After the Gold Rush

After the Gold Rush

photos courtesy of Bill Bryant

I decided to attempt the 2001 Gold Rush 1200-kilometer Randonnée, organized and run by the Davis Bike Club, because I wanted credit for a 1000K brevet and there was an option to ride the Gold Rush as a 1000K brevet followed by a 200K brevet. In fact, you could even ride just the first 1000K of the Gold Rush, although that would leave you 200K shy of your starting point, with no convenient way to get back (something to do with the French rules for concurrent 1000K and 1200K events). Also, riding 1000K plus 200K within the time limits would qualify me for the same finisher's jersey that the regular 1200K riders would get (those that finished, anyway).

That 1000K brevet was all I needed to complete the four-year requirements for a Randonneur 5000 medal, which is still a fairly uncommon distinction among Americans. So, why not do the Gold Rush this year and get that medal? Of such hubris are randonneuring adventures forged.

A little about my cycling and randonneuring background. I love riding my bike, but I don't approach it particularly scientifically or even industriously. I had no real training plan for the Gold Rush, preferring to just ride when and how I want to. I've done four double centuries each year for the past three years -- ever since deciding to attempt Paris-Brest-Paris in '99. During that time I've also completed a couple of fairly demanding transcontinental PAC Tours. My yearly mileage was about 10,000 miles during the Pac Tour years and 6,000 to 7,500 otherwise. Most of my miles have been short rides to and from work, with usually one long (100-plus mile) ride on the weekend.

I've never trained for speed, however. I ride hills, but I usually ride them at a moderate pace, like the 42 year-old man carrying 20 extra pounds that I am. I don't use a super-light bike, either. Both of my 1200K randonnées have been done on a lugged-steel, modified touring bike with a SoftRide beam, built for me by John Hollands in Maryland. The first words out of the mouth of the bike shop manager who was going to build up my frame when he took it out of the box were: "It's not light!" Well, neither am I. I mention all this so that someone who's considering doing the Gold Rush in the future will understand that mine are the experiences of a relatively average randonneur.

It was with a keen awareness of just how average I am that I waited nervously for the Gold Rush to start from the northern outskirts of Davis. Typically, the temperatures this part of the Great Central Valley in July start in the mid 90s and climb from there. As a resident of foggy San Francisco, I couldn't really consider myself "acclimated" to hot weather riding. Most of my double centuries and brevets this year had been blessed with moderate temperatures. The one exception was the Davis Double, which had been a near disaster for me with a borderline case of heat exhaustion.

I also knew that after the first 100 miles, the Gold Rush route would become not hilly, but mountainous. We would be crossing the northern end of the Sierra Nevada, the granite mountain range that runs down California's backbone. I've crossed the Sierra before, but not as part of a 750-mile ride. At least one climb on our return route, the Janesville Grade, had been the subject of pre-ride controversy, with some people claiming that it would be "unridable" at mile 500. For better or worse, I'd seen virtually none of the course ahead of time, so all I had to go on were maps and the descriptions provided by the organizers.

Also, for various reasons, I had hardly ridden my bike at all for nearly three weeks prior to the Gold Rush, with my last ride being a nearly flat 300-mile Grand Tour down in Los Angeles -- a shorter distance than I would be riding on the first leg of the Gold Rush. I figured I was well rested, but that it might take a little while for me to find my riding legs.

Fortunately, although I may not have planned particularly well for the Gold Rush, the ride organizers had. A great deal of thought and debate went into every major decision about the logistics and route. As an example, the only start time would be at 6 pm in the expectation that the first 100 miles of hot flat valley riding would be easier in the night and evening. 72 other riders, most of whom looked skinny and heat-loving to me, thus waited in the parking lot of Tandem Properties. The temperature seemed to be somewhere in the low 90s, already a little cooler than it had been earlier in the afternoon. A definite south breeze was coming up the delta, which meant we could expect mostly a tailwind for the first 100 miles to Oroville.

Lee Mitchell's van led us out of town and immediately we found ourselves on small roads threading through the agricultural fields that surround Davis. My strategy at this point was not to go too fast in the heat. That meant keeping my heart rate down, even if it meant that I didn't ride out with the lead pack of riders. My heart rate jumped dramatically, though, when I heard the loud bang that signaled a tire blowout after only a few minutes. I looked down, unable to believe that it wasn't my tire that had blown. Somehow, my bike kept going, and I never did see which unlucky rider had the flat.

The start of 2001 Gold Rush.

I quickly found myself behind the lead group, although I could see where they were for quite a while thanks to the flat terrain. I might have been able to catch up to them, but wasn't willing to get my heart rate up that high. Besides, I wasn't alone. I had a handful of riders near me, and it looked like there was another sizable pack behind me. I wasn't sure where the other randonneurs I knew were, though. I'd hoped to ride with Lois Springsteen, one of the Davis Bike Club organizers of the ride, whom I knew would know virtually every turn. Lois and I had been on a PAC Tour together, too, and I figured there we'd probably be riding at about the same speed. In fact, Lois trained very hard this year with the Gold Rush in mind and keeping up with her proved to be a challenge at times.

Even without working too hard, I felt like we were making pretty good time during this section thanks to the wind. I kept drinking and concentrated on staying relaxed and cool. Soon, a small group of riders fell back from the lead pack and, sure enough, Lois was among them. She'd decided that keeping up with the lead group was too much effort, primarily because she'd come down with a cold just a few days before the ride. Although she was all right when the pack was heading north with the wind, whenever the route made a turn and briefly went crossways to the wind, she found herself breathing too hard. We agreed to try sticking together.

Still flat, so far. Lois leads the way.

