helmet and cleats) in the "natural foods" section of my supermarket (what are all the other foods they sell--"unnatural"?), pondering sorghum flour and other things I'd only seen as so many words on nutrition labels. I thought the recipe calling for xanthan gum would be the way to go because it only called for two things I didn't already have. But xanthan gum is $13 for a little package, and really what was I going to do with a pound of xanthan gum? So I opted for the white rice flour, sorghum flour, and potato starch recipe because those three items together cost less than xanthan. Not cheap, but not $13. Oh, and I also bought some shortening, on a tip from Laura.
My recipe rubbed against my pie sensibilities. Adding an egg is cheating! And no thanks, I don't want cinnamon in my pie crust. I'm not sure about vinegar, but I know a lot of people use it. Basically, though, I followed the recipe, substituting shortening for some of the butter. It rolled out better than my previous GF attempt and it hung together better in the pan. It smelled good while it baked (that was the apples, though), and it got nicely brown and a little crispy on the edges. Then we had to wait for it to cool.
I think I'd rate this attempt at a B+. It is definitely better than store-bought pie crust. I had more pastry than pie, so it was maybe a little thicker than it should have been, and thus a little heavier. The bits of the rolled edges were close to the "real thing." One noticeable difference is that rice flour is grainier than wheat flour, so at first bite the pastry is toothier. But when you eat the crust with the filling (like most pie eaters do, I suppose), it's really really close to a wheat flour crust. With some tweaks, I think this recipe will be a keeper. Maybe I'll have to let the PruPieMaster be teh judge....
BTW potato starch is pretty cool stuff. It's kind of like cornstarch, but heavier and not as...flighty. I'm looking forward to working with it some more.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Cascade
Monday, 27 July
I've been going to the Cascade Cycling Classic longer than almost any other race. I always have a fun time in Bend. This year was no exception.
There were so many things that contributed to a great week. Best find this year was Le Cakery, where you get to pick the flavor of your cupcake and the flavor of your frosting; it's a really good thing there's not a place like that around the corner from me the rest of the year! Thump Coffee was a great place to drink super good coffee (if I can tell a difference, it must be good!), catch up on email, watch the Tour, and people-watch the who's who of the Bend cycling community (thankfully I had a guide who recognized them; I did not, for the most part). The scenery around Bend of course is marvelous, and the level and amount of competition in the bike races prove that riders in the NW will race in the summertime if you give them what they want. And having Jadine and Mike share their honeymoon with about 600 other bike racers made this year's trip to Bend unique! :)
But the thing that made the week most special for me was people:
The host housing friends who welcome you back year after year. The teammates and support staff who work so hard together to make it all happen, even in the face of bad luck, illness, and injury. The "kid" I haven't seen in years but ran into out of the blue on the crit course who now owns a bike shop in Boise. The man who came up to me at the crit and said his son was at a national junior team camp (?) with the son of an old friend of my husband. His son's name is familiar in Oregon bike racing, but how did this guy know me just walking down the street in Bend? Four of the Hagens Berman guys, melting into a bench outside an ice cream shop in downtown Bend. After I'd chatted with 2 of them for at least 10 minutes, one of the other 2 says "I don't think I know you"--as in, why are my friends so chatty with this old broad? The fourth was too shy to say much at all. :) The commissaire from Seattle who shared a table with my team director and me during our morning coffee/Tour/email ritual and offered up a little of the officials' side of the race. The OBRA official who didn't hesitate to let me register for my husband while he was stuck in a rental car nightmare. Everybody else had to show their license, but my magic words that afternoon were "I'm Mick." :) I did have to repeat them several times as I moved through registration because everyone in the process wondered why I was at packet pick-up for an event with no (amateur) women's field. The woman behind me in buffet line at the meet-the-sponsors pasta feed for the women's race who had crewed for a two-person relay team at Race Across the West. She was astounded that I had even heard of the race (RAW and Cascade draw from pretty different cycling communities) much less that I knew riders and other crew at that race. I tried to get her to try the 6-hour Ring of Fire TT this September. The Bend cyclist who killed the women's Firecracker TT on July 4 who was part way up the time trial course, cheering for my rider AP. The race staff who always had time to say hello and answer my questions.
