Getting in shape for the spring cycling season is an annual rite of passage for me that begins on Thanksgiving Day. Amidst the preparations for celebrating with family and friends, I wander into the garage, pull the trainer out of the cabinet, and set-up the bike for what I know will be 8 to 12 weeks of indoor riding.

A lot of riders cringe at the mention of riding indoors. While it’s not my favorite way to ride a bike, I have learned to appreciate it for the quality of workout it delivers. A trainer can be dialed-in to deliver a precise training interval that isn’t possible on most roads. And, if you’re training by the numbers, it is important to take the inconsistency out of the ride, so the differences in performance are attributable to fitness and not the terrain.

Recording biometric data during my workouts on the indoor trainer has been a key part of my off-season regimen for the past three or four years. Power – measured in watts – provides the most reliable estimate of work effort and cardiovascular fitness, more so than heart rate, which varies with fatigue. Believe it or not, when you focus maintaining a specific average power during a series of intervals, it makes the time on the trainer go by more quickly. Of course, it helps to have your favorite music blasting in your ear buds.

The most useful aspect of training by the numbers is the ability to gauge your fitness at various points in time. Year-over-year comparisons are particularly helpful, because you are able to compare current performance with last year’s on the same date. If you were pleased with last year’s results, you’ll want to make sure this year’s numbers are on par. If you want to improve, you’ll want to see better numbers earlier in the season.

My own performance metrics appear on the chart at the top of this post. The first grouping of columns to the far left shows the data for my CTS Field Test taken in January 2008. The data include averages for cadence, heart rate and watts during an 8-minute interval, which was performed at 100 percent effort. The second grouping shows the same performance metrics a year later in 2009. I was able to sustain about 300 Watts during the 8-minute effort, almost 50 watts more than I’d been able to average during the 2008 test.

The increase could only be the result of two things: I had begun interval training indoors three months earlier on Thanksgiving Day; and for the first time, I had maintained endurance-fitness through the winter by riding at least one 200K each month. My inspiration for doing that was to earn the R-12 Medal from Randonneurs USA, and the Larry Schwartz Award from the Ultramarathon Cycling Association.

While 2009 may have been the best cycling season of my life, the opportunity cost was too high. The fact is that as a recreational rider, I need time away from the bike to keep my life in balance. Not only that, time spent doing other things renews my appreciation for riding.

This past fall and winter, I returned to my usual practice of renewal by getting off the bike and indulging in things that I love to do with my wife, like hiking and kayaking the rivers and bays of Tillamook County, taking in plays at the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, traveling to incredible locations like the Maryhill Winery in the Columbia Gorge, or staying inside all weekend with an entire season of Mad Men on DVD. All of these things are important to me because relationships enrich my life. It was something I’d lost in 2009, but something I am finding it easy to regain in 2010.

When Thanksgiving came around three months ago  I knew it was time to begin the training. I cringed at the thought of submitting to a CTS Field Test. My critical power output averaged just 235 watts, 65 watts below the point where I hoped to be at the end of February. And so the work began, but this time, without the drudgery of the long, lonely rides I had come to equate with success in endurance cycling.

With my next field test scheduled for the end of the first week of March, I am within 16 watts of last year’s average power metric. I don’t know that I will be able to match that, but I know that I was strong enough to solo 102 miles across the Oregon Coast Range last weekend in about 6 hours, and spend the next day hiking with my wife through the site of The Lost City on Tillamook Bay.

A ride like that isn’t going to earn me any medals. But seriously, does it really matter?

One of my goals this year has been to ride across the Oregon Coast Range on the Old Toll Road. It was a goal last year, too. Now that I think about it, it was a goal the year before that. I’m not lazy. And I don’t put things off, at least not the things that really inspire me. In its own way, riding the Old Toll Road is a BHAG – a big hairy audacious goal – and you don’t knock down BHAG’s in one shot. You chunk them down into small pieces you can handle.

