Good Morning, Vietnam

Day 00 (Friday)

Our connecting flight, from Seoul, arrived at midnight.  In the Hanoi airport we presented our approved visa applications, paid our fee, had visas attached to a page in our passports, and were allowed entry.

Then we picked up our luggage.  Then I went into the restroom.  After exiting the secured area, I almost immediately realized I'd left my just retrieved checked bag in the restroom (I was VERY tired, by this time, having been up for about 26 hours).  Fortunately the security guard was very helpful, minimizing my embarrassment.

Two people from the cycle touring company picked the six of us up, in a large van/small bus, and drove us to our hotel in downtown Hanoi.  En route, the guide told us a lot about how the tour would unfold.


Day 0 (Saturday)

This was a free day.  After breakfast, in the hotel, we walked a short distance to Hoàn Kiếm Lake.  The perimeter park is a pleasant walk of just over two kilometers.

On the street along the south end of the lake - closed to traffic - children were riding around in large toy cars, etc.  Our favorites were the military style tanks, complete with flags, either Vietnamese or US.

Near the north end of the lake is Jade Island, connected by the bright red wooden Morning Sunlight Bridge.  On the island is Jade Mountain Temple.  The street on the eastern perimeter of the park/lake, Inh Tien Hoang, was closed to cars and filled with pedestrians.  At one location, in a large courtyard, on the far side of the street, a large assembly of people were listening to an excited speaker.  From the large posters, we could only make out the word "green," though hastily concluded the event was for some environmental cause.

We found a place for coffee and pastries, on this street.  We sat on the sidewalk, on small chairs, facing a small market.

Then we returned to our hotel, to regroup.

And then we headed back out again, for more exploration of The Old Quarter.  We walked through narrow streets, and occasionally through even narrower alleys.  There was one shop, after another, the activities of which often spilled out across the sidewalk.  The sidewalks rarely functioned AS sidewalks because of all of the motorbikes parked there.  So one often walks in the street, where it is best to take some care to not be run over by the many motorbikes, and much rarer cars, that one encounters there.

It was interesting how certain stretches of certain streets seemed to have a theme to their shops.  One street had many shops offering various metal objects (smokers, for cooking, for example).  My favorite theme shops were ones which, unabashedly, labeled themselves as Propaganda Posters.  Most of the posters appeared to be from the 70s, during a time of tensions between then North Vietnam (Hanoi being its capital) and the US.

Our first actual destination for the day was St. Joseph Cathedral.  Built in 1896, by the French colonizers, its Neo-Gothic style was influenced by Notre Dame de Paris.  The front of the church was inaccessible, due to a large chain-link fence, so it was unclear if the church is in use at the moment.  The face of the church was a bit in need of cleaning, except for the large statue of St. Joseph, near the top, the cleanliness of which set it off, from the rest of the face, by contrast.

Then we found a restaurant, with outdoor seating that was shaded, on a quiet street, near the Supreme Court building.  Perhaps judges come here for lunch, before hearing arguments in the afternoon.  Our verdict: great food and beer!

From there we sought out the principal destination of the afternoon, the Hanoi Hilton.  The prison was built by the French, around the same time as the cathedral.  (Hey - the Lord giveth ... and the Lord taketh away!)  It was originally used, by the French, to house political prisoners.  Later, the North Vietnamese used it to house prisoners of The American War.  Most of the prison is no longer there, but the gate house, and other remains, have been transformed into a museum.

Let's just say that, in its day, the place was NOT a country club.  To Americans, its most famous prisoner was pilot, and future US Senator, John McCain.  Perhaps its most famous visitor, again, to Americans, was Jane Fonda.

The return to the hotel, in late afternoon, was quite challenging.  By this time of day the traffic had become very heavy.  Occasionally we resorted to a rare crossing light, while being aware that red lights were merely a suggestion to drivers and especially to motorbikers.  Just before finally reaching our hotel, somehow still alive, I saw a shirt, in a tee shirt shop, explaining all:

    GREEN: I can go
    YELLOW: I can go
    RED: I can still go

Back at the hotel, I was able to squeeze in a short nap.  Then it was time for dinner.  The people at the front desk, of our hotel, recommended a restaurant only two doors down.  The food was very good.  The staff was very friendly.

Afterwards there was a group movement to see the Night Market.  I was too tire, preferring some quiet time, back in the room in the hotel, to work on my blog!


Day 1 (Sunday)

Most of today was free.  My roomie Jim, and I, headed to the Museum of Ethnology.  It was about 10k away, so we took a cab, leaving the old quarter behind as we headed west.  The drive was a bit TOO exciting.  The car wove its way through lots of people on foot and motorbike.  We learned a little more about the fine art of horn use.  As Jim noted, road rage does not seem to exist.  Drivers of whatever sort of vehicle, just keep on keepin' on, always moving, always looking for an opening.  We also learned more about the fine art of driving a motorbike and acknowledging red lights.  Many red lights have a countdown timer display.  Within 10 second of green is the point at which a lot of motorbike drivers decide "close enough!"

One out of the old quarter, the streets became so wide that the sidewalks were rarely used by motorbikes, for moving or parking!  The buildings became modern, and taller.  Eventually a very large, curving building caught my attention.  It turned out to be the indoor portion of the museum!

The 11 acre site is devoted to the 54 officially recognized ethnic groups within Vietnam.  Many of the outdoor exhibits are displays of traditional buildings (often houses, but sometimes other types of buildings).

Bahnar Communal House

Long junk house (boat is still used in international racing)

The afore-mentioned large modern building displays traditional crafts, including fabrics and musical instruments.  I was particularly impressed by its architecture.  From wikipedia:

The exhibition building was designed by the architect Ha Duc Linh, a member of the Tày ethnic group, in the shape of a Đông Sơn drum, and the interior architecture was designed by the French architect Véronique Dollfus.^[3]

Columns of Exhibition Building

Very large drum

Shadow puppet

Loom

From there we took a cab to the Ho Chi Minh complex.  It is a large area, with two very famous large buildings - Ho Chi Minh Museum and Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum - and several smaller buildings, including the One Column Pagoda.  The mausoleum had closed at 11:00 am, so we were not able to go inside.  Seeing it from the outside was a none-the-less profound experience.

Last resting place of Ho Chi Minh

We walked the remaining distance, back to the hotel.  We found a wide east west street, and stuck to the south side (shade!), to avoid the heat - 95° F!  For an all too brief distance, we enjoyed a wide sidewalk.

In the late afternoon the tour company picked us up and transported us to the bike fitting.  The bikes were lowered to the street level from the top floor of a residential building.

Bikes, about to be lowered

I had a chance to get acquainted with the bike I will be riding for six days.

If the bike fits, ...

I took comfort in an unsubstantiated conclusion that the bike's color - green - was particularly fast!

Then the tour people transported us to a restaurant, for the first official meal of the tour.

Day 2 (Monday)

We rode the minibus from Hanoi to Halong City, 150 km to the east.  In the port we boarded a wooden junk that would take us out into Halong Bay, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  In all there were about 30 passengers on the boat (which could accommodate about 40).

The Paloma

The bay has about 2,000 limestone islets, many with vertical sides and dramatic shapes.  The day was overcast, which obscured the more distant islets.

Halong Bay

After finding an interesting spot to moore in, we rode a much smaller boat to an island.  There we entered a cave and walked at least 70 metres into it.  We could have gone further but the small boat was departing and it seemed best to not miss it.

Spelunking

Shortly after returning to the mother ship, we got into tandem kayaks and set out to explore the islets from the surface of the water.  My boatmate and I worked hard to keep up with everyone!

Kayakers in Halong Bay

Kayaker exploring the bay (photo by Kirkpatrick)

Then we returned to the mother ship (mother junk?) for the night.

Day 3

The wooden junk returned to Halong City.  

More karsts.

Once on shore, we boarded our minibus and headed west to return to Hanoi.

In the early evening we walked from the hotel to Hoàn Kiếm Lake.

Hoàn Kiếm Lake

Our destination was a theatre nearby, to see a water puppet performance.

