An Epic Post...

I'm a small-scale adventurer. An epic bike ride for me doesn't even get close to this guy, who rode self-supported across the Australian outback. But while you and I might have different "outer limits" than extreme adventurers, it is important to find, test, and push through our comfort zones. The mantra of a life lived fully is:

Do epic shit.

And this desire to do big, memorable things intensifies when viewed through the magnifying glass of Stage-4 Cancer (capital letters intentional). It's why my dad and I put other things aside whenever we can, climb onto the bike, and ride away from it all. In August, we saddled up for our latest micro-adventure; two days, 200 miles, from the South Puget Sound to Seaside, Oregon. Care to ride along?

Day 1 - Puyallup to Longview, Washington

We rolled out early from Puyallup, and decided to follow the route of the legendary Seattle-to-Portland Classic. The miles ticked off slowly at first, as we got our legs under us and battled morning commute traffic.

A couple hours later, the neon awnings of a fast food enclave were in sight. My old man is rightfully proud of his, umm... "advancing" age, and the benefits it affords. He regularly stops at Mickey D's for a senior coffee... which is discounted 25 cents or somesuch. With no golden arches in sight on this morning, Burger King would have to do. Two coffees, black (plus a crossan'wich with a side of stomach upset for me).

One of the more enjoyable sections of the day ran through picture-perfect Washington rail trail. I don't know if it's like this anywhere else in the country... mile after mile of quiet pedal turns under an evergreen canopy. But this is what it looks like here.

I love it here.

We rolled into the old railroad town of Chehalis somewhere around noon. Or thereabouts. The timing was perfect for the Olympic Club, a bowl of chowder (extra oyster crackers, please), and a cold McMenamins IPA.

Bellies just a little heavy, we were only about ten miles outside Chehalis when nature called. As luck would have it...

The countryside in this part of Washington is a study in contrasts. One minute, you can just about spit on the I-5 traffic. Concrete, steel, exhaust fumes. The next minute, after a little heads-down riding, you're here. Wood, grass, wood. Think you know everything there is to know about shingling a roof?

Shortly after the above picture was taken, we were chased by a dog. Not a friendly-stop-and-pet-me-type dog. No, this mangy bastard was off his chain, and apparently trained to kill anything in spandex (told you not to wear that stuff in public, Dad). We shouted obscenities and sprinted hard. Dad fell just a little behind, and for a moment I had the strange vision of having to stop, run back and rescue my pops.

If it ever came down to it, pity the dog.

Yes, wildlife was to be the theme of the day. Just a few miles later, we were halted by construction. 50 yards of road closure, to be exact. The machinery was silent, and about ten orange-vested chaps were standing around... considering the situation? We attempted to roll through and were promptly stopped by onesuch. No passage, strict orders.

Mind you, we could see the other side.

Ok, look for a way around. We walked up onto the adjacent property, which was run-down but obviously occupied. Cue the banjos. Up a hilly driveway toward an old fence, and then...

Mmmm... bacon. Just beyond this big fella (or lady), was a possible way around the road closure. Without hesitation, Dad went through the fence to scout, and I stayed watch. Y'know, because somebody needed to keep an eye on the bikes. I'm not afraid of giant hogs. Really!

Dad had been gone about a half-hour when the construction guys started waving me down. Seems they had a change of heart and were going to let us through. I hollered, and the old man emerged from what I would soon learn was an impassable bog of stinging nettles, mud, and blackberry bushes.

On the other side of the road closure, we stopped for a second, laughed at the lunacy of our ordeal, and snapped this...

And then, a mile or so later, stopped here so Dad could pull the thorns out of his socks...

As we rolled into Longview, the tripmeter had just ticked over 100 miles. We pushed the bikes into a cheap motel room, stepped out for nachos and a couple cheap beers, and came back to crash for the night. I'd sleep with my bike every night if I could.

Day 2 - Longview to Seaside, Oregon

The next morning, we broke from the Seattle to Portland route and headed west on Highway 4. Two lanes, a very narrow shoulder (that sometimes stopped abruptly as the asphalt cumbled into the ditch), and logging trucks on their way to the mill... it was dicey for a couple hours.