About 30 miles into the ride, we turned onto Cranmore Road, which is a levee road that follows the Sacramento River. I hadn't expected much in the way of scenery for this first, flat, agricultural section, but was pleasantly surprised. The river was lovely (and seemed to have a slight cooling effect), and we rode past fields of bright sunflowers on our right that reminded me of France. Bees hummed around hives placed by the side of the fields. I zipped up my jersey. At another point, we were riding through a swarm of hundreds of dragonflies, which came at us like a meteor shower in a sci-fi flick, but never hit us. "Good," I thought, "they eat mosquitoes." Traffic was almost nonexistent. Off to the distance on our left we could see the silhouette of the Sutter Buttes, which Lois told me are considered "the smallest mountain range in the world." They're actually the remnants of an extinct volcano and are circular with a diameter of about ten miles. From a distance, though, they're no less scenic at sunset than the Rockies. Soon, we left Sutter County and crossed to Butte County.

Lois had a couple of flats during this section of the ride -- one from a goat's head thorn and one of undetermined origin. On both occasions, an official support vehicle stopped within minutes and provided a floor pump. Overall, the support for this ride was as good as any I've ever seen -- even after riders became spread out over hundreds of miles.

A few miles further along, we stopped at a water stop (not a control) where members of the Davis Racing Team helped us fill our Camelbaks. It was at this stop that I realized just how potentially cumbersome my combination of Camelbak, helmet-light battery, and required reflective vest really was. I mentally started rehearsing the best way to get everything off and then on again as efficiently as possible.

Our next (unofficial) stop was at mile 84 in the town of Gridley, where we bought some water at a convenience store (and I practiced my disrobing procedure). By now, things had cooled down considerably. A tandem pulled in after us at the convenience store, looking not very happy. It turns out they'd gotten lost and done more than ten extra miles. This was the last time we'd see this particular tandem -- they finished the ride in 68 hours!

We finally rolled into the first control, in Oroville, at 12:24 am -- without Lois's flat, we would have done a six-hour century. I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and had some delicious Japanese rice balls that Craig Robertson's mother-in-law had contributed. I'd been drinking Sustained Energy from my water bottles, so I didn't have to eat a lot of solid food -- just enough to make me feel full. Now, we would spend the rest of the night starting the climbing that would continue, more or less, for the next 200 miles.

Since taking up randonneuring, I've discovered that I'm comfortable riding through a night without sleep provided that I'm already fairly well rested. This night proved no exception. The route climbs out of the Central Valley from Oroville, over a modest pass called Jarbo Gap, and then up to Greenville via the Feather River Canyon. Even in the dark, I could tell that the Feather River Canyon was gorgeous. We still had the benefit of our tailwind, and the canyon road climbed gently. Unseen trains occasionally rumbled passed on the other side of the canyon. I like sharing a route with trains, since it means the grades are reasonable. The only real drawback to this part of the route was the presence of some truck traffic. I knew from talking to Lois that the Davis Club had agonized while weighing considerations such as traffic against difficulty of terrain. Based on the few encounters we had with logging trucks in the Feather River Canyon, I'm glad that the route occasionally followed steeper routes in an effort to avoid them.

Somewhere during our ascent of the canyon, we also caught our first glimpse of the thunderstorm activity that would characterize much of the ride. Lightning strikes lit up the sky and thunder rolled, while a light sprinkle dampened the road. The weather was enough to get our bikes dirty but not enough to really soak us to the skin or cause any temperature discomfort, especially since we were climbing. After 42 miles, we reached the Tobin control at 4:35 am. This, too, was a fairly short stop.

We kept climbing, with Lois setting a good pace. Eventually, the sky lightened, and I could see bits of the northern end of the canyon. Clearly, we were already in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains, as attested by the granite blocks lying tumbled in the riverbed and lining the roadside. The canyon was also heavily forested. We were in Plumas County and Plumas National Forest. Overall, I was surprised at how much of the Gold Rush route traversed forested terrain.

Our third control, in Greenville, marked the end of the big canyon climb. We were now at about 3,000 feet in elevation and could expect more moderate temperatures. At least that was the theory. The Greenville stop was a pleasant rustic motel set on a small hillside at the western end of a gorgeous mountain valley (Indian Valley). Lois and I got there at about 8:30, and planned to spend about an hour getting some food and re-organizing ourselves. I decided to remove the headlight on my helmet and leave it in my drop bag since I didn't think it would be as necessary now that most of the tricky navigating was behind us. I also changed shorts and jersey. Lois's theory was that Greenville was a good place to have a big meal since the next ten miles or so would be a fairly flat circumnavigation of the valley floor -- bringing us right to the foot of the major climb over the mountains. Indian Valley, and the neighboring Genesee Valley, which we also rode through, were beautiful, grassy, and home to what looked like prosperous cattle and horse ranches. At one point, a woman driving a white pickup truck called out as we rode past "Are you with the bikers on Highway 70?" "Yes," I replied, even though I knew better. She pulled over ahead of us on the road because she wanted to express her concern about people riding on that road since it was dangerous for truckers to pass. She was genuine in her concern, but implicit in her reasoning was the assumption that trucks cannot and should not be expected to slow down for bicyclists long enough to pass when it might be safer. In fact, we saw many instances of trucks, cars, and SUVs passing cyclists on blind curves, at high speed, and too close. For all their planning, there's only so much the Davis Bike Club can do about California's bone-headed drivers. Fortunately, most of the route, such as the road we were on now, was very lightly trafficked.

Lois thought that we would start climbing toward Antelope Lake, which is nestled near the crest of the Sierra Nevada, soon after leaving Indian Valley. In fact, we rode gentle rollers for quite a while without gaining much overall altitude until we had left the Genesee Valley. I kept looking at the altimeter on my watch, frustrated that we didn't seem to be making any vertical progress.