Two puppets, dacing

Day 4

Bike from Huyen Gia Vien to Ninh Binh

This was our group's first day of biking.  There were lots of sights and sounds, from this agrarian country, as we travelled on a wide range of roads and paths.  We saw people working in the rice fields, people herding animals on the same road we were riding on, and lots of impromptu outdoor snack bars.

We stopped periodically, to take a break and take in the view.  In the early afternoon we stopped in Ninh Binh, first for lunch, and then to take a ride in a small boat on the Ngo Dong River to see the Tam Coc (Three Caves).

Boats in harbor at Ninh Binh

Exiting the longest of the three caves

Then a bit more exploring of the area, before being finished for the day.

Day 5

Huyen Nhu Thanh to Langlam

We started the day by driving nearly three hours to Huyen Nhu Thanh.  There was a complication during the drive.  Both people who had started their malaria medication regimen became quite car sick.  The driver and guide, perhaps worried about accidents in the vehicle, then decided we should start biking 15 km before reaching the starting point.

When geese commute (apologies to Gary Larsen)

This meant we had to bike about 15 more km than anticipated.  

The route was rolling and the region was not very populated.  There was lots of rice fields and not so distant mountains.

Golden rice paddies

The setting was lush and very lightly settled.

Rolling terrain

As on the previous day, the roads were used by a wide range of vehicles and creatures.

Water buffalo

Eventually we reached a part of the tour that had very much intrigued us when we studied the itinerary - the Ho Chi Minh Highway (Vietnamese: Đường Hồ Chí Minh).  We weren't sure what to expect, recalling the Ho Chi Minh Trail, from the 70s.  We discovered a two lane road with an excellent surface and, although hilly, not steep.  The lanes were wide and the truck traffic fairly light.  There were generally settlements on each side, but actual villages were somewhat rare.

"Mile" post along the Đường Hồ Chí Minh (Ho Chi Minh Highway)

After covering 54 km for the day, we drove the remaining 80 km to Vinh.  From wikipedia:

Vinh (Vietnamese: [viɲ] ( listen)) is the biggest city and economic and cultural center of the North Central Coast of Vietnam. Vinh is the capital of Nghệ An Province, and is a key point in the East–West economic corridor linking Myanmar, Thailand, Laos and Vietnam.

We had dinner in our hotel.  We appeared to be the only people dining.  The others were participating in karaoke, on the other side of the dining room, in celebration of International Women's Day.  From wikipedia:

International Women's Day (IWD) is celebrated on March 8 every year.^[3] It commemorates the movement for women's rights.^{[citation needed]}

March 8 was suggested by the 1910 International Socialist Woman's Conferenceto become an "International Woman's Day." After women gained suffrage in Soviet Russia in 1917, March 8 became a national holiday there. The day was then predominantly celebrated by the socialist movement and communist countries until it was adopted in 1975 by the United Nations.

We participated in the spirit of the celebration.

Petrolimex?  What octane is this stuff?

Day 6

We drove 50 km to Huyen Can Loc, there to begin biking.  

Huyen Can Loc to Yen Binh

At about 10 km we reached Đồng Lộc Junction Peace Shrine.  There are several memorials to the troops who fought in the American War.

Memorial to Those Killed in the American Way

There is also a shrine to the 10 girls killed in the 24 July 1968 bombing.  We placed flowers and incense on the shrine.  It was a very moving experience.

Shrine

After that we continued biking to Yen Binh.  Then we drove a bit, had lunch, then drove to Huyen Minh Hoa and biked on the Ho Chi Minh Highway through Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park.

Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park

Phong Nha-Ke Bang National Park

We ended the day at a farm stay in Chay Lap.

Day 7

We began our day with a short drive to Dong Hoi, on the Sông Côn River.  From there we went on a small boat (only slightly larger than could accommodate our group of eight, plus guide).  The boat motored a few kilometers up the river to the entrance to Paradise cave.  At that point the operators turned off the motor.  Then the two people rowed us into the cave and back.  Then we motored back to Dong Hoi.

Waiting for the boat.  Slogan describes Vietnam perfectly.

Strict rules (incl. #4) for would be boat riders.

Ada Compliance NOT spoken here.

On the boat

Entrance to Paradise Cave

Near mouth of cave

Narrow opening, in distance

When stalagmite meets stalactite.

Short section of cave can be explored on foot.

Dong Hoi to Ang Sơn

Then we biked through the town, to check it out, and then biked the short distance to the Ho Chi Minh Highway and continued until we had covered 64 kms.  Then we called it a day, got in the van, and drove to Hue.  At dinner we discovered gender specific alcohol:

Are you man enough?

Day 8 (Sunday)

Biking around Hue

Today was a relatively short biking day.  We biked around Huế, visiting three major tourist attractions.  It was our first significant experience biking in an urban setting.  No lives were lost.

The first site we visited was the Pagoda of the Celestial Lady.  This seven story pagoda is considered the unofficial symbol of the city of Hue.

The Pagoda of the Celestial Lady

Next up, we visited the Tomb of Khải Định.  It was built from 1920 to 1931.  Khải Định was the 12th Emperor of the Nguyễn Dynasty in Vietnam, reigning from 1916 to 1925.

Tomb of Khải Định

Statue of Khải Định

Lastly we visited the citadel, and the Imperial City (made a UNESCO Heritage Site in 1993) enclosed within.  Most of the city was destroyed during the Tet Offensive of 1968.

Flag tower on the citadel.  (Tee shirt: East meets West)



Meridian Gate

Day 9 (Monday)

This was our final day of biking.  It was different from the other days because often we were along the water, or at least near it.

We started biking right from our hotel in central Hue.  Eventually we biked along a long, narrow island that paralleled the mainland.  It was great to finally see the ocean.

Wild life, on the beach.

Then we rode in the van for a while, eventually coming to another long, narrow island.  We stopped to have lunch.

After lunch we got on our bikes and biked up and up and up.  The traffic was light because the main highway, which parallels our route, goes under the mountains of ______ via a tunnel.  The climb up to Hai Van Pass was work, especially since it was humid (though, thankfully not hot).

View, during the climb

Danang, from Hai Van Pass

We spent a few minutes at the pass, catching our breath, then make the descent and biked into Danang.  After a little over a week in what seemed very close to the earth, it was somewhat of a shock to now be in a modern city.  Then we got into the van for the short drive to Hoi An.

Danang

The beach at Danang

After getting situated in Hoi An, we went to the old part of town for dinner.  Such a contrast, from our past week and a half, to see so many lights at night.

Bright lights, not so big city

The Full Monte

The Full Monte

I first met Monte Pasqual on the bus to the start of the Yakima River Canyon Marathon.  We were sitting next to each other, making the sort of conversation runners do, in those sorts of settings.  So I asked him how many marathons he ran each year.  "Forty," was his reply.

I assumed he hadn't heard my question correctly; perhaps he thought I had asked him how many he had run in total.  So, I repeated my question.  "Forty," he responded again.  "The first year I did less, but ever since then it's been forty."  OMG!  He continued, "Some weekends I double up, to keep the travel costs down."  Sure.  Why not.

I cried the remainder of the bus ride (though didn't let him notice).

I've caught a glimpse of him, generally at the same marathon, though sometimes elsewhere, in recent years, though not had a chance to speak with him until this past Saturday at the Geoduck Gallop Half Marathon.

He was in front of me, early on.  His running style caught my attention.  It seemed to indicate someone who had bashed his body for thousands of miles.  His run was now little more than a glorified walk.  His left arm swung rather wildly, not apparently contributing to forward motion.  To me he now seemed a broken shadow of a once great runner.

That being said, he gradually pulled away from me, until I lost sight of him.

Late in the run I saw him again.  Now I was closing on him.  He was running with one other person, a woman.  They seemed to know each other.  With about a half a mile to go, I was up to them.  The woman made a humorous remark about "Fast runner, passing on left."  I assured her she had me confused with someone else.

I ran the rest of the distance with them.  Some friends met them, at the finish.  I overheard Monte say that he had been "taking is easy."  Ouch!  He was asked about his plans for the next day.  "Going to continue to take it easy; just running 25 miles."

A broken shadow of a once great runner.

Cauchemar on Ulm Strasse

In September of 2017 I took a two-week trip to Europe.  My plan was to go to French school in Waterloo (note: NOT in Iowa!), run the marathon in Cologne and visit a friend in Germany.  It sounded straight forward.  What could possibly go wrong?