My fascination to ride the Toll Road is due in large part to the fact that nobody else has done it. But it didn’t start out that way. My motivation was to design a safer alternative of the Oregon Randonneurs’ Three Capes 300K. The Three Capes uses Highway 6 for the westbound leg, and Highway 22 for the east bound return. Both routes are glorious, but they expose riders to heavy, fast-moving traffic on narrow roads.

Nestucca River Road was a likely candidate for a new outbound leg, but in 2007, when I started mapping routes through the Tillamook Forest, the passage wasn’t so obvious. I couldn’t find a soul who’d been over it on a bicycle, though I heard it was used in the early days of the Hood-to-Coast ultra marathon relay running race.

I made my first trip across Nestucca River Road solo. The terrain along this route blew me away. The climb to the crest of the Coast Range out of Carlton is steep. Switchbacks make it rideable, but clear-cuts and southern exposure make it a hot ride on cool days.

The road is lightly traveled. In fact, once you reach the reservoir just beyond the ridgeline, the 30 mile run down to Highway 101 is desolate. The road is used mostly by intrepid campers, headed for one of primitive camp sites along the river below Dovre Peak.

Beautiful as it is, I didn’t want to design the route as an out-and-back. So I began searching for another way to link Yamhill and Tillamook Counties. It wasn’t long before I stumbled upon The Old Toll Road. About 24 miles from beginning to end, the road-bed appeared to cross the narrowest section of the Coast Range in Northern Oregon. It also appeared to be unbroken. But I was looking at the map on Delorme’s Topo USA, which doesn’t differentiate between gravel and pavement.

Could the Old Toll Road serve as the second leg of my new brevet? I saddled up the Atlantis and I rode out Yamhill to find out.

Alternatively referred to as the Old Stage Coach Road, and the Trask Mountain Toll Road, this forgotten highway to the Coast was the first and only overland passage from the Willamette Valley to the Oregon Coast. A commercial stage line made the crossing twice a week, carrying the US Mail and a few brave passengers. The less adventurous but safer route was by steamship, down the Columbia River from Portland to Astoria, and from there to Tillamook on horseback.

By 1911, when automobiles became the preferred mode of transportation, The Old Toll Road was abandoned; it was too treacherous for a car to navigate.  For the past 100 years, loggers and hunters have used portions of it. It is wild and rugged and it is said to be a refuge for elk, black bear, and cougar.

I have made several mapping rides on the Old Toll Road since 2007, chipping away at it from both sides of the Coast Range. I’ve ridden the length of the original stagecoach route from Yamhill to Tillamook now, except for a 14-mile stretch from Trask Mountain west to Murphy Guard Station, on the ridge above the Trask River. As you might expect, it is this section that is the most remote – and the most renowned. The condition of the Old Toll Road there is rumored to be awful, and confusing to those that have attempted to use it. The forest is so thick, they say that a GPS is of little use. Which is why the Forest Service and the Sheriff advises you not to go up there alone.

I have embarked on every one of my Old Toll Road expeditions alone – my only companion, a Delorme PN-40. Each time that I see the words “Old Toll Road” appear on the screen of that device, I feel the excitement and the fear that comes from knowing I am riding where nobody has ridden. I realize there is no room for error out here, because nobody is going to be coming down a dirt road like this any time soon.  Which is why I won’t attempt that final, 14-mile section without a co-pilot.

Connecting the Nestucca and Trask River Roads with the Three Capes Scenic Loop could make one epic brevet for the adventurous – and for those who love Oregon folklore. To get it designated as a 300 kilometer RUSA permanent, though, I’ll have to prove it can be ridden in under 20 hours.

Before that, of course, we’ll have to see if the Old Toll Road can be ridden at all.

For nearly a year, preparing for Race Across Oregon gave me an important objective. The thought of racing terrified me, but it also motivated me. Speed intervals, hill repeats, endurance training, RAO gave meaning to it all.

