New Feature: Occasional Quote of Note!

The Logging Road Cyclist recently received the following communique:

Dear TLRC,

I and the rest of the members of the TLRCFanCLub would like to express our fealty to the website and our Confucian respect for both your age and wisdom. At our last meeting, however, a plurality of our membership expressed polite dismay at your continuing, incessant whingeing about your increasing decrepitude. It was suggested that a fan club based upon admiration for such a querulous, anonymous figure might not be particulary long-lived. Perhaps it might be well if, during those times when you had nothing particulary enlightening to share with us about cycling on logging roads, but just more complaints about how damaged you are, you could extend your literary grasp into a more intellectual realm. The Membership agreed that, while you might be a beat-up old coot with not much to offer in the cycling line any more, you might regale us with some nuggets from your intellectual side. The Membership are unanimous in their agreement that, man of letters and learning that you are, surely you could offer us some blog-bits that don’t involve how much you happen to be in physical pain on a given day? After all, we here at the TLRCFC all have our quota of geezers in our own families who regularly subject us to this sort of thing.

Respectfully, etc, etc

XXXXXXX

TLRCFC Secretary

Well, thought TLRC, if his own fan base is sick of it, what must the world of web-surfers who stumble onto the site think? Perhaps it’s time to monetize the site with prune juice and walkers, perhaps take out an add in AARP?

TLRC will muffle his mild irritation at the sentiment expressed by the FC (which strikes him as anything but Confucian) and will initiate the occasional posting of Notable Quotes which from time to time cross his increasingly narrow fields of interest and view, or simply float up from memory (in the latter case, TLRC assures both Club and General Readership that he will check for accuracy on the Google, since as a “geezer” his “memory” is “going”).

Today’s quote is from Admiral Raymond A. Spruance, considered one of the finest fighting admirals in the US Navy. Spruance was in command at both Midway and The Battle of the Philippine Sea. His calm under immense stress was well-known and widely admired. The following is attributed to him:

“Some people think that when I am quiet that I am thinking some deep and important thoughts, when the fact is that I am thinking of nothing at all. My mind is blank”

 

When God Talks, TLRC Listens

The Logging Road Cyclist once built a beautiful wooden drift boat. From a kit to be sure, but it was the first woodworking he had ever done, and it was, after all a boat, so it was a very big deal for him. It turned out well, and he used it for many years, on some difficult rivers too. The boat got holed (memorably one time on the Rogue when The Long Suffering Girlfriend was steering; the biggest hole the boat ever got and she cried), and fixed. It was, after all a whitewater boat, not a fishing boat.

But the depredations of age took hold, TLRC’s shoulder and back made rowing less fun, and indeed frantic river running in general began to lose its attractions (too much driving, mainly, and crowded rivers), and the boat spent a long time sitting it the garage, unused.

TLRC spent a year or so pondering selling the boat and decided it was time. Not an easy decision, this, since the boat was the last vestige of a 40+ year whitewater run that had pretty much literally ended when they dragged his paddle (oars) from his cold stiff fingers.  But garage space was at a premium, what can one say? He pulled the boat out, cleaned it up and took some pictures to use in the sale.

On Monday afternoon, TLRC was composing an email to a prospective buyer, or at least a prospective conduit to buyers. He got down the salutation and a couple of words in the first sentence to the point where the words “drift boat” were required. He typed “difr” and stopped, backspaced and typed “drf”, stopped and backspaced again, typed “d” and paused, unable to continue. Was “drift boat” one word or two, he wondered. TLRC looked helplessly at the page, unable to type.

His mind, clear, roamed back over the recent past. He had just come home from the dog park. In his truck, he had noticed his vision distorted over the upper 1/4 or so of its range, as if the windshield had a defect up top. This lasted for 10-15 minutes and eventually faded away. The previous Thursday something similar had occurred: just after getting up in the morning TLRC’s vision doubled. Each eye had clear vision by itself, and they appeared not to be crossed, but double vision it was. This lasted about 10 minutes. Had it not been the case that this double vision had also occurred sometime in the last 6 months or so, TLRC wouldn’t have given it much thought, as indeed he hadn’t the first time it happened. TLRC was learning that, at age 64, if one pays excess attention to every health anomaly, one will soon go mad.

