Famous Faces, Famous Places and Famous Foods
The Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic
The day we left Seattle we numbered 8,000, most of us on two wheels, all bound for Portland, 320 kilometers away. For some it was a ritual, for others it was a personal challenge. In either case, we only had the weekend to complete this test of endurance.
I waited at the start-line in a University of Washington parking lot with a South African fellow who had dared me to go the distance. A mass of bikes: tandems, recumbents, bikes that looked like cars, a unicycle and even a tall figure on roller-blades built up behind us. A steady stream of traffic flowed in from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m. Riders from several countries and all 50 States were represented.
At the start-line we were let loose in waves. I began with 200 others and we sped forth like a mass migration through the streets to Lake Washington. Police were in full force to ensure we were given the right-of-way. Our ranks spilled over the dotted line of the two-lane road. Slow riders kept to the shoulder while the faster ones darted into oncoming traffic to pass. A single lane swelled to five lanes of cyclists.
Cyclists were king of the road for the weekend, but still we feared that four-wheeled monster. A couple tons of metal in the hands of a careless driver is no match for 25 pounds of metal. Agility was our only protection.
Lake Washington came and went, a mere blip in the terrain we had to cover. The first 20 miles was simply a blur of adrenaline until the soft sounds of a band could be heard on the horizon. It was the first stop. Hundreds of bikes lined the road next to a makeshift village in an industrial zone. Food and drink were plentiful and mechanics helped out with any mechanical problems.
Onward we pedaled – past the runways of Boeing, through Auburn, Algona, through Sumner and Puyallup and up "the hill," know as the toughest climb of the ride, then down the other side. Finally we reached Spanaway, the designated lunch stop. The organizers had set out a feast for us: sandwiches, wraps, Cliff Bars, plums, bananas, grapes, bagels and cookies. If it was high-energy food, it was there waiting for us.
Hundreds of riders lazed in the scorching sun enjoying a well-earned feast. We talked about the unique cycles we had seen and the marvel on roller-blades. He was going to Portland – in one day. He made us seem like normal, everyday folk.
Rested and fed, I could feel a nap coming on, so I climbed back onto the saddle before my energy disappeared. The sun sinking through my sunscreen, bleached my face and leached my energy away, but the wind acted as a natural coolant and beckoned me to speed up so I could take advantage of its pleasing effect. We peddled to Roy, through McKenna, Yelm and Rainier. The sun shone on and my rests became more frequent. I relied on caffeine-laced mandarin Power Gels, a truly disgusting substance, yet highly effective. It wasn’t enough. The towns came slower: Tenino, Bucoda and finally Centralia’s Riverside Park, our resting place for the evening.
The luggage truck was there ahead of us. I picked up my camping gear, walked 10 meters and set up camp in the middle of a baseball diamond. After a shower and a large pasta dinner my buddy from South Africa and I were quite content. Hundreds of other cyclists camped around us. Others slept in church basements and campgrounds. Hotels had been booked years in advance. A beautiful little river flowed through Riverside Park and locals swam and played in the sluggish, cooling water as the sun set. The occasional dog joined his master. Watching them was simple entertainment for our tired minds and bodies.
Five in the morning arrived too quickly. A chorus of flatulence sounded from the thin walls of surrounding tents. It trumpeted like strange sounding bugles waking those still slumbering. The tent city awoke and began to disappear. The cool air stung and nipped at our heels. Pancakes awaited down the road. The local Rotary Club fed us on long tables for a small fee.
It was back on the saddle for another 160 kilometers. This time we had a strategy. We had averaged only 25 kilometers an hour the day before and, by golly, we determined to do better. A fast cyclist approached and I ducked in behind to take advantage of the air pocket that followed in his wake. My speed rose and the distance hummed by. Few passed us as we sped forth. I felt like I was on a roller coaster in the hilly terrain. Our speed was 60 kilometers an hour downhill and 20 kilometers going up. As my lead tired and dropped back, I latched onto a new one. Sometimes I would lead, but mostly I followed. At times there were at least 10 others in a chain behind me.