I reached for RAO knowing it lay well outside my comfort zone. Completing it made my comfort zone bigger. My second place finish in the men’s 50-59 Division qualified me to enter the Race Across America. What seemed unimaginable before RAO has become an opportunity that I must now reckon with.

While I am proud of my accomplishment, RAO brought me to a cross-roads in long distance cycling.  If I were a dedicated racer, the road ahead would be clear. I would be looking for the next ultra endurance race. But I am a randonneur. I never raced a bicycle before I entered RAO. I understand the appeal. And I know the risks. Finishing a brevet at the front of the ride requires a disciplined training schedule. Winning or placing in an ultra race requires more, a lot more.

I cannot see how someone with a family and a career can achieve distinction as an ultracyclist unless one’s family and career are intertwined with the sport. If they are not, the hours the ultra racer must spend on the bike are going to take a toll on some important aspect of life, be it relationships, career, finances, or whatever it is that is sacrificed to make time for the bike.

Is ultracycling at the next level up worth the price?

Not for me, not if it means losing touch with my family, my friends, or other important aspects of life that have enduring value.

Is it possible to enjoy the sense of purpose and elation and self-confidence the ultra cyclist knows without turning one’s life over to the sport entirely?

That is the question I have been asking in the weeks since the race. It is difficult to do, but there comes a time when one must say, I have achieved my goals. I have done what I set out to do.

Looking for the next big ride at the next level up will not bring me any closer to a lasting sense of accomplishment or distinction or whatever it is we long distance cyclists are out there searching for, alone, on the highway. But it could certainly take me farther down the road from the parts of life that are important to me.

Memories of RAO: from Maupin to Cooper Spur Ski Resort and the finish.

The descent into Dufur on US 197 from the summit of Tygh Ridge is eight miles long and straight as an arrow. It’s a welcome payback for the 7-mile climb up here from Tygh Valley. When I’ve ridden this section before, I usually sit-up, eat, drink, and enjoy the glide off the mountain.

But tonight, after 44 hours on the bike without sleep, the monotony of this road was causing me to doze. I had taken a caffeine pill about an hour earlier, near the bottom of the climb. That, and the lightning strikes along the north ridge, was enough to keep me awake while I was climbing.

I must have been doing close to 30 miles an hour on this descent because I was close to spinning out. I fought the urge to sleep. Every few minutes I would blackout, then snap-back. There was no traffic to speak of, so I steered the bike to the center of the slow lane and focused to keep it there.

It was on Dufur Valley Road that my crew finally stopped me. They said I was drifting to the far side of the road. The funny thing was that I wasn’t aware I was dozing, as I had been on the highway. The caffeine pill wasn’t having any affect. I asked for a second tablet. I knew it would probably make me sick, but at least I’d be awake.

Forest Road 44 is 14 miles long and 2000 feet up. It’s a gradual climb up the north flank of Mount Hood, protected from the wind by thick blanket of pines. From the way they were swaying and creaking, I could tell there was a strong west wind. Mostly, the trees protected me from it. It was like riding in a cocoon.

Justin and Bert were coaxing me to eat. But the nausea was back, so I decided to reset my stomach. It was actually easier to eat afterward, and for the first time in hours I began nibbling on pretzels.

Justin urged me to pick up the pace. He wanted me rolling just one mile per hour faster. Finishing in time had come to that.

The road was lined on both sides with dry grass. It had a fresh coat of blacktop and a new yellow stripe down the middle. Way up ahead, I could see it rise up and twist in the air like a cobra. A deer walked onto the road in front of me. The scene was surreal and I knew I was hallucinating.

But I was awake, and I knew that in less than one hour this race would be done.

Memories of RAO: from Spray to Maupin and Time Station 6.

My pace van rolled up along-side me. The passenger window was down. Justin was driving and leaning across to yell.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

“Give me the good news,” I shouted back.