So this third visual anomaly had TLRC on alert. Perhaps the fact that the Thursday-Monday time segment neatly overlapped the Sunday-Sunday time segment bounded by the two funerals TLRC had just attended made him a bit more acutely aware of his mortality, and thus of this sort-of-frightening series. He had in fact gone to the doctor on the day of the Thursday last event, and was awaiting test results and for an MRI to be scheduled.

This sudden inability to type, normally second nature to TLRC (from whom words usually flow gurgling like warm molasses from a wide-mouthed jug) was, to put it mildly, of concern. He got up and was fortunate enough to get an appointment with his physician later that day. TLRC sat down again, pulled laptop to lap and entered “aphasia” into the Google, for he seemed to be able to type again. The Mayo Clinic page was down not very far and they advised Emergency Room, which was good enough for TLRC. He cancelled his appointment and tried to reach TLSG, who was likely out of reach for a while. He resolved to wait half-an hour and then get his stalwart, RPM on the case. Once called into action RPM was at The Forest Estate in minutes, and with minor direction hauled TLRC to the ER.

It turns out that “64 year old male with visual anomalies and aphasia” is as good as “64 year old male with yellow jacket sting in esophagus” in terms of getting attention, and everyone went into “this guy is having a stroke” mode. They all especially perked up when TLRC stumbled over his address. That was kind of fun, in a twisted way.

TLSG showed up soon, and she and the doctor helped distract TLRC from the IV and blood draws (he faints if sitting and can barely tolerate it when lying down). TLSG wasn’t chortling this time (cf. TLRC Wasn’t Paranoid Until After the Attacks).

The ER doc was a straightforward, gruff kind of guy and TLRC liked him immediately. Doc: “You’re going to have an MRI over this anyway, so we might as well do it now. It will be a little while.” In not too long, the image guy came and wheeled TLRC into the tube, where, as usual, he asked for classical music on the headphones, and with his head firmly clamped side-to-side and covered with a hockey-mask like antenna array he fell asleep, his hands clasped below the second, neck-and-chest receiver. After a while they hauled him back to his ER room, where he lay intermittently napping while TLSG tapped away at work.

Not too long of a time later the doc came back and sounded the all clear. No clots, tumors, shedding from carotids, or anything else TIA or stroke-like: TLRC would die from something else it appeared. They pulled out the spike in his arm, and TLSG, who knows her man, asked where he wanted to go to eat. Both of them were a bit surprised (TLRC pleased) about how calmly he had taken all of this. He rather spoiled the effect by bingeing a Reuben and a pint of potato salad washed down by a Kambucha, all tamped firmly into place by a large box of plus-sized Halloween-themed sugar cookies.

Rather than needlessly terrifying himself with the internet, TLRC waits to talk to a physician about what all this might be, while failing to avoid obsessing over whether or not there are more than the usual amount of typos in his text (he thought there were, of course). Apparently, like YAWEH, the wooden boat he was once trying to sell is to be unamed and unsold, and has gone back home into the garage. TLRC gets the message.

 

TLRC Wasn’t Paranoid Until After the Attacks

Another dream-like rain day in the Coast Range found The Logging Road Cyclist pedaling along a typical Range-scape: a muddy gravel road traversing a steep clearcut. On the left, a dropoff into the mist. To the right, the steep road cut was topped by the continuation of the relentless bare hillside, it too fading away into ground cloud.

TLRC found himself being pulled against his will towards the drop. He corrected his steering again and again, but as if some unfelt force pressed him, he drifted towards the brink. Finally, about to topple off the edge, he wrenched his steering one last time and got away with only his rear wheel drifting off the edge. He fell to the right, into the road.

And suddenly found himself up against the cutbank, lying on his right side. A huge white sedan, Caddy? Lincoln? roared up the road from the direction he had come. In a wide spot just up the way, it spun a 180 in the gravel and slid to a stop. A man in a skintight white jumpsuit opened the door and stood up behind it. He lifted a pump shotgun, a tactical gun, levelled it at TLRC and fired. He was so close that the impact of the shot and the boom of the round were simultaneous. TLRC was hit in his left arm, the bad one. From the small wounds he knew he had been hit by birdshot rather than the lethal 00 buck he was expecting.

