The Chico Wildflower Century Ride

There was wind and there was rain and there was cold and a flat tire and hills and losing each other and sun that scorched our skin. It was an adventure.

My Christopher and I partook of the Chico Wildflower Century Ride this past Sunday. For those unfamiliar with the world of road riding, a “century” is a 100-mile bicycle ride and despite its grueling nature such events are wildly popular. Nearly every bicycle club around sponsors their own annual century ride, making it into a sort of bicycle gala.


The Chico Wildflower is a very popular century. It is one of the first of the season anywhere and is so named because of the wildflowers that adorn the north central valley (CA) in early spring before the prevailing hellish heat and lack of any rain char the earth. They have great food at lunch and the rest stops, give out creative goodies to riders and the weather is fairly uniformly splendid this time of year in that area – except this year, of course. A dry winter meant a lack of many wildflowers and then this last weekend was unusually cold and rainy.

Layered in Capilene and donning wooly socks to protect us from the cold and rain, Chris and I started the ride before seven in the hopes of getting a jump on the 3,600 registered riders. A flat tire at mile 6 deflated that idea. During the 45 minutes it took to replace the tube (one technical issue after the other) I watched the masses stream by. But we weren’t alone in the flat tire department – we must have seen close to 100 people with flats that day. I’ve never seen anything like it. At times there were people pulled over every fifty yards and I spoke to one woman who had two flats while Chris spoke to a guy who’d had three!

Next we lost each other. Chris had been really great about waiting for me frequently and I was doing a good job keeping up with him. Around mile 35 or so he was about 30 seconds ahead of me and I could see him if it was straight for a bit. By now the rain had stopped and it was getting warmer and there was the toughest climb of the day ahead of us. I wanted to pause to rearrange my layers but was thinking he would stop soon to wait for me. I considered trying to get a message to him via one of the speedy dudes that would periodically pass me but didn’t. After rounding a corner there was what seemed to be a bathroom stop (there was no marking or anything) but I didn’t see Chris waiting for me. Though I didn’t want him to get further ahead of me I had to stop and rearrange myself. I thought maybe he’d run down to the bathroom (he’d been taking potty break after potty break) and would be out in a few minutes. I got myself straightened out and still didn’t see him so waited a few more minutes before taking off (because I didn’t want to get farther and farther behind him.)

Pretty soon after was the big giant climb but my Christopher wasn’t waiting for me at the top or at the bathroom stop a mile past that. I made it all the way to lunch at mile 55ish and still didn’t see him. I searched the lunch stop twice and didn’t find him. Certain that he wouldn’t leave lunch without me I lurked by the entrance. After half an hour I was quite concerned. I didn’t understand how I could have beaten him to lunch, but knew he wouldn’t leave without me. I asked the sheriff and one of the ride volunteers if there had been any accidents on the road but they were useless. Finally, just as I was about to cry from it all, my Christopher pulled into lunch. It seems that bathroom stop way back when I’d taken some layers off had actually been a rest stop set off from the road a bit, but with no signs or markers explaining that it was a rest stop. Chris had waited for me at the rest stop for 45-minutes, very worried, and had even ridden back a couple of miles trying to find me. We were both quite relieved to finally find each other at lunch. I enjoyed the ride much much more when we were actually riding together. The twenty or so miles where we’d lost each other really rather sucked.

But we found each other and the remaining 35ish miles were fairly flat even if we did have a hefty head wind for much of it. What with the flat tire, the losing each other and breaks for lunch and snacks and all, we didn’t make it to the end until nearly 5pm but we finished! By the time we got to his brother’s place we were both limping and our sunburns had started to settle in (I had triangles on my forehead where I was burned through the gaps in my helmet!) but we were feeling rather proud of our accomplishment. We definitely weren’t even close to being the strongest ones on the ride, but I don’t think I’ll need to turn my Sturdy Girl jersey in just yet. There were quite a few people walking their bikes up the hills – I was pretty close to walking my bike up the toughest hill myself – and we contemplated a couple of shortcuts but we both rode every inch of those 100 miles!

I'm an aminal.

All my adventures of late seem to revolve around bicycle travails. But since all I’m doing is working and bicycling that sort of makes sense. I mean really, how many exciting adventures can one have in an office? I’ve gotten some wicked paper cuts from all the filing I do, but that is just really lame.

So, onto the bicycle ordeals!

First there was my experimentation with bicycle commuting. After one week of particularly cold, wet storms I came to the conclusion that wearing underwear to work was pointless. By the time I arrived I was soaked to the skin with mud (the mud and grit makes its way through multiple layers of any fabric), dripping grimy water all over the office and in desperate need of removing everything I was wearing so I could put something (anything!) dry on. If I wore underwear it was just one more article to wad up in a plastic bag for a few hours until the commute home when I would then have to put the gristly, soaked, cold garments upon my body. I started taking the bus after that week. I’ll try bicycle commuting when the weather is more clement.