“Eric is right behind us,” he said.

That wasn’t good news.  I looked over my shoulder. Eric was coming down the road like a locomotive with a full head of steam.

In another moment, he was riding with me.

“Hey man,” he said. He was smiling but the lines in his face showed he was worried. “It’s gonna be close.”

What is he talking about? Does he mean ‘how’ we’d finish, or ‘if’ we’d finish?

Either way, Eric was hammering and I was running on empty. I couldn’t hope to match his pace. I’d won my battle with nausea, but I had lost interest in eating and my rolling speed showed it. More threatening, though, was my head-space. Watching Eric pull away crushed me.

It didn’t take long before I recognized what was happening. I decided to stop the bike and let him go.

“I’m bonking, big time,” I told my crew. “Break-out the gel.”

We’d been keeping the Hammer Espresso in reserve. It was to be my source of caffeine if I needed it. No one argued. Bert went into the van and came back with a flask. I took a long pull on the bottle. My throat was raw and it burned as it went down.

This strange elixir has resurrected me before. I prayed it would do its magic again.

I took another pull on the flask. 270 calories down the hatch. I clipped into the pedals and started rolling.

Now it was time to start working on my attitude. The thing to do when your head’s in the dumper is to take stock of the reasons you’re out here in the first place. I have pulled through some really rough patches this way, when my knee has blown-up so bad that I’ve cried.

This time, my issues were mostly mental. Eric and I are buddies. We’ve ridden thousands of miles and pulled each other over 100 mountain passes on the road to RAO. I beat Eric to the first four time stations. The gap I cracked-opened on Battle Mountain endured for 16 hours. But here, on Bake Oven Road – less than 80 miles to the finish line – Eric was putting the hurt on me in a way that Ibuprofen couldn’t touch.

I recited my goals:

• Finish in time

• Finish in less than 40 hours

• Qualify for Race Across America.

Beating Eric was never on the list. Let go of it.

Finishing in less than 40 hours was out of the question. But finishing within the time limit was still do-able. It seemed like I was setting the bar too low when I set that goal, but with more than half the field out of this race, finishing in time seemed noble and worth every bit of effort I had left.

As for qualifying for RAAM, initially, the goal seemed so audacious that I didn’t share it with anyone. But now, miraculously, it too was in reach.

The calories and the caffeine were doing their job. I felt a renewed sense of purpose, which would stay with me for the rest of the race. It was a damn good thing. My most difficult battles were still in front of me.

Memories of RAO: from Dale to Spray and Time Station 5.

The sun was coming up when we reached the summit of Ritter Butte. The plain was golden and treeless. Its southern edge lay 10 miles in the distance, bounded by a mountain range much higher and steeper than the one we’d just come over.

The thought of riding into those mountains troubled me.

There was a wall rainclouds swallowing them up. It was so black it seemed like night was falling beneath them.  Above, the sky was blue and bright, but it offered me little solace. A mighty wind was blowing up the road right into me. The storm was moving this direction.

I suppose there were moments when I cursed that wind. Mostly, I was feeling the elation of riding all night and seeing the sunrise.  I kept my head tucked low and the pedals turning fast and thanked God this wasn’t a cross wind.

After a time, the town of Long Creek came into view. It was little more than a gas station, a store, and a few houses gathered round a four-way junction. Storm clouds swept down from the mountains like fast moving waves.  Long purple trails of rain dragged along the earth behind them.

When I reached the junction I got off the bike and told Justin I wanted my rain gear.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t keep riding?”

I don’t think I answered him.  I just got into the van to stay dry and out of the rain while I put on a wool jersey, knickers, a rain jacket, and booties. Even as I changed I could see the sky clearing to the west. By the time I was back on the bike and riding, the storm had blown through and the headwind that had slowed me was now a cross-wind pushing me toward the western edge of the butte.