I'd expected the climb from Genesee Valley to Antelope Lake would test me, and it did not disappoint. We now were riding during the hottest part of the day, with temperatures in the 90s and little or no shade. The grade wasn't extremely steep -- something like seven percent at its worst -- but gradually it began taking its toll on me. I shifted down and concentrated on just keeping the bike moving. It was during this long (and I didn't really realize how long it was until I saw it from the other direction) grind that I would either succeed or fail on the Gold Rush. Before long, I knew with certainty that I was in way over my head. That I hadn't trained for hills and heat the way I should. That Lois had disappeared far up the road ahead of me. That I had to figure out some way of getting home or of convincing someone to come and rescue me. I stopped and stood in a rare patch of shade and thought about why I was there. As usual, I could come up with no good reason. And yet, there I was, and there was the hill, and there wasn't anything I could do except to keep moving. So I started up again. I was nearly out of water (despite having started with 70 ounces in my Camelbak and two large bottles of Sustained Energy). A sag car pulled up, and I quickly asked whether they had any water. After they filled my Camelbak with cold water, I began to believe that I might make it through the rest of the climb.

Eventually, the climb relented a little, became a little less steep, and even rewarded me with brief snatches of downhill, during which I coasted and let the resulting breeze cool me slightly. Finally, sometime in the early afternoon, I reached the Antelope Lake water stop. This was not an official control, but a water and limited food stop that had been added in recognition of the remote nature of the course and the difficulty of the terrain. The lake itself was lovely, and the water stop was right in the middle of the dam that had created it, sometime in the early 60s. Across the road/dam, at the shore of the lake, was a small visitor area with a restroom and some information on "living with mountain lions."

Lois was waiting at Antelope Lake, having arrived just a few minutes ahead of me. I was amazed to discover that the "top" of the GRR -- the highest point on the ride -- was only five or six miles from this point. More importantly, though, as we waited at the rest stop, dark thunderclouds appeared in the direction in which we would soon be riding. "You'd better get out of here," a rest stop worker said, "it's about to rain."

Lois and I and a couple of other riders began climbing from Antelope Lake, and my spirits were immediately and immeasurably lifted by the lack of sunshine. The drizzle we encountered didn't bother me at all. Instead I reveled in the lack of heat, which completely tamed the climb for me. Soon, we reached a small sign indicating that we were at the top of the GRR -- 6,340 feet (a major milestone) -- but a lot of work ahead remained. Now came a few miles of gradual up and down through the forest at the crest of the Sierra, as we approached the top of the notorious Janesville Grade. I was anxious to satisfy my curiosity regarding this climb, which I would be seeing for the first time in reverse as we descended toward Honey Lake Valley.

I'd heard reports of riders reaching speeds of as much as 60 miles an hour while descending the Janesville Grade. I guarantee that I went nowhere near that fast. For one thing, the road was wet from the afternoon storm and, for another, I'm a confirmed chicken. Since I wasn't worried about overheating my brake rims on the cold and wet descent, I kept my speed down for most of the descent. When we reached the steep sections, I was duly impressed and tried to note and remember the scenery so that I would have some sense of where I was on the return trip in a couple of days.

At the bottom of the grade, we stopped at a convenience store for some quick calories and to strip off our warm clothes. From there, we had a mostly pleasant 20-mile or so ride through Janesville and up to Susanville. The route paralleled Highway 395 the whole way, although we managed to stay off the highway itself until the last few miles. Susanville was our next bag drop/control, and would be a good place to freshen up a little bit before our final push to the town of Adin.

We reached Susanville at 4:17 pm. I made a quick detour to the hardware store to buy fresh batteries for my rear taillights and spent the first few minutes at the control installing those with the help of a friendly Dalmatian dog. Now we were ready to start the big climb out of Susanville on Highway 139. This highway would take us all the way to the town of Adin, where we planned to sleep a few hours. The climb reminded me of the one up Yarnell Grade in Arizona on Pac Tour, where you could see the road climbing up the side of a mountain for several miles from the valley floor. It was a tough climb, but the day was getting a little bit cooler.

Eventually, we reached Antelope Summit. I stopped at the side of the road to "shift fluids" and noticed a pair of shoes hanging in the branches of the juniper tree nearest me. I looked closer and saw many pairs of shoes, all hanging by their laces from the tree. Don't know why. We descended to Willow Creek Valley, which was completely flat and quite pretty. We crossed it quickly, with favorable winds. At the north end there was a wildlife sanctuary, but the only wildlife I really noticed were birds. Looking ahead, I could see a road climbing in the distance from one end of the valley. It looked steep. "I have a feeling we're going to end up going up that road," I said to Lois, pointing it out to her. She said she didn't think so. For once, I managed not to say "I told you so."

When we finished climbing the road at the north end of the Valley, we were rewarded with a grand view of Eagle Lake, which is a spectacularly beautiful body of water. The descent to the lake was the first fun downhill that we'd really had on the whole ride. Jarbo Gap had been too dark, and Janesville Grade too steep and wet. After reaching the water's edge, Highway 139 closely followed the lake's contours, and we happily flew along with favorable winds, knowing that there was another unofficial water stop ahead.

The water stop, when we reached it, was manned by Dee and Larry Burdick, who were camped out in the middle of nowhere with a rented truck. It was an amazingly remote and beautiful spot. I was impressed with the dedication of this couple, who would be spending days at this place (including their wedding anniversary), catering to tired randonneurs. Overall, the dedication of the Davis Bike Club volunteers was extraordinary. I recognized many of them from brevets that I had ridden. Because so many of them were riders themselves, they had a good understanding of what an exhausted randonneur needs. Perhaps the greatest danger was in letting them spoil you too much. At one point it occurred to me that rolling into each control was like meeting family members you'd never known you had.

