Unlisted blog

We've ridden the last five editions of RSVP. Fridays have been fraught with close calls and occasional peril. One year it rained for the first six hours, and I had five flat tires. We were luckier than most, too. One couple's tandem bike literally snapped in two. Several people just abandoned the ride with hypothermia. This year was different. The weather was sunny, i.e., unbearably hot. There were, however, several casualties. At least the ride is consistent.

Steph and I met up with Diana, who had recruited us to mark the ride's course, around 6:30 Friday morning. She was chipper as usual, unlike the last time we'd seen her. To be sure, she was extremely grateful for our efforts on Tuesday.

Diana: "So did you get the course marked?"
James: "Yeah. It took about twelve hours, but it's done: all 85 miles of it."
Diana: "Thanks so much! You really saved me!"
Steph: "Were you planning on marking the second 40 mile section?"
Diana: "Yeah, I was in no shape to do it this week either."

Diana had earned some downtime, had agreed to ride with us, and had offered us a place to stay Friday night. In the end, we were fine with marking twice as much as originally planned. We weren't necessarily fine, though, with everything that hadn't yet happened on Friday.

We left later than most of the other riders and had most of the road to ourselves. Things kinda deteriorated after that. The course has had few revisions over the years, but this year's ride was hillier with some major edits. Having lain down markers for most of Friday's course, Steph and I knew that the best part of riding would be stopping, with the climax on one of the new sections.

The new section in question cuts out about ten miles (16 km) along a busy, albeit flat, section of highway. The ride organizers decided that everybody would be just plain giddy about riding along a different section of low traffic road. The less than busy addition has a lot fewer cars because it goes straight uphill for four miles (6.5 km). A pesky little incline like that is surely more fun than some highway's wide shoulder, right? Most folks had no inkling what awaited. They were just tickled to be off that highway because there was no mention of how thin the air would be at the summit.

Steph and I were in a different mindset because we'd already seen what was in store. Besides, we had three glorious hours on our bikes to look forward to that damned hill. By the time we reached it, the weather had gone from pleasantly warm to sweltering. Had we had the day off, it would have been pleasantly sultry. Instead it was torture. True to her climbing mantra, Steph turned to me at the base of the ascent and said, "See ya at the top."

I'm a passable climber (nobody passed me on the way up) who's accustomed to the heat from growing up in a hot climate. Steph, um, isn't. By her own admission, her legs lack a certain agility. They just don't "dance on the pedals," as the color commentators are wont to say. On top of that, she'd broken the tip off one of her cleats. Cleats, by the way, lock into the pedals and make climbing much, much easier. So long as they're intact, they do. About halfway through our vertical death march, I pulled over to volley some rhetorical questions at my other half.

James: "How's it goin', honey?"
Steph: "Oh, God, I'm gonna be sick!"
James: "Is the heat getting to you?"
Steph: "I'm gonna puke!"
James: (pausing) "See ya at the top!"

I hadn't expected her to answer any of those questions. She caught up again while I waited at the hilltop alongside some Sherpas who'd been kind enough to set up a water station for the riders. That's when the topic of Diana was raised. We hadn't seen her since the climb began. And today had been riddled with others' accidents. Three riders had dropped out in the first 7 miles (11 km). One had just crashed. Another had broken her thumb crossing an intersection. A third had elected to ride with tubular tires, not a wise choice for a long group ride. "Tubies" have their advantages but are expensive and can't be repaired. They have to be replaced, and she hadn't brought extras.

Diana eventually showed up at the water stop. She was still in good spirits, but we figured it was the endorphins. Those things make you sooooo giddy. Her husband Dave was driving the course that day, making sure that everything was going smoothly. Among other things, that meant checking on his wife. Diana used her "connection" to fenegle a ride to Friday's finish line. Dave had been in telephone contact with the "Tubies" girl who had agreed to pick Diana up. This might have also elevated her mood. Although one can't be entirely sure without asking, and we weren't asking.

At that point, most of the worst really was behind us. The only real obstacle left was the ominous-sounding "Lemonade Hill." A spooky name, I know. Riders call it Lemonade Hill because of an enterprising young girl. Several years ago Micaiah, I think she was six or seven years old, put up a lemonade stand on the RSVP route. She does it every year with a bucket for donations. Said bucket is marked with a sign shamelessly reading "Micaiah's college fund" next to a photo album from all her lemonade stands. It sits just past the hill's apex and really is the highlight on Friday's route. Since my first RSVP seven years ago, I've literally watched her grow up.

Lemonade Hill's proper name is Chuckanut Drive. It's a six mile (10 km) stretch of road that undulates up and down overlooking Chuckanut Bay, one of the most beautiful views anywhere. (See below.)



There are some great views along Chuckanut, like along the flat stretches where the endorphins are really kicking in! I'd forged ahead in an effort to get to a bike shop before they all closed because Steph still needed a new cleat. After a couple glasses of lemonade, I found a bike shop. They didn't have the right cleats. This wasn't surprising. Nothing was surprising after everything else that day. Except for the phone call, that is.

James: "Hey, how are y'all?"
Diana: "We're fine. We're waiting at the finish line for you."
James: "I'll be over after I find some cleats for Steph."
Diana: "Do you want a ride to the store and then to the campground?"
James: "HELL, YES!!!"

Unlike nearly everybody else, the four of us were staying in Lynden, about 18 miles (30 km) further up the route, at a campground with things like showers and Dave's and Diana's RV camper. This year, like last year, we had planned on riding the extra 18 miles to the campground. This time around, ambition gave way to discretion: we rode in the car.

We'd planned a few months beforehand to stay there, unlike another rider. I ran into him (metaphorically) walking back from the showers. By his own admission, he'd embarked on RSVP without making any plans whatsoever. None. He had nowhere to stay Friday night. He had nowhere to stay Saturday night. He hadn't even arranged travel back to Seattle from Vancouver. All out of options, he'd ridden the 18 miles to Lynden searching for somewhere, anywhere, to stay.

It seems cold, but we just wished him good luck and pointed him towards town. We'd had a long enough day without playing the good Samaritan. I figure he couldn't have been angry with us anyway.

Ignorance is bliss, and ya can't fix stupid.

To be continuned...