I had wasted valuable time changing clothes and now I was hot and sweating. I wanted out of this rain gear, but doing so soon would be admitting to Justin that I’d blown it. I waited until my crew had driven up the road and was out of sight, and I took of my jacket.

Ignoring Justin’s advice would become a pattern. I would find more excuses to get off the bike to take care of simple things that a day earlier I would have managed while riding. Even more threatening was my refusal to eat, which by late afternoon had slowed my pace to a crawl.

But for the moment, I had outrun this storm and I was near the front of this Race Across Oregon.  I was feeling good, and I was only too happy to give in to the  illusion.

Memories of RAO: from Heppner to Dale and Time Station 4

Most of the climbing to this point was on was on major highways, which meant that none of the climbs exceeded six to eight percent. As I approached the foot of Battle Mountain, I could see its ridge silhouetted by the moonlight, almost 2000 feet above. The angle of the pace vans on the grade and position of them on the mountain could mean only one thing –  switchbacks.

I could see three cars on the highway. I ran the numbers in my head.  If two of the vehicles up there were the teams that passed me an hour earlier, they might have opened a 5-mile gap. There was a third set of lights, 200 feet higher and headed in the opposite direction. It had to be Eric.

Judging from his position, I guessed he was maybe two-thirds of the way up the wall. I didn’t expect to catch him, but at the same time, I knew that it might be my only chance. I had been climbing faster than Eric all day, but what I gained in the mountains he took back on the flats.

I turned on my headlamp and ramped-up my effort to 220 watts. I knew I could hold this for at least an hour without tapping my reserves. That should be enough to get me to the top.

There was a false summit up there and I could see that Eric had stopped at top of it. He was close enough  that I could see the colors of his clothing in the pace vans headlights. I increased my effort.

240 appeared on the computer.

They were going up the road again and quickly disappeared over the crest of the mountaintop. I was certain he’d soon be descending to US 395 and that would be the end of my chance to gap him. But as I came over the crest I was saw his van parked on the side of the road again. The sight of it  juiced me like a bolt of lightning.

250 watts.

I was rolling across that plateau at 23 or 24 miles an hour. I could see Eric standing in the headlights of his van. He was putting on his wool for the descent. He looked up at us as we rolled by, down the mountain. Even in the darkness I could feel our eyes lock. It would be the last time I would see him until nearly 8 o’clock, on Bake Oven Road near Maupin.

250 watts.

I kept the effort steady until the grade became so steep that I spun-out of gears. I pulled into a tuck with my hands in the drops. I was flying that bike down the mountain.

The descent eased and I kept the cranks turning hard as we rolled along what I guessed was river grade. We were climbing on the way into Dale, but in the darkness I didn’t know it. I felt good I wanted to be through the Time Station before 3 a.m. so that my time would be recorded on the RAO race page.

On the way into town, I was thinking about what George Thomas had said back in Heppner. The wind would not be our friend when the sun comes up in the morning, he warned. The smart thing to do would be to ride straight through.

“Are you hungry?”

Bert was talking to me. I was off the bike, sitting in the passenger seat of the van. For the first time since I started this race, I actually felt hungry. He brought me a turkey sandwich, some Fritos, and a Diet Coke.

I kept thinking about Susan Notorangelo. She was the first cyclist to ride through the night without sleeping. It was a game-changing strategy that allowed her gap her competition who stopped to sleep, and go on to set a new transcontinental record.

I’d never ridden through the night without sleeping at a control. But I knew this was the final break I would have to make with randonneuring to make the leap to ultra marathon cycling.

It was ten after three Sunday morning. I’d been at the Dale Time Station for 12 minutes. It was the longest rest I’d taken since I left Hood River 22 hours before. I got out of the van. Bert had refreshed my bottles and they were in the cages.

There was no overnight control here in Dale. No hot meal, no shower, no warm bed to lie down on for a just a few hours.

I’d checked in. I’d eaten. There was nothing left to do here, so I got back on the bike and started rolling for the next Time Station in Spray.