Larry Burdick said that the climb from Eagle Lake was a short one. I didn't necessarily agree as we slogged up Highway 139 and it started to get dark. We descended and followed another valley (Grasshopper Valley) to the last climb of the day -- into the Modoc National Forest. By the time we reached the summit of this climb, it was nighttime, and getting chilly. We debated whether to stop and put on our arm and leg warmers. Lois remembered that there was a campground partway down this descent, so we decided to try and make it that far. After a few miles, I said I was too cold and we stopped by the side of the highway to put on warmer clothes. This was a good decision because the campground was quite a bit further down the road.

I knew that it was more or less all downhill to the town of Adin, but at night it's hard to judge distances. The downhill seemed to go on forever and because of the dark and damp it wasn't much fun. In fact, it was chilly, even with our added clothes. I could tell we were in a forest, and it reminded me of riding through the redwoods of Samuel P. Taylor Park in Marin Country -- a place that always feels dank and chilly in the morning. Eventually, I could tell that we had left the trees behind as the landscape flattened out somewhat. In the distance, we could see lights, but what exactly they were we had no idea, nor could we tell how far away they were. After what seemed like a long time, we finally rolled into Adin and Modoc County, which is the last county before the Oregon border.

I had made a reservation at the only motel in Adin, the Juniper Tree Inn, which I knew we would be passing on our way into town. Sure enough, there it was on the right hand side of the road. By now it was already 11 pm, and we knew that we had to start by 4:00 the next morning in order to reach the Alturas control comfortably ahead of our cut-off time. I wasn't sure whether the motel (which I knew was a small, family-operated affair) would have saved my room or whether anyone would even be awake, but I decided to pull in and check. Sure enough, there was a teenaged kid sitting inside whom I could see (and who eventually deigned to see me) through the window. After some confusion (and rousing of his mom) he got me checked in and gave me a key. I then rode to the control, checked in, grabbed my drop bag, and somehow schlepped it on the bike back to the Juniper Tree. There I took a shower, drank a couple of cans of Ensure, and went to sleep instantly.

The alarm went off at 3:00, but I was already awake. Three hours of sleep didn't seem like much. I made it back to the control in Adin by 4:00, and Lois and I departed for the 43-mile ride to Alturas. Getting out of Adin involved riding across Round Valley and then a pretty good climb (Adin has the distinction of being at the bottom of two good-sized climbs), followed by a nice downhill to the town of Canby, where the sun started to come out and warm things up a bit. At that point, we left Highway 139 and took a nice country road called Centerfield due east for about 20 miles. It was good to know that all of the really big climbing was behind us for a while, and that the turnaround was getting nearer. We also started seeing other riders coming back toward us at this point. At one point, I stopped, looked behind me, and saw Mt. Shasta poking up like a snowcone.

The Alturas control was at a motel and well organized. We reached it at 7:30 or so, with about an hour to spare. Somehow, I resisted the temptation to visit the coffee and donut shop across the street.

From Alturas, it was a relatively easy ride to the turnaround at Davis Creek, even though the terrain was gradually uphill. Here we were riding through classic high-desert terrain, although it was by no means barren, and there was even quite a bit of agriculture going on near the Oregon border. I noticed lots of signs of volcanic activity, too.

At one point, we got a warning from Lois's husband, Bill Bryant, that some vicious dogs had been harassing riders during a downhill stretch, but we never saw them. Bill had driven out from the turnaround control, to warn riders. Later, as we cruised up the long straight stretch to Davis Creek, I noticed a rancher working (not sure whether it was a ditch or a fence) by the side of the road while his border collie sat in the seat of a John Deere tractor supervising. Then, for a mile or so, the road was filled with seagulls picking grasshoppers off the asphalt -- an easy, if dangerous, way to get a meal, judging by the gull road kill we passed.

Finally, at 9:45 am, we made the left turn into the small park were Bill was parked with a motor home for the Davis Creek control. The turnaround is always a major psychological milestone on a randonnée. Not many riders abandon once they get this far. Like all the visiting riders who reached Davis Creek, we signed a large GRR poster to be given to the locals for their hospitality and ate. After half an hour, it was time to get back on the bike and go home.

Looking chipper at the turnaround after 600K.

I knew I had to concentrate on getting from one small goal to the next because the day's end in Susanville still seemed impossibly far away. By my count, there were at least five significant climbs between Davis Creek and Susanville, including what had looked like a tough one to get back into Adin. I hadn't really seen the climb we would be doing to get out of Adin (since we'd come down it in the dark), but I remembered with trepidation how endless it had seemed.

As we pedaled back toward Alturas, Lois noticed that my rear wheel was wobbling, so I loosened the back brake a bit. She suggested that I have Steve Rex look at it at the Alturas control, which he and his whole family were manning. Steve is a frame builder who built the bike Lois was doing the ride on as well as lots of other Davis Bike Club bikes. I'd noticed at the control that even the Rex kids had custom Steve Rex kid bike frames.

Again, we made it past the mean dogs without seeing any sign of them. When we reached Alturas, Steve Rex took my rear wheel and quickly trued it -- a spoke had come loose. I'd had all the spokes on the rear wheel replaced just before the ride after breaking one on the Grand Tour triple century. Apparently, they hadn't been laced tight enough, even though I'd tried to impress upon the bike shop guy that the wheel had to last for 750 miles.

Eventually, we got out of Alturas, although by now it was getting harder to keep control stops to a minimum. As fatigue sets in, you just have to do everything a little more slowly and try harder not to forget something important, like reapplying sun block or putting your water bottles back on your bike.