As he pondered his wounds, two things happened: The man got back into the car and TLRC’s little frou frou dog came running full speed up the road whence the sedan had come.

TLRC, shocked by her appearance in this place and time, snagged her by the collar.  He looked back at the sedan in time to see the driver level a black rifle out the window. TLRC  got to his knees and clutched his doggie, back to the shooter. He hoped that whatever the driver was shooting wouldn’t go all the way through him into her, and

He woke up in bed covered with sweat and clutching his dog who was peacefully snoring against his chest. He slept poorly the rest of the night. The dream lingered  at the base of his consciousness for a week or so and is still vidid when he brings it up from memory.

A few weeks later, he was out on a road ride. It was a beautiful September day and he was trying out his Mk V saddle, with which he hoped he had finally smoothed out all the wrinkles. Just past BiMart on 53rd, rather than gear down a bit for the slight climb up to Plymouth Dr., he decided to open up the turbo, since he was feeling marginally more studly than usual. He propped open his mouth and began to oxygenate. On the third or fourth intake stroke, something popped in, hit his uvula and buzzed down his esophagus.

With his widely acknowledged intuitive sense, TLRC felt certain that this was some kind of stinging bug. Given how energetically it was buzzing around in there, almost precisely half-way down, he also guessed it was pissed off, and about to sting. TLRC pondered this as he braked his Merlin to a stop: spit or swallow? He wasn’t sure the former would work, and likewise, didn’t know how fast his digestive acids would kill it off. He pictured multiple, internal stings either way, down or up.

He found his mind made up for him, when after the first sting, an atavistic !Spit!, or more accurately !Near Vomit! response took hold, and on its way out, what TLRC saw to be a yellow-and-black flying thing, stung him on the lip too.

Now, TLRC is not allergic to these things, but he has been stung a lot in the last few years, and one hears how “sensitivities” can thus develop. Or, to put it another way, he thought as he stood there in rapidly increasing discomfort, you never really know. Given that he had a rapidly swelling lump on the left side of his swallow tube and a couple on his lower lip he thought that continuing with his ride wasn’t a good idea. That is, if he was not going to be breathing very well in a few minutes, maybe he should go somewhere with more, rather than less people, and that he should perhaps call his helpmate, The Long Suffering Girlfriend.

Retreating to BiMart, he sat down on the bags of chicken manure and gave her a call. She was at home and would, she said, speed over with both benadryl and her albuterol. TLRC waited, his airway still open. He figured if he was still breathing now he was OK. TLSGF called and said, maybe he should go to the Urgent Care that was about 100 yds away. TLRC snapped at her just to please do as she was asked (he was miserable, and cranky as a result) and did not want to try to explain to her that he wasn’t about to leave his irreplaceable Merlin Agilant with TA triple cranks and Chris King wheelset lying around some medical office.

She arrived, and for the swelling (which was bad both in his throat and on his lips) he swallowed three benadryl, and just in case, three hits off of her inhaler. They loaded the Merlin up and got some chloraseptic too, but it didn’t help as much as the blended iced lemonade from Dutch Bros did.

As they left the coffee hut, TLSGF finally prevailed on TLRC to go see a doctor. He predicted that “64 year old man with yellowjacket sting in esophagus” would work nearly as well for him as “96 year old woman with shortness of breath and chest pain” did with his mother in terms of getting to the front of the line in a medical facility.

There wasn’t much they could do. TLRC almost vomited on the doctor when she poked a tongue depressor in too far. She gave him some prednisone, which helped a lot later on. Most memorable was TLSGF sitting in the exam room, fiddling with her phone and chortling away at poor TLRC. The doctor thought this was all pretty funny too and the two of them had a nice female bonding time of it, ha ha, chuckling away about the whole thing. Not the least of which was how hard it was for TLRC to respond, given as he had a yellowjacket sting in his throat.