And then, damn... stopped again for construction.

When things finally started rolling, we were forced to take the traffic lane. Up a very steep hill. With impatient logging trucks breathing hard right behind us. I dropped it into the granny gear and pedaled furiously until we finally got some shoulder.

Eventually the road widened and the scenery, with the Columbia River in sight for most of the morning, was gorgeous. We rode up a mountain pass in a drizzle, and then down the other side into the town of Cathlamet.

What's that? You want a completely irrelevent story of young love? Done! When I was about 12 or 13, a family friend sailed my two brothers, my dad, and I to Cathlamet. We docked for the night and made nice with the neighbors, one of whom was a cute girl my age. I had no skills with the ladies back then (hard to believe, I know), but this girl liked me. Love was in the air, man. The end. Yep, sorry, that's it. My brother Nathan was hanging-on like a cheap suit, totally messing up my game all night, until we eventually got called in for bed.

Wow, my stories suck. Back to the ride.

From Cathlamet, we crossed a bridge and rode a few miles across tiny Puget Island. There's a small ferry on the island that crosses the Columbia to Oregon, where we hoped to jump on Highway 30. We rolled onto the dock, and could see the ferry steaming our direction. Struggling is a better word. The old girl was limping.

The ferry eventually docked and, predictably, we were told she'd done broke. We could wait for the mechanic, shouldn't be more than a couple hours. One of the first things you learn on a long bike ride is that you've gotta be flexible. Nothing ever goes just right.

Onto the bikes for the three miles back to Cathlamet and Highway 4. Were we ever here?

The temporary annoyance turned out to be a blessing. 4 really opened up and became an absolute joy to ride on.

See? Joy...

On this kind of trip it's inevitable that you'll start to talk about food. Real food. Gels and Gatorade only get you so far. Dad said "cheeseburger" and I could... yes, taste it. But where would we find a cheeseburger out here? Fuggetaboutit. Just have another gel.

And then...

I wondered if the hunger was getting the best of me. It had to be a hallucination. Not a mere restaurant, but an Irish Pub? In the McMiddle of nowhere?

We were the only customers.

The place is owned by an older couple. She waits, he cooks. At least that was her story. There was a bit of a creepy vibe, and Dad and I joked that maybe she had his old bones propped up in the corner of the kitchen. "Let me go tell Joe to fire up the grill," she says. Riiiight. "Joe".

Regardless of who cooked 'em, the burgers were delicious. And just what we needed to find some motivation.

We pedaled on through the day and fell into the staccato rhythm of the road. Up, down, flat. Up, down, flat. The miles disappeared. Up, over the Astoria Bridge, with cars and big trucks buzzing just inches from our shoulders...

And down into the Portway Tavern for a refreshment. Dad was having problems with his cell phone reception the whole trip. This is his angry face. If you ever see this, change the subject or walk the other direction...

We mounted back up for the final 15 miles into Seaside. Whether you're riding 10 miles or 100, the brain does some kind of calculation and makes the last 5% miserable. My legs were cooked. I couldn't wait to get to town and get off the seat. "Interminable" is the word.

Before heading to the campground, we stopped at a classic Seaside watering hole for a celebratory cold one. Bridge Tender. Time to put this ride in the books.

We rolled into the campground to find that Lisa, who had driven down earlier in the day, had the tents set up and a campfire blazing. A beautiful scene on so many levels. Oh and there was this.

I love this...

Seaside is one of my favorite places in the world. My Dad was postmaster here for a number of years, and even after he moved to Washington, we continued to vacation in this former-sleepy-town-turned-tourist-trap.

My brothers and I spent countless hours in the arcades downtown, back when video games were still a quarter. When we ran out of money, we'd go press our faces on the window of The Beach Club until our parents came out to gave us more loot. Now I bring my family here. And my kids pester me at The Beach Club.

And there is the beach volleyball tournament. It's the reason we came down on that particular weekend. Kind of a Seaside institution. My dad likes to brag that he only missed one - the first one - and that he attended something like 15 in a row before the streak was broken.

The volleyball was good. But this was better...

