Saturday was Quick’s first club ride ever, and my first of the year. The route looked like this:
So, yeah. There was a hill.
We started off from Shute Park in Hillsboro. It was something of a season-opener for most of us –some building up distance, some coming back from injuries, some working on climbing, a couple being introduced to club riding, one person shaking down a new bike. I wanted to take on that hill and also decide once and for all whether to keep Quick’s stock saddle or replace it.
The new bike, a sleek Felt that its owner had lusted over and talked about for months before taking the plunge, started things off with a bang, so to speak, by interrupting the ride leader’s pre-ride safety speech with a blowout. A bit of a surprise, but it was the best possible time for it. No one on the bike at the time and we were still in the parking lot, within easy reach of at least two floor pumps.
Once we got moving, the first 13 miles were beautiful, smooth, uneventful. The ride had been posted at 14mph average on flats, but we were holding 17 pretty consistently, with everyone feeling good.
We rolled into Forest Grove for a stop at Maggie’s Buns, where I took full advantage of the long and/or challenging ride exception to my diet and did violent things to a lemon bar.
Before we took off, the ride leader reminded us all that while most of our route was on low-traffic county roads, Gales Creek was more of a concern. Faster and heavier traffic, no shoulder, ride single file at all times and stay alert, etc.
Eric, the Felt’s owner and one of the more experienced riders in the group, spoke up. “Can I say something?” he asked. Our leader nodded.
“Gales Creek,” he said solemnly, as dramatic music (should have) swelled up around him, “has rednecks. Rednecks are dangerous.”
But there were no dangerous redneck encounters that day, just beautiful country and gently rolling hills.
And then we turned a corner, and then another corner, and the riders who knew the route started grinning at each other. Then another corner, and there was The Hill.
I was out of gears in the first thirty yards and out of lungs shortly after. The world narrowed until there was nothing in my mind but my legs and the simple dog. Go circle. Yes go. Still go. Go circle. Go.
My legs were obedient but my lungs ran off wildly in every direction, like a crowd of boys with bottle rockets at the moment the voice of authority bellows at them to Stop Right There. My lungs, as they say, rack disciprine.
But I made it, lungs and circles and all, to the regroup point that was ordinarily the top of the hill. Except today, our Fearless Leader proposed, we could turn left instead of continuing straight and thereby go More Up. If everyone was OK with that.
No one was going to be the person who was not OK with that.
So more Up, more rowdy undisciplined lungs causing trouble for honest, hardworking legs just trying to move in decent circles. It was on this second stretch of Up that the Brand New Shiny Troublemaking Felt decided that derailleurs were for suckers.
This is why I never leave home without a sock. You never know when you might be 2/3 of the way up a vicious hill deep in redneck country and suddenly break a derailleur.
The strongest rider in the group, who didn’t seem to have noticed we were heading uphill, said he would jam back to Hillsboro and come fetch Eric and the Felt in his truck. If I’d thought of it, I would have offered to lend Eric my sock so he would have something to do while he waited. However, my lungs were already failing to supply the oxygen demands of my legs and there certainly wasn’t any left over for my brain, so it didn’t occur to me until too late.
The view from the top was magnificent and I’ve entirely failed to capture it, but the family who lived here was out working in their yard. I really didn’t feel OK about scouting around for the right angle or taking too many pictures of their home while they bustled around, trying to ignore the panting, brightly-clad group assembling at the foot of their driveway.
Coming back down, we encountered one stretch of “Surprise, unpaved!” and one person had an issue with a fender, and a handful of miles later one person cramped up and had to stop for a few minutes, as we collectively poured water, salt, ibuprofen, acetaminophen, and a banana into him. But it was a beautiful spring day, we had all conquered the hill, and no one else lost any critical components, so spirits remained high.
The posted ride length was 42 miles, but I wound up with 53 including the commutes to and from the MAX stations. My first 50-mile day of the year. Quick performed perfectly and the more I ride him, the more I adore him. But he absolutely, positively, beyond any doubt, is not keeping that stock saddle. My saddle-parts were sore until Wednesday.
I’m also going to need stronger lungs or lower gears. Maybe both.