To get to Sea-Tac Airport I took the Rapid Ride and the Light Rail.  I was at the gate with lots of time to spare.  The flight was uneventful.  I arrived at Schiphol Airport (Amsterdam) not overly beaten down (which is rare, for a transatlantic flight).  One can catch trains right at the Schiphol Airport.  I already had my ticket (on my phone).  I found my platform and even got a pasta salad from a shop in the airport.

The high-speed train ride went smoothly.  I arrived at Bruxelles-Midi (the main train station in Brussels) still in fairly good shape.  Now all I needed to do was

•      Buy a ticket to Waterloo
•      Find the platform

After fighting off a scammer, I found a big room that sold tickets.  As I entered, I was intercepted by a woman whose job it was, among others, to make sure one didn’t wait in line needlessly.  When I said I wanted a ticket for Waterloo, she sent me to another room (“The Orange Room,” she said, in English, in response to what was, I’m sure, my impeccable French.).  The room I had gone into was for buying tickets for intercity trains.  Silly me.

The orange room had a long line, for each ticket window, that was moving VERY slowly.  I parked myself.  In time I exited the room with a round trip week-end special ticket (4-1/2 euros) to Waterloo.  There was no time indicated, other than it was only good for that day.  Then I started searching for the when and the where.

There were screens with departures times for les grandes lignes (intercity trains), near those trains’ respective platforms.  In another part of the station (perhaps in a different station, because Bruxelles-Midi and Bruxelles-Sud actually touch (which is sometimes helpful, sometimes confusing)).  There were also screens showing departures for the shorter distance trains.  On none of the screens could I see mention of Waterloo.

Next I found large posters with apparently all departures.  There were pages and pages of these posters.  I searched but could not find Waterloo.

Then I noticed that other lost souls were turning to the guys with machine guns for answers to their questions.  The guys with machine guns seemed friendly and approachable.  “Waterloo” seemed to throw a curve ball at the first machine gun toting guy I talked to.  He genuinely wanted to help, so turned to his buddy in arms.  That guy also seemed confused, though told me that Waterloo was “a la direction de Nivelles.”

Yay – now I had something to work with!  I found Nivelles on a screen and now I knew the platform number and departure time!

When I got on the train, and after we had departed, I noticed a screen showing the upcoming stops.  I became a bit concerned that Waterloo was NOT one of them.  I became even MORE concerned when the ticket checker pointed out that this train did NOT stop at Waterloo.  Prior to that conversation I had consulted google maps and noted that one of the listed stops, Braine-l’Alleud, was very near (a relative term, I was soon to find out) Waterloo.  When I mentioned this, the ticket checker concurred.

I got off the train at Braine-l’Alleud.  It was Sunday afternoon.  Things looked fairly deserted.  I could not imagine another train coming through … for a week or two.  There were no cabs out front.

I consulted google maps.  It showed a 54-minute trip, by foot, to my AirBnB.  I reasoned that, even with my heavy pack, with a determined effort, I could lop a minute or two off of that.

I arrived at my destination with a drenched shirt (it was a warm day), after a walk through quite pleasant surroundings.  A young woman gave me a quick tour of the AirBnB and then said good-bye.

I had made it!!!

The next three nights I did not venture out of the AirBnB.  I didn’t want to even think about another train adventure, much less attempt one.  On Monday and Tuesday I went to class, then went to the store, then spent the night watching French tv, eating dinner, and working on an on-line computer class.

Wednesday was a fermeture scolaire.  Darn, I’d run out of excuses.  There were friends in northern France I wanted to visit.  And there was an architectural pilgrimage I needed to make.  Only three nights in Waterloo remained, and it seemed prudent to stay “at home” on Friday night, because of the early Saturday start.  This left only two nights for evening train adventures.

My friends in Lille suggested I arrive between 4 and 6 p.m.  With that as my goal, in the early afternoon I walked to the Waterloo train station.  There was a short line, at the ticket counter, although some exchanging of life stories appeared to be transpiring.

A man who worked in the station popped his head in the platform door and announced that it was possible to purchase tickets from the machine on the platform.  He offered to hold our hand, while doing so.  I was second in line for the machine/hand.

When it was my turn, and he’d asked me my destination, and I had said Lille, he informed me that I needed to go to Braine-l’Aleud.  I hadn’t expected to ever get back there, yet only three days after my previous, albeit unintended visit, here I was, going back again.

This was confusing, of course: Brain-l’Aleud was south, Brussels was north.  Who was I to question the man.  He held my hand, while I inserted my card into the machine (with my free hand).  The machine did not like my card.

Just then he noticed the train arriving.  I held out a bill, he grabbed it, and ran inside.  Just when I was certain the train was going to leave without me, he exited the station, with the ticket and some bills.  I thanked him and ran to the door of the train.  Just before I got in, someone tapped me on the shoulder.  It was him – I had forgotten to take the coins!

At Brain-l’Aleud (by the way, if you think this name is hard to say, you are right: the locals drop the ‘l’) I was emboldened, went up to a machine, and purchased a ticket to Lille … for only several euros.  While awaiting the next train to Bruxelles-Midi (now the center of my train universe), I pondered how it was possible for the ticket to be so cheap.  Perhaps with the help of my phone I learned there was a Lille somewhere in Belgium (probably kind of close).

So I went into the station and waited in line.  When I reached the counter, the man concurred that I’d purchased a ticket to the wrong Lille.  He said that, as my Lille was in another country, he would need to consult with a co-worker - one specializing in international travel - who was off doing something at the moment.  So I stepped aside, while he turned his attention to the queue.

Eventually this feat of international diplomacy was undertaken and I was back on the platform, awaiting a northbound train.

At Bruxelles-Midi I found my platform (full disclosure: I did consult with a man carrying a machine gun).  The train arrived 20 minutes late!  Lots of people were getting on.  I was happy to find a seat in the space between cars.  There was an announcement that some technical glitch was holding us up.  20 more minutes passed.  Then there was an announcement that, due to a problem on the high-speed line, our train would not be departing for at least another 1-1/2 to 2 hours.

I had been beaten.  Sigh.  There was no point in continuing.  My plan had been to spend several hours with my friends, then make it back to my AirBnB that night, because I had French class the next day. 

I returned to Waterloo and repeated the lifestyle of the three previous evenings, first sending an e-mail to my friends in Lille, explaining why I was going to be a no show.

Needless to say, my nascent train travel courage had taken a hit.

The next day I went to class, but kept thinking about the architectural pilgrimage to Liege.  After class I went for it!!

Things started out well enough.  I had studied the schedule and knew when to catch a train from Waterloo to Bruxelles-Midi.  Once in Brussels I studied the departure sheets and found my train to Liege listed.  I noted the time, waited a bit, then went to the departure display.  To my shock, there were THREE trains leaving at the same time.  One of the three had the letters ‘IC’ after its name.  I recall that my train had those same initials, after its name, on the paper display.  So that was the train that I got on.

After traveling for perhaps 20 minutes, I got an uncomfortable feeling.  So I took out my phone to check my location on a map.  Yikes – I was headed in the exact opposite direction from Liege!  I got off the train, at the next stop, and awaited one heading in the opposite direction.  I returned to Bruxelles-Midi, without a ticket, found the platform for the correct train, and waited.

Now my two hours in Liege could only be one hour.  I arrived at Liège-Guillemins while there was still light in the sky.  This made a great backdrop for photographing this enchanting feat of architecture.  After hurriedly photographing many parts, from many angles, I turned my attention to food and eventually got a sandwich, then sat in the extremely plain plaza to eat it and admire the station.

The train that would take me back to Bruxelles-Midi arrived at Liège-Guillemins about 15 minutes late.  The connecting time was originally to be 25 minutes.  Now it was more like 3 minutes!  I would have to quickly find my platform.  I did not want to miss the train to Waterloo because I knew that, especially at night, they ran sparingly.

The train to Buxelles-Midi somehow continued to lose time.  When I reached the station, there was no time to find out what platform.  I raced through the station and ran up to the platform I had come in on, earlier.  There was my train!

An evening well spent – my train travel courage had received a big shot in the arm. 