Mo Bettah

“Perhaps”, thought The Logging Road Cyclist, as he climbed a very tricky 15% slope covered with ball-bearing like 1″ gravel, “things aren’t so bad after all, TLRC-wise”. The climb required a nice judgement of balance, front-to-back, to keep traction on the rear and weight on the front, and a certain amount of torque just to keep things going. He felt strong, and the doing of it wasn’t causing him a lot of thought.

Moreover, earlier in the day he had managed to pack quickly and not forget anything. Further down the road, the weather deteriorated, and it was a lot like the old days: all buttoned up with all his gear on, munching a bar to keep warmer.

He had decided to climb up Bald Mtn from the backside, up the Luckiamute. The routes up Bald Mtn were vague in his mind for some reason. On almost all of his routes, TLRC could pretty much visualize the path, and could likely do fine without a map. Not Bald Mtn though. Funky BLM map in hand off he went to spiral around the peak, spin off to Valsetz and arrow back to the truck.

The first part, up the river to the first view of the summit was easy.

DeSalvo and Upper Luk

 

Upper Luk north of Bald Mtn

Looking SW across Luk to Bald Mtn

Beyond here, finding the way is a bit tricky, but there are BLM boundary markers and section markers that bolstered TLRC’s shaky memory. There are some great views east across the Valley and a high waterfall below the road that pops out of a culvert. The final part of Bald Mtn Rd. heads about west and is a lot steeper than TLRC recalled. There are good views south and west through here.

Mary’s Peak from Bald Mtn Rd.

Little Grass Mtn and Green Ridge

View WSW over Valsetz Lake, in the distance

TLRC had intended both to climb the peak, and then circumnavigate it. As to the former, the weather was deteriorating, and, having climbed up there a couple of times already in zero-zero, wet and cold conditions, he gave that a miss. This chink in the armor weakened his resolve and this is where he had the old self doubts. But maybe it was time to have a new, untortured TLRC, one that just had fun? That sounded fine, actually. But in this moment of pondering what to do, he noticed an old idea on the map, a direct route up from the west, certainly not something to be descended today in contravention of The Fundamental Axiom, rather A Project. He liked this. He felt some of his old energy return.

Heading back to the Luckiamute road, he found some some sketchy climbs, and encountered a family out for a day of fun in the clearcuts, wandering around in the rain with their rottweillers, both of whom charged TLRC from about 100 feet out. They seemed friendly enough, but…and they turned out to be. These people weren’t taking any chances: besides the livestock, the cute young Coast Range gal in the group was packing a 9mm (lefty!)

Driving back towards Hoskins, trying to get warm, TLRC noticed his friends The Little Black Pigs who had shamed him into eschewing ham last fall. Once again they came running to greet TLRC just as they had when last they induced so much guilt in him for his eating of pig. There were a lot more of them today. TLRC was glad that he was doing his part to keep them around and thriving.

After the Fall

Little things would slowly go askew.  Ian Drury and the Blockeads

In prelapsarian times, The Logging Road Cyclist had, he felt, some reason to be pleased with himself. He would fling himself into rides that in retrospect seem to have been done by someone else. Fifty miles with 10K of climb, ATCA with no shuttle. Grim winter slogs into the unkown. TLRC’s logistics were tight too. Seldom did he carry too much, never too little. Packing was done nearly without thought and efficiency was the rule. His time was spent planning the next ride, and chomping at the bit to do it. He lived for this stuff. He was squared away. His shit was together.

Last night, preparing for a ride he had done many times before, TLRC found himself overwhelmed by packing. He simply couldn’t face the uncertainty of the morrow’s weather, so he just dumped everything into a duffel. He managed to oil his chain and pump his tires. A nagging uncertainty about navigation entered his mind. He knew he could find his way to the top of the Grant Cr. divide, but what about down to Drift Cr.? What if new clearcuts in the area had rendered things unrecognizable? Should he bring a map? Was that demeaning? He knew that common sense and the peace of mind of The Long Suffering Girlfriend both demanded that she be left a route map. It says so right there in the website. So he did that, but couldn’t bring himself to print off one for himself.

