It's Not Often You Get the Opportunity to Be a Hero

The heat from our 4th of July vacation on the hot side of this state was still dissipating from my body on my first day back to work when I got the text message on my phone.  My buddy Matt texted me that our mutual friend Mike had his brand new Specialized Camber full suspension 29er bike stolen right out of the back of his son's El Camino while it was parked right in front of BarHop.

BarHop is a favorite haunt for cyclists in Port Angeles located right on the Waterfront Trail (WFT)/Olympic Discovery Trail (ODT) across the street from the Black Ball Ferry Terminal.  The Coho Ferry transits people from Port Angeles across the strait 17 miles to Victoria BC, Canada.  BarHop has an outdoor seating section, spacious indoor seating, tasty wood-fired pizzas and a decent selection of BarHop brewed and guest beers (among other things).

As the story goes, it was Sunday night July 9th around 7-ish and Mike was periodically checking on his bike in the back of his son's El Camino while quaffing a few tasty pints o' beer with Matt.  They had done some mountain biking on the Olympic Adventure Trail (OAT) and stopped in at BarHop for food and refreshments.  Then, a huge calzone happened and there was a momentary lapse of checking on his UNLOCKED bike.  Uh, that's why he was "periodically checking" on it.  Matt finally asked whether or not Mike had checked recently and when Mike did, it was gone.

It was my first day back to work after a long and HOT week off.  I was checking emails, phone calls, etc.  I noticed my cell phone had a text message that arrived at 8:26 AM.  It went something like this:

"Hey Dude.  Mike had his brand new Specialized Camber 29 stolen tonight out of the back of [his son's] El Camino while parked right in front of BarHop.  Here's a photo of mine for comparison.  Same model and color.  He had just checked on it from our seats minutes earlier."

Now some of you may or may not know, but as a Navy brat, I spent an inordinate amount of time in South Jersey right across the Walt Whitman Bridge learning how to dislike certain aspects of the human species, for namely thievery.  I lost a Speedway sled (my "Rosebud") right off of the front porch of our house, a Green Dragon Stingray bike from Woodbury Heights Elementary School and my beloved Prince Racer 10 speed bike right out my garage while I was sitting and watching TV next to the window.

I saw the guy run up into our open garage and ride off with it.  I chased him down the street barefoot.  I was 15 or 16 and was paying for it by mowing our yard for $3/week.  It was $114.  Do the math!  I was crestfallen . . . devastated . . . crushed.  I learned a few things from these experiences.

1. Out of sight, out of mind.
2. Lock it or lose it.
3. Don't worship material things.
4. Don't trust humans.

My first reaction to Matt's text to me was, it wasn't locked.  What did you expect?  But, this ain't Jersey, dammit!  I'm the "Man from ATAPA" which is a group but mostly a list of email addresses I collected several years ago that are fellow cyclists.  I'm also an administrator of the Port Angeles Likes Bikes Facebook page and have been dubbed the creator of the Bicycle Advisory Committee of Clallam County (BAC). 

ATAPA is Active Transportation Advocacy of (the greater) Port Angeles (area).  I've been advocating on behalf of around 200 local and a few formerly local cyclists for those several years hence and letting them know what I know is going on with regard to cycling related events in the area.  I do this usually by soliciting opinions from my constituents on what various local agencies should be prioritizing regarding multi-modal infrastructure and representing them at such decision-making council/commissioner meetings, and eliciting their participation in web-based cycling metrics such as the National Bike Challenge, etc.

Sadly, every now and then, I get notices from my constituents and friends that a bike was stolen.  With not much optimism, much anger and more frustration than anything else, I'll post the stolen bike to all of the ATAPA folks via email and now the Port Angeles Likes Bikes (PALB) Facebook page, all cops I know and any other resources I can think of.  So, this time, I did just that after garnering more information about the bike in question.

Meanwhile, on my morning commute, I noticed a bike parked between the industrial water pipeline and the first bridge eastbound on the WFT.  I remembered that after reading the email and decided to check and see if it was possible that that was Mike's stolen bike by taking a ride back to it on my first break around 9:30ish.  I rode down to the spot but it was gone.  I then headed up Francis St. to the midtown EZ-Pawn and checked to see if it might've been pawned there even though I didn't think they were open on Sunday's after 8 PM.  No luck, so I rode back to the office.

I had written the following email almost immediately but didn't realize that I hadn't sent it until 12:51 PM.  In it I asked:

"So, do we have a serial number?  Any distinguishing features/scratches/battle damage/stickers/etc. that we can use to identify this particular bike?  Did Mike file it with the police as a stolen bike?  I'm thinking there may be footage available via city webcams and/or the ferry terminal.  We'll need to see if we can access this data from them.  One idea I have is that this may be an operation run from out of town to bigger cities like Tacoma or Seattle, or even Victoria, etc.  Or it just may be a crime of opportunity.  Was anyone outside that could ID the suspect/incident? 

Let me know what other info you have such as time and date.  You said tonight but I only received the text at 8:36 AM today, July 10th.

Thanks (and sorry to hear about this)"

 I had cc-ed Mike and he responded at 12:56 PM:

"Dude, 

Yes filed police report.  No witnesses.  Serial # is ________________.  This sucks.  Occurred in front of barhop (parking area at around 7:20 PM Sunday.  Slaking thirst after 20 miles on trail.

Bike less dude."

 Once I had this info, I finalized an All Points Bulletin (APB) to the ATAPA group, PALB FB page and got word to post it on PNW Lost/Stolen Bikes FB page.  I don't think it was more than ten minutes before I received a call from a friend who had a flash recall of a helmet-less rider riding a very nice bike wearing clothing that didn't seem to fit the bike he was riding.  This friend was actually riding to BarHop around the same time my email/post mentioned but he could not recall much more detail other than he thought the guy was heading eastbound on the WFT just east of Ennis Creek.

This narrowed it down for me.  I was worried the bike was heading out of town by one form of transportation or another.  But, now this appeared to be a local crime of opportunity.  And, since we now were fairly confident the suspect was on the WFT heading east, I wanted to find out if we could get camera footage of the crime in progress and a better idea of what the suspect looked like.  That afternoon, I took my second break by riding down to BarHop and surveying the security camera locations along the possible suspect's trail.  I felt pretty confident that we could track the bike down sooner or later.

I noticed that BarHop didn't appear to have any security camera's installed around the outside of their establishment, but the neighboring hobby shop did.  I inquired within but the clerk said he did not have access to the footage and I should return tomorrow to when his boss would be in and ask him.  Right in front of the ferry terminal, there was what appeared to be City installed security camera mounted on a light post.  There was another one similarly mounted near the playground at the City Pier.  I decided to visit the Port Angeles Police Department and find out whether we could gain access to the footage from these cameras for the time frame of the crime.  They humored me and said they'd look into it.