Cycling is such a small world and for the most part a close-knit, supportive community. It is fascinating to go to an event as big as Cascade and see how parts of your world are connected to each other in ways that don't involve you that you would never imagine. I stopped in to see a tandem friend at his bike shop in Bend and to thank him for advertising some other friends' used tandem on his email list. Totally coincidentally, a clothing line they rep was hanging on the wall next to the tandems in the shop.
So much better than Facebook.
I've been going to the Cascade Cycling Classic longer than almost any other race. I always have a fun time in Bend. This year was no exception.
There were so many things that contributed to a great week. Best find this year was Le Cakery, where you get to pick the flavor of your cupcake and the flavor of your frosting; it's a really good thing there's not a place like that around the corner from me the rest of the year! Thump Coffee was a great place to drink super good coffee (if I can tell a difference, it must be good!), catch up on email, watch the Tour, and people-watch the who's who of the Bend cycling community (thankfully I had a guide who recognized them; I did not, for the most part). The scenery around Bend of course is marvelous, and the level and amount of competition in the bike races prove that riders in the NW will race in the summertime if you give them what they want. And having Jadine and Mike share their honeymoon with about 600 other bike racers made this year's trip to Bend unique! :)
But the thing that made the week most special for me was people:
Cycling is such a small world and for the most part a close-knit, supportive community. It is fascinating to go to an event as big as Cascade and see how parts of your world are connected to each other in ways that don't involve you that you would never imagine. I stopped in to see a tandem friend at his bike shop in Bend and to thank him for advertising some other friends' used tandem on his email list. Totally coincidentally, a clothing line they rep was hanging on the wall next to the tandems in the shop.
So much better than Facebook.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bliss on a bike
Monday, 13 July
Back in May, at training camp in north central Oregon, I agreed with Terri that it was spectacularly beautiful country but, due to lack of “real” trees and bodies of water, I wasn’t sure I could happily live there. My riding this weekend was at the opposite end of the spectrum: Friday and Saturday featured so much riding among the close quarters of hills and evergreens that when at last I got to that plateau east of Mt. Hood, it felt comforting, like coming home.
My two-day bike journey this weekend was from my home in Seattle to Hood River, with a stopover in Packwood. Friday’s ride was nothing hard to figure out, and I had ridden all of the roads before, just not strung together in this order. The worst traffic was in the first two miles (I forgot to bypass Lake City Way at rush hour). There were very few cyclists on my route out May Valley, down past Hobart to Ravensdale, then past Palmer-Kanasket Park en route to Enumclaw (it was STP weekend, so nobody was out training on Friday!). Mud Mountain Road out of Enumclaw was so peaceful—and it was fun to read the years of race exhortations written on the road. Then the reality of 410 traffic all the way to the top of Cayuse Pass. Somewhere along there (mile 70 in this day’s ride), I counted 15 cars going by me in one mile. Not so bad. Since the Stevens Canyon Road is closed and drivers can’t make a loop through Mt. Rainier National Park, there wasn’t much traffic after the top of the pass. Better yet, there is no road construction this summer on 123. It’s pretty much downhill all the way to highway 12, and then rollers the last 7 miles into Packwood.
The weather was a good friend. I had a perceptible tailwind on all the southerly sections (almost the entire route) of my Friday journey. Mountain thunderstorms were in the forecast, and, sure enough, the big puffy clouds forged into ominous blackness as I got to Crystal Mountain. No thunder and lightning, but the cloud cover was a wonderful relief for the long climb up Cayuse Pass. It was pretty chilly at the top, with lots of snow still lurking in the woods. By some fortunate wind-swirling-in-the-mountains effect, I also had a tailwind boost heading west along 12 into Packwood.