My next train adventure was not until Saturday morning, when I bid Waterloo adoo.  I made it to Bruxelles-Midi without incident.  I checked the departure sheets, found a train that was arriving in Cologne at the time my train was arriving there, assumed that was my train, and waited for it.  While waiting, one of the machine gun guys verified that I had a valid ticket for train travel.  Did I really look like I was just sitting in that chaotic place because it was enjoyable? 

When it came I got on board a train bound for Cologne and away we went.  This was a high speed train.  At times we hit 240 kph.  Things were going well until the ticket taker scanned the ticket on my phone.  Then he became indignant and pointed out that this was a high-speed train and that I had paid for a regular train.  I was mortified.  I asked, in French (mistakenly using the infinitive for the subjunctive), what I could do.  He was German and seemed rather exasperated.  After some officious hemming and hawing, he finally walked away in a tiny huff.

I made it to Cologne.

From Köln-Hauptbanhof, I walked to the AirBnB, an uneventful undertaking.

Two days later, when it was time to leave Cologne (the day after running the marathon), I devised a clever shortcut, to simplify getting out of town.  Although my ticket was for a trip starting at Köln-Hauptbanhof, I strongly suspected this train had to pass through the Köln-Messe station, which was much closer to my AirBnB.  I found an on-line train trip planner and confirmed that it was possible to go from Köln-Messe to Berlin (my destination).  I felt so clever … always a danger sign.

Reasoning that I could catch my train where I was, I went outside of the station and sat on a bench in the plaza.  I did some people watching, I read a bit from my book.  Then, just as a random act, I decided to take a closer look at that train trip planner.  Scanning the details, I noted with horror that the proposed itinerary had one going from Köln-Messe to Köln-HBH, there to catch the train to Berlin.  My train was leaving, in seven minutes, from the other side of the Rhine!

I ran into the station and raced to the far side (where the tracks were located).  I got up onto the correct track (I can’t remember how I knew) and caught the first train to arrive, westbound.  There was no time to purchase a ticket!

When I got off, in Köln-HBF, I found the platform number, ran to it, and caught my train!  Plenty of excitement for one day.

My time in Berlin was merveilleuse (translation: wunderbra).

During the next two days my long-time friend showed me wonderful sights AND sounds (we went to the Philharmonic!).  The time passed rather quickly, and then it was time for the biggest travel nightmares of the trip.

I was to fly from Berlin to Amsterdam, via Charles De Gaulle.  Then I’d spend the night near Schiphol.  The goal was to be rested for the 10-hour flight back to Seattle.

We had rough weather getting to the airport.  Strong winds, in northern Germany, had caused many flight cancelations.  Standing on a train platform, we had to retreat behind a wall because we were being pelted with twigs and leaves.

When we got to the station there was an announcement that runway operations had been stopped, due to high winds.  My flight was listed as being 15 minutes delayed.  I waited in the somewhat cramped wing.  Eventually the screen at the gate indicated the flight was delayed for 30 minutes.  Now it would be nearly impossible to make my connection at CdG.  I went up to the counter person and mentioned this.  She responded that perhaps my connecting flight would also be delayed, so they were keeping me with the original plan.

I waited some more, and the screen kept indicating increased departure delay.  It was with sorrow, while waiting, that I noted the flight leaving from the adjacent gate was going directly to Schiphol.

Eventually the counter person announced that people with connections could come up to be accommodated.  I was informed I was now booked on a 7:20 a.m. flight out of Charles de Gaulle.  So much for my plan to start the long flight back with a good night’s rest.  I was also told that Air France would be putting me up in Paris - they couldn't put people up in Berlin because all of the hotels were filled due to all of the flight cancelations.  And I was given a 10 Euro voucher.

I exchanged the voucher, at a food counter, for some food and drink.  The woman had informed me that there would be no change, but she made up the difference by giving me a pile of Haribo candy!

The flight to Charles de Gaulle finally took off, three hours late.  We arrived at a quiet airport, where most everyone had gone home.  I wondered around, looking for an Air France counter with the lights still on.  I ended up at baggage, where I got in line. 

When I reached the front of the line I immediately put the Air France person at ease by assuring her that I did not lose baggage!  I merely asked where to go.  “Embarcation,” she informed me, “Niveau un.”

Fortunately I remembered that the French call the second floor “Level One.”  I went upstairs, found a counter with lights on AND with personnel … and got in the slow moving line.

I decided it would be prudent to not show the boarding pass for the morning flight.  When I got to the counter I produced the original boarding pass, for the evening flight to Schiphol.  It probably didn’t matter.  They informed me I was booked for a flight out in the morning.  They gave me another boarding pass, a box of food, a pouch with toiletries, and some vague directions for how to get to the hotel – “Vous passez par securité.”

I wasn’t quite sure what this meant, but I also caught that I was supposed to go down a level.  Once down I saw the guys with machine guns.  Perhaps they were being referred to as security.  Remembering that, at Bruxelles-Midi, the guys with machine guns were fair game for asking directions, I went up to one and said I was looking for the hotel.  I showed him the piece of paper on which the Air France person had written “L2.”

He responded that he did not know where L2 was, nor where hotels in general were.  There was a rare open food counter, nearby, and he asked the guy running it if HE knew where the hotel was.  He seemed aware of the hotels and said that one needed to take the train to reach them.  He pointed me in a direction.  I thanked both gentlemen and headed off.

I ended up walking all of the way to the end of the terminal, occasionally seeing signs for shuttle to hotels.  I found a place to catch a train that ran between terminals.  I figured that L2 was one of those terminals.

Not long after the train had departed, I read the small print on the hotel voucher.  It indicated that the Yotel was located in the terminal I had just left!  I got off at the next stop.  Fortunately it was not so late that the trains had stopped running!

Back in Terminal E2, I proceeded to retrace my long route.  I kept looking for maps.  Whenever I found one, it was of no help.  There was no mention of the Yotel (the term printed on the voucher).

I went back and forth a few times, near the middle of the terminal, feeling completely stymied.  Then I read the small print again, on the voucher, and discovered a phone number for the Yotel!  I phoned and asked for directions and was told, as the Air France person had told me, to pass by security.  I asked for the level and was told Level 1.  I was told to go to “Porte L.”  This jived with the “Halle L,” on the voucher.

Once upstairs I found a sign that said KLM, with an arrow.  I had no way of knowing if it meant the airline, or halles (portes) K, L and M.  I couldn’t find any of them, anyway.

Then I noticed the security that one must clear to get to ones gate.  All of the lights were off, and all of the booths were empty … save one!  I went up to the woman and said I was looking for the Yotel!  She asked if I had a passport.  When I produced it, she immediately stamped it, pointed in a certain direction, and told me that I had to hurry.

I ran in the direction she had pointed.  To my surprise I discovered another train system.  This one circulated completely within the terminal.  There was only one problem – it had stopped running for the night because it was after 12:30.

I walked back to the security kiosk, doing my best impersonation of a tourist who had been beaten down by circumstances.  Fortunately the gentlewoman took my case to heart.  I first asked her if there was a way to walk to the Porte.  She said it was very far.  I responded that that would be no problem (as I didn’t have much choice).  She phoned, she radioed, she pointed to some stairs and said I needed to go down.

There I was met by an employee who was transporting a wheel chair to near my destination.  We proceeded to walk through the bowels of Charles de Gaulle, in the middle of the night.  We had an enjoyable conversation, in French.  He told me this little junket would allow him to go home early.

Eventually he reached his destination.  He gave me directions to the Yotel.  Was I ever relieved to find the front desk (humorously labeled Mission Control).  I reached my room at 1:15 a.m.  I knew of these Yotels, but had never experienced one.  I opened the door … and was practically in bed already!  Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me (except for TSA personnel).

The Ubiquitous Candy

It had been an altogether way too long day from hell!  I opened the food box.  It too contained, among its selection, Haribo candy!  

I got 3-1/2 hours of sleep, took a shower, and managed to find my departure gate without finding the internal train. 

There was an amusing incident, just before reaching my gate.  It started just before reaching security.  A plane had arrived and a wave of people swarmed into the hallway.  Everyone was black (my guess is their plane was arriving from Africa).  After clearing security, many of them, and I, continued to a wing of the terminal.  Being the only white face, in a sea of black faces, I must have caught the attention of one of the guys with assault weapons; he gave me a subtle gesture, as if to say “Dude … butt over here!”

