As I’ve done more and more cycling I’ve become interested in multi-day long distance events like the Torino-Nice Rally, the Badlands, or even just RAGBRAI, events which cover 400-500 miles with varying degrees of support along the way.  However, I have doubts that I can handle the distance, both physically and mentally.  As a small test I signed up for the Art of Survival Century in the Tulelake region of northern California and southern Oregon.  The ride I signed up for consisted of two parts: 100 mile road course on Saturday and 75 mile gravel ride on Sunday.  To add some distance I planned a couple more routes, one on Friday before the event and one on Monday on the way home.  All total I planned to ride about 230 miles over four days, roughly half what I could expect to see in one of those longer events.

Day 1 I planned to ride about 26 miles near Weed, CA, home of Weed High and the Hi-Lo Cafe.  However, I got a late start and the drive to the venue for Saturday’s event was longer than expected, so I shortened my route to about 17 miles.  The route is a section that’s used on the Gravel Hugger race, which I did last year, but since the race is held in March, they always have snow and views are blocked by clouds.  Today it was warm and sunny, which gave beautiful views of Mt. Shasta and the Siskiyou Mountains.  The ride was short but sweet with a good bit of mostly smooth gravel.  The only downside was worrying about getting arrested for exposure as I changed into my cycling clothes in front of a school.  I can imagine the police report. “We apprehended the suspect in his vehicle with his pants around his ankles and a jar of lube labeled ‘Chamois Butt’r’ in the seat next to him.”  That probably would have ruined my weekend.

 

From there we headed across Tule Lake to the town of Tulelake for a lunch break.  What a dump.  After lunch we crossed back over the lake and turned south toward the Lava Beds.  It started to sprinkle, and the air smelled moist.  Fortunately the rain didn’t last long as I didn’t have any rain gear with me.  

Since we were in California the quality of the road was noticeably worse than in Oregon.  Every 10 yards or so there was a big crack across the road that would deliver a jolt as we rode across.  Luckily that only lasted 15 miles, so by my rough calculation that’s about 2500 jolts to my spine and shoulders.  I have pretty wide tires which means I can run lower pressure which cushions the ride a little.  People on skinnier tires at higher pressure were really suffering. 

At mile 69 we reached Canby’s Cross, which marks the spot where General Canby was killed by the Modocs during the Modoc War.  The inscription on the cross doesn’t mince words: “Gen Canby USA was murdered here by the Modocs April 8, 1873”.

Shortly after Canby’s Cross we had our next rest stop at Captain Jack’s Stronghold where the Modocs were able to use the terrain to prevent the US Army from capturing them.  There are numerous rock formations that make it great territory for ambushes, which the Modocs used to their advantage.  

From there we headed east along what used to be the shore of Tule Lake, which was drained long ago and now is covered by potato farms.  In fact, potatoes are a big deal in that area.  All the rest stations served baked potatoes and the swag bag was a bag of potatoes.  The town just to the south of Tulelake is named Tuber.  It seems they’ve already joined Greater Idaho.

At mile 80 we headed north for the final push to the finish.  A strong headwind kicked up, seemingly funneled toward us by “The Peninsula”, a large ridge that used to stick out into the lake.  The last rest stop of the day was at the Tule Lake Relocation Center which was one of the Japanese internment camps during WW2.  

I have some family history there as my grandfather helped build the camp, which means I probably should be canceled.  During the Great Depression he had a construction company building houses for rich people (“They still had money”), but when the war came around he couldn’t get materials, so he had to shut the company down.  He joined the army but was too old to fight.  Given his experience the Army sent him to Tulelake to build the camp.  Toward the end of the war he was asked to sign off on some invoices for materials that were never delivered, and he refused, which earned him a transfer to join the fighting in the European theater.  Luckily the war in Europe ended by the time he was ready, so he never got shipped out.

From the internment camp there were only 12 more miles, and the wind let up a little so the pedaling was easier.  At mile 90 we passed Bloody Point, where in 1850 Modocs killed 90 settlers on the Oregon Trail.  It used to be on the shore of the lake, and the Modocs were able to sneak up through the tules for which the lake was named to surprise the settlers.  These days it’s miles from what’s left of the lake.  It’s hard to imagine what it looked like then, and it certainly made whatever discomfort I was feeling seem trivial.