Packwood is not exactly civilization (no cell phone coverage), but it has more than one restaurant and a supermarket. And elk. And, last weekend, the Sports Car Club of America. Fun to see people who geek out about something besides bikes!
Saturday’s ride started along the course of Cascade’s High Pass Challenge: west on 12, south on 131, then continuing south when the state road turns into forest service road 25. The climbing here is long and steep and slow (especially with a backpack, especially when you know a long day in the saddle lies ahead); I kept reminding myself that I’d done this on a tandem. Eventually you come to the turn for the Windy Ridge overlook at Mt. St. Helens—I kept climbing south on 25. Finally you crest a ridge and your close-up view of a million trees is gradually replaced by territorial views. After all the meandering through forest, I wasn’t sure what direction I was facing. I was surprised that the first peak to emerge into sight was Mt. Hood! A couple more bends in the road, though, and I was looking NW straight at Mt. St. Helens. Eventually the road dropped back into the forest as I descended toward the Swift Reservoir. Once at the junction with FR90, I was on familiar roads. 90 follows the Lewis River drainage NE to the junction with FR23. Persistent climbing here—not steep, and some sections with a great tailwind. I saw a few other cyclists going the opposite direction on this road, and I stopped at the only campground to get water. At mile 80, I counted the vehicles that went by me in a mile: zero. It was another 1.8 miles before any traffic passed—in either direction! Yes, these are quiet roads. The abundant trees were a bonus on a 90-degree day; I was thankful for so much shade on the road.
I was delighted with my faulty memory when the anticipated climbing on FR23 was mostly just rollers for about 10 miles before the descent, which brings amazing views of Mt. Adams. Finally I got to Trout Lake for coke and cookies and another water bottle refill. From there, it’s 22 miles mostly trending downhill toward the Columbia River and the end of my journey in Bingen, where I found our car, drove across the bridge (no bicycles or pedestrians permitted) to Hood River, and then out to The Dalles and the trek south to Maupin.
As I drove up out of the Gorge onto the plateau of central Oregon, everything was bathed in hazy soft pre-sunset light, the hills and fields were golden, and Mt. Hood and Mt. Jefferson were sentinels over this vast space. The closed-in feeling of riding under tree cover all day was lifted and I truly felt that all my worries and fears were gone and that I was returning to a familiar, comforting space. Such a contrast to the emotion in May near Antelope and Shaniko where the scenery is similar but I missed shades of dark green and blue.
I did have plenty of worries and fears to release into the great wide open. There were the issues of being a solo female rider whose transportation was a device whose mechanics she doesn't grasp very well. Have you ever noticed that things (shoes, pedals, saddle, unknown bike things) are particularly prone to squeaking when it’s hot? Other niggles weighed heavier. After a poorly calculated trip last year, I was more cautious in mapquesting this year’s epic ride, but forest service roads are not well documented. I was slow (8-9% with a backpack yields low speed) to cover some sections of the route, giving me much time to think that I would never get there. And then there were practical issues: Where exactly are you supposed to seek shelter in a forest in a thunderstorm? Are those frequent piles on the road that look like dog poop actually bear scat (had to be—no dogs live out here)? What if deer run out in front of me when I’m going 30 mph down a descent? What if I miscalculated the distance by 30 miles again this year?
When you’re riding solo, there is too much time for such things to mess with your mind. My trip was perfect. The weather was summer-hot but not miserable, not wet, and certainly not cold. I had plenty of food and water. There was minimal traffic but just enough so that I probably wouldn’t be stranded out there for 3 days in the event of a mechanical catastrophe. The distances were almost exactly what I’d calculated: 123 miles on Friday and 137 on Saturday. I was blessed with tailwinds on important parts of the route, with headwind mostly only as I approached the Gorge (where there is always wind). Motorists were considerate (!). The biggest critters to cross my path were chipmunks. No issues with feet or saddle or bike or backpack. The up-close, clear-air views of Rainier, St. Helens, and Adams are things you cannot even imagine from the cityscape. I rode for miles and miles where the only sign of humanity was the road I was on and the only sounds were birds, bugs, and breeze in the trees. Bliss.