As we got back on Centerville Rd, the sky darkened ominously yet again in the direction toward which we were heading. No views of Mt. Shasta this time. Eventually, it started to sprinkle, and once again we stopped to put on warmer clothes. A bunch of us pulled over at a rare intersection. Lois wanted to "shift fluids" but a school bus pulled up and showed no sign of leaving. I rolled up the road a few hundred yards to where a really nice juniper tree waited to do a little fluid shifting of my own. Then it started to rain a bit harder, so I leaned my bike against a barbed wire fence and sheltered under the tree. Lois arrived and I suggested that we wait out the worst of the thundershower. Then it began to hail. A car pulled over and the driver asked if we needed help. There was shelter just up the road, he said. No, we're fine, we replied. I can't imagine what people thought we were doing out there.

Once the hail stopped and the rain seemed to be letting up, we got back on the road and pushed on. The respite was temporary, though, and we got a couple of more good showers that thoroughly soaked us, although we didn't have to deal with any more hail, thank goodness. Dave Leonard and Donn King joined us around this point. At one point, some people stopped to either take off or put on clothes and got attacked by biting black flies. I managed to miss that misery. Eventually, we reached Canby, where we would rejoin Highway 139, and the rain seemed to be gone for good. A sag vehicle stopped and we got bananas. There wouldn't be much difficulty drying out on the climb back to Adin.

I'd been dreading the hill out of Canby, since it had looked like a pretty tough one on the outbound trip, but we must have had a tailwind, because it didn't seem that hard now. Both Donn and I climbed fairly easily, with Lois falling back for a change. We reached the top and I decided to roll ahead, figuring I'd go easy until Lois caught up. Then, however, as I got down to Round Valley, the tandem team of Dan Crain and Anny Beck passed me. They stopped pedaling for a few seconds, which I correctly interpreted as an invitation to jump on their back wheel. I was going so slowly, though, that it took a while for me to get up some speed. Dan assumed that I didn't want to get on their wheel and started pedaling again. No matter, I just sprinted until I caught up. They both had rearview mirrors, so they knew I was there. They pulled me at a good clip almost all the way into Adin. In return, I got some batteries for them at the general store in town, where I planned to stop and buy some medicine for a bad sore I'd developed on my tongue. It seemed like we were going so fast that we must have put half an hour on Lois, but she ended up reaching Adin only ten minutes or so after I did. It was now about half past four in the afternoon.

I remember eating one or two fried egg sandwiches while waiting at this control. I heard later that when the control workers at Adin ran out of eggs, the local Adin people went home and raided their own refrigerators. Adin was probably the only place during the Gold Rush, that we experienced the kind of interest from local onlookers that characterizes Paris-Brest-Paris. That may partly be why Adin seemed to be everyone's favorite control. There were no people sitting by the side of the road at 2 in the morning to call out "Bon courage!" but I can't imagine French people raiding their refrigerators for eggs, either.

By my count, we now had four climbs left before we could descend to Susanville, with one big climb behind us and the biggest climb next up. We started out from Adin, and I was interested to see what the landscape actually looked like in the daylight. What had seemed so bizarre at night was of course quite ordinary by day. The climb was gradual but long. Very long. About 20 miles long. Somewhere during the first part I noticed a funny noise coming from my wheels. It wasn't coming from the drive train, since it happened whether I was pedaling or not. I got off my bike and spun each wheel, but the noise refused to appear when I wasn't actually riding. Lois and Donn heard it, too, and we all offered and then rejected various theories as to what might be causing it.

Lee Mitchell pulled up in his van at that point and asked what we were doing, since we had stopped by the side of the road (any excuse to stop climbing, I guess). "We're trying to figure out what's making this strange noise on my bike," I said. "Oh, that's your knees!" said Lee.

Actually, my knees felt good for the entire Gold Rush. Just thought I'd mention that. Lee listened to the sound from his van and suggested that I just "ride it." I did. Eventually, the noise, whatever it was, went away. It came back for a short while the next day and then disappeared again. I still haven't figured out what it was.

About two-thirds of the way up the hill, we reached the campground that we'd been looking for in the dark the night before. We stopped to relieve ourselves and a passing motorist offered us some water. Somehow, I got it in my head that this was the top of the climb, which was far from true. Overall, the Gold Rush route was a lot easier to keep in one's mind than, say, Paris-Brest-Paris, but 375 miles is a lot to remember in detail, no matter how broad a brush the landscape may be painted with.

I believe it was during this last part of the climb through the forest that I saw some large animal, probably a coyote, cross the road less than a quarter mile ahead of me. All I could make out was its silhouette; I looked in vain for any sign of it by the side of the road when I reached the spot where it had crossed. It reminded me of a sign partway down the mountains above the Anza Borrega desert: "Do you see the bighorn sheep? They certainly see you."

As usual, we eventually reached the top. We descended to Grasshopper Valley. We started climbing toward the summit that would take us down to Eagle Lake. The road was lined with juniper trees, and I passed the time by looking for the one with the shoes in it, which I was able to point out to Lois, who had been ready to accuse me of hallucinating. Finally, we reached the fire station that marked the top of the climb and quickly zoomed down to where the Burdicks were still camped out with their truck. Quite a few riders seemed congregated here at about this time. Several times during the ride, I thought it was amazing that out of 73 riders, 10 to 20 percent might all be found in one place at the same time.