We camped for two nights, enjoyed the town, and made the best of the rain. On the last morning, I didn't feel like walking to the bathrooms, and therefore brushed my teeth with champagne. Don't ever do this. Just don't.

After checking out, we drove to Cannon Beach so I could get a new t-shirt from Mike's Bike Shop. My old one was just plain weared-out. See, it's an awesome shirt because my name is Mike. And it says "Established 1974"... and I also was established in 1974.

Brunch in Cannon Beach, and then it was time to head home...

This ride was definitely epic. Hour after hour, mile after mile, "stuck" together with no distractions. Time to talk (or not), argue, laugh at ourselves (or more often at one another), ride hard, overcome adversities, and suffer... just a little. Only two days. Only 200 miles. But big.

Big, because we don't know how many more of these we'll get.

Mother's Day Ride, a new tradition...

It's not open for debate... Mother's Day is best spent on the seat of a bicycle. Ask my wife, the matriarch, amazing mom and friend to our 3 chitlin's, and I'm sure she'll agree. After all, there are precious few days you can force an unruly teenager to push pedals. This is one.

We took full advantage with a Farmer's Market tour that carried us from Ballard to Fremont, and beyond. Well, ok... just from Ballard to Fremont. But we did hit two markets, Coldstone Creamery, and more importantly stretched out our legs as a family.

So rare it seems.And so beautiful.

Makes a guy want to have this every day. But if that was the case, we wouldn't appreciate it as much. So we'll take these sunny Sundays when everything seems perfect... we'll take them one at a time, as they come, and lock them up in memory as a snapshot.

One moment.

This is why we ride...

For a second to pause, breathe, and realize how lucky we are.

For chance "wildlife" encounters.And yes, people... for a well-deserved cold one.

Sunday, May 3. Phil's Metric Century. It was supposed to rain cats and dogs, but we were greeted instead with sunshine and 65-degrees. A beautiful day to pedal around the South Sound. 67 miles, strong all morning. Could've gone another 30, but glad we didn't have to. This is the way they all should be.

One Moment: a Daffodil Classic ride report...

When I set to write about a small adventure, I like to pick out one singular moment and work back.

For April 19th, the day of the 62-mile Daffodil Classic, this is the moment.

My best girl, youngest daughter, and baby niece... finding a patch of sun just big enough to spread out some toys on one of the first really nice days this spring. Everything that came before was merely leading to this snapshot.

Oh, the ride? It was great. Really, it was. The are few things I enjoy as much as turning the pedals with my dad, playing our tough-guy cat and mouse games, stopping to pose for another in our ongoing series of "see, that's me, and that there's my bike" photos.

We had some spectacular views of Mt. Rainier, bringing back all kinds of great memories from our ride around the big fella last summer.

About 45 miles in, we had a cold one at the Blue Moon, a biker bar in tiny Eatonville (and pit stop on the aforementioned Rainier adventure). But when the bikers and their old ladies started piling in, cursing all the cyclists on the road that day, we thought it best to skeedaddle. We briefly considered tipping over the row of hogs outside, Pee-Wee Herman style.

Dad rode his usual, steady pace throughout and finished strong, while I (true to form) started out too hard, then blew apart at the end. We climbed, rode hard in the drops on the flats, and bombed a couple outstanding descents. We laughed, took shots at one another, and tried not to talk about cancer.

Another great day on the bike. But I couldn't wait to get to the house.

The sun was out, the beer was cold, and the barbecue was hot. It was time to come together with family and put our collective pasty-white legs on the deck railing. Time to cook, share stories of the day, and enjoy the kids before their inevitable decline into teenager-dom. Time for three of my favorite girls to find a little patch of sunlight and spread out some toys.

Yep... a lot of what makes an adventure memorable is the after.

Ride Report - The Tulip Pedal...

We started the morning by coaxing two hot Italian ladies into the back of my Dad's truck. Bikes, you perverts. How many great Saturdays have started just like this?

Last year, The Tulip Pedal (in spite of it's delicate-sounding name) straight kicked our ass. We faced a headwind that literally stood us on our pedals for 20+ miles. It was one of the tougher days I've had on the bike. But this year was going to be different. Sky blue, legs strong, backpack carrying two Busch Light tallboys.

