Crater Lake August 28, 2010

The NOAA forecast for Saturday called for 20% probability of precipitation and 40% cloud cover. So I reinstalled the full coverage Honjo fenders against the possibility of sprinkles over the weekend. I felt sheepish with this choice as it was hot in Portland. I have been told that your experience is dictated by what you expect. Saturday morning was warm at the campsite. I decided to put an extra turtle neck into my bag, but went with the two layers of gloves and forgot the Gortex ski gloves I loaned to Ellen. I felt justified with my choice, especially after the brief cold and damp weather report around the roaring campfire meeting last night.
Eight intrepid Portland Velo riders set off from the campground at Diamond Lake, 5200 feet above sea level, for the Crater Lake Rim Ride. Chatting with Dean and David, the groupo compacto looked good; we knew how to ride together in a nice double pace line. Later, Jen rode off the front. David went after her, then Cindy, Mary and the others left Dean and I riding tempo together. I felt much stronger than a year ago, the larger chain rings evidence of re-found fitness and strength from a year of continual longer rides, tours and brevets.
Carlo and Michelle shouted encouragement from their car as we turned onto the North entrance road. Five bucks per person to enter the park! Reminds me of Wisconsin’s pervasive user fees! Profound beauty has its price. The park service employee at the gate said it was forecast 32 degrees at the rim. Up we go, then down onto the pumice plain barren of vegetation. Then up and up the steady effort warming me considerably, I removed the layers, one by one, until I was topless. The passengers snuggled up in their cars stared out as the infernal combustion sped them past. Ellen and I were alone, the others’ tempo too high this early in the early ride. I can wait for hard efforts. Ellen always comes alive after twenty miles, then watch out for higher tempo. We rode to high elevation in the clouds, it was like those Tour de France stages where the cameras fail to pierce the fog and mist as riders continue through the forests and rock, up and down the narrow wet roads.
Ellen rode on into the steeper sections of the climb, as I disrobed because I continued to overheat in 32 degrees. The tail wind was strong, and no convective cooling was available to me, or anyone. I met Mary at the Rim Drive intersection; she was cold in the damp summer weight jersey and shorts. I was cool dressed in shorts and socks, the remainder of my outfit draped over the bars and Berthoud bag, unnecessary until now. It reminded me of spring skiing at Old Man Pass, only shorts and ski boots!
I met Dean and Barbara at the junction lot. He was cold, and rode on as I chatted, waiting for Ellen. She was cold after the climb, damp with perspiration I am sure. So I asked Barb if we could sit in the car with her for a bit. We chatted for a while. Ellen decided to sit out for a few miles, and off they drove, warm.
I was shivering while climbing with the North wind blowing from the left. I passed a recumbent rider, said hi and continued. As I warmed up a bit, I braved the descent without the jacket. Oops, need to stop and put it on quick, soon the recumbent from Mid Valley Bicycle Club swept past. Then the muffin and juice stop appeared on the right overlooking Wizard Island. I must stop and acquire calories, and chat a bit. Only a half of blueberry muffin, and two cheese bagels for me, should have taken more, and back onto the road. The volunteers were very cold in the wind! Brave souls in cotton sweatshirts.
Up and down, up and down, the rim views from Pumice, Point, Palisades Point and Wineglass tempted me on the right. The wind from the left kept driving me on. Snow began to fall, the road was damp, then wet as was my green white and red Italian jersey that Jack Newlevant had presented me only last week. The recumbent passed me, then a Crater Lake Trolley. Next a white Ford crew cab full of folks, tooted his horn. The recumbent followed him into the overlook, and the bike leaped into the bed. I was on the long climb towards the Cloud Cap turn off, when two PV riders from the pace line descended towards me. We chatted agreeing that the conditions were rapidly deteriorating toward atrocious. I turned to follow them toward camp. The conditions were deteriorating that was for sure. But, I hesitated, and swung the bike around uphill again into the increasing snow fall.
On the left were sheriff’s’ and Park Service Search and Rescue vehicles. Were they on a training exercise or the real thing? What was all that white scum on the roads, whipped up by the tires in the wet? Back at camp, one said pollen, another said oil. Was it slippery? Not under my 30mm tires.
I had done this before. In Milwaukee I blasted down the icy alley behind Dad’s house on my 20 inch. Later I delivered papers all winter, first on my heavyweight balloon Rollfast, then the black Raleigh Sport 3 speed. My life is full of winter riding experiences. Up and up, the snow accumulating on the soft Moreno wool red, white and green sleeves. I shook my arms to get it off, on went the jacket, off went the jacket, on, off, then I reached the top where I happily turned towards Cloud Cap, last year in the heat. Now sheltered from blowing snow in the wind shadow of a stunted pine, I gladly put on that extra layer from my bag, my Cross Crusade hat, and both pair of wool gloves. Last was the one plastic bagel bag onto the right hand, brake hand, for the long descent to the lunch stop. I kept my left hand in the front bag, nice and toasty. Looking down at 40 mph, my legs were soaked, their only protection were wet knee warmers and shorts, not a condition for surviving long at this rate of heat loss. I need more plastic.
