Lisa and I kicked off the ride at the start line in Seattle at about 6 AM.
The path followed the shore of Lake Washington for a while and we saw some really spectacular vistas of Mt. Ranier over the lake. Unfortunately, I don't have a picture because I don't trust myself to take pictures while riding in the pack. Maybe next year I'll get one of those helmet-mounted cameras.
When we got to the REI food stop in Kent, I decided to have one of the mechanics look at my rear tire, which was going wuh-wump on every revolution because part of the tire was bulging. It was the mechanic's opinion that the tube just wasn't seated properly, like it was bunched up in some parts, which caused the unevenness in the tire, so he sprayed some lube in there, inflated and deflated the tube a few times and got it evened out. The ride was much smoother the rest of the day.
The REI mechanics had one of those creepy animatronic Elvis heads that were spotted in the last woot-off.
All the fun we had during the ward campout the few days prior to the STP started to take its toll though. We were already sore from football, ultimate frisbee, and swimming.
We made it into Centralia, the halfway point, about 6 PM, and chowed down at the lasagna buffet at Centralia College's student cafeteria. We met a guy who sat at our dinner table, who told us he had 6 flat tires that day, and that he was at his wit's end. I felt bad for the guy, but I was sure glad that didn't happen to us! We crashed pretty early, not really eager to party late into the night.
We got up the next day at about 5 AM, struck down our respective sleeping accommodations, and picked up our bikes from the police's secured bike area, only to find that my tire was flat! We put in a new tube and hit the road, somewhat discouraged by the delay.
On route to Chehalis, the next stop, my tire went flat again. The tube was still pretty bunchy, causing a nasty ride, so we waited at the mechanic's booth in Chehalis so he could take a look at it. After waiting about 30 minutes in line, he looked at it and gave his diagnosis: some tires and rims are just bad combinations and cause the tube not to sit well. His solution: just keep riding. We picked up some new tubes to take with us.
Next, we stopped in Winlock (which is apparently the home of the World's Largest Egg.
After Lisa enjoyed a fine breakfast sandwich, we hopped on our bikes again to try to catch up with the crowd, from which we seemed to be falling further and further behind. After pedaling about 3 feet I called out to Lisa to stop, because I had another flat tire. So we stopped and patched it up. One of the STP support cars pulled over to help us. We took the tire off, checked it for embedded thorns or glass, and found nothing. I patched up the tube, and the nice volunteer couple (who I later learned were from Olympia [Later? What do I mean later? You'll see]) loaned us their floor pump. They suggested we ride to Vader, where a mechanic could check out the tire.
We made it to Vader. The mechanic said, "The tire looks fine. I'd ride on it!" He gave me another tube to replace my patched one and he also put new rim tape on my rim and gave me a Pedro's tire lever, which he said would be better than the ones I was using, all in an effort to avoid possible pinch flats.
Now in a hurry to catch up with the crowd, we took off, hoping that this would be the final flat and the rest of the ride we would be unimpeded. As you might suspect, this was not the case. Lisa had warned me about the stretch from Vader to Castle Rock, which the STP route guide characterizes as having "rollers in abundance." I would suggest that their definition of a "roller" is quite different from mine and Lisa's. We did make it through the nastiest hills though, and as we were going downhill, my tire went flat AGAIN.
I flagged down an STP support car and just asked for a ride to the Lexington Park food stop where there would be a mechanic. Lisa just rode the rest of the way to the stop, and caught up with us rather quickly. I met the same mechanic there who worked on my tire in Kent. He checked it out, thought nothing seemed to be wrong with it (other than having a flat tube). He put a new tube in and said I was ready to roll (though at this point, my confidence was fairly low). We attempted to scavenge from whatever food was left at the food stop (we were informed that we were certainly among the last 50 riders of the 9500 at this point).
Now, about 10 miles from Oregon, we headed out again. It was starting to get quite warm, now that it was about 12:30 PM. We arrived at the Lewis and Clark bridge, which was really something. I'd heard one of the riders talking about it the day before at one of the stops. He was telling another rider that it was a cool part of the ride—well, that it sucked—well, that it was kind of cool and kind of sucked. I found this to be a pretty accurate description. The scenery was beautiful, but the bridge was just this endless hill.
You'd look way off in the distance and there was this bridge way above the river. And then you pedaled, and pedaled, and the bridge didn't get any closer. And finally you got on the bridge, and it just kept going up. "Surely," you'd think to yourself, "surely I will arrive at the center of the bridge soon." And, while it was not soon, we did arrive eventually, and coasted down the rest of the bridge into Oregon. We were too late for the motorcade escort, which Lisa says is quite cool; the southbound lane of the bridge is shut down and hundreds of riders are escorted across the bridge at once.
Anyway, long story short: in the next thirty miles I got another couple of flats, swearing each time that the next flat I got would be the last, either because I'd finish the race and then throw away my back tire, or that I'd just resign myself to fate and give up. I had to take the latter options somewhere just before Scappoose, about 20 miles before we would arrive in Portland. I didn't have any more fresh tubes, and I got another flat, just riding along the highway. I flagged down a car and, lo, it was the same couple who loaned us the floor pump in Winlock. I told them I'd had it (actually, if I had felt that changing the tire would make a real difference I would have tried to do it, but I only had the old patched tube, I was sure it would go flat in another 10 miles, and most of the mechanics were shut down, and any more time, and the finish line would have closed before we got there).
They asked if someone could come pick me up and I said yes, but it would take about an hour and a half for my ride to get there. They radioed in and got permission to take me in to the finish line in Portland. That way, Lisa could ride the rest of the way in and I could meet her there and my aunt and uncle could pick us up as previously planned. I don't know, maybe I should have tried to ride in on the patched tube, as it was the final resource I had, but it was 95° out on the road, this was the seventh flat of the day, and I had already sworn three times that I was going to quit. As it was, at least Lisa got to ride triumphant over the finish line.
And now, we have an excuse to ride next year for the 30 year anniversary of the STP—we still have to both finish it.
Oh, and here's a sample of the wacked out stuff people ride on the STP:
I wish I had seen the guy riding this. I wonder if the form of the bike alone is sufficient to discourage theft. It looks like it would be tough to get the hang of mounting it; you'd have to do it kind of like a penny farthing.
A good time was had by all, especially after we recovered from our bike seats. I got a pretty decent farmer tan, and Lisa got some lovely glove tan lines.