Memories of RAO: from Moro to Heppner and Time Station 3

Windmill farms.

I heard the expression for the first time in May of this year, when Eric Ahlvin and I pre-rode the Oregon XTR 600K for our club, the Oregon Randonneurs.

“It will be good training for RAO,” wrote John Kramer, in an email to Eric and me.

John has ridden more miles and mapped more routes in Northeast Oregon than anybody. His 2007 brevet series, capped-off with the Big Lebowski 600K, made him notorious for designing routes so challenging that even the strongest randos in the northwest questioned whether they could finish them under the time limits.

It was here, among these windmills, in the hills west of Condon, that I came to appreciate the wisdom in John’s suggestion. This climb, though steep by most standards, was steady and sweeping. You could see the top miles in the distance if you knew where to look.

I could see a rider up ahead of me, white pace van leap-frogging slowly up the road ahead. The sun was on my back and it was cooler up here with a breeze.  The familiar landscape – these windmills – lifted my spirits. I decided to dig in and catch that rider, put another one behind me right now, right here, on this hill climb.

Then, a voice cracked from the radio.

“You are looking great. Lets reel him in.”

I hadn’t seen my crew for awhile. But I was in the hunt and didn’t want to waste energy turning around to make eye contact.

“Hill. Hill. Hill. Hill,” the voice on the radio was pacing my cadence.

“Dig. Dig. Dig. Good. Good. Good.”

I heard the van’s engine rev. Then the sound of tires, grabbing the freshly laid tarmac.

“Go. Go. Go. Go,” said the voice on my radio.

In the corner of my eye there was a blur of red and white and black. It was Chris Ragsdale. He was flying.

“Good work, David,” he said as he tore by me up the mountain.

“Woo hoo!” came shouts from the van as they pulled-out into the road to pass.

This wasn’t my van or my crew. The voice on the radio wasn’t talking to me. It was Koenig’s Kronies, the four-man team out of Seattle. I could see friendly faces in the windows, guys I know and have ridden countless brevets with over the years.

The instructions on the radio came from them, and the pace-chant was meant for Chris. He was tearing the cranks off that bike as he dug into this hill. The Kronies would go on to finish RAO in just over 26 hours, 21 hours faster than me. But I wasn’t racing them, so rather than demoralize me, they inspired me.

“Want us to stop up there?”

It was Justin’s voice on the radio this time. I had told him somewhere back down the road that I would need to slather a fresh layer of chamois cream. I could see we were approaching a plateau in the climb.  But I knew, because I’d been here before, that it wasn’t the top; it was a false summit.  There were miles to go before we’d reach the pass.

I looked up the road. Chris was long gone. But my target was just a hundred yards up ahead of me.

“No,” I answered. “Let’s reel that rider in.”

Go. Go. Go. Dig. Dig. Dig.

Memories of RAO: from Tygh Valley to Moro and Time Station 2

When a rider thinks about the crew that will support him during a 48-hour race, the most important thing to consider are the roles each member will play. Paramount among them is the crew chief. This person must have experience both as a racer and as crewman. There was never a question about who would fill those shoes on my team.

In fact, I wouldn’t have registered for RAO had it not been for Justin’s unselfish offer to take on that responsibility. I had too many reservations about this race to go it alone.

Although the rule book requires that a crew consist of at least two people, riders I spoke to with RAO experience recommended three. Instinctively I knew who would fill the other two spots.

To support Justin, I wanted someone with an intimate knowledge of long distance cycling in the region, preferably, someone who had ridden with me and knew my riding style. Oregon Randonneur Bert Lutz fit that description to a tee.

From the moment I decided to enter the race, I knew that I wanted my son with me. From a practical perspective, I knew Evan would manage communications with our readers, with the race organizers, and with our family. I also believed that RAO would be the ride of my life and I wanted Evan to be a part of that experience, so that he and I would create that memory together.