At the stop, the remaining PV pace line riders were in cars on the way to hot chocolate at the Crater Lake Lodge. “Do you have any plastic bags” I asked? Negative although David might have one as he held a front wheel ready for the car top rack. I went to the shelter where the volunteers were making custom sandwiches. A few bread bags, and some grape bags. I stuffed them into my knee warmers and the PV folks whistled at my butt sticking out from bending over. Then another set of bags into the booties and knee warmers for another layer on my shins. The plastic covered only the front of the legs, but provided enough protection to keep the water off and wind out a bit, but not enough to get hot on the climbs to come. Three sandwiches and some Oreos went into the bag, and a handful of nuts in the mouth. I was on the road with the admonishment to be safe out there from an experienced volunteer.
I started to warm up a bit as the road tilted up again, several miles of effort later the clothes came off, layer by layer. Up and then down, clothes back on layer by layer, the plastic bags went on the hands last while the bags on my legs stayed in place and kept hypothermia at bay. The ride became almost enjoyable, as I was not overheating or over cooling, “heat retention management,” that is what I called it. Passing lots of riders now, in their yellow rain gear and black rain pants. “Nice Fenders,” came out as I rode by. The watermelon rest stop went past in a blur, not today thanks.
I finally completed the climb to the Rim Village. After that busy road, the quiet was appreciated. I took my handlebar bag inside and looked for my fellow PV riders, no PV. However, I recognized a Cross Crusade hat covering the head of a happy volunteer, and I was given the bigger of two croissants. I went looking upstairs, no PV there. I chatted briefly with some Salem Bicycle Club folks that I had spoken with Friday night. They had large cups of hot chocolate and appeared to be inside for the duration. So rather than cool off, I went to the rest room. Back onto the bike I prepared for the exposed northbound leg, into the blustery wind, uphill, up the mountain, to,8,000 feet elevation, and the heaviest snow showers of the day with the fog enclosing frequently. The Rim Drive scoots up and down, where last summer Ellen and I dawdled along taking in the view of clear air and sunshine. No dawdling today. Just up and down, on with clothes, off with clothes, as body temperature dictated. At least I was not too hot this year.
I summited that final grinding climb, and took in the inexpansive view! Fog and blowing snow showers. Visibility was about 100 feet as I left two yellow clad smiling riders, one on a Trek Y bike, and started down. FUN, at least this was fun for me. One Mercedes M-Class Wagon was going less than 10 mph, so that delayed me a bit, but after I passed, it was clear road, wing blown snow, the fog lifting, cold, and cold cold fifteen miles back to the pumice desert. There my legs were not cooperating with the effort required by the rollers leading to the North exit. I saw Dean’s car returning up the road, maybe there were more riders on the rim or at the lodge.
Past the junction of with highway 138, a trio of Harley riders stopped, laughing at the conditions as I rolled past. Soon Diamond Lake appeared around a corner, way down below, and soon I was turning off the road onto the bike path into camp.
David, Cindy, Jen and Mary were all there. They congratulated me on the accomplishment. Three Portland Velo riders completed the circumnavigation of Crater Lake Rim Drive, Carlo and Michelle, and Mike from Bend. Ellen and Linda Jellison were waiting for Dean at the lodge.
This has been an unusual summer. Last Friday, I was too hot climbing Surveyor’s Ridge during a 200km brevet. Today, well, I have seen Cindy hyper-thermic or hypo-thermic this summer. Where are those tasty “desert” rides? You know, those rides anyone can enjoy, like strawberries and cream?
I love these conditions. Later Saturday evening when I described them to our friends Beckie and David in Ashland, they nodded knowingly: Iowa and Massachusetts breed toughness. David related his winter camping in New Hampshire at 30 degrees below zero, and feeling warm. All the town’s residents hunkered down by the fireplace while he and a few friends enjoyed the out of doors. One of those friends would go on to summit Everest as leader of his party. Kindred spirits. I always enjoyed the roar of surf in a winter storm crashing over the breakwater or onto the foot of the cliff in White Fish Bay, while Milwaukee was quiet, all the residents inside where it was warm and toasty.
I expected to finish the ride, rain or shine, snow ore brine, although I did waver when given the choice. Doug Renee dubbed me the club’s “Foul Weather Specialist years ago. Preparation and Slavic endurance enabled me to enjoy the pounding of sleet on my cheeks and lips, my lips are still sore. This was a hard ride for a hard rider. The famous Russian Andre Tchmil, winner of the wet and muddy 1994 Paris Roubaix  would understand. Les Sylphides Ballet is playing as I write this, warm and dry at my desk, fondly remembering the escapade of winter in August.