Pardon my delinquency. Getting used to spending half of my week in Bend and half in Portland is awesome but requires some shifts in how I schedule my time. Mostly it requires that I actually DO schedule my time, which is in itself a curious thing. Since I’ve been largely self-employed as an independent contractor most of my life I’ve enjoyed a somewhat fluid and flexible schedule. I don’t mind working late in order to get some sweet riding in mid-afternoon. But getting to and from Bend is about 7 hours travel time round-trip. That’s seven hours I’m not doing anything else… Other than continuing to plot my diabolical world-domination scheme to get more people riding bikes, doing yoga and being happy. So no complaints at all… Just need a bit of structure to my PDX time is all.
To make up for the past couple weeks I’m stealing a page from Stevil’s notebook and going long on images, short on words.
Last week’s Monday Night Short Track race put me right in the center of the field again, but I won two bombers of beer for the Farrah Fawcett tribute. Nice! I was a bit miffed that Farrah’s death was so eclipsed by Michael…. Michael…. what’s the dude’s name? Anyway, it’s not everyday that there is an opportunity to win beer by dressing as a celebrity with hair bigger than the state of Montana and more teeth than the entire Osmond family, so I just want to acknowledge Farrah’s passing with a moment of silence before I hit my winnings (HUB’s Crosstown Pale Ale) in her honor.
Armed, ready... to be loaded.
But that was last week, and so was all the rest of this report. It started with a little more rock climbing action at Smith Rock on the way down to Bend.
Getting more lead climbing practice.
Followed the next day by a bonafide 6+ hour ride with the Portland Dirt Liberation Posse.
MotherChucker, J-Rad aka 'The Rep', Miz Vanilla (aka Uma), Chainsaw, Steve-eh, Junior Mint, and Alex
It was hot. About 95 degrees in the shade. And dusty. And we ran out of water. And food. 7 people sharing one Peanut Butter Clif bar is not a pretty sight. Still, we soldiered on determined to cap off the day with a run on Whoops. Along the way there was some of this:
and this
and this!
After which we did this:
And then rolled into town to have a serious conversation…
…and a few drinks.
Due to my yogic purity (read: lightweight) after two of these damn pink highly alcoholic liquid-candy sugar bombs, I was pretty much lit up like roman candle. MotherChucker and I called it an early night as we had plans to meet Steve C. early to summit Mt. Bachelor the following day and ski/board, or in my case, run down.
The hike up to Bachelor on the 4th was a trip. Literally. I became a bit hypoxic at about 8k, lightheaded, dizzy and tired, and started seeing things like little pink mountain octopus in the snowmelt. Better living through brain chemistry I call it!
Is that oxygen deprivation in your brain or are you just happy to see me?
Once we reached and my weak little puny underdeveloped asthmatic lungs could recover a bit the boys decided to test the alpine snowmelt water. Note: The deep blue color is submerged ice. The water temp is probably 32.01°F.
I double dog dared the guys to take a swim. Note: Someone had to remain dry and secure on shore for safety purposes. Besides, I was stoned on thin air, remember? So no, I did not put on the Man Pants and jump in. But these guys did…
While the menfolk were recovering from their plunge into near instant cardiac arrest, the dog was unimpressed.
At the summit, we paused for the obligatory peak-bagging yoga shots. I warmed up with a little of this…
Then adjusted the bibs
To work on this:
Before anyone gets into criticizing the yoga form, let me just invite YOU to wear too-big heavy leather hiking boots, thick socks and gaiters and get your legs straight in good alignment. ExACTly.
Finally, the ride down was a run for me as I did not bring my AT skis to keep up with the guys. Somehow I kept a pretty good pace running the 3000 vertical descent, taking huge, galloping strides hurtling myself downhill with the aid of backcountry poles. Occasionally I was able to hit a pitch steep enough to do a sort of ass-glissade. Good times!
By evening, we were pretty much spent and missed the Freedom Ride in Bend, and went straight to the Blow Shit Up in the Cul-de-Sac party across town, hosted by a few local MTBers.
It was without a doubt one of the tastiest bar-b-ques I’ve ever enjoyed, and one of the most fun. Met a bunch of old (two week’s ago old) Bend connections and made some new ones. Best deck conversation: Trading tales of older sister domination of little brothers and when that tide turned. My favorite was Erika’s story: “I pretty much owned that punk-ass kid until he turned 14, punched me in the chest and broke my sternum.” Ah… Sibling rivalry. Such fond memories.
The PDX posse returned Sunday morning, leaving me and CB to float the Deschutes River through town, toss a frisbee around and people watch. To say I was relieved no one asked us to DO (climb, ski, ride, run) anything would be an understatement. It was all I could do to shoot innocent passersby with the Super Rad 220D water pistols Charles acquired for “keeping pirates and ducks away”. Or more accurately so WE could board and raid other vessels… vessels with beer!
Note to would-be river floaters: When floating on inflatable camping mattress, be sure to examine mattress inflation nozzle for locking o-ring. Trust me on this one.
After a brief frisbee hammerfest to get the blood moving again, I headed home, sore as hell but happy as a clam. Monday night Short Track may have to be sacrificed on account of extreme (and I mean extreme) muscle soreness from that wicked descent off Mt. Bachelor but… there’s a hole shot contest for beer…
Need I say more?