I returned to my office and wondered where any of this would go.  From other city incidents, we knew there would be difficulty getting any decent identifying imagery.  But, at least we could get a look at what clothing the suspect was wearing and what his build was, etc.  I began wondering what my home commute should be.  Where was he heading east to?  There are some neighborhoods east along the trail that may harbor certain opportunist-type thieves.  There was also a brand new pawn shop where Peking China Bar burned to the ground.

Then, around 3:50 PM, my friend John called and said that he was across the street from my office in the Safeway parking lot and thinks he's looking at the stolen bike based on the pictures I posted.  He asked me who's bike it was and to get him to call his cell phone.  I emailed John's cell number to Matt and Mike and hopped on my bike to personally identify the bike.  Unfortunately, I was so excited I forgot to record the route, but it's pretty simple.

I headed south on Lincoln, turned right on 3rd St. then turn left into the northeastern entrance to the Safeway Parking Lot behind their gas station.  I no sooner entered the lot when I spotted a couple walking a black Specialized Camber full suspension 29er mountain bike!  I noticed it had a rather bulky CatEye taillight like the one I bought for Mike.  When he commutes to work, he has to ride the "Highway of Death", Highway112.  So I got him a BIG taillight that was the biggest, brightest and best at the time.  I knew almost instantly that this was Mike's bike.  I immediately called 911 on my cell phone.

The couple were walking the bike across 3rd St. eventually heading north on Lincoln St.  They stopped briefly in front of Strait View Credit Union.  The guy had handed off the bike to the gal and did something while she dropped the bike and they both picked it back up and he took it back over and continued walking heading north on Lincoln.  I was on the phone with the police dispatch describing where I was, who I was, where the suspects were and describing them and what they were wearing.

The guy was wearing a green tuke beanie/ski cap with a black hoodie and shorts.  He was a white male, not more than around 5-foot 10 weighing maybe 150 pounds with black hair and a facial hair of some sort.  The gal was wearing a fluorescent yellow hoodie and jeans, was dishwater blonde and weighed about the same and was close to his height.  My friend John had the presence of mind to take pictures and videos.  I was on bike and talking to the dispatcher and trying not to be too obvious following them down Lincoln.

They turned left, heading west on First St.--which is one way eastbound--and I got off the sidewalk and behind John in his car as we waited for the light to change.  By the time the light changed, we could just see them ducking into Michael's parking lot mid-block.  John headed down to Front St.--which is one way westbound--and I headed west into the alley mid-block along Lincoln between First and Front.  I knew Sound Bikes and Kayaks usually had their rear door open so I could use that entry as a ducking point and ditch my bike and helmet in case they figured I was following them.

I noticed the stolen bike was leaning against a recycling dumpster at the time I ducked into SB&K.  By the time I peeked around the rear door I saw the couple walking the bike again, down the alley westbound so I quickly regained my bike and helmet and was able to quickly tell Brian I was in hot pursuit of a stolen bike.  Brian got excited and mentioned he might have to turn on the shop police scanner.  I cautiously and slowly trailed the suspects as they proceeded west across Laurel to the adjacent, continuing alley.  They parked the bike beside the back entrance to EZ-Pawn and both entered the building leaving the bike outside.

I closed on the bike on my bike and pondered whether I should steal it back?  But would that be justice?  Besides, I'd already had cops coming.  No, I took the opportunity to turn the bike upside down and snap a pic of the serial number on the crank bottom.  Even though I had received an email of the serial number from Mike, I didn't have access to my work email through my phone, at least not at the ready.  So I called Matt and asked him to text it to me.

But that wasn't before the pawn shop clerk came out the back door with the female suspect decrying how she "really needs the money and needed to pay bills and rent" and whatever.  I spoke up and said, "that's too bad because this isn't your bike.  It's my friend's bike that was stolen last night."  The shop clerk asked me if I was sure and if I checked the serial number to see if it matched.  Okay, I lied a bit and said, "Yes".  The woman said, in a shaky and quavering voice, that it was her boyfriend's.  The clerk said, "if this is not your bike (to the woman), then that changes everything."

I hadn't had time to really look at the serial number and didn't quite have it to match to at that time anyway.  But come on, the couple walking down the street to the pawn shop with a $2K bike that matched exactly the description of a bike stolen the night before, didn't look like kind of couple that had the wherewithal to even ever own or fucking ride something like this!  I knew it was Mike's bike.  I just knew it.

Cyclists can be broadly classified into two major groups, the Wannas and the Havetas.  The Wannas are those that simply "want to" ride a bicycle, for recreation, to commute to work, for exercise, etc.  These folks buy the bikes and wear the gear for their preferred use.  Recreation riders wear spandex if they're roadies, baggier clothing if they're mountain bikers.  Commuters tend to ride hybrids and often where sensible commuting clothes that tend to look like work clothes for their occupations.  Almost all of them wear helmets

The Havetas, either can't afford any other means of transportation or have lost their vehicle and/or license so they "have to" ride a bike.  These folks wear whatever they have on, often ride on the wrong side of the road or against one way traffic or on sidewalks.  The biggest giveaways for these folks are their types of bikes, the condition the bikes are in, almost never a helmet and often smoking while riding.  The suspect couple in question, based on their clothing alone, fall into this category.  The gear they wore didn't fit the bike.

I told the clerk I had called the cops and they were on their way.  I immediately dialed 911 again and began speaking with another dispatcher updating them on where I was, who I was, what was going on, etc.  It felt uncomfortable answering questions like what was my name and my phone number in front of the female suspect, but I seriously doubted she could/would remember them as she seemed quite distraught over the whole ordeal.

The pawn shop clerk asked me if we could bring the bike into the shop.  I wasn't comfortable with that idea and said I wanted to be in a public setting.  He assured me it'd be okay and that they had lots of video security cameras active in the shop.  I began wondering where the male suspect was and thought I'd seen him pacing up (heading south) Laurel St. talking on his cell phone.  I finally figured it'd be safer to have film footage if any conflicts occurred.  I didn't want to be stabbed in an alley came to mind and we brought the bike in.

It seemed like forever for the police to show up, but I had no idea what their workload was at the time.  Inside, I finally got the serial numbers texted to me and was able to verify the identity of the bike.  It was Mike's!!!  No flippin' DOUBT!!!  My buddy John had been hanging back and tried to track where the male suspect had gone.   He was the first to talk to the cops when they finally arrived.  The female suspect was apprehended but claimed she didn't know the bike was stolen.  Apparently, according to the cop on the scene, she had some mental issues.  For example, why didn't she just run away like her boyfriend did?

I was talking to John when the police officer came in identified me and the stolen bike in question.  He checked the serial number with the number Matt texted me.  I told him it was my friend's bike and he told me to get him down here.  So I called Mike and told him to come down to the pawn shop and claim his bike.  The police officer gave John and I statement forms to fill out.