On the third day of my weekend, I got up at 5:30, waited patiently (making hats, of course) in a parking lot for the show that is Race Across Oregon (a 517-mile, nonstop bike race, if you didn’t know) to come through the tiny rafting mecca of Maupin, kissed my husband as he climbed off his bike at the end of a relay leg down cruel, demon-filled Bakeoven Road, leapfrogged his team on to Dufur and up FR44, and drove on to the finish line at the Cooper Spur ski area. An inspiring group of 4 riders and 4 crew, Koenig’s Kronies were the first to finish the race on the new route. Congratulations to them and every other competitor in the race!
Weekends don’t get much better than this. I feel truly blessed by the good fortune that led to my perfect ride and by the family and friends who checked up on me during my travels.
Back in May, at training camp in north central Oregon, I agreed with Terri that it was spectacularly beautiful country but, due to lack of “real” trees and bodies of water, I wasn’t sure I could happily live there. My riding this weekend was at the opposite end of the spectrum: Friday and Saturday featured so much riding among the close quarters of hills and evergreens that when at last I got to that plateau east of Mt. Hood, it felt comforting, like coming home.
My two-day bike journey this weekend was from my home in Seattle to Hood River, with a stopover in Packwood. Friday’s ride was nothing hard to figure out, and I had ridden all of the roads before, just not strung together in this order. The worst traffic was in the first two miles (I forgot to bypass Lake City Way at rush hour). There were very few cyclists on my route out May Valley, down past Hobart to Ravensdale, then past Palmer-Kanasket Park en route to Enumclaw (it was STP weekend, so nobody was out training on Friday!). Mud Mountain Road out of Enumclaw was so peaceful—and it was fun to read the years of race exhortations written on the road. Then the reality of 410 traffic all the way to the top of Cayuse Pass. Somewhere along there (mile 70 in this day’s ride), I counted 15 cars going by me in one mile. Not so bad. Since the Stevens Canyon Road is closed and drivers can’t make a loop through Mt. Rainier National Park, there wasn’t much traffic after the top of the pass. Better yet, there is no road construction this summer on 123. It’s pretty much downhill all the way to highway 12, and then rollers the last 7 miles into Packwood.
The weather was a good friend. I had a perceptible tailwind on all the southerly sections (almost the entire route) of my Friday journey. Mountain thunderstorms were in the forecast, and, sure enough, the big puffy clouds forged into ominous blackness as I got to Crystal Mountain. No thunder and lightning, but the cloud cover was a wonderful relief for the long climb up Cayuse Pass. It was pretty chilly at the top, with lots of snow still lurking in the woods. By some fortunate wind-swirling-in-the-mountains effect, I also had a tailwind boost heading west along 12 into Packwood.
Packwood is not exactly civilization (no cell phone coverage), but it has more than one restaurant and a supermarket. And elk. And, last weekend, the Sports Car Club of America. Fun to see people who geek out about something besides bikes!
