Hi, all, Glen here, writing for a bit. For all those wondering where my voice has been in all of this, well, following you’ll hear a few of my words. On this trip I’ve been rather focused on living fully and completely in the moment. I’ve taken precious few pictures, written little. Just living each moment as it happens. Maybe for the first time in my life, I’m not trying to capture moments; I’m not trying to convey my precious moments to those whom I love. I’m just living these precious moments. I am ever so grateful, however, to Joe that he is capturing these and converting them into segments of words which can later be reconverted to memories. I feel spoiled by Joe’s diligence in writing. Thanks, Joe.
Without his hand written journal (which was sent home three days ago) to refresh his memory, Joe has asked me to pinch-hit by recounting the three days that we spent in Corvallis. It’s an easy job he’s given me—I can summarize three days in just two words: WE ATE!! Great food, and lots of it. Tuesday, November 19, was the last day that we were there. In the afternoon, we had gone on a mountain bike ride with DeVon and their neighbor Jason in some of the steep trails just north of town. We came back, tired, dirty, and joyful, to a meal that will certainly be recorded as our Thanksgiving Dinner. A whole chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy. The five of us sat around the ample kitchen table; three lit candles in the middle. Few intelligible words were exchanged as the food was passed and the mounds disappeared. Serving bowls licked clean, I wondered, while loosening my belt, if Jennifer felt like she had not made enough food. She’d reserved a trick up her sleeve. Out came the pecan pie served with fresh Tillamook vanilla ice cream. My stomach begged for mercy as I downed what I’m now calling the best piece of pie that has ever seen the backside of these teeth. One piece for each of us left one lonely piece sitting in the middle of the pie pan. Jennifer tried to pawn it off on any willing taker. I looked around at the other three and realized that we were four boys shaking our heads with worried looks on our faces. (I still don’t know what the others were worried about, but I was worried that my stomach was going to explode.) No takers on the last piece of pie, Jennifer stood up, threw both fists in the air and cried, “YES!! I have won!” She climbed up, danced a quick jig on her kitchen island and jumped back down whooping and hollering. We knew she was right; we were defeated. We sat for several minutes mentally collecting ourselves and allowing our stomachs to recover before slowly getting up to clear the table and wash the dishes.
Sunday morning we had gone to church with DeVon and Jennifer at Albany Mennonite. Got to chat with old college friends whom I had not seen in over a decade. We were all four invited over to a friends’ home for Sunday dinner. There also, the food was amazing—including fresh green salad, which we crave. Only later did Jennifer tell us that she had warned her friend of our eating prowess. With that information, our hostess promptly went home and whipped up a second pie—peanut butter!—to supplement the berry pie she had made that morning.
Monday evening we visited Dave and Cathy Hockman-Wert. More great food. Monday night football overshadowed by a rousing game of Dutch-Blitz. Joe was the star. I filled my normal Dutch-Blitz role of pulling up the rear—most rounds losing points. That evening one of them came up with the thought of spending that Wednesday evening at their beach house. A perfect one day ride away for us. They quickly agreed that it’d be a fun mid-week diversion for them, and Joe and I, well, of course we loved the idea of a hot shower and a warm, dry bed on the misty coast.
Wednesday morning we packed our belongings and said our sad good-byes to our generous hosts. Across town to Dave and Cathy’s place where we left (almost) all our gear in the trunk of their car. A day to ride, free of the possessions of “necessity” which slow our climbs and hamper our speed. With the beach house just 65 gear-free miles away we decided to throw in the climb of Mary’s peak. At 4200 feet, Mary’s peak is nine miles (3000 vertical feet) of climbing from highway 34 which goes from Corvallis to the coast. At the foot of the climb we stopped to shed some clothing. I suggest that we make it a race; Joe quickly agrees. The first mile we play cat and mouse, neither of us truly wanting to make a nine mile race out of the affair. Joe’s early attack and my effort to stay within reach leave us both briefly breathless. “Just checking,” he says as we settle back in to grind out more miles before beginning the race in earnest. Keeping the pace moderate, just a bit into the zone of discomfort, we try to appreciate the ever-expanding views as we continue higher. With three and a half miles to go I crank up the pace from uncomfortable to painful. Knowing that I cannot maintain that pace for three more miles, my only hope is that Joe will crack before I do. He does, and I watch my mirror in pain as his wheel drops a few yards behind mine, then 10 yards, now 30. Relieved, I try to maintain the pressure, hoping that within a few bends of the windy road, he’ll be out of sight and I can relax. My thighs burn. My side aches. My butt is numb. My cousin is right beside me. “Nice recovery,” I say, trying to appear to be not in pain and not short of breath, but the effort only makes me more short of breath. I wonder if he was only feigning his falter and he’s now preparing for his real attack. Not wanting to slow, but not being able to increase, I maintain my pace. Soon he is off the back again—this time for good, I hope. I accelerate briefly until he’s out of sight behind me, then I let off the pressure a bit. I’m disappointed when he soon rounds the bend, no further back. More pain. 2 mile marker. Up out of the saddle for a short respite. “Two miles at eight miles per hour,” my hazy brain tries to calculate. 20 minutes—can my body take this kind of pain for 20 more minutes—or is it 15? I don’t know, but it’s a lot. Another glance, Joe’s still back there, showing no signs of falling further back. Again I try the out of sight trick, but again he’s right there. One mile to go, a brief down hill gives unexpected relief. Yet it leads to the last half mile stretch, steeper than anything before and capped with a snappy headwind slapping me in the face. I feel like I’m going to stop. I look back frequently fully expecting Joe at any time to come roaring past me, leaving me with nothing to do but fall over in the ditch and cry. One quarter mile left. I don’t think I can make it. My throat is sore from grunting with every exhale. I try to take in water but can only spit it out. Joe is still there, now out of the saddle. “1/8 mile to Mary’s peak,” the sign says. “Too far,” I think, trying to calculate whether that’s more or less than 0.2 miles on my computer. I’m in the parking lot. Before I can heft my leg over the bar, drop my bike, and find a fetal position, Joe’s at my side looking over me, wondering if I’m going to live or die, apparently worried by all the grunts and groans that exude from my body. I would like to die. My right ribs have an extra baseball under them, not allowing my lungs to expand. Joe’s more interested in the many white peaks of the cascades, and I’m just as happy to be left alone to die.
That rare clear November afternoon gave us views as far north as Mt Rainier. 13 snow covered peaks in all.
Recovered, a fun descent back down to highway 34, stop for lunch in a small town where the high schoolers think we’re crazy, enough left for a 20 mile charge before we relax and cool down and enjoy the last 20 miles of beautiful scenery which brings us once again to the pacific coast.
Dave and Cathy arrive a few hours later and take us out to dinner. Beer and Burgers serve well to relieve the pain of the day. This day that, we agreed, was one of the highlights of our trip. Thanks for making it happen, Dave and Cathy!!
Keep in touch - Joe (lappjoe@yahoo.com) and Glen (glapp@juno.com)!