Mike finally showed up and we asked if we could just go.  That's when the boss pawn shop owner(?) guy raised his voice and said nothing's going anywhere without a warrant and full payment on the pawned item.  We explained that it wasn't pawned and the earlier clerk confirmed that fact and the boss guy then calmed down and said, "Oh. Okay.  Never mind then."

Anyway, the police figured out who the male suspect was and told us that there was a $20,000 bench warrant thingy on him.  So they knew who he was and it was just a matter of time before he gets apprehended.  I found it stupefying that the suspect stole a bike the night before and literally tried to pawn it the next day by walking down the main streets of Port Angeles in broad daylight at a pawn shop that was one block away from where he stole the bike!  How this guy is not in jail right now, I cannot fathom.

We asked if we could go and finally got the okay.  My buddy Mike was ecstatic and bought us beers and hot dogs at Station 51 half a block away.  My wife and Matt showed up but unfortunately, John had to leave to pack for New York.  He was leaving the next day and it was just the day before that he and his wife returned from a trip to North Dakota.  It was just damned lucky that he had to do a bit of grocery shopping and spot that oddest of combinations, nice bike and sketchy characters dressed like people that don't ride.

Please remember to lock your bike and keep it out of sight if possible.  Write down your bike's serial number(s), take a good picture of it and keep that information in a safe, easily accessible place.  Register your bike with the local authorities.  And most of all, remain calm and . . . cycle on!

UPDATE 07/12/17:

So I took some time to tool around in search of the perpetrator of the formerly stolen bike on each of my breaks today.  Nothing came of it and I actually had some progress on a project I'd been slaving over.  Anyway, I stayed up rather late last night posting the above info and was running pretty tired around 4-ish.  Reading scientific research papers on the energy densities of macroinvertebrates gets rather dry even if they are "benthic"!  So I switched over to trying to find a map to print of the upcoming Canoe Journey requested by the Tribe's Chairwoman.

Soon enough, it was quittin' time.  I got up and was glancing out of my office north facing window in the old Carnegie Library building when I spied a guy dressed in a black baseball cap, bright white T-shirt and . . . lo and behold, the same damn shorts the perpetrator wore on Monday!  He had the same weird facial hair, a rather long across the face mustache and a small goatee (kinda like Wild Bill Hickok or Doc Holliday or something).  I couldn't believe my eyes.  I reviewed the video and sure enough, same damn shorts, same damn facial hair style!  I dialed 911 immediately and reported while the perpetrator got into the same damn truck that the "formerly stolen bike" was leaning against at the Safeway parking lot on Monday.

Earlier, someone in a white T-shirt and dark hat had walked down our office hall, past my single speed Specialized San Francisco Langster and peaked in the my open office door.  I turned and just caught a glimpse but he went down the hall to the south and spoke to Cameron and Kim at the south end of the building.  Apparently, he was trying to pay his fish taxes.  Our Office Manager was out for the afternoon so no one could help him.  So he left and that's when I saw him.  UFB!

I had reported to my two remaining office mates that I had seen the perp and they said, "Just now?"  I described the guy to them and they were both astounded.  The world shrunk in our little part of town.  We now know we'll likely be seeing him again, if indeed he was a fisherman.  I'm a tad paranoid that he somehow had scoped out who I was, but . . . 

I decided to ride around a bit starting with taking Franki up 2nd St. westbound, into the wind to see if I could spot the rig.  He had picked up a male on 2nd St. next to the New Moon Pub and continued on 2nd St. westbound until I couldn't see the vehicle anymore.  I had called my buddies Matt and Mike to report all this and when I got to the top of 2nd St., I received a call back from Matt.  I had to explain a bit, cause he's from Buffalo, but I received another call while that was going on from the PAPD.  I switched over and spoke to an officer and gave her every detail I could think of.  She thanked me for it and we ended the call.

I rode on thinking I may be able to spy the rig parked somewhere near the marina or apartments near the waterfront, but that didn't pan out.  So I meandered home, into and with the wind wondering, when will we see this guy again.  Cameron and Kim had asked, what should the Office Manager do if he comes back in to pay his fish taxes?  I said, remain calm.  Let him pay his taxes and call the police as soon as he leaves.  That may be as soon as tomorrow!

The Journey Was Long, But Somehow Not Long Enough

It always starts in a fit of stress and turmoil.  But it never has to.  That's just the way we do it.  Oh, you can plan and plod and think about all the things you need to do and pack in advance, but when it comes right down to it, it's a term paper all over again.  Somehow, we get 'er done.  We pack.  Only, the list is not complete and we've forgotten the simple fact that nights are . . . cold.  Still, these are minor details among the grand scheme of things.  Even though it takes a year before we do it again, it has become somehow more rhythmic.  There's an inner calm that no matter what we forget, we'll manage.

It's been four straight years now that we've been doing the RAW.  That is to say, the Ride Around Washington.  At first, it was daunting and somewhat arbitrary.  But, we didn't care.  We wanted to spend some time exploring what it would be like to be on bikes, every day, for a whole week, riding over 50 miles a day, as a vacation.  The coolest part, we didn't have to own/buy touring bikes and pack all our shit!  Seriously, that was the first coolest part.


I wanted to start writing about this then, but life got in my face and . . . well, I just couldn't see past it.  But that's a story for another, much darker time.  What we didn't expect, was to find friends for life.  Oh, I guess if for some reason one of us or the other stopped riding, we'd no longer "belong".  But I, for one, don't get that feeling with this particular group of people.  We barely know each other, yet we are such . . . mates in . . . "Bike Camp".

That's exactly what it feels like, bike camp.  I never went to "summer camp" of any kind, but after the last four years of riding the Ride Around Washington (RAW), this is what I believe the best of summer camp must've felt like.  The movie, Meatballs comes to mind.  Heck, even Breaking Away is heavy in the air of our camp.  In its own way, it's a version of Twilight Zone's "Kick the Can" episode.  We all become younger the more we delve into the journey.

And by "journey", I mean no small feat.  Each year has had it's . . . epic-ness.  What would you consider epic?  This year we climbed over 15,000 vertical feet.  Last year we fought hellacious winds of over 30 knots over death-defying bridges.  Each year we traveled well over 400 miles in a week.  We've tackled extreme heat of over 100 degrees Fahrenheit while climbing grades up to 15% and greater and wished we had a cool one waiting for us at the finish of that particular day's challenge.  And ya know what, Cascade Bicycle Club (CBC) made damn sure we did!  That and a shower and a decent meal.  Awesome.
So what got us to do something so seemingly crazy?  Ah, therein lies the rub.  Touring is self-supported, as in, "you on yo' own, BITCH!"  Not only do you have to ride, you also have to carry all of your supplies, set up camp and cook for yourself.  I was never introduced to the whole camping experience until well into my teens so the whole "camping experience" thing was never, "my thing" to begin with.  I was in the US Army and did learn to, shit in the woods -- so to speak.  But, as my father would attest to, there ain't nothin' more civilized than indoor plumbing.