Saturday’s ride started along the course of Cascade’s High Pass Challenge: west on 12, south on 131, then continuing south when the state road turns into forest service road 25. The climbing here is long and steep and slow (especially with a backpack, especially when you know a long day in the saddle lies ahead); I kept reminding myself that I’d done this on a tandem. Eventually you come to the turn for the Windy Ridge overlook at Mt. St. Helens—I kept climbing south on 25. Finally you crest a ridge and your close-up view of a million trees is gradually replaced by territorial views. After all the meandering through forest, I wasn’t sure what direction I was facing. I was surprised that the first peak to emerge into sight was Mt. Hood! A couple more bends in the road, though, and I was looking NW straight at Mt. St. Helens. Eventually the road dropped back into the forest as I descended toward the Swift Reservoir. Once at the junction with FR90, I was on familiar roads. 90 follows the Lewis River drainage NE to the junction with FR23. Persistent climbing here—not steep, and some sections with a great tailwind. I saw a few other cyclists going the opposite direction on this road, and I stopped at the only campground to get water. At mile 80, I counted the vehicles that went by me in a mile: zero. It was another 1.8 miles before any traffic passed—in either direction! Yes, these are quiet roads. The abundant trees were a bonus on a 90-degree day; I was thankful for so much shade on the road.
I was delighted with my faulty memory when the anticipated climbing on FR23 was mostly just rollers for about 10 miles before the descent, which brings amazing views of Mt. Adams. Finally I got to Trout Lake for coke and cookies and another water bottle refill. From there, it’s 22 miles mostly trending downhill toward the Columbia River and the end of my journey in Bingen, where I found our car, drove across the bridge (no bicycles or pedestrians permitted) to Hood River, and then out to The Dalles and the trek south to Maupin.
As I drove up out of the Gorge onto the plateau of central Oregon, everything was bathed in hazy soft pre-sunset light, the hills and fields were golden, and Mt. Hood and Mt. Jefferson were sentinels over this vast space. The closed-in feeling of riding under tree cover all day was lifted and I truly felt that all my worries and fears were gone and that I was returning to a familiar, comforting space. Such a contrast to the emotion in May near Antelope and Shaniko where the scenery is similar but I missed shades of dark green and blue.
I did have plenty of worries and fears to release into the great wide open. There were the issues of being a solo female rider whose transportation was a device whose mechanics she doesn't grasp very well. Have you ever noticed that things (shoes, pedals, saddle, unknown bike things) are particularly prone to squeaking when it’s hot? Other niggles weighed heavier. After a poorly calculated trip last year, I was more cautious in mapquesting this year’s epic ride, but forest service roads are not well documented. I was slow (8-9% with a backpack yields low speed) to cover some sections of the route, giving me much time to think that I would never get there. And then there were practical issues: Where exactly are you supposed to seek shelter in a forest in a thunderstorm? Are those frequent piles on the road that look like dog poop actually bear scat (had to be—no dogs live out here)? What if deer run out in front of me when I’m going 30 mph down a descent? What if I miscalculated the distance by 30 miles again this year?
When you’re riding solo, there is too much time for such things to mess with your mind. My trip was perfect. The weather was summer-hot but not miserable, not wet, and certainly not cold. I had plenty of food and water. There was minimal traffic but just enough so that I probably wouldn’t be stranded out there for 3 days in the event of a mechanical catastrophe. The distances were almost exactly what I’d calculated: 123 miles on Friday and 137 on Saturday. I was blessed with tailwinds on important parts of the route, with headwind mostly only as I approached the Gorge (where there is always wind). Motorists were considerate (!). The biggest critters to cross my path were chipmunks. No issues with feet or saddle or bike or backpack. The up-close, clear-air views of Rainier, St. Helens, and Adams are things you cannot even imagine from the cityscape. I rode for miles and miles where the only sign of humanity was the road I was on and the only sounds were birds, bugs, and breeze in the trees. Bliss.
On the third day of my weekend, I got up at 5:30, waited patiently (making hats, of course) in a parking lot for the show that is Race Across Oregon (a 517-mile, nonstop bike race, if you didn’t know) to come through the tiny rafting mecca of Maupin, kissed my husband as he climbed off his bike at the end of a relay leg down cruel, demon-filled Bakeoven Road, leapfrogged his team on to Dufur and up FR44, and drove on to the finish line at the Cooper Spur ski area. An inspiring group of 4 riders and 4 crew, Koenig’s Kronies were the first to finish the race on the new route. Congratulations to them and every other competitor in the race!