At about 3:30 I rolled into the finish for a post-ride meal, after which I collected my bag of potatoes.  As Napoleon once said about the Tour de France, “A cyclist will ride long and hard for a bag of potatoes.”  In his day the Tour de France went all the way to Moscow, so he wasn’t kidding.  All in all it was a pretty easy ride for a century ride, by far the fastest one I’ve ever done and coincidentally the flattest.

Day 3 the action shifted across the border to Dorris, CA for the gravel ride.  The route was higher in elevation and more heavily forested than the previous day.  In other words, it was Bigfoot territory, Cascadia.  I was signed up for the 75 mile ride, but given that I had just ridden 100 miles the day before and I didn’t sleep well because of a rain storm in the night, I was seriously considering dropping down to the 54 mile course.  I didn’t have to decide immediately since the courses were the same until mile 39, but I was already mentally giving up on the long course.

No dick measuring at the start again today, not even amongst the women, and riders set off whenever they were ready.  Surprisingly my legs felt pretty good, though my butt was a bit sore.  I wasn’t going to win any sprints, but as long as the road was flat and I held a reasonable pace I could keep going.  Maybe, just maybe, I could do the long course, but probably not.

At mile 22 we reached the rest stop at the bottom of the only big climb of the weekend, about 800 feet over 3.5 miles.  I ate one of the ubiquitous potatoes to get some carbs in my body for the effort.  Fortunately the road was mostly asphalt, though it was broken up in spots and covered with dirt from the previous night’s rain in other spots.  Normally the climb wouldn’t be that tough, but it was a grind with the miles already in my legs and maybe because of the elevation.  Motivated by the pancakes they were serving at the top of the climb at Juanita Lake, I gutted it out slowly but surely.

What goes up must come down, so with a belly full of pancakes I let it rip down the one lane road for the next 4 miles enjoying the free distance but keeping my hands close to the brakes because there were a few cars coming the other way.  Back to the flatlands there we rode a few miles of gravel to the next stop at the fire station in McDoel.  To head off cramps I took a few swigs of pickle juice from my flask, which probably made me look like an alcoholic. 

A few miles to the east was the fork in the road where the long route turned right and the short route turned left.  A couple of steep kickers shortly before the fork convinced me that I should turn left, but really I had been mentally convincing myself of that all day.  Almost immediately the road became bone jarringly washboarded making me think that maybe I should have done the long course after all.  I was so busy trying to pick a line through the washboard that I didn’t see the bald eagle sitting on the fence post until it took off and flew right in front of me.  It was probably hoping it would be able to feast on my cadaver.  Luckily the road became tolerable after a couple miles, but now my hands were cramped and my shoulders ached.

Before long the road returned to asphalt for the last 12 miles to the finish making the pedaling much easier.  If I pushed too hard I really could feel the fatigue in my legs, so I found a pace that suited me and slowed down to enjoy the scenery, which in this area was not potatoes, but strawberry fields forever.


About lunchtime I rolled into the finish, changed my clothes and grabbed some food at the Butte Valley Community Center, which is a pretty swanky venue for such a small town. To summarize the day’s ride, I rode into sasquatch territory and came out exhausted and with a sore ass.  It was just from biking, I swear.

As it was still early in the day, I made the decision to do the six hour drive home instead of waiting for the next day.  Screw the ride I had planned for Day 4.  I’d had enough.  Besides, what would I do all afternoon in the hotel I booked?  My hands were cramping, so masturbation was out of the question, and I don’t smoke, so weed in Weed was a no go too.  The only thing to do was to hit the road.

So having ridden those miles am I still interested in those long, multi day rides?  Are you nuts?  Hell no.  That’s crazy.  But truth be told, I’m already negotiating with myself.  If I were to do it, what would I have to change?  What equipment would I need?  How can I get enough calories in my system to have the energy not just the flat sections, but also the mountains?  How would I prepare myself mentally?  So Day 4 after I unpacked the car and put away my stuff, I went out for a 20 mile ride in the hills near my home, bringing my four day total to about 193 miles.  Short of my plan, but not bad.  Maybe there’s still a big ride in my future.  I’m still talking about bikes, you perverts.