So CBC caught onto the trend of, "hey, let's schlep their luggage for them and cater to them and they'll be more than happy to ride like Tour de France domestiques for beaucoup bucks".  And, yeah, as a matter of fact, we love the shit out of doing that!  We just ride, set up our tents, eat, shower, and . . . party.  Oh, and then, we get up, tear down, eat, load our gear and do it all over again.  Yeah, we call this, "vacation".  But when you do the math, it's sooo worth it.  Especially when you factor in the loose variable, f = friendship.  That my friends is invaluable!

Where's Home?

Do you remember the time when you moved into the home where you first learned to lie?  How 'bout the time where you felt the most alien?  Yeah, there're a lot of people who grew up moving from place to place wondering . . . where is it that I truly belong?

And then there're those who grew up in the same place they were born and . . . still didn't feel at home.  That's  a problem for us European space invaders.  Yet we somehow have made this--for lack of a better word--"place" where we live so alien that even the aboriginal folk don't feel truly at home.  (Or maybe they do and they just can't figure out how to get rid of all these uninvited guests.)

Makes ya think . . . don't it?  Who are those who feel the most at home?  The ones who've been lied to often enough that truth is just repetition?  Hmm.  If you're born and raised somewhere, is that by default, "home"?  The natives don't think that, do they?  In fact, I have to admit that I'm impressed with the fact that they can live some place for generations.

What makes this fact so impressive to me is that "natives" claim to have been born of the earth from their "here".  It's just that I don't have such ties to a place having been born near here and having grown up all across the globe.  But there's no denying that there's a certain something about this here.  I'm deeply and truly in love with this . . . here.  Almost as much as I'm in love with my . . . significant other.

Here is Port Angeles, Washington.  And here is where I wish to stay as long as I can.  Where else affords me the endless beauty and nonsense free lifestyle I enjoy so much?  Oh don't get me wrong, this ain't no Pleasantville!  This just lil' ol' Puerto de Angeles.  It's the biggest little town I've ever lived in!

Still, the concept of "native" bothers me.  What is it that makes one "native"?  Time in place?  So, first come first serve on the title?  Europeans AND Asians have been through so many conquerings and assimilations that being of a particular "culture" comes with caveats.  Sorry to say, the natives in North America came here from afar via a land bridge or other means.  So, how does that make them "native"?

I'll tell you what's native to me, being from Earth!  Last I checked, this planet was spherical, no corners to be found.  Were're of THIS place, this here.  Yet, we speak many different languages, are governed my many forms of government, believe in a multitude of different religions or none at all, etc.  All the same, we are earthlings.

Wonder how long it will be before we figure all that out.  Wonder when we'll be able to . . . finally . . . feel . . . at home?

Out of the Shadows

When the shadows begin to reappear on our oft cold and dank landscape, we tend to rise up, gear down and pedal our way into the light.  This year we fought a different darkness, a darkness of the mind.  It's easy to forget what matters in this world when one gets caught up in the daily diatribe incessantly spewing from the monopolized media.  Nothing clears the head like a decent day on the bike.

The smell of spring wafts softly upon the cool, moist countryside air.  The fragrant wild rose and honeysuckle along the trails and side roads of this wonderful landscape take me to a timeless, nirvana of the mind.  Never mind the death, gloom and doom to which we're exposed.  Get on your bike and ride.

The mind is a powerful tool and in the wrong line of thinking, it can become a, uh, a . . . an "evil doer".  It can work against you.  It can take you down.  Each winter it becomes a challenge to--pardon the pun--weather the season.  At our latitude, darkness comes early and stays long into the dawn.  Although we dread this time of year, especially when the days are gray, wet and cold, when the sun does rise, we marvel at its beauty.

Sunrise Memories

I've memories of sunrises on my aunt and uncle's farm in Ohio that have stayed with me throughout the years.  The cool morning moisture rising from the soil, hanging in the air among the crops of corn and soy bean alerting us that the day would become humid and sweltering.  At first it felt too cool but it didn't last very long.  And indeed, as the day wore on, the heat became stifling.  I often compare those morning sunrises with all that I've experienced since.  To this day, I sometimes rise from bed extra early just to feel that sense of sunrise, that . . . atmosphere.

At this latitude, when winter waxes and wanes, we get to experience similar sensations only we don't necessarily have to get up as early.  It just becomes part of our commute, our awakening from the darkness.  And now that the summer encroaches, we don't quite get to share our time with the morning light unless by some happenstance we're literally up at the crack of dawn AND the clouds have overslept.  I've never been much of a morning person since I like to stay up late but as you can see, I do appreciate what I've been missing.

The sun brings us northerners into a state of euphoria.  We rise, we smile, we get busy, we play.  Lately, we've been able to commute and ride and enjoy our fare share of fair weather.  However, we still must take the gray as it is part of our landscape, our atmosphere.  The moisture is what makes western Washington so green.  What offsets those moist gray days is the ever so slight rise in temperature and, of course, the light.  The difference between dark, gray, dank at 43 degrees and light, gray, humid at 48 degrees is actually quite palpable, at least to me.  My wife begs to differ.

"Ten Flat" Matt

We've had some stellar riding days of late and we recently completed a few training rides.  One was out to Blyn via a combination of a small portion of the now defunct Olympic Cycling Classic event ride and the Olympic Discovery Trail (ODT).  We rode the Waterfront Trail/ODT to the gun club across from Deer Park Road and crossed Highway 101 to Deer Park Road and rode it to Township line then down O'Brien Road to Old Olympic Highway and onto the ODT at the bridge.  We rode with our friend "Ten Flat" Matt who, astonishingly enough, didn't get a flat.  We stopped at the Longhouse in Blyn for paninis and other requisite sustenance and moseyed on back home.  Then, it happened again, within the very last few miles, Matt got a flat.

Up Deer Park Road

Now, in Matt's defense, I must confess that his recent history of flats all came upon him (and us) from a set of tires I gave him.  I had purchased some Specialized Flak Jacket tires and wasn't completely satisfied with them as they tended to get flats easier than advertised.  They were relatively new but I didn't feel right returning them so I bought a set of Armadillo's instead and just hung onto them for emergency sake.

The 2011 R.S.V.P. (flashback)

Well, it was last year right before we were scheduled to ride the increasingly frustrating Ride from Seattle to Vancouver, BC and Party (RSVP) when I noticed that our riding partner Matt had severely worn tires.  He'd never changed them since he bought the bike and they were waaay overdo for replacement.  I told him, "you're not riding the RSVP with THOSE."  He's recently divorced, bought a house and has two kids so he was a tad tight on money.  He said he didn't have the money to buy a new set of tires before riding the RSVP and that, "they'll be fine."

