I’m new to Bend. By definition that means I’m a kook on the single track, a neophyte on the most obvious of tourist hiking trails.
It’s not easy being new, especially in a place as tuned into its athletic tantra as Bend is. You’re bound to appear gauche in your enthusiasm for Mt. Bachelor’s stately hemlock forests, guaranteed to sound naïve gushing about the single-track flow in Phil’s Canyon.
But that’s how you learn. That’s how you get, eventually, to make a landscape your own.
I started out with the tree in the back yard. It’s a statuesque, full-figured juniper. I assume it’s a juniper. It has the vertical, scaly red bark and blue “berries” typical of the junipers we knew back in Colorado. But this one is much bigger (50 feet tall at least) – a Rocky Mountain juniper on steroids. It’s probably a different subspecies. Or maybe it’s the Northwest water.
The branches are perfectly spaced for climbing, the interior of the tree a rustling aroma-therapy (spiced cedar tea?) world of its own. Near the top I swayed in the wind as the tree swayed, “bending and swirling,” John Muir wrote, of a climb up a sugar pine in his beloved Sierra, “so noble an exhilaration of motion.”
I had hoped to get a glimpse of the four nearby volcanoes from up there, but other big trees in the neighborhood blocked my view of the Bachelor and the Three Sisters. (I’ve wondered: who is pursuing whom? Is it the eager bachelor forever unable to close the distance to the haughty sisters? Or is it the sisters who are, Jane Austin-like, frozen in their desire for the timber-camp bachelor?)
My first hike was up the well-traveled North Fork trail past Tumalo Falls. Yes, it was obvious, and busy, but not so busy as I feared. In fact, the farther up I went, the closer to my turnaround at Happy Valley, the quieter it all became. Except for the rush of water pouring like silver Slinkys down a giant flight of stairs. Cold, clear water from the basement springs of Broken Top (a fifth volcano worn to remnant shards by successive ice ages). To a parched Coloradoan, this was an unprecedented lushness.
It took me almost four hours to do the eight miles up and back (though I may have dozed a bit in the soft duff beside the creek following a snack stop). When I returned, my son-in-law, Adam, challenged me to guess what the mountain bike record is for the North Fork climb. The correct answer was 21 minutes, held by his buddy Chris Shepard. Staggeringly fast. Then Adam went out and bettered Shepard’s time to 20 minutes and change.
Adam and our daughter, Cloe, are both serious bikists. They met on bikes in New Hampshire, while Cloe was in med school and Adam worked carpentry for Close Enough Construction and raced the NORBA pro circuit. They moved to Bend two years ago with our first two grandchildren. They’re blissed out.
I’m a rider of a different sort. We came here to be with the kids, but also for the sweet single track and the swoopy lines on Bachelor Butte. On skis, I try to be the proverbial silent Indian slinking through the woods without snapping a twig. My mountain biking is mostly about exploration, also known as getting lost. One ride early in our residency here: Deschutes River Trail to the Meadows picnic area to COD (I walked the technical parts) to Marvin’s Gardens, the ultimate beginner’s trail. Along the way I stared for minutes at bone-white monster logs in the river that had wedged together and become earth-building islands of green growing things. Rolling down Marvin’s Gardens I yielded to the carve-y turns in the Ponderosa shade. The flow plucked my mind out and left only the giddy, banking movement. I hadn’t planned any of it, except for the start above the river. The rest just materialized, one unexpected puzzle piece after the other.
None of it would be considered adventurous by my kids or by many Bend locals. Old hat that. But it was all new to me, staking a claim.
Sebastien Chaigneau, the Frenchman who won last weekend’s Hardrock 100 endurance run, sounds like an interesting fellow. He set a new record for the counterclockwise race direction at just over 24 hours, 25 minutes. But in post-race interviews he said it was not the winning that mattered, or the record, but “the spirit of the trail.” He said he runs “without objective.” (more…)
I was riding the double-track alongside the South Canal, just north of Kinikin Road, when a man ran out of his home and yelled something at the top of his voice. (more…)
I wish I could have been there for the Everest 50th anniversary show at Mountainfilm, with Jim Whittaker, Tom Hornbein and Conrad Anker. (more…)
I was grateful they moved the mini cannon a ways down the left-field line. (more…)
There was a mistake in the program for last weekend’s concert at the Wright Opera House in Ouray. It said the folk/rock trio Gabriel Gladstar got together in Laguna Beach in the “late 1970s.” That would make them old enough, but actually they started a decade earlier, in 1969, and recognizing them on stage Friday night, during their first-ever reunion tour, was not an easy task. (more…)
Son-in-law Adam sent an iPhone video the other day of his kids cycling around their street in Bend, Ore. Alex looked super comfortable without the training wheels. I was there a couple of weeks ago, and the training wheels were still on then. Now he’s spinning around curves and over bumps and up onto the sidewalk. He’ll be 4 in a month.