In the morning, over breakfast with TLSG, it came to light the the SPOT, another agreed upon device had been left at home. On the drive to Harlan, TLRC simply did not feel the urge to go out and grind away that he once had. It would have been a nice day to walk Devil Puppy. Did he really need to abandon her to go out and sweat through clearcuts several times seen? Was it the case, horrible to contemplate, that after two years of fitful recovery during which he had dreamed of nothing more than riding these hills again, that TLRC had, not to put to fine a point on it, gone soft?

At the well-known start of the ride, TLRC found himself fidgeting about to no purpose. His old pre-ride excitement felt dim. Flogging himself into action, he glimpsed his frame that was not festooned with water bottles. Cursing, he hoped they had fallen out in the truck rather than been forgotten as it turned out they had been. In cold weather, this wouldn’t have meant much for the ride he was doing, but it was practically hot, and TLRC was overdressed. Damning the possibility of various dehydration-induced drug toxicities, he started anyway.

The last time he was here, the Grant Cr. road was in terrible shape, and TLRC predicted that in a year or two it would be overgrown and impassable. Someone has decided it should be otherwise, however, and the road is now preserved for cyclists (among other non-motorized types) and is in the best shape TLRC has ever seen it.

Upper Grant Cr. Road

Regardless, TLRC felt tired grinding up this initial grade. He had noticed this before in his new life: fatigue while riding that was not reflected in post-ride fatigue. Psychosomatic? Who knew? It oppressed TLRC at any rate. He felt that he might be compromised by lacking the strength to pedal back from anywhere, as he liked to imagine he once could. While he knew that this was likely as illusory as the fatigue itself, it served to occupy his mind less productively that he wished.

Breaching through the forest wall into the clearcuts that straddle the Grant/Savage/Drift Creeks divides, TLRC soaked in the views of snowcapped Mary’s Peak and Table Mtn.

The photos make clear the nature of the wasteland hereabouts.

Past the divide, the road began its plunge to Drift Cr. Indeed there were new clearcuts and this gave TLRC pause. He had noticed in recent years that his memory was failing, sometimes spectacularly, but not in the way he had expected it to. Rather than having memories fade into a gray shroud, or simply disappear, his memories were sharp, sharp as a photograph or a movie and very clear in his mind. They were just wrong. Completely inaccurate. He had learned not to argue with people, and to be philosophical about the whole thing. While perhaps not critical in daily life, the consequences out in the Coast Range were of another order.

TLRC did the best he could with the superfluity of features exposed by the new cuts. There was the branch road coming in from the north that he and D. had ridden once, he thought. There were the big outcrops of Tyee rock along the road, and they had a certain permanence, to be sure. The road also seemed to tuck into a snug little canyon as TLRC recalled. He pushed off.

Soon there was no doubt. He was plunging down a slope steep enough to defeat his brakes on a road covered by ping-pong-ball sized gravel. Was it wise, let alone fun to do this on 35 tires by one’s self? The jury was out. At the bottom of this little nightmare lay the well-recalled Drift Cr., a pretty and welcome sight.

Drift Cr. at Gopher Cr. Rd.

On the final stretch, TLRC humbled himself to beg for water from a VERY nice couple who have an aquaculture installation up Gopher Cr. Rd. This is certainly the most pleasant part of this ride, capped by the beautiful meadows at the 31 Road.

Meadows at Gopher and 31 Roads

So what’s the upshot? Well, a loop leaving from Harlan is about as intensive an immersion into the total Coast Range Experience as there is and this is still a pretty profound way to see it. TLRC finished his ride without undue thirst and headed home. He was happy. He felt like TLRC.

 

Easy Does It

The Logging Road Cyclist was clawing his way back to fitness. This was a more complicated procedure than it sounds. Of course, there was the usual goal of cardiovascular tuning, which at present was pretty miserable, and the strengthening of the legs, which were weak. Rides often done in the past without much thought elicited a more-or-less continuous stream of “Did this used to be this steep?”, coupled with gasping, aching legs and the sudden impulse to just quit climbing and take a short rest.