While we sat around the Eagle Lake stop, a Davis volunteer showed up from Susanville with two large, still-warm pizzas. The response was enthusiastic, to say the least. I managed to scarf down a couple of slices of Canadian bacon and pineapple before we started back along the shore of the lake. This was where it got dark. Even so, I could see the waves that the wind was riffling on the water. That same wind was now pushing us southward, toward our next climb. This one, which had seemed pretty steep on the outbound leg as a downhill, proved not to be too difficult, perhaps because of the tailwind. Soon, we were descending back to Willow Creek Valley. What I remember about riding through it at night was how long the lights of oncoming traffic were visible. The car and truck lights came straight at us from so far away that it would seem as though they weren't moving at all. I concentrated on blocking them out with the visor of my helmet so they wouldn't ruin my night vision.

Now, we came to the last climb of the day (or night, I guess) -- the ascent back to Antelope Summit, overlooking Susanville. For some reason, I hadn't remembered from the outbound trip out just how long this was. Maybe that's because the climb to Antelope Summit had been so daunting from the Susanville side. Or maybe it's because descents never impress themselves in your memory as solidly as climbs since they go by so much more quickly. Anyway, this proved to be a long, long slog for me. Maybe the fatigue was catching up with me a bit. That it was chilly and dark might also have been factors. It seemed to take forever to regain the summit. The stars were beautiful, but I could tell that I wasn't riding as well as I should. It seemed like it was hard to keep the bike going in a straight line and there was no shoulder on the highway. I mentioned my unsteadiness to Lois, and she said she was experiencing the same thing, which made me feel a little better.

Finally, we reached the top and started our descent to Susanville. I hated it. Going downhill in the dark just is not fun, especially with limited lights. My Lumotec light had stopped working by this point. (I later discovered that one of the connectors had come loose from its wire). Fortunately, I still had my Cateye as a backup. All I could think about was not hitting a rock. Finally, we got to the bottom, and it turned out to be a fairly quick and easy trip to the motel/control from there. We arrived just before midnight.

I'd booked a motel room for that night in Susanville, and quickly got my key, collected my bag, showered, and hit the sack. This time, it was the alarm that woke me up -- at 4:30. I'd told Lois we could leave Susanville at 5:30 with the expectation that we would start climbing the Janesville grade at around 7:00.

After an uneventful ride to Janesville, we stopped at the convenience store at the bottom of the grade to gird our loins, as it were. Now, Lois had climbed the Janesville grade just a few weeks earlier as part of her route scouting for the Davis Bike Club. Her report on that experience had been used to reassure riders that the grade, although tough, was not impossible. So, I think she felt she had something to prove this morning. We started out and Lois pointed out after a minute or so that my rear lights were still on. I stopped to turn them off and save batteries, while Lois rode ahead. She stayed ahead of me for most of the rest of the grade, and I can confirm that she rode the whole thing.

I started out in my middle chain ring, enjoying the mountain scenery and the quickly spreading view below us. Honey Lake stretched off to the south, and to the north I could see the grade we climbed the day before to get out of Susanville and reach Antelope Summit. Soon enough, though, I had to switch to my small chain ring and, when the steepest sections came, I resorted to criss-crossing the road to lessen the grade. The weather was cool, however, and I felt in no danger of overheating or of running out of breath. Also, there was almost no traffic, and what there was could be heard for quite a while before it actually reached you.

Working my way up the Janesville Grade.

When I had finished climbing all the really steep parts, I came to a wide spot in the road where Lois's husband Bill was parked with some water and cookies. Lois had stopped here. I stopped to admire the view, while some other riders went on past. Then, Lois and I continued up the rest of the grade (which wasn't very steep from then on, and actually was more like rollers than a climb) until we reached the "top of the GRR." From there, we knew that we would have a long descent to Antelope Lake and from there to the Genesee Valley.

And at the top!

Starting back down the western side of the Sierra was a morale booster. We kept our pace moderate, mindful of the frequent patches of gravel on the road. I don't know if they were remnants of the snow conditions that close the pass most of the year or if they were just part of the general crumbliness of the Sierra's granite geology, but I was glad that we were doing the descent in daylight. I knew that some people had actually climbed and descended this part of the ride in the middle of the night before. If I were to do this ride again, I think I'd try to time it so that I got to the summit of the Janesville Grade right around sunrise. That way, I'd probably have time to finish the day's ride before the wee hours of the morning. Of course, that would require being fast enough to get to Susanville earlier for some sleep.

Once down to the Genesee Valley, I noticed that the wind was starting to pick up just a little bit and that it wasn't necessarily helping us. I started to crave ice cream. Lois and I agreed to stop at the small country store in Genesee (actually, this store just about comprised all of Genesee) to see if we could get something to eat. We weren't sure whether it would be open. As we'd whisked past it a couple of days before, it had looked closed to me. Even if it wasn't open, we figured that it would be a good idea to stop and eat something. Eating enough food was becoming a major concern.

Well, we reached the store, and it wasn't open. I think it opened at 11:00, and we were about 20 minutes early. Then, I noticed that it was closed on Tuesday through Thursday. As this was Thursday, we were out of luck. "I guess I should take it off the route card as a possible water/food stop," said Lois. Still, it was a pleasant spot. Shady, with a front porch where we could sit and watch a few other riders go by as we munched on Powerbars. Randonnée-length events certainly do tax your resolve to stay on the bike as much as possible. Across the road, there was a large country house, with the sheet-metal roofing that was de rigueur in this fire-prone country. Up on one of the ridges above us, in fact, we could see smoke from a small fire, and a helicopter apparently dumping water on it.

A graying, three-legged Border collie limped up the road to greet us and look for a handout. I could see that his cloudy eyes were originally brown on one side and blue on the other. He couldn't or wouldn't come up on the porch, but he did his best to hypnotize us with that infamous Border collie stare until he finally got a tiny piece of each of our Powerbars.