As I approached he asked “Parlez-vous français?”

I wanted to respond “Do I speak French!?  Is the #$%&ing pope Catholic!?  What do you think I came all of the way over here for!?

But, instead, I meekly responded “Oui, monsieur,” with just a soupçon of irony in my voice.

He asked for my passport and then asked where I was coming from.  “Bair len,” I responded, trying to give it a French accent, so I wouldn’t seem like a poseur.

This surprised him, until I explained we had arrived the previous evening, en retard, because of the weather.

“Ah, vous avez passé la nuit ici!”  I nodded.

He returned my passport and wished me good trip.

The rest of the trip home went smoothly, but the accumulation of nightmarish ordeals had left my confidence with my ability to navigate the pitfalls of public transportation somewhat shaken.

The Nightmare

Indoor Cycling

THEY say THEY don’t ride indoors because it is agonizingly boring.  Don’t get me wrong, indoors is NOT my first choice of where to ride.  In fact, let me be completely honest here: indoors is my LAST choice of where to ride.  That being said, I do occasionally ride indoors.

“Why would one do that?” you might ask.  Two reasons:

1                 Sometimes the weather outside is so bleak that the indoors is the obvious choice

2                 A lot of training regimens are so involved that you wouldn’t even THINK of doing them outside, especially if there are ANY cars around

Let me again be clear, there is no way I could just sit on a bike, indoors, and crank the pedals, even for 15 minutes.  I need to be doing something, while on the bike.

Workouts

The perfect solution is this book with indoor cycling workouts:

“The Heart Rate Monitor Book for Cyclists: A Heart Zones Training Program” by Sally Edwards and Sally Reed.

These workouts vary in duration from 20 minutes to an hour, and in difficulty from beginner to advanced cyclist.

For me, a big reason they remove the boredom from indoor cycling is the authors never have you doing the same thing for more than three minutes (in fact, two minutes is much more likely).  At very short intervals, you will be changing heart rate or cadence, or standing up.

Trainer

You will need to set your bike on something, in order to ride indoors.  I’ve found that trainers which have some combination of fluid and weight resistance feel the most similar to riding outdoors.

If you want to have an experience that is even more like the great outdoors, use rollers.  They have a learning curve, but are not all that complicated.  They’re also much faster for putting your bike on and taking it off.

It’s about the bike

It is very important to protect your bike from sweat.  From about the middle of the top tube, forward, wrap pipe insulation (eg.) around the top tube and down tube.  Put a rag over the front brake.  Put another rag over the top of the headset.

If the floor under the bike needs protection from sweat, a sheet of plastic can do the job.

Display Device

One *could* prop up the workout book, say above the handlebars.  That’s a lot of work and you will get sweat on the book.  I like using a Garmin GPS bike computer.  You can recreate the workout in Garmin Connect (connect.garmin.com) and download it to the computer.  When you run the workout, the device will automatically display the current activity.  You can do the same thing with a Garmin watch, but there’s a lot less visual real estate (read: much smaller screen size), which makes it harder to see the current step in the workout.

With any of these Garmin bike computers (or other workout GPS devices), you can record your workout, to see how you did.  Note: since you're not really going anywhere, you can turn off the GPS on the device!  To show your cadence (if the workout you have chosen calls for that), you will need a cadence sensor that is compatible with your Garmin device.

Music

A big tool, in the fight against boredom, is music.  It is important to be able to adjust the volume because, as the cycling intensity increases, so does the ambient noise.  I use an iPod and clip it to brake cable, where it comes out of the brake lever.  There it is fairly safe from sweat, yet easily accessible enough to control the selection and volume.

Controlling the indoor environment

Unlike riding outdoors, there will be no convective heat loss … unless you use a fan.  Before talking about the fan, also consider riding in a room with a lower temperature (perhaps in the basement, or garage, or a room with its own temperature control (eg. where you can open a window)).

I use a fan with a remote control.  It is very helpful to be able to adjust fan speed while riding.

Parting thoughts

You won’t need to dress for the elements.  I generally only wear bike shorts, a cotton tee shirt and a head band.

Cannonball: Still Crazy 25 Years Later

Blogger’s note: The Cannonball bike race, begun in 1988 (?) travels from Seattle to Spokane, mostly on the shoulder of Interstate 90.  The ride crosses Lake Washington, then passes by the southern shore of Lake Sammamish, eventually winding its way up into the foothills of the western slope of the Cascade Range.  It crests these mountains at Snoqualmie Pass, elevation 3,022’.  It is not unusual to have rain on the climb; one is still on the wet side of the mountains, afterall.

As one moves into the dryer eastern Washington, the skies clear up … and the monster tail winds hopefully begin.  There are two climbs before the descent into the Columbia River Gorge.  The second, Rye Grass Summit, is on the southern edge of a large wind generator installation.

The 10 mile descent into the Gorge can often be faster than one cares to go on a bicycle.  Then one crosses the Columbia River.  The climb out of the gorge, on the east side, is mercifully only about two miles long.  Then one is in cropland, seemingly forever.

One gradually ascends and, a bit before reaching Spokane, the landscape changes to Pine Savanna.  And so in one long (or perhaps very long) day riders have had a picture of the variety of scenery the state has to offer.

I rode my first Cannonball in 1991, a year of amazing tail winds resulting in terrific finish times.  Somehow I got hooked by the whole experience.  Since then I’ve maybe only missed two years.

Starting in ~2001, the Redmond Cycling Club, long time sponsor of the event, “volunteered” me to run the thing.  So, in addition to riding it, I was always busy with the organization thereof.  At its peak, the turnout hit 41 riders.  In recent years there have generally only been a handful of hearty souls.  Most ride with support, though there were generally a small subset riding unsupported.

A few years ago (2013?) was the last official running of the event.  This probably coincided with my last finish.  But I still love the event, so for the past three years, I’ve put together some sort of version of it, generally just with a friend or two (until this year, when I rode alone).  It hasn’t even involved going all of the way to Spokane: I just like to do enough to reminisce.

2016: 25 years after my first Cannonball

I had put “Cannonball” on the calendar, knowing it did not mean I’d actually ride to Spokane.  But, as the date drew near, I hatched a plan: I’d have a hotel reservation at Moses Lake (Mile 179) and a car reservation the following day in Spokane (Mile 276).  To simplify return logistics, I’d bike to the start.

And so it was, on a wet looking morning, with a wet forecast to the pass and beyond, I set out from my house, some ten miles away from the traditional start line.  The ride had always begun at 3:00 a.m., so I told myself 2:00 a.m. would be a good time to start from home.  As it turned out, I got rolling at 4:31 a.m.

The rain had arrived the previous evening, which made me think that perhaps it was done I wouldn’t get rained on.  Hah!

By the time I reached the “start line,” there was plenty of light.  This would definitely be a different sort of Cannonball, hitting points at a much later time of day than usual.

The ride follows the I-90 bike trail, with riders not actually getting onto I-90 until about 13 miles into the course, at Issaquah.  When I reached that point, it had already begun to rain.  Not only was the forecast wet, for the early part of my ride, but this would also be the COLDEST Cannonball on record!  The high in Easton was 44 degrees!  The low there, on Friday night, 37, tied a record!

While still in the western foothills, I eventually stopped to put on some additional rain gear.  A hiker pulled over, in his car, to see if I was alright.  He was driving to the Mail Box Peak trail head to hike to the top.  I wished him luck with the weather.  Maybe he got some views, but I suspect not.

I did my usual detour at Mile 38, onto a parallel road along Olallie State Park.  This gave me a two mile break from the traffic sounds of I-90 and avoided a small climb.

It was surprisingly cold climbing the pass, though this might be because I was wet (in spite of having fairly decent rain gear).  Finally the top came (one counts the miles!).  I stopped at the Rest Stop there and got a bag of Sun Chips and a bottle of Odwalla juice.

