Roll'n Fatties

One sign says it all

Mike R, Paul D, Darryl S, Steve B and I all ventured down to south-central Washington over the weekend for the second running of the Vicious Cycles Goldendale Grand Fondo.

Steve and I had only just checked into the Ponderosa Inn when a storm front blew through the not much to it town.  Our plan was to hook up with Mike R, Rick H and Joe M for a twenty five mile pre-ride of the course; we pushed back the start time in order to allow the roads to dry.  In the meantime Paul and Darryl in Paul’s lightly packed Tahoe.



Where the pavement ends the fun begins

We were wheels rolling by 4:30 and the climbers among us set a stiff pace up the initial thousand foot climb.  The first few gravel sections were in good shape, only a few potholes and not much washboard.  We pushed on as another storm cell blew through, the lightweights among us were nearly blown into the ditch when thirty knot side winds hit.

After the storm

The topic of conversation was tires: how wide and how hard.  I definitely was on the extreme edge with my seventy psi thirty twos.  Darryl was also rolling some fat thirty twos, but everyone else was twenty fives or twenty eights (with Mike and Steve doing a little of both).  My Compass Stampede Pass tires rolled along fine on the pavement and in fact added considerable cush to the chip seal.  I felt that the smooth ride and improved handling on gravel more than made up for some rolling resistance on the road.

After a night of eating Steve’s marinara sauce and drinking Paul and Darryl’s beer we arrived at a cold and blustery Sunday morning start line.  The temperature was in the upper thirties and rain didn’t seem out of the question.

My Michael Jordan impression



Still smiling - approaching wind farm

The pace from the gun wasn’t crazy but it was serious.  I’d call it a “deliberate” pace: the front forty or fifty riders were riding as though they had a place to go and a time to be there.  The attitude took a turn for the serious when we hit the first gravel.  We were now rolling at what I would consider race pace.

I lost contact with the front runners after a pair of long hills and turned on the effort during a long straight gravel descent in order to catch back on with Steve.  Once I got on Steve’s wheel things started looking up and we rolled past the first aid station without stopping.

The climb up to the wind farm was easier and shorter than I remembered.  Up top the road was rutted and rocky and an ounce of prevention kept our tires inflated and our rims round.  A long bombing descent put us back on tarmac with our noses into the wind.  Steve and I were kind of in a no-man’s land at this point and instead of trying a hapless two-man pace line we opted to ride two abreast and suffer together.

The road was arrow straight and as I peered off into the distance I could make out a dark mass filling the both lanes, shoulder to shoulder. “Are those cows,” the Iowan asked the Wisconsinite.

“Looks like it,” replied the Badger

Steve and I ducked in behind a belching diesel pick-up but the cowgirl yelled for us to jump the ditch and hug the fence line.  So we did.




Eastern WA traffic jam

Back on the road we climbed up to the ridge above Columbia gorge, and after too many rollers we dive-bombed into the town of Lyle and the fifty five mile aid station.
We spent fifteen minutes adjusting our clothing, shoving in food and using the restroom.  In hindsight that was ten minutes too many.  A better plan would have been to roll in grab some food for the road and then roll out with a large group in order to share the work going up the Klickitat River.  Instead Steve and I rolled out as a pair and began a tempo pace paralleling the river.  Luckily a strong rider caught us and asked if he could join in.  The three of us powered up river taking mile pulls and before I was ready we were turning right onto the Horseshoe Bend climb.

The trip up the primitive road is tough, made tougher by the fact that you could only on occasion stand, lest ye lose gription on the rear tire.  Steve was gone within the first hundred yards, so I settled in for a steady push up and over the ridge.

Steve claims that I didn’t make him wait too long and I chose to believe that.  The climbing wasn’t over but we now had a tailwind and both Steve and I, as well as a Viscous Cycles dude that joined us, could smell the barn.  Steve set a killer pace chasing down a few guys up the road and all I could do was stare at his wheel.  Steve’s killer instincts took over and he pipped a guy at the line.  I rolled across a few seconds later.

Paul and Darryl “Wrong Way” Strasser rolled in soon thereafter, which was welcome as the beer was locked in Paul’s Tahoe.

Mike R ended up taking an impressive third place.  The ride/race was much more competitive than what I saw last year.  Steve and I managed to cut thirty one minutes from our time, but ended up with approximately the same placement.  The word must be getting out.