Lily is 2 and a quarter. It was good to see Alex braking and waiting patiently for his sister to turn her tricycle around before he squeezed by on the inside.
Adam had mastered the two-wheeler before his fourth birthday, too. He was a New England prodigy who went on to a sponsored career on the NORBA pro mountain bike circuit. He’s so comfortable on a bike you’d swear he could fall sleep up there. Or make the wheels tap dance. The first time Ellen and I met him, he arrived for dinner at one of Hanover’s tonier restaurants on his BMX bike. He was wearing a nice clean shirt.
He and Cloe met on bikes a year or so before our dinner date. They were both stopped at a stoplight in Hanover. Cloe was in her first year at Dartmouth medical school. Adam was out for a training ride. Cloe was training, too. She had done some expert-class racing in Boulder and had joined Dartmouth’s cycling team (which went on to win the national road-racing championship that year).
They nodded to one another. Adam bolted at the green, determined to outpace the girl up the first hill. Part way up he was succeeding when it struck him: “You moron,” he said to himself, “That was a cute girl. And you are doing your macho best to run away from her?”
He slowed down. The rest is history.
When the pro riders careen down Lizard Head Pass and through the streets of Telluride and Montrose this week, we will marvel at their speed, at the precision-cricket sounds of their machines, at the string-bean leanness of their muscles. We are not in their league. But we will understand completely the feeling they have. Riding a bike is about as close to a universal language as there is.
I remember the first skinny-tire bike my parents got me. It was a single-speed. I was seven. And I couldn’t get over the rush of wind, the effortless momentum when I got her up to speed.
Those distance-gobbling wheels gave me the freedom to ride to school by myself, across whole neighborhoods – an independent soul in second grade. Later, when I had three speeds, the world expanded exponentially. I could circumnavigate Balboa Island. Or take the ferry across to the peninsula, a spit of land we could see from our house but was many driving miles around the bay by car. On these excursions I was master of my fate. I could ride out one of the piers and watch fisherman casting bait between the screeching gulls. I could go the other way and find myself a chocolate-covered frozen banana. I could go wherever I wanted, see what I could see, and still be home for supper.
Ellen and I courted on bicycles on Long Island near the town where she grew up. In dripping early-summer humidity we coasted past the vast lawns of Jay Gatsby’s desire.
We were living in my VW van and were looking forward to riding around Martha’s Vineyard until, after a winey lunch, I backed into a pine tree and crunched our bikes on their rack.
In the 1980s, the mountain bike revolutionized where you could go on wheels. You didn’t need roads anymore. While Cloe and Cecily were learning the rolling balance on the dirt streets of Ridgway, I was following ditches and animal trails to the source of the town’s water supply, 10 miles up the headwaters of Beaver Creek.
Now a new generation is learning to weave and coast. Alex and Lily. (And Boden won’t be far behind.) Feeling the slingshot gravity of a banked turn. The satisfaction of an efficient uphill grind.
Cloe, too, is back into biking now that her work allows a bit of time. She had told me, during the bleakest years of her internship and residency, that the children and the time away from cycling had sapped her desire to ride. But now in Bend, with its buffed single track, the athlete in her has returned.
Adam reported last week that there is a section of trail near where they live that is somehow “wired” (using GPS?) to give riders their time and speed up a certain climb. Other riders who sign up have their times posted on line as well. Adam said Cloe’s competitive juices were flowing and that she had tallied three Queen of the Mountain scores.
He might still be able to best her time, but she’s recaptured that ageless pleasure in flying close to the ground.
Top-level road cycling cannot seem to escape the specter of doping.
Just last month, Luxemburg’s Frank Schleck was withdrawn by his team from the Tour de France after testing positive for Xipamide, a banned diuretic that can be used to help flush other banned substances from an athlete’s system.
And then, of course, there’s the seemingly endless drama of Lance Armstrong’s legal battle with the U.S. Anti-Doping Agency, USADA, which, depending on your perspective is either a persecution or a necessary catharsis for the sport.
Armstrong is retired. Schleck, along with his brother Andy, was due to race in this month’s USA Pro Cycling Challenge across the mountains of Colorado. Frank will not be making the trip; Andy will. (Andy inherited the Tour de France crown in 2010 when nominal winner Alberto Contador was stripped of the title for doping.)
There will be drug testing at the Pro Challenge. And there will be riders participating whose names are currently under drug-related clouds.
Race Director Jim Birrell said his organization “works closely with UCI (the International Cycling Union, the sport’s governing body) and, yes, every day we will be testing the General Classification (overall) leader, that day’s stage winner, and two other riders picked at random.”
Within an hour of the race finish each of these four will meet with the Doping Control Officer and be asked to give a urine or a blood sample. “You don’t know ahead of time which it will be,” Birrell said.