There wasn't still snow at this time of year

Fond memory on bleak pass

Then I was off to hunt for the Iron Horse State Park Trail, which is the official detour for cyclists around the construction on the highway east of the pass.  I’d ridden this unpaved trail once before, when it was hard and bumpy.  Now, with all of the rain, it was soft, and I occasionally had to stop and put my foot out, so as now to fall over.  A couple on loaded touring bikes passed me heading west.  I kind of wanted to stop and talk, and I suspect they would have appreciated a break, but a big ride like this weighs on a person, so we just smiled and said 'hi.'  I suspect they were camping.  It's possible to make a several day tour of this trail.  After 8 miles I was back on I-90.

The rain continued, but it seemed lighter.  Then it stopped.  A few blue patches appeared in the sky.  There were even moments of sun.  I was still a bit wet, but this warmed my soul.

As I approached Cle Elum I recalled the Weigh Station, a few miles before the first exit, with its famous metal porta potty (hey, I don't make these things up).  The timing was right, so I stopped.  It also seemed like a good occasion to take off some rain gear.  As I started to bike away, I discovered a flat rear tire.  I laid the bike down and addressed the situation.  The flat was caused by a thin piece of wire from a radial tire.  There is a LOT of this along the shoulder.  I used my trusty mini-pliers to pull the wire out of the tire, then I replaced the tube.  Before I could complete this job a shower arrived.  I was scrambling to get everything put away, and to get my rain gear back on, when the shower ended.  And that would be it for rain on this trip.

Back on the road, I wrestled with the decision one can make at Cle Elum: taking old Highway 10 all of the way to the crossing of the Columbia River Gorge, or sticking with I-90.  The map at the start of the Iron Horse Trail detour implied there would be another detour for cyclists at Cle Elum.  As I came upon the first Cle Elum exit, I saw no detour signs but I did see a sign saying that the next Cle Elum exit was only a mile away.  I decided to go for it, instead of the first exit, because I didn’t need to stop for anything in Cle Elum and in this way could avoid traffic, lights and stop signs.  Once committed to missing the first exit, however, the shoulder shrunk to about two feet wide!  Yikes!  This was to be the longest mile in the history of imperial measurement!  I was happy when I could finally escape that somewhat dangerous situation.

So circumstances had made my decision for me: I’d ride old Highway 10 all of the way to the small town of Vantage on the shore of the Columbia River.  By doing this, one avoids the first climb on I-90 – Indian John Hill.  There is not the terrific view of the Enchantment Range which one gets from Indian John Hill but the proximity to the Yakima River is quite nice.  It’s also very quiet, especially once past where the traffic turns off for Blewett Pass.

A bit before reaching Ellensburg I was having trouble staying awake so took a rather pleasant ditch nap.  At Ellensburg I stopped at Pizza Hut and had a lemonade and a medium Premium Garden Veggie and ate almost the entire thing.

A pizza supreme

I continued east on Highway 10.  For a few miles there was light traffic, then almost none.  Then the road climbs up to the wind farm.  Not too steep, but I was happy when I crested it (2,612’).  The turbines were all rotating and the tail wind was healthy.

Shortly after starting down I came across a great shot of the moon rising behind some wind turbines.  All l had was my DumbPhone, with a lens that needed cleaning, but I stopped and took a shot anyway. 

Note full moon rising behind turbines

The rest of the descent was a screamer!  I hit 37.6 mph.  The sun was getting low behind me and I was hoping to NOT cross the Vantage Bridge in the dark because there is only a two foot shoulder.  I arrived while there was still a fair bit of light and was also pleasantly surprised to see that traffic was allocated to the left lane.  I correctly guessed that I could get around the barriers and have the right lane all to myself.

Things went well until nearly the end of the bridge, where a large construction related truck was taking up the entire lane.  I dismounted, waited for a break in traffic, hoisted my bike over a surprisingly tall Jersey Barrier, jumped over the barrier, got on my bike and started to pedal.  Three cars total overtook me before I got to the end of the bridge.  Not bad.

Then the climb OUT of the gorge was upon me.  As mentioned, it is “only” two miles long, and not killer steep (though does get ones attention).  And after the two miles, one continues to climb, though at less steepness.

From here it was 10 miles to George.  There’s a mini mart, with a Subway, just off the freeway.  In the distance I could see fireworks over George.  This light show lasted almost all of the way there.

I had a sandwich at Subway.  The high for the day in George had been 64 degrees.  When I went back outside the wind was blowing very strongly and it felt COLD.  I put on my jacket and reflective vest and booties.  This was the coldest Cannonball I had ever experienced.  Only once before had I ridden an entire Cannonball while wearing tights.  That time it got warm enough that I could have taken them off, but didn't have to, so did not.  This time it was NOT a choice!

It was 30 miles to Moses Lake.  The time was 10:45 p.m.  I was moving well for about 7 miles and suddenly drowsiness hit me very hard.  I was carrying no caffeine (which is not unusual: caffeine and I do not agree very well).  Now I fought mightily to keep moving.  I also tried to keep away from the rumble strips, partly because of how uncomfortable they are, but also because of what’s on the left side of them.

I struggled for a few miles and arrived at the Winchester Wasteway Rest Area.  The wind screens around the picnic tables were promising.  Without them it would have been too cold, due to the wind, but I was able to take a short nap, then set out again for the final 18 miles to my hotel.

In addition to greatly struggling on this last stretch, I started to lose my appetite for pushing on to Spokane after some sleep.  I had dreamed of getting to Moses Lake before midnight!  That was without factoring in my late start, of course.  

I somehow made it to the heart of Moses Lake.  There is a frontage road for about a mile, then one goes back onto the freeway.  My hotel was three miles on the far side of the town, in a peculiar cluster of hotels and restaurants, sort of isolated from the rest of town.  That was the world’s longest three miles!

To my horror, I arrived at the hotel at 2:38 a.m!  I was happy to discover my package had arrived before me!

Just before collapsing on the bed, I checked the yellow pages: there was a Budget car rental at the Moses Lake airport!

I did NOT recall stirring during the “night.”  I awoke at 8:00 a.m., wondering where I was!  It was quite bright outside.

I phoned Budget and they adjusted my reservation so I could pick up a car at the Moses Lake airport (or so I thought).

Then I showered, had “breakfast” (a euphemism, if ever there was one: they were out of a surprisingly high number of the very few items generally available), put on fresh bike clothes, packed excess items into the box (which I would leave at the hotel) and was just about to bike out to the airport when I decided to go to the computer in the lobby and check the confirmation e-mail.  To my shock, it said I was to pick up the car at the Wenatchee airport!!

I phoned to confirm this and was told that Budget had no location at the Moses Lake airport (contrary to what it says in the Yellow Pages).  I phoned the few other rental car places in Moses Lake: all were closed on weekends.

I set off for Wenatchee, retracing my route back to George.  It was easier now: I was NOT struggling with drowsiness.

I stopped at the rest area, though only very briefly.  As I continued on, I found a cell phone, in great condition, along the shoulder.  This too was a Cannonball tradition!

Then I started to have that out of gas feeling.  I realized I had not replenished my bag, using the supplies I had in the box back in the hotel.  There were two bars still with me from yesterday, so I scarfed them down.

I kept thinking about the time: if the wind was too much against me, or if the hills were too difficult, I might not make it to the Wenatchee airport before Budget/Avis car rental closed!

I left I-90 and turned north toward Quincy.  The sign said seven miles.  It seemed prudent to get something to eat there, but I would need to be fast.  When I got to the turn, in the heart of Quincy, I saw a McDonalds.  The medium strawberry shake and small fries did the trick.

Back on the road, I was now headed west again, toward the Columbia River.  Eventually there is an impressive two-mile-long descent to the river.  From here the route is along the river, a bit rolling, and quite scenic.

There was a brush fire up in the hills.  There were fighters in place and a helicopter with a water bucket, loaded from the river, was assisting them.

Finally I reached the tiny community of Rock Island, near the dam of the same name on the Columbia.  Pangborn Memorial Airport is on a shelf in the hills above the Columbia.  I was anticipating a tough climb … and was NOT disappointed.  One leaves the highway on Batterman Road, to make the climb.  The name was appropriate: by the time the grade leveled off, I was one battered man.  This was the only time on the entire trip that I used the granny gear.  (Yes, I’d even climbed Snoqualmie Pass in the middle ring.)

