FHR

photo by Denny T.

Every parent thinks his or her kid is the bomb; I’m no exception, but I have especially strong justification for my belief as illustrated today by her full-on rocking of the Fucking Hills Race, .83’s 33 mile-long checkpoint race on Bainbridge Island that follows the same route (and day) as Cascade Bicycle Club’s Chilly Hilly Event.

Mimi got right up today at 7:30, even after going to bed at 12:30 last night. She assured me she’d rise no problem because the race was something she wanted to do. And she was true to her word.

It took virtually no cajoling to get her onto the tandem by 8:15, even in this morning’s chilly drizzle.

We arrived at the sign-up location in time to get one of the few remaining pirate flags which we affixed proudly to the back of our bike and enjoyed milling around and ogling bikes as we waited to board the ferry for Bainbridge.

The race started near the Winslow terminal and we began threading our way through the throngs of spandex clad weekend warriors on their fenderless Treks and Cannondales, making solid progress on the flats and uphills, and major gains on the downhills.

The route was pretty up and down, with a few fairly serious steeps. At least twice I suggested we get off and walk, but the girl would have none of that; we pedaled up even the steepest grades and flew on the downhills.

About halfway through there was a rest stop; I was ready for a break, but my pint-sized stoker egged us on.

The last four or five miles were a test of my legs, her butt, and our shared wills, but we persevered, finishing a respectable 33 out of 40 or so, and would have done half a dozen places higher had we not gotten lost near the finish.

“Pretty good for my first race,” was the kid’s assessment; I’d say way fucking (hills) better than that.

Waffle

photo by Denny T.

Last night,.83 conducted this year’s version of what is now an annual tradition (“tradition” meaning anything you do twice): the WWW or Winter Waffle Wide.

Some thirty riders loaded up their messenger bags, panniers, and Xtracycles with flour, eggs, syrup, camp stoves, waffle irons, distilled spirits, and cases of PBR then rode to a park on Mercer Island that, for some strange reason, features—in its picnic shelter—electrical outlets that are full of juice all year long. There, batter was mixed, butter was melted, and dozens of waffles made and consumed.

I missed the start of the ride from Westlake Center because I was at school listening to a frightening lecture by Red Cavaney, who is CEO of the American Petroleum Institute. As you might expect from someone who is the public face of Big Oil, his talk was mostly about how we’ve got to all pull together as Americans to ensure that we have a steady supply of burnable hydrocarbons for many years to come. The good news, from his perspective, is that if we can just get Congress to lift those silly restrictions on drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska, we can count on being able to keep sucking crude from the ground at an increased rate until way off in 2030, by which time, he assured us, “technology” will have found a replacement energy source that conveniently will use the same infrastructure already laid in place by Exxon, Shell, et al.

By the time he was done, you could have powered a Hummer off the steam pouring from my ears.

A bike ride through the streets of Bellevue, then west on the I-90 trail to Mercer Island was an ideal pressure release; to then come upon my fellow cyclists creating a shared outdoor feast was perfect.

I had forgotten all about Red Cavaney by the time I finished my first waffle; way before the bottle of Maker’s Mark was spent.