Early in the race, it seemed like the entire crew was out of the van as I rode by. I recall seeing them there, big grins on their faces, surprised, I imagined, by how steadily I rolled-up the mountain to Barlow Pass. Each time I passed them, I realized my eyes were searching for Evan, and when they found him, I felt a connection so strong that it made me smile, sometimes laugh. It was as if we shared a broadband connection that linked us heart-to-heart, soul-to-soul.

On the road to Moro and Time Station 2, I noticed, the crew had begun to alternate coming out of the van. Perhaps the novelty of the race had worn off. Or it could have been the temperature, which had reached more than 100 degrees. When they emerged from the van, I could see they had settled into their roles: Justin meeting me well up the road, then jogging along-side me with instructions; Bert standing near the van, bottles filled with cool water and Perpetuem on ice; Evan at the far side of the road, his face hidden by the camera at first, then visible, smiling, eyes glistening in the sunlight.

I depended on Justin’s insight and his instructions. I survived on the food and water Bert put into my hand. But it was the face of my son that I longed to see each time I rode by.

Where is Evan? I remember thinking, when the van came into view and I did not see him on the road. I stared into the smoky, tinted-windows as I rolled along side, hoping to see his silhouette. I held my smile until I could see it plainly in the window, trusting that he was just beyond my reflection, looking back, connecting.

Memories of RAO: from Hood River to Tygh Valley and Time Station 1.

Though RAO was my first race, I knew that in the end, my performance would be judged by the numbers.

Some riders focus on elapsed time. Others, on how they will place in the general classification or in their divisions. I thought of those things. I may have even raised them with Justin. But he pretty much brushed them off as irrelevant.

Whether my wheels were rolling freely across the asphalt or locked-down in the trainer, the focus of Justin’s training programs (and therefore, my riding) centered around the PowerTap – a mystical hub in my rear-wheel and an oval-shaped, yellow computer fixed to my handlebars.

Power – expressed in watts – eclipsed heart rate and speed as the key indicators of my strength and endurance. Justin prescribed the duration and intensity of the workouts. He suggested a course profile and then he gave me numbers. It was my job to find the route – to map it, ride it, and fight like hell to keep a three-digit numeral constant on the display, whether climbing or descending.

By the time race day came, I wasn’t just comfortable with the idea of pacing my efforts to a metric; I was addicted to it. I watched that power meter so closely that I could estimate the watts I was generating from pressure and pain I felt in my legs. My breathing and my heart rate were interesting, but far too variable to be a reliable indicator of my effort over long distances.

As we stood there in the darkness, just beyond the tail-gate of our van, I asked Justin for my numbers.

“180 to 200 watts going down the road, “ he said with confidence, “220-240 on the climbs. If you see 250, back down, fast.”

Justin put a cue sheet in my hands that he’d cut from a page in the route book. I stared down at it.

They don’t expect riders to actually use this thing, do they? The type-face is too small, the instructions too long.

No, this was written for the crew. It was their job to keep their riders on course. That’s why I was carrying this two-way radio, so Justin and Bert and Evan could do the thinking for me and bark-out instructions. All I had to do was ride.

But there was a twist.  Crews were prohibited from following their riders until they reached Highway 35, about 16 miles out of Hood River. But with a parade start, all I needed to do was stay with the group until my crew could fall in behind me on the climb up Barlow Pass on Mount Hood.

“They are going to go out fast, David. You have to fight the temptation to go with them.”

I knew what Justin meant. Even at 250 watts, I wouldn’t be able to ride with the leaders. With race organizer George Thomas out front, they could easily be riding at 300 or 350 watts as they rolled up the hill.

“Go hard now and you’ll pay for it for the next 500 miles,” Justin warned.

I folded the cue sheet and clipped it to my bars. I looked up at him again.

“You are going to be the tide that rises up and over them.  One by one – you will put them behind you.

“Let them go for now.”