The towns of Winlock, Vader and Lexington flew by. We joined a cycling team and experienced the thrill of cycling as a team sport. Team members took turns pulling (creating the pocket of air) and used hand signals to warn those behind them of roadside dangers. We soon caught up with the elite.
Some cyclists would draft behind trucks, gain incredible speed and glide past the rest. Kelso and Longview zoomed by.
A bridge spanning the great Columbia River appeared. Oregon was in sight. The officials let our masses build to 100, 200, then 300 cyclists waiting to cross the mighty river. No one had to wait over 20 minutes. They closed the bridge and let us loose, an invading squad powering over the bridge and speeding down into Portland. We passed Rainier, Prescot and Lindberg. Rainer? Didn’t we pass one of those in Washington? Oops, different Rainer.
The wind was with us, so without a second thought we passed Goble, Mount Helen, Scappoose, Burlington and Linton. I was reaching speeds of 40 kilometers an hour with ease. The wind was at my back and I didn’t even feel a breeze, only the heat radiating off the black pavement beneath my feet. Soon we were in Portland. We crossed the beautiful St. Johns Bridge and looped down to Cathedral Park directly below. After weaving through cars, we raced down to the foot of the bridge, slowing for the photographer as we crossed the finish line.
We felt like heroes. Thousands were celebrating the victory of completing such an incredible distance. To me, it seemed the trip had just started. I had finished this dare not with a tired feeling of relief, but totally energized. I knew then that this was the beginning of my career as a touring cyclist.
The next STP is on July 8th and 9th 2000.
For more information go to www.cascade.org/stp/intro.htm
Five in the morning arrived too quickly. A chorus of flatulence sounded from the thin walls of surrounding tents. It trumpeted like strange sounding bugles waking those still slumbering. The tent city awoke and began to disappear. The cool air stung and nipped at our heels. Pancakes awaited down the road. The local Rotary Club fed us on long tables for a small fee.
It was back on the saddle for another 160 kilometers. This time we had a strategy. We had averaged only 25 kilometers an hour the day before and, by golly, we determined to do better. A fast cyclist approached and I ducked in behind to take advantage of the air pocket that followed in his wake. My speed rose and the distance hummed by. Few passed us as we sped forth. I felt like I was on a roller coaster in the hilly terrain. Our speed was 60 kilometers an hour downhill and 20 kilometers going up. As my lead tired and dropped back, I latched onto a new one. Sometimes I would lead, but mostly I followed. At times there were at least 10 others in a chain behind me.
The towns of Winlock, Vader and Lexington flew by. We joined a cycling team and experienced the thrill of cycling as a team sport. Team members took turns pulling (creating the pocket of air) and used hand signals to warn those behind them of roadside dangers. We soon caught up with the elite.
Some cyclists would draft behind trucks, gain incredible speed and glide past the rest. Kelso and Longview zoomed by.
A bridge spanning the great Columbia River appeared.
Oregon was in sight. The officials let our masses build to 100, 200, then 300 cyclists
waiting to cross the mighty river. No one had to wait over 20 minutes. They closed the
bridge and let us loose, an invading squad powering over the bridge and speeding down into
Portland. We passed Rainier, Prescot and Lindberg. Rainer? Didn’t we pass one of
those in Washington? Oops, different Rainer.
The wind was with us, so without a second thought we passed Goble, Mount Helen, Scappoose, Burlington and Linton. I was reaching speeds of 40 kilometers an hour with ease. The wind was at my back and I didn’t even feel a breeze, only the heat radiating off the black pavement beneath my feet. Soon we were in Portland. We crossed the beautiful St. Johns Bridge and looped down to Cathedral Park directly below. After weaving through cars, we raced down to the foot of the bridge, slowing for the photographer as we crossed the finish line.
We felt like heroes. Thousands were celebrating the
victory of completing such an incredible distance. To me, it seemed the trip had just
started. I had finished this dare not with a tired feeling of relief, but totally
energized. I knew then that this was the beginning of my career as a touring cyclist.
The next STP is on July 8th and 9th 2000.
For more information go to www.cascade.org/stp/intro.htm