We got back on our bikes. Genesee Valley seemed to be the point where everyone on our section of the ride started feeling a little bit saddle sore. I know I did. It became increasingly difficult to find a comfortable position on the bike as we circumnavigated the valleys on our way back to Greenville, where our next control waited. When we got to town, Lois and I decided to look for ice cream bars. There weren't any likely stores on Main St., which is the road we had come in on, but Lois thought there might be something one or two blocks up or down Highway 89, which we had to cross before detouring a few blocks to our control spot. I spotted a drugstore and decided that I was going to look for some kind of cushioning pad I could use to help with my saddle soreness. We saw a grocery store down the highway to the left and agreed to meet there.

As I was getting off my bike to go into the drugstore, Lee Mitchell pulled up in his bike van and asked (jokingly) if we were going off course. "Just for ice cream," I said. "They have ice cream at the control," said one of Lee's passengers. "Oh, well can you tell Lois? She's just around the corner at the grocery store," I said. I went into the drugstore, only slightly conscious that I must look like I was from Mars. I bought some kind of gel pad for bunions or something. It looked like it might stick to the part of me that needed pampering.

When I came out of the store, I looked down the street to where the grocery was, but I didn't see Lois's bike, so I assumed that she had gone ahead to the control. When I reached the control a mile or so later, though, just before 1 pm, Lois was nowhere to be seen. So, did I ride back looking for her? Of course not! I sat down and ate the last of the ice cream. They said someone had gone out to get some more.

Lois eventually made it to the control. She said that the grocery store had been closed, so she'd gone to a gas station across the street and eaten two ice cream sandwiches there. She hadn't been too concerned when I didn't show up. We spent quite a bit of time at this control, which seemed extremely hot, just trying to eat. I ate some more ice cream. Then a bowl of raisin bran. A can of V-8. I spent some time putting the helmet light back on my helmet. Finally, it was time to ride the last leg of our 1000K. The next control would be at Tobin, and from there it was only a couple of miles to the official 1000K finish.

Unfortunately, these next 30 or so miles were some of the hardest of the trip, and took me nearly three hours. Although we were mostly going downhill, only rarely were we on a steep enough downhill that we didn't have to pedal into what had turned out to be a pretty good head wind. To make matters worse, my saddle just would not get comfortable. I stopped a few times to try and remedy the situation. First, I got rid of the pad I'd just bought, which didn't seem to be helping at all. Then I tried some Spenco second skin that I had in my saddlebag. It wouldn't stick -- probably because I'd already used so much Bag Balm, which was not very effective because in the heat it liquefied and thus didn't stay where it was supposed to. Finally, I got out a wrench and changed the angle on the saddle itself, figuring that this might alter the pressure points that were causing the problem. This ended up being the best solution, and I was able (with continuing applications of Bag Balm) to finish the ride in only occasional mild discomfort.

With all my stopping and fiddling, I'd long since lost sight of Lois. I concentrated on just keeping moving and trying to avoid getting hit by the trucks and other crazy drivers on this stretch of highway. This easily was the worst traffic that we'd encountered on the entire trip. It wasn't heavy, but a lot of it consisted of big trucks or RVs, and none of the drivers seemed to think that slowing down and waiting for a safe moment to pass was an option.

Finally, I made it to Tobin at about 5 pm. Once again, I began the quest to eat enough food. I had a few fruit cups to start. I was sitting on a couch inside the ski lodge when I started to think that as long as we were just sitting there it might be a good idea to get a few seconds of sleep. I closed my eyes. "Have you gotten enough to eat, Jim?" said Lois, not too subtly. I opened my eyes. "Probably not." I ate some more, filled my Camelbak, and got ready to go. From this point, I pretty much stopped using the Sustained Energy, mostly because I got the feeling that it wasn't holding up too well in the heat. The main thing I felt comfortable eating was GU, but I had only a limited supply.

Again we started downhill into the wind, but fortunately it seemed to be letting up a bit. I tried to appreciate the spectacular canyon scenery that I'd missed during the first night of riding, but fatigue dimmed its allure somewhat. We crossed bridges, swapping sides of the canyon with the railroad. I watched a train climb in the opposite direction with at least five locomotives at its head. Finally, we got to the last significant climb of the ride: the Jarbo Gap. I had no recollection of how long it was, although Lois said it was something like seven miles. As it turned out, it didn't matter. I suddenly started to feel really good as we started climbing. I got out of the saddle (which also felt good, considering the condition of my bottom). At one point, from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of what was either a badger or a porcupine scurrying up the roadside embankment. The road was smooth and wide and curving, and it seemed like I just sailed to the top. One of those inexplicable moments that seem to come on these long rides. I remember some similar experiences on the last day of Paris-Brest-Paris, too. Maybe I had finally found my legs.

I waited for everyone else (we had a group of four or five at this point, including Donn King, whom we'd reconnected with at Tobin), and we all began the descent from the top of Jarbo Gap to Oroville. I was thankful that we got to do this descent in the daylight, as it was a fast one. From here on, being a few pounds overweight wasn't going to be a disadvantage. In fact, Lois commented that it seemed a little unfair that I could pass her on the descents without even pedaling.

Shortly after we bottomed out, we turned off of Highway 70, with its traffic (Donn reported later that someone had thrown a full bottle of Pepsi at him from a car -- and missed, fortunately), onto a quiet frontage road (Table Mountain Road). I felt strong all the way into Oroville, and spirits seemed to be high as people sensed that the end was near. From Oroville, we would have only 88 miles to go. Of course, as we rolled into town, the sun went down, so we would be riding those miles in the dark. My goal was for us to leave Oroville by 9:00. I tried not to think about how late that meant we would be arriving in Davis.

