The Eleven Year Old Bullet Belt

So John and I decided to ride permanent 531 today. You basically ride all over the place for 200k. You start on Mercer Island, roll around Lake Sammamish and then go south to Renton, past the salt mine, down to Orting, up to Seattle, and then do a victory lap around Mercer Island.



I've been getting over a cold, and I really wanted to get my R-12 on, so to speak, but there was no way I was going to play with the big boys in the hills today, so the flattest ride that starts closest to my house was on the play list.



We did this ride two times last winter, and I remember walking in snow and ice on one ride as well as sucking it up in dumping rain on the other ride. Today was crisp (couldn't resist) but clear.

Every time I've ridden within 10 miles of Orting, I get yelled at; I expected today to be no different. Last time I pulled into the Safeway in Orting, the local soccer club hit me up for a donation. No, I'm not going to donate since your dad just tried to hit me with the mirror of his truck and your sister just called me a "teenage mutant ninja turtle." Yelling at me keeps my donations to a minimum; call me crazy.

But today, not one person yelled at us. However, there were three kids, about eleven, doing their best to be tough hanging out at Safeway. I'm not sure if they were playing grunge-death metal-goth-skinhead-hipsters, but I suspect they are not going to be running for higher office any time soon. The best bit was that one of them was playing with a bandolier of very real looking bullets which he wore as a belt when it was time to leave.

That's just not going to end well.

The contrast with the QFC on Mercer Island was pretty severe. Sure, the kids on Mercer Island are more likely to bring down the next Lehman Brothers, but they appear one heck of a lot less disturbed.

We met one other disturbed person as the Seahawks game got out. We timed our ride past the stadium perfectly.

After she smacked and punched her I'm-guessing-by-now-ex-boyfriend in front of three cops, they gave her the chance to walk away many many times. But no, she thought it would be a great idea to pick a fight with the cops. I doubt it ended well for her, but at least she didn't have a bullet belt.





Let's play "That's Rando!"

Sadly, no contestants had anything sufficiently rando today. However, the judges of "That's Rando!" have awarded this entry from the SIR road clean up as this weekend's winner. Congratulations, mystery winner!

Tout a Gauche

Il ne marche pas. Je marche.

I thought about calling this Ernesto and Dario's Excellent Adventure, but it wouldn't really tell the story. If it were a weekday, Ernie and Dario's Day Off would have been in serious contention.



I went out for a 200K with Bill today. It was a beautiful day a few tens of degrees hotter than last weekend. The mountain was out in full force, and it made us think of our blue shirted brothers on the 600K. Good on ya' guys!

Today's goal was to redeem myself from my DNF on the 100K and to get another R12 month under my belt. I held my tongue and didn't point out all the places we changed flats last weekend.

The Alps is basically the same route as the 100K with a bit more suffering. It's got about 9000 feet of climbing.



And then there is Alice.

The climb up to Lake Alice comes about 90 miles into the ride, and you have already had a few climbs to soften you up. The Zoo, Somerset, Tiger Mt., Squak Mt., etc. "Oh," he said, "I forgot about Squak; I suppose we'd better do that before Starbucks."

But Alice is the cruel one. At least she is with me. Bill gets along with Alice just fine. With me, she starts out nice enough. In fact, she's kind of easy at first, but she hides her evil ways from view until it's too late. Once she gets mean, she just never backs off -- not even a little -- until she's just plain old done with you. Then she spits you out and invites you back to play anytime you want. Oh yeah, she's around; just swing by and see her. You don't even need to call.

Bob B. went to France this summer and came home with some new vocabulary. Tout a gauche means all the way to the left. It means you are already in your lowest gear and there is nowhere else to go. Tout a gauche wasn't enough today.

I ended up cramped like a...like a...well like a big cramped thing as we hit Lake Alice road. I have never ever walked on a climb. Never. I've gone really really slow, and I've stopped to rest before, but today I walked. At least I was moving forward.

Still, this ride is a totally different experience on a sunny day with enough daylight. When I rode this in the winter with Greg, who was off jumping out of a perfectly good airplane today, we finished after dark, and we were wet and cold. Today it was pretty good advice to leave my vest and arm warmers in the car.

Last time, I forgot one of my shoes and got bonus miles riding to my house with a big honkin' boot on one foot. This time, Bill fell for my cunning plan to leave my cue sheet home. This way he had to stick with me. Thanks Bill.

Continuing the trend of riding with others with stellar jerseys, Bill pulled this out. "Oh, this little thing? I just threw it on; it's nothing, really."

I'd have Lizzie build you a retaining wall for a jersey like that.



Let's play, "That's Rando!"
Bill and I went light today, so the contestants were few and the pickings slim. The best entry would have to be my flashlight and Very Large Corporation of America badge holder map clip:



Unfortunately, the international judging committee of "That's Rando!" deemed the entry insufficiently rando to earn an award. They refuse to cheapen the award with such a trival entry, and decided no entry was worthy today. The Russian judge abstained. I suppose that's how they earn their lavish salaries and international acclaim. While obviously disappointed, I understand and respect the judges decision, and I will strive to fight another day.

Every Jersey Tells A Story, Don't It?

So there I was, yesterday, riding along in a slight mist just enjoying the morning. I was in a slight mist, I suppose, because I only had a couple of shots in my latte. Well, I also had two cups of tea before I left in the dark, but that hardly counts.

The guy behind me in line at the ferry terminal coffee stand had held nothing back and ordered his with five shots. Count 'em. Five. I vowed to redeem myself as the day went on. We randos know how to pace ourselves. Yeah, sprint out of the first turn, and order five shots, buddy; we can go all day.

But I digress. I was also in a mist, because I was in literally a mist. It felt great after some of the hot weather, and we were all fendered and flapped appropriately as we headed out on permanent 536 -- Hood Canal 2.0. I was not around for the beta version of Hood Canal or even Hood Canal 1.0, but I can assure you that 2.0 is bug free.

Mark had a spiffy new jersey on, and the thought went through my mind that he had to earn that one. Then I noticed what the other guys were wearing. As the old joke goes, I don't think they picked these up on e-bay. Again, Anne, I really don't ride that much. I submit exhibits A through F:













And, yeah, that's two different PBP jerseys. There were only six of us on the ride. I was sporting my Glacier jersey -- The Last Best Place, or as I was taunted, simply:



As the day went on, everything cleared up, and we stopped for coffee here and there. No question over the course of the day we crushed five shot guy. I submit exhibits G and H:





Let's play, "That's Rando!"

Rando is all about what works. Some people put together coffee-table-book stunning machines. Others ride ubiquitous Trek 5000s with mind blowing speed. An old rattle can '70's bike works just as well as anything. They are all rando.

I love it when people kludge together something that works with apparent disregard for aesthetics, but in their disregard, one finds a thing of beauty in function. The Bonzo Dog Band, once said, "Baby, you're so far ahead it's beautiful!"

As the first in a series, I submit this beautiful Pinarello with a classical hand tooled clothes pin: