I’m really tired right now. 95 miles. 3500 feet of climbing. My body has had enough for one day, despite being fed a constant train of high energy foods: pancakes, tacos, granola bars and the famous “Indian taco” — a huge slab of fry-bread covered in somewhat dubious taco ingredients.
Fry-bread is a Native American delicacy, and indeed I spent most of the morning on the Warm Springs reservation, crossing its international border after a rather freezing hour of fighting through the exit to the Cascade mountains. Leaving Mount Hood would seem like a pure exercise in coasting downhill, but to the east one must traverse two more mini-passes, each cresting at about 4000 feet, until the real descent begins. After that everything changed very quickly. Soon after crossing the 45th parallel (“half way between the North Pole and the Equator” said the sign in the middle of nowhere) the trees began to thin, and a great sweep of grasslands opened up. The road ran rail straight for over twenty miles, running though cold and windy rangeland that had recently burned, before plunging dramatically down into the canyon of the Deschutes River to the main reservation town of Warm Springs.
It is a fact of cycling that what goes down must come up, and I contemplated this while back on US 26, post-fry bread. Subaru-driving fishermen (most of whom were of a certain age and reminded me of my dad or uncle) waded in the river casting for trout. Pale yellow moths of some sort formed clouds over the sidewaters and bushes. And then the hill. It was a brutal, rude hill, made worse by the fact that it was now after mid-day and the sun was beating down. It went on and on and on, climbing the sides of the canyon I had only recently descended until it finally deposited me back up on the arid plateau from whence I’d came.
I was beginning to feel as though biting off such a long day of riding was a horrible idea. How would I ever get this done? I’d planned at least two other days of this magnitude on this trip … could I not handle this amount of riding and terrain? Several things helped: first, mind-games. Looking at the odometer on my bike computer makes the miles go slower. But I like looking at the odometer on my bike computer dammit! So I make deals with myself … no looking until you’re over the next hill! Also, singing helps. Or OM-ing (like in a yoga class.). This seems to calm me, to make me less antsy in the saddle, and to expand my breathing to its full range. (There’s no one around to hear either.) If all else fails, bribe: you can eat a granola bar at that crossroads across the valley. All of these things make me feel rather like an infant, but if the shoe fits …?
In the late afternoon, a great tailwind picked me up and practically blew me from Madras, Oregon (that’s MAD-ras!) all the way across the stunning Crooked River National Grassland and into the hay growing valley of Prineville. It was late afternoon and warm, though the signs of autumn where there to be seen. Huge murmurations of birds danced low over the fields. The hay was being brought in and stacked in piles as high as a six story building. The light began to slant, in that way that makes everything seem older and beautiful.
Though my legs might beg to differ, I think I could get used to this.