The phenomenon of the rests might be the result of poor physical condition resulting from the months of no cycling that The Injury caused. It was also, TLRC thought a lack of mental toughness. Whereas before, he felt that he could pretty much power up anything that provided enough traction for his 35mm Schwalbes, and continue beyond indefinitely, he now doubted that, and took appropriate measures: the rests. He was no longer willing to do a long climb on a short, wet day and drop off the other side for fear of running out of gas. Getting lost and thus forcing a longer-than-planned ride was not something he was comfortable with. This colored his choice of rides.

As noted, he did the Chandler Pass ride out by Valsetz, and then the Rickreall-Falls City loop, both moderate, both reasonably well remembered. He got a might confused on the latter, and did some unintended climbing. The grade down to Black Rock had been heavily logged and looked much different, but he persevered, and gained back some confidence.

A harder ride, and one TLRC knew like the back of his hand was Grass Mountain. He had given it a try a few weeks earlier, but the Panzer Saddle on the DeSalvo had some issues and created a hot spot so quickly that he only got up the first four miles before having to retreat. He had fixed that and last weekend returned.

It was a nice day, foggy at home, sunny out in Alsea. He ground away, thinking how much steeper it seemed presently than in memory, but didn’t have to stop. Near the top, the road splits. Years ago, on his first successful ride up Grass, he had taken the left hand road, which in his memory was pleasant, woody, and not too steep. Since then, he had always taken the right branch, which besides being hella steep, had much better views. In his diminished state, he opted for the left.

A smattering of snow had appeared at this elevation. In the years since TLRC had been here last, the road had been covered by deadfalls and growth through the roadbed. The ridgeline TLRC thought he had to obtain seemed a lot higher that he recalled, and he was wondering how well he actually remembered this route.

Slinking under a large downed tree, TLRC looked forward along the snow patch into the heavy growth beyond and spied a line of cat tracks disappearing in the distance. Suddenly alert, he assessed them. A bit on the small size for cougar, but on the other hand, pretty big for a bobcat. He pondered. TLRC was not as a rule worried by cats, certainly not bobcats. His own (11!) encounters with cougars and ancillary reading had left him with the feeling that cougars pretty much wanted to be left alone. Still, lil’ cat or big cat, this one might well be retreating from TLRC himself and it struck him (given that whatever it was was certainly possessed of claws and teeth) as the height of folly to follow it into densely wooded terrain. Since TLRC was on the fence about dragging his bike through more of this mess anyway, back he went.

 

As it turned out, the hella steep, view-dripping way shortly became snow-bound. Another choice: slog through deepening snow into the afternoon, or call it good?

He called it and went back the way he came, once again marveling at how steep the climb up is.

For some reason, this buoyed TLRC’s spirits. Standing alone in the forest, in the snow, all alone and deciding what to do about the tracks left him feeling like his old self, an adventurous self he feared losing. He felt ready for some serious abuse: a visit to California and the Machine People.

 

Goodbye, First Five Year Plan

Many people ask The Logging Road Cyclist:”TLRC, what is your best character trait?” Without skipping a beat, TLRC answers: Modesty. It was in that spirit that when the Fifth Birthday of the Blog came about earlier this month, he let it slide and didn’t make the spectacle out of it that it perhaps deserved. Rather, he thought of it as the end of the first Five Year Plan. While roughly the last 20% or so of the plan was disrupted by The Injury, TLRC thought that on the whole a lot was accomplished.

But out with the old, on with the Second Five Year Plan. This will be based firmly on the final form of the Mk IV “Panzer” saddles, without which, it seems TLRC will not be riding.

Covered Panzer saddle

Things may or may not be helped by TLRC’s acquisition of an iPhone. Hopefully he can control himself.

Thus far, things are not looking good. An anonymous selfie, forsooth.

Certainly the micro trailer will help out on more exotic rides

Micro trailer and “traditional” trailer at DIxie Summit.

At any rate, Devil Puppy enjoys snuggling there as much as anywhere.

On the first bike-trip-with-micro-trailer, TLRC camped in the beautiful, fire prone oak savannah of the Western Sacramento Valleythe night before and night after a ride from Paskenta up to Round Mtn through the Great Valley sequence of sediments and through the Elder Cr. Ophiolite.