Weekends don’t get much better than this. I feel truly blessed by the good fortune that led to my perfect ride and by the family and friends who checked up on me during my travels.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Gluten-free-ness
Monday, 29 June
Last week I got an urge to bake again. First up was strawberry shortcake. Yes, fresh local strawberries are mighty tasty on their own, but who doesn't like shortcake? This recipe was a 100% success on first try, straight from a Google search, and incredibly simple.
Irish soda bread is a versatile quick bread. It's great for toast at breakfast or with cheese any time of day. But the "real" recipe is just wheat flour and soda and buttermilk. In Ireland, they have a coarse-ground flour that's much coarser than anything you can buy here, so I puzzled over what GF product might provide a similar texture. I ended up using a lot of coarse-ground oatmeal (a couple of quick pulses in the blender). For a fuller flavor, I added buckwheat (which is not really wheat and is GF). I also used corn flour and soy flour to round out the flavors. It all worked well, but next time I will back off on the buckwheat--it has a pretty strong flavor. And maybe a drop of molasses will help give some depth to the buckwheat flavor? And I might try adding some steel cut oats for more texture. Maybe I can get the Irish Heritage Club to make a gluten-free division in its soda bread competition next St. Patrick's Day?
Since my husband embarked on his gluten-curtailed diet at the beginning of March, I have only hesitantly worked my way into the realm of GF baking. Most recipes call for weird things that I can't find in my supermarket or that cost $12 per pound. I got muffins and brownies dialed in, and I think my GF waffles are better than the white-flour original, but didn't venture any further afield. Bob's Red Mill makes a lot of great GF baking mixes, but I am not a mix person and like to bake from scratch. Since Bob's also offers a huge line of GF flours and other baking products, it was just a matter of time before my GF pantry had enough options.
Last week I got an urge to bake again. First up was strawberry shortcake. Yes, fresh local strawberries are mighty tasty on their own, but who doesn't like shortcake? This recipe was a 100% success on first try, straight from a Google search, and incredibly simple.Next up was raspberry chocolate shortcake. This was pretty much brownies with vanilla yogurt and raspberries on top. It disappeared before I got the camera out.
Irish soda bread is a versatile quick bread. It's great for toast at breakfast or with cheese any time of day. But the "real" recipe is just wheat flour and soda and buttermilk. In Ireland, they have a coarse-ground flour that's much coarser than anything you can buy here, so I puzzled over what GF product might provide a similar texture. I ended up using a lot of coarse-ground oatmeal (a couple of quick pulses in the blender). For a fuller flavor, I added buckwheat (which is not really wheat and is GF). I also used corn flour and soy flour to round out the flavors. It all worked well, but next time I will back off on the buckwheat--it has a pretty strong flavor. And maybe a drop of molasses will help give some depth to the buckwheat flavor? And I might try adding some steel cut oats for more texture. Maybe I can get the Irish Heritage Club to make a gluten-free division in its soda bread competition next St. Patrick's Day?Finally, I tackled buttermilk pancakes. I think I used 5 different flours in these. Again, I used too much buckwheat, and next time I'll substitute some ground oats. When the batter was the right texture for buttermilk pancakes (lumpy), the pancakes were too dry. But I added a little more buttermilk and they were great. No pictures, but pancakes are pancakes. :)
Post-pancakes, we went on a 75-mile tandem ride. Melinda was in the group, and I remember her moaning one morning before a ride years ago that she had made pancakes for breakfast and was regretting it because they were "gut busters." Not so with GF pancakes. If you've ever had a feeling of being way too full after eating something with white wheat flour, I encourage you to try a gluten-free alternative. Even if you're not gluten intolerant or celiac, I'm pretty sure you'll notice a (happy) difference. You can eat lots :) and still not have that lead weight feeling in your stomach!