Neither do you know what substances doping control will be looking for. “They don’t tell you,” Birrell repeated. They don’t tell you, because, as Tom Murray, chair of the ethics panel for the World Anti-Doping Agency, told me, “The contest is more even now” between those who would cheat (and their doctors and chemists) and those who would catch them cheating. “USADA and WADA have changed the landscape,” Murray said. “They are making a difference. They have funding now to conduct research, but there’s still an edge for the outlaws.”
Why dope? Because given the intensely competitive nature of sport at the highest levels, and the very small differences in physical and mental ability among top athletes, a drug or a procedure that can improve your time by even 1 or 2 percent is an immense temptation.
Murray, who has been studying ethical issues around performance-enhancement for 30 years at the Hastings Center in New York, said, “Once you believe there is an effective drug, you have three choices.” One, you can compete at a disadvantage, trusting that your innate ability and work ethic will level the playing field. This works only rarely, with freakishly gifted individuals. Murray mentioned the hurdler Edwin Moses, whose legs were so long he only needed three strides between hurdles where everyone else took four. Two, you can decide not to dope and effectively give up any hope of winning the Tour de France. And three, you can join your fellows in chemical enhancement so that you at least have a chance to compete.
The UCI website lists a cabinet full of doping techniques. Near the top is “blood doping,” which “increases one’s red blood cell mass resulting in the transport of more oxygen to the muscles.” The preferred method of blood doping these days, the one that Lance Armstrong is charged with employing, is EPO, erythropoietin, known to the athletes as “Edgar Allen Poe.” It’s a hormone that is produced naturally in the kidneys and acts in the bone marrow to stimulate red blood cell production. A racer who injects EPO risks thickening of the blood, heart disease, stroke, and cerebral or pulmonary embolism. But it can also increase his efficiency on the bike by 10-15 percent. A urine test for EPO was first used at the 2000 Sydney Olympics.
The UCI goes on to list the synthetic oxygen carrier HBOC, two types of blood transfusions, homologus (using someone else’s blood) and autologous (using one’s own stored blood). “A resurgence [in transfusions] is likely due to the introduction of efficient EPO detection methods,” the website says. There is currently no test for autologous blood transfusions, but WADA is working on one.
There is Human Growth Hormone, and testosterone, the latter known by the nickname “oil.” A big spike in testosterone level is likely to get you disqualified; it’s not subtle. Floyd Landis found that out at the Tour de France in 2006. Landis had had a very bad day in the mountains, all but dashing his hopes of replacing Armstrong as Tour champion. But somehow the very next day he mounted a superhuman effort, crushing his rivals by minutes and setting up his eventual triumph in Paris. As stage winner he knew he would be tested. For years, the disgraced American claimed the test result must have been caused by the whiskey he drank the night before, drowning his sorrows.
Landis eventually fessed up, though his armor-plated denial took years to erode. And he has come out publically saying Armstrong doped, too. The USADA case, which has yet to come to a hearing, claims to have testimony from 10 former teammates and associates of Armstrong’s from the U.S. Postal Service days. Four of those rumored to have testified will be at the Pro Challenge: Levi Leipheimer, George Hincapie, Christian Vande Velde, and David Zabriski. Leipheimer won the overall at last year’s inaugural Pro Cycling Challenge. Vande Velde came second. “Big George” Hincapie, who was a faithful domestique for Armstrong on all seven of the Texan’s Tour de France victories, has said that at age 39 he will retire at the end of the year. “60 Minutes” quoted Hincapie as saying he and Armstrong supplied one another with performance enhancing drugs. Hincapie says he never spoke with “60 Minutes” and these days slides around questions from the press with amiable but vague statements about “loyalty.”
The Lance Armstrong question – whether or not USADA should pursue a cancer-survivor hero whose alleged crimes are well in the past – has divided the cycling community. Some say, leave Lance be; draw a line through the past and try to chart a fairer future. Others say, only ripping the bandage from the wound will allow ultimate healing.
Anti-Lance factions are angered by his stonewalling. “Lance redefines innocence as simply not having been caught,” writes Edward Pickering, a cycling blogger. He supports the USADA investigation. “Cycling has its first chance in a generation to come to terms with its past,” he writes.
Tom Murray, the ethicist, thinks the tide is shifting. Is doping control doomed to failure? “No,” he told me. “Somebody will try to cheat. It will never be 100 percent. But the tide will shift [toward cleaner competition]. That’s a realistic hope.”
He said the Armstrong case “makes me think of South Africa with its truth and reconciliation commissions. Bad things were done, horrible things that needed to come to light. This [drugs in cycling] is not horrible by comparison. But it would be wonderful to rip the Band-Aid off the wound; everybody tell the truth. If Lance were to tell everything he knows, and come to a kind of plea bargain, maybe get to keep some of his titles . . . I would certainly welcome that. It’s important to get the truth out.”