The rubber tread was already separating from the inner liner.  I flat out refused to let him ride those tires on the two day 188 mile ride to Canada.  If he flatted along the way, there'd be no way to repair the tires to make them ride-able and/or safe.  We'd be at the mercy of some possibly non-existent bike shop having tires for him within walking/riding distance. Furthermore, they were dangerous because they could catastrophically fail on a rapid descent, of which this ride had a few.  I was forced to give him my spare, somewhat unreliable Flak Jacket tires.  Flats are one thing, catastrophic tire failure is something else entirely.

Crossing the Golden Ears Bridge

Long story short, we didn't get more than 5 miles out of Seattle when we lost him completely on a long straight descent through a residential detour that year.  He had not been feeling well the night before and we ended up assuming he had abandoned and was somewhere yakking in the bushes and waiting for the SAG wagon (support and gear vehicle).  It turns out he had simply flatted.

Party on the Hotel Patio

He eventually caught up with us at a rest stop but ended up flatting two more times during that day's ride.  The next day he only flatted twice.  We eventually made it to Vancouver but having left him in charge of the hotel reservations, we ended up not having them made on the right nights so he was scrambling to get us a room.  This loomed on us the second day with spotty cell phone reception, but we ended up in a five star hotel and . . . paid the price.  Matt insisted on covering this one.  The ride home was a pedal in the park:


Never R.S.V.P. Again

Coming Home via the Galloping Goose Trail

Now, in my own defense (and Flak Jacket's), some of Matt's flats were of his and my own doing.  His first flat he repaired but tweaked the valve so that it had a slow leak.  Then I ended up trying to patch one flat and, as usual, the patch didn't hold.  In any event, it was an epic ride that Matt swore to never doing again.  We tended to agree as the shear cost of the entire ride was prohibitively expensive and there was also the enormous hassle of entering the damn thing in the first place.

Cascade Bicycle Club had some new online sign up system that year which crashed relentlessly and one had to be a masochist to actually sign up before the ride limit was reached.  It was so infuriating that some of our usual ride partners gave up after two or three futile hours of trying. We rationalized that we could easily have a much more enjoyable ride organizing it ourselves or, at the very least, do some other ride next year.

Fast Forward (sort of)

So, that's the short version of the 2011 RSVP.  Fast forward to this year.  We didn't even try to sign up for the RSVP.  Instead, Lisa and I decided to Ride the Hurricane (RTH).  Last year this was held the same weekend in August of the RSVP.  Even though the RSVP was held on Friday and Saturday and the RTH was on a Sunday, the logistics of trying to get back by Sunday morning after having ridden 188 gruelling miles the two days before did not appeal to us.  Besides, although the Hurricane involved riding a mere 17 or so miles (34 round trip), it was 17 miles from 200-ft. to 5,200-ft.  That's no small feat at 8% grade for the first 4 miles and 6% the rest of the way to the top.  Even though the two rides fall on different weekends this year, we've decided to boycott the RSVP for a year or more.

Cascade Bicycle Club (CBC) finally came up with a lottery system but by then, it was too late for us to care.  The ride was closed and half our friends didn't make the cut.  The damage had been done.  Life's too short for these sorts of meaningless frustrations.  Lisa had been diagnosed in early June and last year's RSVP would be her last event ride of the season as she was between a recent series of two lumpectomy surgeries and just before the start of her chemo therapy sessions.  We've come along way since then and her strength and courage has been nothing short of resoundingly inspiring.

The 2011 Seattle to Portland

I rode the Seattle to Portland (STP) in July of last year while Lisa could only SAG with Reanee.  It was the first time since we'd started riding the STP in 2005 that we didn't ride together.  We'd ridden every year since.  It literally broke her heart walking into the Centralia campus where the end of the first day's ride camps.  There's a beer garden there and I was interested in watching the Tour with fellow riders.  We didn't get far when the gravity of the situation hit Lisa like a fully loaded Mack truck and trailer.  She didn't ride, therefore she felt she didn't belong.  It crushed her and she teared up and I felt like an idiot.  We did a quick 180 and headed to Shelly's Grandpa's house.



Lisa was between lumpectomies and it was not advisable for her to stress herself so recently after surgery so we took the conservative approach and she sat out last year's STP.  That's what's so amazing about her taking part in the RSVP in August.  This year she signed herself up for the Danskin triathlon and the STP.  So, to train, we'd ridden some distance rides, some hilly rides AND the Flying Wheels just last weekend. 

The 2012 Flying Wheels

The Flying Wheels (FW) is the CBC's tune up "Summer Century" ride that happened this year in spring.  It's a 96 mile ride into the Snoqualmie Valley(?) from Redmond to Snohomish and back:




Since January, Lisa has lost 40 pounds.  Since January, I've lost 8 pounds.  The first climb starts just 4 miles into the ride as we skirt Lake Sammamish make a left and leave one valley for the other.  It's a wall of asphalt that lasts a half mile at a constant 13% grade.  In a word, it's "BRUTAL".  I believe I've even heard grown men weeping on this hill but I can't be sure because I'm usually sucking wind so hard people automatically stay right as I pass their left.  I'll gasp something like, (inhale), (exHALE), (INhale), "ON--(INHALE)--YOUR--(INHALE)-- LEFT", (INHALE), (EXHALE).  People will say something like, "I know, I heard your breathing."  Of course, I want to say something cutesy like, "I can't help it, I'm a loud breather", but I'm usually too out of breath to manage much more than an inhale or an exhale depending on my last breath.

Notice the 13% Grade at 4.4 miles

At over 200 pounds, I'm not currently nor have I ever been, considered a climber.  Oh, I can "shift, STOMP and grind my way over a few short, steep hills here and there, but I don't look forward to it AND, I don't necessarily excel at it.  Still, with considerable effort, I can get there before a fare share of lesser riders.  Having said that, I don't mean to diminish those who I can pass on a climb.  I simply pick a moment on a given climb and hit it as hard as I can.  Why prolong the misery?

The Red Zone

But, I do have to be mindful of entering the Red Zone too early.  The Red Zone is where you go anaerobic.  That is, it's when you maximize your energy output beyond your lung's and muscle's capacity to take up oxygen.  Do that too early or too often and "pop" goes your weasel; you're done.  That's not good when you have some 92 or so miles left to go.

Lisa on the other hand, was looking to take 'er easy and just get some pre-STP miles in on the saddle.  Each year on this hill, I'm usually off the front attacking and trying to get this steep half mile over with as quickly as possible.  I usually temper myself and try to mind my heart rate and breathing and cadence and so on.  But in the heat of the moment, I just stomp the pedals.  This typically results in dropping Lisa and friends except the fitter athletes of the bunch.  Once at the top, I hold up and cheer her on as she steadily climbs past the last few hundred feet of steepness.