How to stoke a tandem
Monday, 29 June
We had a perfect little spin on Saturday: Newhalem to Mazama and back over the North Cascades Highway. I got a handicap by dropping my husband off in Marblemount, making his ride over the pass 15 miles longer than mine. This time he got to Mazama just 5 minutes after I did (I stopped to take too many wildflower pictures!).
Two cycling clubs were having big outings on this same route, so there were lots of cyclists on the road. They all spent too long at sag stops, and I passed the last ones at Easy Pass. Mick passed a tandem in Newhalem on his ride east and noted at the time that the stoker was not paying attention to the task at hand (riding a bike) while the captain toiled away on the front. After our leisurely refueling stop in Mazama, we headed back west--and saw most of those folks coming down from Washington Pass. We encountered that same tandem about 3 miles west of the summit of the pass, climbing at a pace that could not have been greater than 5 mph. The stoker, as they would say in Ireland, had not a bother on her; the captain looked absolutely wrecked, as if he had been towing a car all that way. Her attitude seemed to be "honey, why are we going so slow?" while he did not look like he could pedal the bike another 10 feet.
I got all my training on how to be a tandem stoker from tandem captains. This woman was apparently taught by another stoker, one who must've thought that stokers were ornaments, just there for show and maybe to provide verbal support ("nice effort, way to go, looking strong"). Lots of people tease stokers for not doing any work and getting a free ride, but I have honestly never figured out how to ride that way. If you want to go fast, you have to pedal hard. If the road goes uphill, you have to pedal harder. Is it really possible to sit in the stoker compartment and do your nails or knit a hat?
We took our tandem out on Sunday, and there were a few climbs where I was tempted to try out this different approach to stoking. But I could not do it. Partly because I wanted to get home sooner rather than later, partly because I want to ride the tandem again, but partly because it would just seem wrong. Apparently I need to go to stoker school and get brainwashed. But then I would have to find new captains because nobody I ride with now would have me back under those terms!
We had a perfect little spin on Saturday: Newhalem to Mazama and back over the North Cascades Highway. I got a handicap by dropping my husband off in Marblemount, making his ride over the pass 15 miles longer than mine. This time he got to Mazama just 5 minutes after I did (I stopped to take too many wildflower pictures!).
Two cycling clubs were having big outings on this same route, so there were lots of cyclists on the road. They all spent too long at sag stops, and I passed the last ones at Easy Pass. Mick passed a tandem in Newhalem on his ride east and noted at the time that the stoker was not paying attention to the task at hand (riding a bike) while the captain toiled away on the front. After our leisurely refueling stop in Mazama, we headed back west--and saw most of those folks coming down from Washington Pass. We encountered that same tandem about 3 miles west of the summit of the pass, climbing at a pace that could not have been greater than 5 mph. The stoker, as they would say in Ireland, had not a bother on her; the captain looked absolutely wrecked, as if he had been towing a car all that way. Her attitude seemed to be "honey, why are we going so slow?" while he did not look like he could pedal the bike another 10 feet.
I got all my training on how to be a tandem stoker from tandem captains. This woman was apparently taught by another stoker, one who must've thought that stokers were ornaments, just there for show and maybe to provide verbal support ("nice effort, way to go, looking strong"). Lots of people tease stokers for not doing any work and getting a free ride, but I have honestly never figured out how to ride that way. If you want to go fast, you have to pedal hard. If the road goes uphill, you have to pedal harder. Is it really possible to sit in the stoker compartment and do your nails or knit a hat?
We took our tandem out on Sunday, and there were a few climbs where I was tempted to try out this different approach to stoking. But I could not do it. Partly because I wanted to get home sooner rather than later, partly because I want to ride the tandem again, but partly because it would just seem wrong. Apparently I need to go to stoker school and get brainwashed. But then I would have to find new captains because nobody I ride with now would have me back under those terms!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