We started out fast from LaConner, tiny tourist burg in the heart of flower country, riding with Mona, her husband Mike, and their friend Marcia. Knowing that Spring is late this year, we stopped at the first field of daffodils, because it would likely be one of the last. Photo op.

On the next stretch, it became clear that Marcia would be my headwind this year. She was attacking hills with an energy I couldn't find, and dear old dad was matching.

After the first rest stop, energized by a handful of Shot Bloks, I put my head down and rode away from everyone for about a half-hour. Hands in the drops, effortless straight line, riding hard. I stopped and waited for Team Geriatric to catch up, blissfully ignorant of my impending unraveling.

I first became aware I was going to bonk somewhere around mile 50. At 55, I started to bemoan the pace, and even made a conscious decision to not take my turn at the front. The brain always goes limp first. Soon my legs followed, stiffening, and developing a serious knot in the left hamstring. Cursing every pedal stroke, I fell back and let the others ride away.

I hobbled back into LaConner, riding alongside my Dad, who had stopped to wait when he realized I'd hit the wall. Back in town, we met up with Lisa, fresh from her second big ride of 20 miles! My girl's not messing around here... she fully intends to work up to a century by summer. I'd been cycling daily for two years before I reached that milestone. Go baby!

We finished off the 62-mile day as it should have been. LaConner Brewing for pints and wood-fired pizza. All was right with the world again.

Bring on the next ride.

Ride Report - The McClinchy Mile...

Lisa was so nervous Saturday morning. It was her first "organized" bike ride, and I can still remember the doubts those kind of milestones engender. How do I register? Do I have the right gear? Am I in good enough shape? What if I get a flat? Poor girl couldn't even finish her breakfast.

She paced around for the better part of an hour, as my Dad and I tried to keep up with the questions and allay the fear. With some reluctance, I headed out with Dad (we were riding a longer distance and wanted to coordinate our finish times), leaving my Lisa to sweat it out. She'd be riding with friends, but the waiting would have to be done alone.

We hit the start about 8am, and gol'durn it was chilly... just north of 30-degrees. Dad's friend Mona met us there. She's training for tri this summer, and an eventual Ironman. I once told him I thought that with enough training I could be a decent triathlete. To which he deadpanned, "Nope. Hahns can't swim. You'll sink like a rock."

Another dream crushed.

It was tough to get warmed up, but a couple big hills took care of that. Soon, we were enjoying one of the most beautiful mornings I can remember seeing from the seat of a bicycle. The fog was hanging low in the Arlington valleys, dancing through the trees and pulling apart like cotton to reveal green farms and weathered barns. Big, snow-covered peaks revealed themselves through the gaps in lesser hills.

You might appreciate a photograph or two. Yeah, sorry 'bout that.

Somewhere around midway, maybe 25 miles in, the sun was high enough in the sky to give some warmth. We stopped, shedded a layer, and I tried calling Lisa a couple times. I knew she was ok... my girl's purdy tough. But still, I worry. No answer. *gulp*

The next leg was 15 miles on the Centennial Trail, one of Washington's great rail-trails. It was here I discovered the rumors of my Dad's decline have been greatly exaggerated. As if there was ever a question :) The old man took great joy in repeatedly sprinting away from me like I was standing still. Usually I make a decent cat to his mouse, but on this day he seemed driven by some greater purpose.

To put it another way, he kicked my butt.

We rolled into the finish and immediately started prepping for the reward phase. You know... beers. Beers are the carrots we dangle in front of each other when the legs start complaining. I was so excited when my phone rang not 10 minutes later. Lisa had finished, too! So proud.

We met the girls at the (not really) stunning White Horse Tavern in (not at all) majestic downtown Arlington. A couple beers and a round of cheap tequila later, and the (exaggerated) stories of suffering and triumph on the road were flowing.

For me, this was not just another day on the bike. Given my dad's recent health diagnoses, every pedal stroke seemed to carry new significance. Hope, even. And with Lisa riding now, too... the idea that we can share all these great memories as a family is encouraging indeed.