Lisa Locomotive Goes Cog Railway

This year, we rode alone as all our usual suspects baled on us.  This year, Lisa actually passed me on the climb.  In fact, she got about 3 to 7 bike lengths in front of me and I was hard pressed to maintain even that distance from her.  She made it to the top before me for the first time EVER!  I cannot tell you how proud I am that she had "shifted, stomped and ground" her way to the top before me.  It wasn't for a lack of effort on my part, but I knew the only way to catch her put me into the ever dangerous Red Zone.  I ground my own way up the hill and congratulated her amazing pace.  It was . . . spin-a-rific!

We pedalled our way through Duvall, Monroe, Snohomish and back catching Carnation before we headed back out of the valley.  By then, Lisa was suffering a bothersome strain in her back and left leg.  Still, she soldiered on.  When we came to the last climb out, I was ready.  Years of riding this event had taught me to goo up right before and right after the last climb.  You know, that syrupy liquid that comes in ketchup-like packets and tastes like mocha mucus or vanilla powder syrup?  That stuff.  This year, I actually did it and it worked.  I was feeling rather sassy and was in rather high spirits at the foot of the climb.  Joking and kidding my fellow riders, I was about to hit the last climb with some spunk and gusto.

At mile 80, the climb starts off with a shorter and slightly less steep (12%) section and has a few rest spots along the way but it's no walk in the park by any means.  Once you crest this climb, it descends for a short bit and climbs sharply yet again.  It's through this section that we've seen deer and one year, Lisa saw a juvenile black bear.  On the other side of this ridge, we descend, with traffic, at about 35 miles per hour and are typically relegated to the bike lane/shoulder.

He Just Sounds Fast

I don't usually try to find a gap in the traffic and take the lane, but this time I did.  I did because earlier in the ride, Lisa and I had been swapping positions with a gray mustachioed gentleman through a particular segment.  I was commenting to Lisa that he had a nice looking bike that sounded fast.  You know that swoosh, swoosh, swoosh sound that deep carbon rims make as they pass you?  Yeah, they sound fast.  I jokingly commented that this gentleman that we'd been trading places with "sounded fast but, he's really not that fast."

We then came upon a rather curvy descent that I recognized once we turned the corner to the right into a straight away just before it curves left back uphill under an overpass of some kind.  By this time, Lisa weighing as much as she now does, dropped off the back of my wheel.  We had recently passed the gray haired gentleman.  I was hoping this gentleman didn't try to pass me on this somewhat technical descent as I usually am the fastest thing going when it comes to downhill segments and I didn't want anyone crowding me into the turn.

There were no riders in front of me and I couldn't see any vehicular traffic for the overpass but if I stayed in my lane, I could manage maximum speed through the curve so long as I took the right line and didn't touch the brakes.  I decided to hit it and crouched into my uber tuck as I accelerated into the dive.  Hitting the apex of the turn, I was flying and worried I'd over cooked it coming out of the turn up the hill at 41.8 mph.  Luckily I'd resisted touching my brakes and picked the appropriate line to complete the maneuver.

The Sickening Sound Behind Me

I didn't over cook it.  But, behind me I heard a hideous carbon fiber laden, sliding then crashing, heart stopping, sickening sound.  My worst fear flickered in my mind, that Lisa was somehow involved, as I slowed, braked and turned to see what happened.  Again, luckily, I saw Lisa rolling to a stop right behind a body on the pavement with a couple of  bikes off the side.  He was moaning, thus conscious.  I turned to survey the damage.  Our gray haired gentleman had bit it hard.   He was helmet less and on his back smack dab in the middle of the lane.

As I arrived he raised his torso and leaned upon his right elbow--of which I was within two feet of as I approached from behind.  That's when I saw the blood literally pour out of his head onto the asphalt.  Riders that were behind us began arriving at high rates of speed and my first thought was that someone needs to go back up that descent and warn the incoming riders or this situation would get worse in a heartbeat.

There were plenty of people at the scene and I turned to the lady approaching from her now stopped car in the shoulder of the on coming lane.  She had a cell phone in her hand so told her to call 911.  I also told the people standing by to get someone to stop the bleeding.  I then headed up the straight away, about midway, and began motioning and informing the down-hillers to slow down, that there was an accident ahead.

Along the ride, embedded, were several Ride Refs.  Two of them arrived at the scene and took up positions to assist in traffic control.  The gray haired gentleman had friends caring for his injuries until help arrived.  After a seemingly long time, I had convincingly slowed all incoming cyclists and one of the ride refs relieved my position.  We somberly high fived each other on passing and I rejoined my wife at the scene.  The gentleman was still sitting in the middle of the lane while a female friend was holding his head.

Hamburger Head

Lisa and I slowly rode past as the sirens sounded off in the distance.  He looked as though he hit the pavement with the right side of his face.  It looked . . . unreal, fake almost, like those rubbery gory masks Hollywood makes for those cheap horror movies they role out every year.  In fact, when I saw the blood pouring out of his head, it was so bright red it too looked, "Hollywood fake".  By now, his face was quit swollen and I could see that he had several severe gashes and cuts.  You could tell that healing was going to take a while and I worried he'd hit his head rather hard and may suffer a concussion, broken nose or worse.

Apparently, there were two cyclists involved in this crash and the other landed in the ditch on the outside of the curve of the road.  That explains the second bike laying just off the road.  Lisa was right behind them when it happened and she informed me that the other rider got up right away.  He suffered a gash over his eye but was in less worse shape.  Lisa told me that she saw them touch wheels ever so slightly and that it happened so quickly but there was no doubt that the one rider had touched his front wheel to the rear wheel of the other rider.

The Ill Begotten Inside Pass

At near or over 40 miles per hour on a bicycle, when things that go bad, they go bad quickly.  The only thing I can figure out in the post wreck analysis, is that our gray haired gentlemen passed Lisa gaining speed and proceeded to gain on the rider in front of them.  At near 40 mph into a tight turn, picking the right line is crucial.

Trying to pass someone at that speed in a turn is extremely dangerous.  If the rider in front of you turns tighter than you while your on the inside of them and your going faster than him, your toast.  This seems the simplest, easiest explanation and thus is most likely exactly what happened.  If either of them so much as tapped their brakes in that turn, one, the other or both of them would go down.  I suppose that could have happened too.

People who pay over two grand for a carbon fiber frame and up to more than half that much for deep rimmed carbon fiber wheels, typically ride more than the average cyclist.  That leads me to believe our gray haired gentleman should've known not to attempt an inside pass at that speed on a curve.  But, we're all human.  Luckily, he'll live to ride another day.  Hopefully he'll have learned something here (if what I think happened actually happened).  Unfortunately, he totally ruined not only his ride but the ride of the cyclists in front of him.