Sierra Nevada, blue in the distance, hogbacks of the Great Valley Sequence in the middle range and the sparsely vegetated Elder Cr. ophiolite close in.

But perhaps the biggest news is that TLRC shook off his wet-weather lethargy and went out in the Coast Range today in pretty funky weather for the Chandler Pass Lollypop, which he only vaguely remembered the route of, thus doing a downhill exploration Lite. The Luckiamute was pounding and opaque brown from the recent heavy rains, reminding TLRC of his past winter boating trips in conditions like this where all the mud and logs and high water made things sometimes less than really fun. It being the last or next-to-last weekend of regular hunting, the roads were busy with generally friendly hunters, but only one rifle shot was heard. Coming up to Chandler Pass, TLRC ran into a couple of country boys with lips full of chew, a massive 4×4 and a chainsaw cutting their way down the road. They offered to guide TLRC down to Valsetz! On the way back to Hoskins, TLRC, who has waffled back and forth into vegeterianism for years had cause to regret that rare purchase of ham he had made a couple of days before

when this cute little girl and one of her brothers came grunting and snorfling over to say hello like a couple of labradors. TLRC got home and immediately finished his ham, vowing “nada mas”. He may be off beef too, or at least yak.

Yikkety Yak, Don’t Talk Back.

A Mary’s Peak Loop via C2C and FS30

Anyone who spends much time reading The Logging Road Cyclist (like Ryan), or for that matter spends much time out in Oregon’s Spectacular Coast Range gets the importance of navigation. It is really really really easy to get lost. Well here is a nice ride, in that it loops around Mary’s Peak (a worthy goal in itself), but furthermore, the C2C Trail folks have marked all the scary downhill part. You can just park at the end of Woods Cr. Road by the gate and fling yourself off the heights down to the Harlan Valley below and just follow these:

Don’t even bother with a map! There is even a short section of nice single track installed.

But listen up. They don’t want the trail chewed to bits when it’s wet, so follow the rules:

no riding this part Oct 15-May 15 (note the MkIV Panzer saddle peeking coyly out from behind the sign?).

After the single track another mile or so of road until a gate is reached. Turn left on the 30 road, ride to the pavement at the top, turn left, take the second right,  pass a gate and slide back to the car. The climb up the 30 is stiff: 2300 feet in just under 8 miles.

TLRC thinks this is a good ride for anyone who thinks, but isn’t sure, that they will like this kind of riding.

Wow!

Having just finished his second MkIV Panzer saddle, The Logging Road Cyclist slapped it on the DeSalvo and took off for a tune/fit ride, sandpaper ready to hand. He worked his way up Skillings Rd and to the McCulloch Peak road, stopping here and there to sand away thin layers of seat foam, getting the pads equally thick, getting the shape just right.  At the top, he decided to head home. It was a hot and very smoky day, and, as always of late, TLRC was taking things a bit at a time so as not to hurt himself again in one way or another, and also because he couldn’t quite believe he was riding again.

Near the cutoff to The Forest Estate, TLRC passed a man with a toddler, a girl. TLRC slowed to a respectfully slow pace as he passed, and gave a polite hello. When past them a ways, TLRC heard the man say “I know you!”

Thinking he had misheard, TLRC dismounted, looked back and said “You know me?” “Yes”, the man said, “you’re TLRC.”

“You know I’m TLRC? How?”

“I recognize the bike.” Really. An honest to god aficionado! Turns out this guy had just moved to town, was looking for stuff to do in Mac Forest and had stumbled on to The Site’s page thereon. He said that there was “a lot of useful information”. Hooked, he continued to read, and admitted, after the initial discovery, to having read the whole damned thing. Really, the bike? This guy REALLY read the site!

Aside from the unadulterated joy of being not only recognized, nay praised for the site, TLRC was very, very pleased that someone found all this useful. The original intent of the site, after all, was pretty much just to catalog rides so folks could go do them. The incessant blather that accompanies that was neither intended nor stoppable…