Coming down from Battleground, Joe and Carol swung by, picked me up in Salem, and we headed out to Pacific City. They'd procured a beach house featuring a magnificent ocean side view. Walk in the front door and all you see are waves. Walk out the back door, and you're on the beach. Some wacky temperature controls literally left the place continually a little too warm, but in proverbial respects this was a very cool house.
We were joined in Pacific City by Dennis, Maria, Susan, Eileen and her husband Dave, and Robyn and Jared. Of this 10-person assemblage, only Dennis, Joe, and I would participate as riders in the American Lung Association's Reach the Beach bike ride, but I can attest that the moral support of all concerned was much appreciated.
After a dinner at the Pelican Pub, I sat down for a game of Phase 10. The card game proved nigh impossible to complete, so thank god for playing with friendly, happy folks. I think it was like 2 AM when we declared a winner, and so exhausted was I by that point that I actually have no recollection of who won (except to say that it wasn't me).
Maria, Carol, Joe, Dennis, and I were up relatively early the next morning to drive to Amity, the start of the 55-mile Reach the Beach bike ride. Dennis, the first of us to sign up a couple months ago, had unexplainable registration problems as they couldn't locate his name on their registrants list. It was a bizarre situation which he smoothly resolved (turned out later that organizers had not, for whatever reason, charged his credit card). Happily these early difficulties were little speed bumps and not ominous signs of impending doom.
After receiving good wishes from Maria and Carol, los tres amigos mounted their metal steeds are rode off into the sunset toward Pacific City. (It wasn't really sunset; I'm just quoting a cliché.) For my part, I spent the first 10 miles or so just trying to figure out how to change gears, a situation that was rectified only by Dennis helpfully riding behind me and directing me what levers to push and when. With his assistance it all worked out, but let's just say I'm glad my SAT scores weren't based on a test of this stuff.
As for the physical part of the ride, I was a reasonably happy camper through about mile 30. Joe and Dennis kindly stuck to a moderate pace of about 12 miles an hour which enabled me to keep up. I'm sure Joe could've gone a little faster, and Dennis, well Dennis probably could've found a way to alter the time-space continuum and finish the race before he started if Joe and I weren't around to slow him down. OK, perhaps not that fast, but I'm sure he'd have had no problem averaging a good 5 to 10 MPH faster than what we did. It was very charitable of him to take things slow and, you know, help me change gears. (Unfortunately, I was unable to figure out a way to have him pedal for me as well.)
Anyway, as I was saying, life was pretty grand through about mile 30. My overly-muscular, soccer-playing legs were holding up just fine. Unfortunately, my butt apparently did not play enough soccer because it began hurting like crazy. Either those bike seats are too small and hard or my gluteus is a little too maximus. Maybe both, but I'm thinkin' I'll blame the bike seat.
By the time of the final rest stop about 14 miles out of Pacific City I was pretty much spent. My lack of training time on the bike had caught up by then and no amount of Gatorade-like drink was going to change that. Regardless, we forged onward. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I may be stupid, but I'm not a quitter. (Long-time readers might recall that the last time I used this phrase I herniated a disc in my back playing basketball. I'm relieved to report that my back is fine.)
So we pedalled ever more slowly toward Pacific City when, about five miles out, God looked down from the heavens, saw me wretchedly struggling to keep a pace that would've gotten me lapped at a grand floral parade, and decided, in His infinite wisdom, to blow Dennis' front tire all to hell. For this I give Him most humble thanks and praise. Because I needed the 10 minute break it took Dennis and Joe to change that tire like a junkie needs his heroin. I was so spent that one-legged 90 year-old with a walker using only wind power, solar energy, and continental drift for propulsion would've beaten me to the finish line. (As was, she almost did.)
Divine intervention can be a wonderful thing: Given even that all-too-brief respite, well, it was only another 5 miles, and apparently I was able to build up enough of a reserve to make it. I didn't take advantage of it, but knowing that the beach house had a jetted tub overlooking the ocean waves which I could drop into proved to be pretty good incentive too.
Many thanks to my comrades-in-arms, Dennis and Joe, for their help in, you know, making sure I didn't die.