Next came the long ride during which my dad fell. I was in front of him so I didn’t see, but the friend behind said he smacked his head pretty hard against the ground and was fairly well whipped about in the process. He actually ended up riding his bike 25 miles back to the cars, but soon after got very stiff and then had a series of secondary body problems (like an old back problem waking up and laying him out.) That was a month ago and he only recently graduated from the cane and can barely walk, let alone ride. He won’t be doing the Chico Wildflower with me and my Christopher next weekend. Serious bummer.

Then came the “training hill” ride (see post below) that I don’t even want to think about again, followed this past weekend by my first attempt to connect with other riders in the Portland area. There was a 75-mile group ride posted for last Saturday. It was mostly flat with one serious climb and I thought it would be a perfect training ride as the Chico Wildflower is 100 miles of mostly flat and one or two serious climbs. The five days before were absolutely gorgeous and Saturday was supposed to stay nice through the morning. It was supposed to be nice but obviously it wasn’t. In the early hours of the morning I heard rain on the windows and the day dawned quite dreary. Not to be deterred I went to the starting place at the designated time. I asked a couple of the people there what the pace of the group usually tended to be and when they said, “Oh, about 15 or 16 mph average.” I thought, “Perfect.” Gradually people showed up and by the time we started there were about thirty dudes and me. Every single person on the ride, except me, was a guy. But I am intrepid and shall not be dissuaded by an overabundance of testosterone.

With such a large group we ended up breaking into a few different packs and as I didn’t know the route and was afraid of getting dropped I was up with the lead bunch when the breaking up occured. Remember the guy who said “15 or 16” mph average? That is a comfortable pace for me. I’m pushing myself a bit when I cruise around 17 or 18 mph, which is good for me, but for a long ride, 15 or 16 mph is a good pace. But these guys were animals and biked along at 19, 20, even 21 mph. Sturdy Girl that I am, through the rain and the wind and the pace I kept up. “Stubborn,” or “stupid” girl is more like it. Through Northeast Portland, North Portland, over the bridge into Washington, around Vancouver, along the Columbia River, back into Oregon and out to a town called Troutdale I kept up. This was 40-something miles and I was sort of amazed. By this point I was also sort of starting to get tired.

We stopped briefly at a gas station to get snacks, water, and so on and by the time we started again I was fairly cold and in no shape to deal with the long, steady climb up to Crown Point in the Columbia Gorge. Almost immediately out I got dropped. I was really, truly trying to stay up with the group but I just couldn’t do it any more. I felt like I was going slower and slower and slower. The climb wasn’t very steep at any point but it was long and steady and I had exhausted all my “reserves” before getting there. I figured I would just keep plugging along and when I saw the group coming back down would turn around and catch them there. I would miss the great, grand, glorious vista and highlight of the ride, but I wouldn’t get lost trying to find my way back to my car all alone through unfamiliar neighborhoods. The map I had was so wet and muddy that it was pretty useless.

So there I was toiling like a lame kitten when one of the stronger riders in that strong group came up behind me. I guess he’d stopped for coffee or something and was now catching up. He asked how I was doing and I said, as perkily as I could, “oh, not so strong. Sort of hittin’ the wall here.” I explained my plan to just turn around and he said, “You can’t do that!” He gave me some Gu (the fairly foul energy gel), said they would wait for me at the top and off he was. Now I HAD to make it to Crown Point because they would all be waiting for me. So I slurped up the Gu, recharged my spirit and wobbled up to Crown Point. It was absolutely stunning and, unlike the training hill mentioned in a previous post, totally worth it. The Gorge is stunning just about all the time but the greenery had that special springtime shade of green that is so fresh and young it looks like sunlight has somehow been injected into the color. The clouds and rain were swirling around, but not so thickly that it obscured the view – just enough to give it texture and depth.

By the time I got back to my car, battling winds much of the way, I was so incredibly tired I could barely collect myself for the drive home and over dinner that evening could barely make myself even mildly social. My legs were also exhausted for days afterwards. But I think it was a good training ride. A little more training than I wanted, but it was good for me to be pushed that hard. Now I’ll be able to keep up with my Christopher during the Wildflower ride next weekend. Or rather, not slow him down as much as usual.

(*Note: "animals" should not be confused with "aminals." Animals are fierce. Aminals are cuddly. The boys on the ride last weekend were animals. I am an aminal.)