Back to the Beginning/End

The rest of the ride we tried to put the accident behind us.  Even earlier in the ride shortly after we crested the first climb, on the descent into the valley it was still moist and the pavement was slick.  The thick tree cover kept it that way and we were warned by Ride Refs to take it slow on our curvatious descent.  On a rather tight turn, we saw a rider in the ditch who had over cooked the turn and hopefully just missed the road sign cautioning travellers to slow to 25 mph.

For the rest of the ride after the accident we witnessed with the gray haired gentleman, we were wary of anything else going wrong.  And that's why on the descent back to Lake Sammamish, I took a tad more conservative approach.  Since we were travelling at the same speed as traffic, taking the lane is no skin off a motor vehicle driver's teeth.  A cyclist is in the lane is allowed by Washington State law.  We always have the right to the lane but if we cannot travel at speed, we are to stay as far right as is deemed safe (by us).

Zipping along at 36 mph in a 35 mph zone, I felt safer taking the lane through the curves of our descent.  The thought of over cooking a turn and ending up in the ditch or worse, touching the wheel of someone I was attempting to pass wasn't appealing to me.  I cleared my rear view mirror, signalled and took the lane.  Still, it makes me sweat just thinking about the traffic so close behind me if anything went wrong.  Thankfully, the lady driving the car behind me kept her distance.

There's No Little 100 and No One We Know at the Beer Garden

One of the best parts of the Flying Wheels of the past has been the Little 100 and, of course, the beer garden at the side of the velodrome track.  Our first ever FW we finished exhausted, hot and ready for a beer and a shower.  What we came to was the velodrome and a series of goofy relay cycling races in a velodrome where the teams dressed thematically in cookie attire.  We missed out on T-shirts as they always sell out fast but there was plenty of beer for sale and we could sit and watch some crazy ass cycling teams dressed in everything from diapers to hockey gear to lingerie to tutus.  It was some of the most entertaining racing I'd ever seen on a bike.

Beer Garden Love @ STP 2011

Sadly this year, the velodrome was otherwise booked or they just plain didn't have the Little 100.  We ended up not being able to get our requisite T-shirt as they had once again sold out and there was no one we knew in the beer garden.  We were told we could get our T-shirts online within one week of the event.  Lisa no longer drinks due to her taste issues and we had no one to meet up with or wait for so we stayed for one beer and headed back to the hotel.

The next day we cruised our bikes to University Village for lunch and back for our 50 mile recovery ride.  We stopped at the Red Hook Brewery during our return as it was just 7 miles from the our hotel.

We had appointments for Lisa in Seattle on Monday and we took it even easier the next day.  This had been my first ride on my new frame but . . . that's a whole 'nother story I'll get to later.

January Ends with a Flat then there's Fantabulous February

Put some shoulder into it!

January came and went.  We had a whole week off from work thanks to MLK and about 8 - 10 inches of snow!  That left us with indoor trainers for riding.  Trouble was, I was satisfied with shoveling and retiring to the couch for the day after day that the snow decided to fall.  Oh, I did some gaming, some emailing, etc. but movies and chillaxin' was my particular modus operandi.

Then, work came and with it the rains.  Still, I had no gumption to ride, no motivation, no drive.  Winter has it's way with us sometimes.  I guess, at least I'm more like our brethren bears than most.  After all, I was born in Kodiak, Alaska.  I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I do have those hibernating type tendencies (at least in the social sense).  Could it be, being born at a certain latitude?

Then voila, we finally caught some dry weather.  Not just any dry weather day, but a rather spectacular day. The rains had melted most of the snow and the roads and trails were good to go (at least for our single speed, mondo, beefy chained commuters).  We rode that morning.  Here's an excerpt from my Garmin log:



Lisa rode with me all the way to Lower Elwha Rd. She then rode back to work and was very excited to have a tail wind the whole way back to Hamilton. The morning was cold but clear and aside from the head wind in to work, we enjoyed the hell out of it! It's been TWO WEEKS for cryin' out LOUD!!!!!

Lisa later called and exclaimed that, with the tail wind, she did 17mph average all the way back to work.  And as the day wore on, the sun shone, the puffy clouds drifted away, the sky blued, and I relished the fact I was going to ride one of the most glorious winter days yet.  I worked, I finished, I geared up, turned on all the anti-collision lights, the spoke lights, the tail lights, the helmet lights, the Garmin GPS/HRM/BC and mounted my trusty aluminum steed.

Don't you DARE call this Paradise!  (You'll ruin it.)

I rolled out of the Fisheries Office garage onto the concrete then onto the gravel/dirt road.  The sun was already hiding behind various features on the horizon.  The sky became my favorite colour of orange fading to blue then . . . even deeper blue.  Venus sparked and the air was very brisk and downright refreshing after 8 hours in front of the LCD monitor in my warm but stuffy office.  It was then that I noticed the harshness of the the gravel transferring to my seat.

Hmmm, I know it's been awhile, but I don't recall the road feeling this hard on my saddle . . . unless . . .   Of course, before I got 50-ft., I checked my rear tire and, sure enough, I had a flat.  Well, it was too cold to humor an outdoor repair when the office was right there just 50-ft. behind me.  I turned Jack-Jack around and flipped him upside down in the break/lunch/conference/lounge/whatever room.  I inspected the rear tire for the cause of the flat.

It wasn't hard to spot.  There was about a two inch split right down the middle of the tire tread.  In fact, there were two of them about 12-inches apart.  In fact, the tread was sooo thin and worn that I could easily pull a new split anywhere along the tread.  I'd done it yet again.  I'd worn yet another set of tires completely through.  There was no chance in hell of repairing these for the 10 or so mile ride to the bike shop or home for that matter.  It was Friday and I was at the mercy of someone or someway to make it home or to the bike shop.

My office mate Mike was staying for Body Shock and wouldn't be leaving until 6:30PM.  Plus, he didn't have any gas for his truck.  I said he could drive to the gas station and I'd treat his tank for a fill up but it was already after 5PM.  I didn't feel right asking him to be late for his workout.  We checked the bus schedule and that looked promising as it would be at the Tribal Center at 5:28PM.  I panicked abit and thought I had no cash for the fare.  All at the office also lacked cash.  (Reality be told, I have a stash of a few bucks in my bike bag for emergencies like this but it completely slipped my mind at the time).

In any event, in walked Terry.  I knew he drove a big pickup like my buddy Mike so I asked him where he was heading after work.  He replied 16th St. which is about halfway to town so I ventured to ask whether he would mind giving me and my bike a ride to the bike shop.  He was kind enough and said, "Sure."  We loaded up and made a quick stop at Child Care to pick up his four year old son Brent.  We proceeded to the Sound Bike & Kayak from there.