This climb was a real scorcher.  For quite a while there was no air movement and I was roasting in the heat.  As I got nearer to the top, a slight breeze mercifully picked up.  Finally the road leveled off and the last few miles of the day went passed farms and orchards. 

I got to the airport.  It was quite small.  I biked right up to the door near the rental car counters (both of them!).  It was 4:35 p.m. when I got in line!  My worries were over: now I had a car.

I put the bike in the trunk and drove back to Moses Lake, picked up my box, and headed toward Seattle.  As I approached Ellensburg, the freeway info radio station said there were major slowdowns between Cle Elum and Easton.  I stopped at Ellensburg for a burrito and hoped this break would let the traffic thin out.

Back on the road, I had fairly smooth sailing to the pass and beyond.

Once back in the metropolitan area, things went smoothly until I-405.  From there, to I-5, at least one, and sometimes two right lanes were closed for maintenance.  The traffic moved very slowly, but there was a spectacular sunset to keep us entertained.  On the bridge across Lake Washington, I was reminded how far to the north the sunsets at this time of year!

It had been one incredible weekend, a tribute to the memory of Cannonball.  I had covered 255 miles, 21 miles short of an actual Cannonball.

Garmin data can be found here:

https://connect.garmin.com/modern/activity/1221110294

https://connect.garmin.com/modern/activity/1221110313

Qualifying and Training for Paris-Brest-Paris 2015

In the world of randonneuring – an obscure sport, originating from France, of long distance cycling – the big event happens every four years.  It is a 1200 km ride, from Paris, to Brest, and back, aptly named Paris – Brest – Paris.  Since encountering this sport, in the mid 90s, each P-B-P year has consumed perhaps seven months of my life.  After four successful PBPs, my luck ran out, in 2011.  At that time I assumed this would be enough (AND that, sadly, I was getting too old and slow, if not for this sport, at least for P-B-P).  But then 2015 arrived and I found myself again consumed by the desire to qualify to return to France.

Qualifying consists of completing a “series” – four events (200, 300, 400 and 600 km), in the allotted amount of time (equivalent to a 15 km/hr minimum speed).  P-B-P takes place in late August.  One must qualify by early July.  For those of us residing in the northern hemisphere, this generally means one must start preparing in the winter.

For me winter means running.  Qualifying for P-B-P therefore involves segueing from running to cycling.  This is NOT how most randonneurs approach it.  They start riding fairly seriously in the winter, increasing the distance as the randonneuring season arrives.  For me, after having discovered long distance running (midway through my randonneuring career), a lot of it is about avoiding burnout.  I feel fortunate to have the two sports.

My approach would be to do nearly my usual amount of running, throughout the winter and spring, while easing into cycling near winter’s end.

In late January I ran three half marathons in 14 days.  On February 15 I ran the Birch Bay Marathon.  The year had begun!

In early March the randonneuring season began.  March 7 was the 100k (this is NOT a qualifier, but is a good ride to do, none-the-less, to ramp up to the longer rides). The ride began at a park near my house, so it was easy to bike to the start.  It was a gorgeous day, the course was NOT obscenely hilly (unusual for Seattle International Randonneurs).  I rode it on a fixed gear.  The ride finished at a pizza place; this added a nice social touch.

On March 14 was the “spring” 200k.  There was LOTS of rain in the forecast.  As luck would have it, the ride began near where I live, so I was able to bike there.  Everyone was sporting serious rain attire.  After three hours it miraculously stopped raining.  If someone had told me, at that moment, that that was the last rain I would encounter, on ANY of my randonneuring events this season, I would have told them they were stark raving mad.  I would have been wrong!!  This ride was reasonably hilly.  It took a lot out of me.  With about two miles to go I actually stopped, put some electrolytes in my water, and took a very brief break to restore my spirits.  I finished with a minute to spare.

Next came the first of several gutsy feats: two marathons, six days apart.  This first was in Oakland, CA; the second was the Yakima River Canyon Marathon.  I had NEVER done two marathons this close together before.  Throughout the entire second marathon my legs reminded me of why it is prudent NOT to run two marathons so close together!

On April 5 I rode a 200k on fixed gear.  It ended in Bainbridge.  I felt quite tired, at the end, and could NOT refuse Duane Ishihara’s generous offer of a ride home from the ferry terminal in downtown Seattle.

Two weeks later it was time for another gutsy feat.  April 19 was the Wenatchee Marathon.  It went well.  The next day the Redmond Cycling Club had a 40 mile ride, starting/ending in Leavenworth, finishing via Tumwater Canyon.  It too went well.  The next day just involved killing time in Wenatchee (though I ran five miles in the park).  The next day was the 300k of Northwest Crank Brevet Week.  The winds were favorable; the weather was gorgeous (though a bit hot by midafternoon).  The course was not obscenely hilly.  I finished with over an hour in the bank.  I returned to Seattle feeling inspired.

Then came the 400k on May 2.  The weather was good.  There was sun.  It was even warm in the afternoon.  It wasn’t obscenely hilly, though there were some wicked hills near the midpoint (just before some additional climbing on the east flank of Mt. Baker).  There were friendly volunteers and good food at the midpoint turn-around.  I left feeling inspired.

Then the sun went down and the temperature dropped.  It was fortunate that I had read the forecast and brought just enough clothes to make this tolerable.  The Garmin showed that it hit 30 degrees.  One expects the cold to keep one awake, yet I struggled to do so during the long night.  At the control in Mt. Vernon – Haagen’s Foods – I had some Pepsi with caffeine.  The got me to the Centennial Trail, but then I struggled again.  I made it to Arlington and had some coffee at the 7-11.  Nothing happened!!  This was a bit of a shocker because I never use caffeine!  I struggled along the remainder of the trail, at one point taking a break to lay on a bench.

When the sun rose I was gradually resurrected.  Still, I finished 25 minutes in the hole and was not given credit.  I reasoned that I’d handled the distance OK, so would continue with my plan to attempt the SIR Tahuya Hills 600k, at the end of May.

The weekend after the SIR 400k I went down to Oregon for a double header.  On Saturday I did the Covered Bridges 200k.  I finished with an hour in the bank, in spite of getting lost trying to exit the metropolis of Scio (this was a harbinger).  The next morning I got up at 0:dark:00 and drove to Eugene in time to pick up my packet for the marathon. 

The marathon went well, although my legs indicated they had NOT forgotten I had biked 200k just several hours earlier.  So, things went a bit slow.  At the 18 mile mark a very pleasant female groupie gave me chocolate, then ran with me a bit, then gave me more chocolate, then gave me a kiss!  This was my 66^th marathon, and don’t get me wrong – I enjoyed the attention – but I don’t know if I have 66 marathons left in me for more chocolate and a kiss.  In any case, Barbara Tatge has nothing on me.

The end of the month arrived and I attempted the SIR 600k.  We were again blessed with great weather.  Early on I settled into my usual position: dead last.  I don’t mind biking alone; just knowing I’m part of an event is helpful.

The day one route is somewhat hilly and then there’s Skate Creek.  This is not a killer steep climb, along the southern flank of Mt. Rainier, but it does go on for a while.  On the way up I developed pain in my right knee.  It had been showing up for several weeks, most notably on a 45 mile somewhat hilly training ride I did occasionally, on fixed gear.

I made it to the crest and expected the knee to recover a bit on the descent into Packwood.  I was surprised, during the descent, when a woman on a bike slowed down to chat with me.  She had just climbed up to lodge on Mt. Rainier.  She noticed my 1995 SIR jersey and told me her husband, Tom Lawrence, had just done the climb with her but taken a different way down.  Of course I remembered Tom from my early days of randonneuring!  I stopped at the inn, in Packwood, and said ‘hi’ (and even had him sign my control card!).

Then it was off in a westerly direction on US 12.  This was a flat stretch and the headwind wasn’t excruciating.  Occasionally there was a slight hill and my knee reminded me that hills were now quite painful.  As I neared Morton I didn’t see how my knee was going to handle the Tahuya Hills on day two of this ride.  

I started to hatch a bail-out plan.  I had a room reservation at Centralia (right next to the control).  This was NOT the official sleep control but that was too far into the ride for me.  I would fill up with water at Morton and push through the hills to Centralia.  Then I’d call it quits at my room.  In the morning I’d bike to Olympia and catch the express bus north.

