Lewis and Clark Bicycle Tour

Av – 14.3 mph
Dis – 94.53 miles
Tm – 06:37:03 hrs
Asc – 4567 ft

Roosevelt, Washington. Population, 80. Highway 14 runs right through it, but you still might miss it if not for the four new homes being built on the south side of the road.

The funny thing about Roosevelt is the residential and “business” sections are separated by half a mile of empty highway. Rumor was it’s barbecue night at the local tavern. I never made it that far.
I pulled off the road into a run down Mini Mart to fill my water bottles and ask directions for camping. Just down the hill about a quarter mile, the clerk said and pointed vaguely toward the river. If it’s not full, that is.

Full? Full?! I had seen five living things in Roosevelt and she and I were two of them. I shrugged it off, thanked her for the water, and road away.

I turned immediately south and the 25+ mph east tailwind I was enjoying all day grabbed me like a vice and threatened to throw me into oncoming traffic. I leaned instinctively into the wind to combat the effects, now precariously angled towards the ground.
In a couple hundred meters I turned west and grabbed gear after gear to get a leg up on a now ferocious, direct head wind. At the end of the road I could see a small oasis of sorts with trees, green grass, and a few more people.

Full, she had said. Yeah right. I popped over the last small rise and ended up knee deep in what looked like a kite boarder’s convention. Apparently, Roosevelt is the premier place to be for wind sports on the Columbia River.

Completely hidden from view from Highway 14, Roosevelt Park offered free camping, barbecue pits, picnic tables, modern restrooms, and even a shower! I was beside myself with joy.

I rode around briefly, searching for a windbreak of sorts, and settled on a tree I could tie my tent to in the event the wind carried it away.

I hurriedly unpacked, grabbed clean clothes, towel, and camp suds, and made a bee line to the showers with a spring in my step. A massive group of people were gathered on the leeward side of the bathrooms around a picnic table, its top covered end to end with stoves, utensils, and chow.

Chow! I could smell it as soon as I walked up.

“How’s your ride?” One man asked as I passed.

“Kinda hard on the saddle,” I said and rubbed my ass. I wasn’t lying, although today had been easy despite the ninety-four miles.

I stepped into the shower and fired it up. Ice cold, as expected, but I figured I could wash part by part without getting hypothermia. First came my hands and face. I lathered up, scrubbed my hands clean, and splashed water on my face and over my head.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasped and choked down the rest of my expletives. I knew I was in for a chill, but after getting soused due to my thrashing around, I dove right in.

A three minute pee pee dance was all I needed to get a good scrubbing. I finished warmer than I began but faced certain ridicule when I walked out the door. I threw my towel around my neck and walked out past the picnic table full of people.

Instead of the heckles and jeers I was braced for, I was embraced like a puppy left on a doorstep in a blizzard. Introductions were made, seemingly all seventy-four of them, and a full buffet of red beans and rice, scalloped potatoes with mushrooms, bratwursts and hot dogs, and fish caught right out of the Columbia River the day before.

I feasted. I gorged. I ate like on man on the Green Mile. I scooped and shoveled and spooned my way to a rotund gut and washed it all down with a complimentary beer. Life was good.

Turns out this lively crew were dove hunters from points unknown. It was a family affair. They had actually seen me riding by on a hunt earlier that afternoon.

I hung out until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, about 2100, and retired to my tent.

That was only a fraction of my day. I had a record late start this morning of 0842 before I rolled away from last night’s accommodations.

The funny thing about endless miles on a bike is they tend to blend together without distinction. Today was no different - until I hit The Dalles.

The Dalles, an unimportant blip on the Oregon map, holds no special significance. But the wind that howls through the gorge next door does.

I charged mile after mile with 25-30 mph tailwind. When I reached Biggs, Oregon at 1300, a half a day earlier than planned, I pushed on to take full advantage of the wind at my back.

Other than a brief instance of a vicious cross wind almost blowing me off a bridge over the Columbia River, I made great time and rolled into dusty old Roosevelt, Washington by 1900.

The rest is history, and tomorrow I’m getting my lost day back.

Uphill run in The Dalles, OR

This entry was posted Saturday, September 4th, 2004 and is categorized under Multimedia, Part 1 - Eastbound, Video. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.