Brent wasn't shy.  He saw me wearing my bike helmet but that wasn't what got his attention.  He was more interested in the lights that were attached to it.  "What's that?", he asked.  "My bike helmet", I answered.  "No, that?", he pointed.  "Oh, those are my lights", I answered.  "They're so other drivers can see me better", I volunteered.  "The back one is for people driving up from behind to see me better and the front one is for people coming out of driveways or intersections", I showed him as I took my helmet off."

Then, by his next breath, it was, "Do you know Mr. Incredible?"  "He comes in blue and red."  "There's a red one and a blue one."  In fact, I did know Mr. Incredible.  He is one of the characters of one of my favorite animated movies, The Incredibles.  I immediately launched into a quick summary of the main characters of the movie.  Then four year old Brent and I were discussing the finer points of super powerdom and what it must be like and how cool it would be to actually have super powers and which ones were the best to have and how can she be invisible and why and . . . etc.  Honestly, very cute!!!

Then it was Spy Kids this and Spy Kids that and I wanna live in a Spy Kids family and before we knew it, we were at the bike shop.  Terry and I don't know each other very well.  I know his brother, Warren, better but it was very kind of him to do me the solid of delivering me from one of the most disappointing moments of the year so far.  I was sooo looking forward to riding that afternoon after two whole weeks holed up at home and forced to ride in a cage.  It happens.  And, it was all my fault.  As Brian at the shop said, "You should throw some eyes on those [tires] every once in awhile."  Guilty as charged.

My post game analysis comes up rather lame on my part.  I never logged the miles I put on Jack-Jack until we got Garmins in April of 2011.  I bought Jack-Jack in July of 2009.  I bought reflective walled Armadillo tires probably that winter or at least the next.  Jack-Jack, my Specialized single-speed Langster was to be my no-nonsense bike.  No bike computers, no techno geeky anything.  He was to be my, "just hop on and ride" machine. Then miles went by and I had no idea how many miles I'd actually put on him.  Oh, I could go back and extract that data but . . . that's kinda like, work!

So, one late Friday in late January 2012, the weather promising a ride beyond compare, I come up lame, unable to enjoy the moment due to a flat of my own inattention.  Still, I'd not have written at length as I've done here, about a successful trip that ill fated day.  I guess it still is the journey not the destination and it still is the anticipation not the journey that inspires most.  At the very least, it's a story to tell.

Snausages anyone?

Since then, the weather's gotten worse and then, in this part of February, it's gotten allot better.  This past Saturday was by far the best weather day of the year.  The temps hovered in the upper 40s and felt like 50 in the sun.  Nary a cloud in the sky for most of the day.  In fact, I woke up, got up and headed out back, coffee in hand to enjoy a rare fire on the patio.  Then I got ambitious and found a couple of sausage links and a skewer and cooked myself some links.  Then I got even more ambitious and fried a couple of eggs on the fire.  IT'S FEBRUARY!!  WTF!!  I'll take it all year!!

The Former "Lake" Aldwell

Farmer's Market at the Gateway Plaza

So we planned to stroll down to the Farmer's Market and get some food stuffs and then check out the Black Diamond - Little River route for Sunday's ride.  It was glorious but the route was too sandy and gravelly to be much fun on our pretty Roubaixs.  We ended up checking out Indian Creek and the former Lake Aldwell/Elwha Dam Reservoir as the sun began to wane.  It made for a great day but by the time we got home, the temps dipped dramatically and my plans to cook dinner out were retired.

Sunday morning came and we awoke to more cloud cover than was inspiring for riding but we eventually managed to get up, eat breakfast, suit up and roll out for about a 30 mile here and there ride:

Moonrise over Port Angeles Harbor

This week looks to be better yet.  I'm looking forward to riding with my wingman (wingwoman, Lisa) as the full moon rises and the sun sets and we enjoy the beauty only the Pacific Northwest can provide.

Sun Going Down over Port Angeles

Let's Start the New Year off on the Right Pedal!

Created by: Healthcare Management Degree

Festivus . . . and Everything After

12/25-29/11  Originally, we thought this trip would be all about hunkering down and chillin' during the thrillin'.  When we got here, the weather was all foggy and misty an' stuff.  Then, it got nice.  I mean, it got unbelievably nice.  Like, it got, 50 degrees and sunny in the middle of friggin' DECEMBER!  What the hell?  You know, sometimes you're just packing things and thinking, we're never even gonna use/wear/need this .  We could've brought skis, but we don't even own any.  Besides, we were heading to the beach!  For what?  It's WINTER for cryin' out loud!

Well, there's winter storm watching and whale watching and extreme beach walking, etc.  You know, we could roam the beaches and look for stuff washed up on the beach by the storm and tides.  What stuff?  Stuff from Japan?  That'd be gross AND dangerous!  As it turned out, Christmas Day the weather changed.  We'd found out about "King Tides" from a friend on Facebook.  So we checked the local tide tables and went about to take pictures of how high the tides got on 12/23 and 12/24.  We toured around north and south by car just to see what's out there.  We even went to Cape Arago and saw sea lions and tide pools.

But yesterday, we saw people on the beach north of us.  They weren't the usual lot of runners, dog walkers and pack bearing sorts.  They were . . .  gawkers.  You could just see them standing around and talking and taking pictures and plain ol' millin' about.  Some of them looked official, replete with orange vests and reflective gear and helmets and hats and badges and stuff.  We took a closer look via our binoculars and discovered that they were all looking at a beached whale.  We knew the tide would be coming in soon so we decided to gear up and load up with coffee and camera and go have a look.

It turned out the King Tides had brought a king of the sea, a deceased gray whale, to shore.  State officials were performing a necropsy of sorts and taking pictures and generally discussing what should be done.  There were beach walkers and curious on lookers and general gawkers hanging about as well, including ourselves.  I took some pictures.  The poor creature had met his/her demise and got washed up on the beach last night.  Now it was up to the state folks of Oregon to determine why it died and what to do with its remains.

We went to sleep last night to high winds and worsening conditions along the waterfront and awoke to the same.  The windows were wet and wiggly and we noticed vehicles driving along the beach towards the whale remains.  This was unusual because vehicles aren't allowed on these beaches.  Then, we noticed an excavator tracking its way in the same direction.  We figured it was out to do something with the whale, but what exactly we weren't sure.

One thing for sure, with the wind whipping about at 20-40 MPH, we had NO intentions of heading outside to "go check it out!"  The sand, rain and wind were not looking particularly friendly today.  We decided to use binoculars and monitor the situation from a warmer, dryer kinda viewpoint.  So, as I sit here and type from the same room where we played a complete game of Scrabble, put a partial 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle together and typed three new entries into this very blog, we watched the weather beat down on the birds, beach and crew.  The weather had no remorse as they rolled the decrepit, unfortunate whale onto a giant mat, drag it up shore and bury it in the sand.  No sunset tonight, the wind howls on.