Cycle Oregon

 

When I signed up for Cycle Oregon’s Weekend Ride, I thought, “Hey, I’ve got another 7 months of training..”. Those 200-and-odd days whirled round faster than my Mavic’s on a downhill section, and my training was board-line inadequate.

So, there I was, the morning sun was just about to poke above the mountains at Falls City, the mid-July morning was better than any other rider could have imagined and I was feeling good, strong and fairly fit. I knew we had 100 miles of meandering, climbing, tucking and slip-streaming with over 1,500 other riders.

The first 18 miles are going well, I’m drinking water, had an energy bar and starting to feel the burn, deep in the thighs on this ascent. Best of all, I’m not lagging behind like a three-legged dog. The bike feels tight, glad I spanner checked everything before we kicked off, and with my choice of rear cassette I’m sure is making the difference for these chopping and changing hills.

Twenty-seven miles in. I’m starting to feel it, my fore-head’s leaking, my Cycle Oregon jersey is clinging closer than my Vittoria’s are to this asphalt beneath me and I’m breathing…hard. Very Hard.

Suddenly, as if the big Man himself has just hit rewind, the other riders are swallowing me up. I’m going backwards? Nope, seems I am thoroughly dehydrated, my eyes are getting heavier, I can almost hear the blood being pushed from the huge pump in my chest, down every vein and vessel. This isn’t good. This isn’t what should be happening. Ahh, I haven’t drank anything for at least 50 minutes…damn.

I pull over on the side of the road, rip open an electrolyte mix and swish that and some water around my mouth. I few deep breaths, a few riders check I’m OK, and I’m back on the saddle.

The next 30 miles are a cinch, for some weird yet wonderful reason. I can start and really enjoy the scenery of the mountains, the serene lakes and the green blur they call trees round this here. I was expecting to just run a silent ride, but Jim, a burly Texan is intent on making this look easy, chatting away – without being out of breath – telling me about the new Conti’s he’s running and how they can run at 145psi.

Jim and I spend most of the final quarter, egging each other on, having mini-races to the top of climbs and high-fiving each other in a celebration of the winner. Which was usually him, unfortunately.

We pull up at the camp-site we’re staying at. Tired, sweaty. The chill of the evening setting in and steam rising out of our Lycra jerseys. A quick check of the odometer says we’ve done 91 miles and it is time for a well-earned rest. The others have a BBQ already lit and something is already sizzling. A quick stretch, a bite to eat and some shut-eye in my luminous green tent before starting all over again tomorrow.