As I pulled into a mini-mart, to get water, I saw Bill Gobie, a fellow SIR rider, seated inside.  I stopped to chat and learned he had pulled the plug.  He said that Millison was driving down to retrieve him.  He suggested I give myself a break and accept a ride also.

So I tweaked my plan and decided I’d take a ride to Centralia.  But Millison and his wife, both very pleasant people, suggested I come back to their place in Olympia for some hospitality.  I succumbed to the arm twisting (rather rapidly!).

In the morning Bill’s wife picked him and me up and took us back to Seattle.  All in all, considering how far away from the start I was when I pulled the plug, this had been a surprisingly successful bailout.

Now I was left to deal with the reality of how my PBP qualifying attempt was going: I’d failed at the 400k and at the 600k.  It seemed like I’d reached the end of the road.  Then I noticed there was a 600k the very next weekend, down in Oregon!  I’d only ridden 162 miles of this 600k, so recovery wouldn’t be an issue.

The next weekend I went down to Oregon and stunned myself by successfully completing the Kings Valley 600k! 

There was an SIR 400k the very next weekend.  That was too soon, however – that wouldn’t give me the necessary amount of recovery.  Plus, it was gratuitously hilly.  This would put my back against the wall: a few weeks later there was a 400k out of Tumwater (Olympia).  It was the last weekend, anywhere in North America, that one could find a 400k.

The weekend arrived with a forecast for high heat.  The route was a narrow figure 8, going down to Vancouver, WA and back.  There were some hills, before getting to Vancouver.  One, Green Mountain Road, the organizers had referred to, in a pre-ride write-up, as “puketastic.”

I biked to the start, from my room in downtown Olympia, a seven mile warm-up.  I discovered I had no pump!  Luckily Albert was there, with his van, and loaned me a pump from his stash.

The group took off with a vengeance and I was soon all by my lonesome.  I did catch Ron Himschoot leaving, as I arrived at the control in Kelson.  “We’re about to find out what ‘puketastic’ means,” I said.  “Oh, I *know* what ‘puketastic’ means,” Ron responded, with a hint of sorrow in his voice.

On Puketastic Hill I caught up with Peg and we suffered our way up together, in the high heat, on a climb that seemed like it would NEVER end.

There was a majestic view from on top, stretching east to the Cascade foothills, and south and west to the Columbia River.

I lost Peg on the descent, and then I double flatted.  The second was shortly after the first, and both were in locations with almost no shoulder to use to work on the bike.

When I got going again it was extremely hot.  It hit 98 in Vancouver.  By about 8:00 p.m., at the control coming out of Vancouver, I encountered Ron, Peg, and Albert.  I hung with Albert for a short distance, though made a terrible navigational error near Woodland.  I chose to follow the GPS instead of the cue sheet.

When I finally got back on course, it was clear that I would have to stay very focused to finish on time.  I took maybe three ditch naps, during the night, and one around dawn.  The rest of the time it was pedal to the metal.  I finished with about 15 minutes to spare.

I had done it.  At 63 (nearly 64) years of age, I had qualified for Paris-Brest-Paris.  Now I waited to see if I could get in.  I didn’t have to wait long.  By Tuesday RUSA had the data up.  There were still a few positions available, in the late starting corrals of the 90 hour group.  I was in!!!

Now to stay in shape for another seven weeks.

Two weeks later was STP.  I had not ridden it in one day since 2008.  I left my house at 3:30 a.m. and finished just before 10:00 p.m., some 208 miles later.  Compared to my randonneur rides, it was very nice to have company on the route!

Five days after STP there was a night start 400k out of Tumwater.  The ride started simultaneously with a 1000k ride.  I felt like kind of a light weight, planning to ONLY ride 400k.

A bit after dark a cable broke.  This was a brief test of my resolve.  I replaced it, using the light on my helmet, and continued.  During the night I took at least three quick naps in the woods.  Around dawn I approached the Astoria Bridge.  The route didn’t actually go over the bridge.

A bit later I took a nap, behind a post office, in the small town of Chinook.

In the afternoon I went into a restaurant for lunch.  This seemed slightly decadent but I was up on the clock, so decided to indulge.  Also, an army travels on its stomach.

Then it got warm.  At Montesano I had my traditional hot weather snack: Ice Gatorade and an ice cream sandwich.  A bit later, in Alma, I took a nap on a bench on the main drag.

Then I pushed to the finish (which seemed like it would never come).

I finished with an hour to spare.  Albert was handling the control, at a pizza parlor.  He was a gracious host, while I ate my pizza and drank a beer.

Then it was to bed for me, at the Motel 6 where the ride had begun.

In the morning I was up early.  I headed to downtown Olympia, where I ran the Lake Fair Half Marathon.  When I finished I felt like kind of a monster.

A week later I ran the B&O Half Marathon on Saturday and pre-rode the Brevet Weekend 200k on Sunday.  It was a hillaceous course, with ~8,800 feet of climbing.  Ridiculous.

The following Saturday I rode the Brevet Weekend 300k.  It had lots of gratuitous hills, was hot, and a group that was faster than me insisted on adopting me.  When I finished, with 1H40 in the bank, I was really beat.  There’s a reason I ride at the pace I do.

And then it was time to taper.  Two weeks until PBP.

Le Petite Voyage à Oregon en Train

(Note: Ce voyage a eu lieu dans 40 heures au total. Je voyageais par Amtrak.)

Le Pac-12 match de volleyball. 

L'arène Matthew Knight, le campus de l'université de l'Oregon.  20 nov 2015.

SET SCORES		1	2	3	4		TEAM RECORDS
Washington	(3)	19	25	29	25		26-2, 16-2 Pac-12
Oregon	(1)	25	21	27	21		14-13, 8-10 Pac-12

L’équipe Oregon a créé une avance tôt dans chaque set.  Ils en ont gagné le premier. 

Dans le deuxième set, Washington a rattrapé Oregon et a en fin gagné.

Dans le troisième set, Washington a rattrapé Oregon. Ensuite, ils ont créé une avance, mais Oregon a réussi à lier le score à 24. Oregon n'a pas été en mesure de gagner, cependant, faisant trois erreurs du service.  Washington a en fin gagné.

Dans le quatrième set, Washington a rattrapé Oregon et a en fin gagné pour gagner le match.

Pour le match, Oregon avait plus d’attaques réussies, une meilleure pourcentage d’attaques, plus de passes d'attaque réussies et plus de récupérations.  Comment est-il possible qu’ils ont quand même perdu le match ?  Washington avait 28 contres, Oregon en avait juste 14. 

Voici quelques photos d’Eugene :

https://www.flickr.com/photo attaques réussiess/8169895@N03/collections/72157659135381433/

Notes :

L'arène Matthew Knight a couté $227 million.

Senator Morse et moi allions au même lycée.

21 nov, 2015

Un peu d'exercice:

https://connect.garmin.com/dashboard?cid=1543368

Portland Center Stage

Ellyn Bye Studio

"Sex with Strangers"

J’avais assisté à plusieurs pièces du théâtre à Portland Center Stage mais toujours dans la grande salle.  Ellyne Bye Studio était le meilleur choix pour cette pièce.  C’est plus petit et plus intime.

Il y a juste deux acteurs pour l’histoire.  Il y a des thèmes de la confiance et du compromis artistique.  Il y a des thèmes aussi des relations sexuelles entre deux personnes qui viennent juste de rencontre l’une l’autre, et aussi de l’influence de technologie sur le monde de la publication.  Je croix, pourtant, que l’histoire peut exister sans ces deux derniers thèmes.  C’est-à-dire que l’histoire pourrait avoir lieu dans un autre temps.

À regarder ce piece était une expérience très engageante.  Les rôles étaient très bien faits et il y avait une bonne quantité de la tension et du drame.  Il y avait des moments de la colère, de la joie, de l'amour, de la réconciliation.  Il y avait beaucoup d'humour.

Après la conclusion, il y avait une session des questions et des réponses, avec les acteurs.  Je les trouvais très drôles et très sympas. 

Voici quelques photos de Portland :

https://www.flickr.com/photos/8169895@N03/albums/72157659274798163