It was not hot in Oroville. In fact, it was downright cool at 8:30 pm. Apparently, the Central Valley had experienced an unusually cool day. It had been cooler here than in Greenville, as a matter of fact. This meant that I had made a dumb mistake when I choose to leave my arm and leg warmers in my drop bag way back at Greenville, where it had been nearly 100 degrees. Oh well. I tried to eat some food at Oroville, but probably didn't eat enough. I was anxious to get on the road as soon as possible. Lois, on the other hand, had a cousin at the control whom she hadn't seen in 20 years. Even so, we managed to get out of town at just a little after 9:00, with Donn King, Dave Leonard, and two other riders, including the only recumbent rider on the trip, accompanying us.

Our first goal, after leaving Oroville, would be to reach the secret control. Because Lois was an insider, she actually knew where the secret control would be -- somewhere on Cranmore Rd. That meant we had about 50 miles to go.

There wasn't much to see in the dark, and I soon realized that my challenges during this part of the ride would be twofold: staying awake and avoiding bonking. I soon realized that nearly all the GU packets in my pocket were empty ones. I'd left without enough food to make it to the control. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Fortunately, I was able to cadge a couple of GU packs from my companions.

Two other memories of this part of the ride both involve animals. One was a dog. We heard lots of dogs, but they were almost all behind fences. If you shone your headlamp in the direction of the barking, you'd always see two eyes like the ones on scary Disneyland rides. This time, however, we could hear the sound of the dog running -- its nails clicking on the pavement -- accompanying the barks. "He's loose!" said Lois, and everyone sped up, especially Dave Leonard. "He's gaining on you, Dave!" said someone, and Dave really started to go. We started barking at Dave. Dave could have won a Tour de France sprint at that point.

The other moment was one of the most unsettling I've ever had on a bike. We're riding along in the dark, when all of a sudden we heard a loud clang/bang just to the right of us, followed by a horrible shrieking animal noise. Everyone just about jumped off of their saddles. "What the hell was that?" Someone offered a plausible theory: "I think it was an animal getting caught in a trap." The sound echoed in our minds for miles afterward.

By now, I was hitting a real low point. I was sleepy, which meant that my vision was deteriorating. I was a little bit worried that I might fall asleep on the bike, but more concerned that I would simply do something stupid like ride off the road while still awake. I tried to engage other people in conversation. I closed one eye so that my double vision (this happens to me when I'm really, really, really tired) wouldn't bother me, but that made it seem like I was halfway to closing both eyes, which would be disastrous. Where oh where was that secret control? And was it at all possible that I could get just a few minutes of sleep there? I didn't think I would be able to ride thirty-odd more miles in my current condition.

Finally, at around 1:30 am, we saw the lights of the secret control, which was bigger and more elaborate than I had dared to hope. Yes, they had cots! As soon as we stopped riding, though, I was cold. I had a cup of coffee and a couple of bowls of peach cobbler. Mary Woodside, the woman in charge of this stop gently massaged my shoulders. My mouth was sore enough now that my food options were limited. "I think I have to lie down for just a little bit," I told Lois. Dave Leonard also wanted to lie down. "It's not safe for me to ride like this," I reasoned. I knew Lois was anxious to keep going, but I think she was too tired to argue. I got two blankets and lay, shivering, on a cot, while mosquitoes helped themselves liberally to my glycogen-depleted blood. I honestly don't know if I actually slept or not. It seemed like I could hear Donn King talking the whole time. But eventually Mary said it was time to get up. There was apparently a 30-minute limit on sleep breaks, though I don't know exactly why. Bill Bryant, who had been taking a sleep break here himself before we rolled in, loaned me a balaclava and some wool gloves. Looking at the official times on the Web, I see that we apparently spent more than an hour at this secret control. At the time, it seemed about half that.

I only know this is me at the secret control because nobody else on the ride wore tennis shoes and white ankle reflectors. If I could zoom this enough, you'd see the swarm of mosquitoes on my legs.

Lois waiting for me to wake up.

We started riding. This was Cranmore Rd, which was the bumpiest one of the ride, except for a little one-block stretch in Alturas. I was shivering so hard that I was afraid the bike wouldn't go straight. "I've got to go faster than this to warm up," I said, and I took off. The food and coffee and possible sleep seemed to have helped, and I quickly pulled ahead of the rest of the pack. I wouldn't exactly say that I got warm, but I stopped shivering. This wasn't a race, though, and I was concerned about the possibility of getting lost in the dark. Fortunately, I could see the lights of my companions behind me for most of the way, and there weren't many turns between here and Knight's Landing. When I finally did reach Knight's Landing, I stopped and waited for the rest of the riders. We sat on the curb and ate. I managed to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I'd brought from the control.

From here, it would be a straight shot down to Woodland, and from there just a few miles to Davis. We were on a busy road, but there was a good shoulder, and as we rode the sky started to lighten to the east. I got down on my aero bars and sped up to warm up. After a while, I slowed down to let everyone else catch up and then took off again, with the rest of the riders drafting behind me. After we passed through Woodland, though, it seemed that some riders had trouble staying on the pace line so I slowed down a little. At this pace, we continued all the way into Davis. Now, my goal was to make it to the finish before the sunrise. I had thought that I would be able to do the Gold Rush faster than Paris-Brest-Paris, but I hadn't reckoned on how slow the last 80 miles in the dark would be. As we rode through the streets of Davis, passing the corner where we'd started more than 80 hours earlier, I was riding primarily out of the saddle, making sure not to get ahead of everyone else. It seemed important to finish as a group, having made it through this long night together.

When we reached the end, at 5:43 am, the exact time of the sunrise, I was very glad.

Wow, reflective ankle bands really work!