Kate Gray

Writer & Writing Coach

had to happen

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Well, I knew sometime it would… When I unloaded my bike at the bottom of the hill, I realized I had forgotten some vital equipment: my biking shoes. At least I had my Keens (not the kind with clips in them, unfortunately). So, I had an hour to get up Saltzman Road to Skyline, to a friend’s house for a meeting of our writing group, and I didn’t want to just “hang out” somewhere and kill an hour. So, up I went.

Saltzman Road is a fire access road into Forest Park and partially paved. It’s the least steep access into the part and up to Skyline. Without the draw of the feet on the pedals, it’s a little steeper, a little less sure. And yes, it was hot, around 80 degrees, there was plenty of shade. My feet didn’t slip. The different angle of my feet played a little with my calves, but I made it up, hit the pavement of Skyline and the traffic of folks heading to the Street of Dreams and later, heading home. Those narrow roads and turns are scary, but so many cyclists up there keep cars alert (I hope). I made my poetry group. I learned.

Off for two days, two days at the Coast for Cheryl’s birthday. (www.esterlee.com) 50+ miles so far this week, good hills, more on Sunday. It’s a good return to cycling. Thanks for your support.

Kenyan air

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This morning the air could be Kenyan, hazy, the promise of hot. It could be Kenya outside, except the air has that slight sparkle of ocean coolness and no scent of wet cardboard or damp wood smoke. The air showed me that I’m not completely back, that still I am between continents.

…Except I had a latte…

…Except I had two breakfasts and went to an Apple Store to fix an iPod.

Yesterday I rode the third ride of the week, up the cemetery from the Sellwood Bridge to Burlingame, over to Terwilliger down to Duniway track and back up again. Zooming down the hills, I felt for the first time in a long time really connected to my bike, like it was part of my body. All too often the handlebars feel like something else alive; the pedals are their own thing. Yesterday they came together, trusted me, and I them.

Today I’ll head up to Skyline, tomorrow the world.

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It was a gorgeous day for the first ride of 50, and my friend and fellow dangerous writer, Nicole, came along. We rode along Marine Drive and talked writing and MFA programs and families. Surprisingly few people were on the path, but many osprey above. It was wonderful to be using my body after 3 weeks of sloth. Thanks, Nicole, for a wonderful start.

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back in the saddle

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The trip to Kenya and Tanzania was a dream come true. Well, actually, my expectations going into the trip were low because I couldn’t imagine seeing the Great Migration of the wildebeest and thought for sure we’d miss it. Not only did we see some of the 1.5 million wildebeest crossing the Maasai Mara, but we saw it two days in a row!! We saw so many animals, so many lions and leopards and elephants and giraffes, that now that I’m back, it’s hard to believe we were really there, really smelling the dry grass, the marshes, inhaling the incessant dust. At times sometimes we heard hyenas calling, once a lion growling outside my window. (Thank goodness for windows and doors!)

Today I start the 50 rides. One friend is going with me on the inaugural ride, flat, not too long. The most exercise I’ve had for the last 3 weeks has been walking from the touring vans to the dinner line. Oh my! I had fantasies of riding my bike again, along the basalt cliffs of the Columbia, through the meadows of Lynn Country, over the hills.

Will you join me? I hope so. Can’t wait!

Hard to believe

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It’s been almost two weeks since completing the Pedal Petal. It was not easy. The first 30 miles, starting from the Oregon Gardens in Silverton, were  hills, but they weren’t as bad as they could have been. My head was my worst hurdle. I kept thinking how unprepared I was, how tired I felt, how unsure I was that I could make it. The downhills into Silver Falls were fabulous, and they lifted my spirits even though it was really cold. My teeth were chattering.

But when I got to 50 miles, there was an osprey circling over the rest stop, crying out that we were too big for it, that we were scaring its fish. And I just got off my feet, sat on a huge rock and rested a bit. The next rest stop was mile 63, and I knew I could make another 13 miles. So, I kept going.

The fields were chock full of crops: onions, wheat, strawberries. Workers bent double to peak beneath leaves and pick the fruit by hand. One small group of workers turned to me, right as I passed. I waved, and they straightened up, laughed, and gave back a wave. Another great moment came when a man, who looked like Rasputin with forked gray beard and Cossack hat, a very stern expression on his face, trudged up the road. When I waved at him, his face burst into a smile, cracked open, and he laughed. Many people who have never seen a recumbent bike think it is a merry machine.

At the very end of the ride, I was not so merry. In the last half mile I knew there was a hill, one of the steepest of the ride, and I yelled out in dismay. But this ride, unlike the last century, I did not walk. I made it.

And two weeks later, I’m a bit stunned that I rode a 100 miles. Why do I do it?
–to test myself because I know there are so many tests ahead
–to explore the edge
–to know which things matter (workers laughing, the smell of onions, the texts from Cheryl encouraging me)
–and more.

Pedal Petal

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Tomorrow I hope to ride a century, 100 miles through the rolling hills of Marion County. I’ll get up around 4:30am, be on the road by 5am to Salem, and I’m hoping to be on my bike around 6am. We’ll see. I don’t feel ready. I don’t feel rested. I’m nervous and somewhat scared. Why do this to myself? I’m not sure.

Part of it is doing something I don’t know whether I can do. Sure, last summer I completed 2 centuries. Sure, I’ve been riding long rides this spring. Part of the reason is that I love long rides. Zoning out to the rhythm of my own legs, not having to worry about getting lost because so many people have worked so hard to make the turns noticeable. And then there’s the scenery, usually stunning. Tomorrow’s course has some really steep hills, mostly in the beginning. We’ll see.

I’ve gotten to the place in life where walking or taking my time doesn’t seem criminal, at least when I’m riding by myself. When riding with others, I can’t stand the idea of holding them back, slowing them down. What’s up with that? Few people really mind. So much of sports is the mind.

Well, wish me luck. I’m shooting for 100 miles in 8 hours. We’ll see.

Laughing all the way…

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My good friend, Linda, and I went for a bit of a ride on Sunday, the sunny day. We got to Mosier around 9am, parked near the totem pole, and then, started up. Linda didn’t know Mosier, and I didn’t know if I could make it up the hill that I’ve been climbing all these months to get to the land we’re going to build on. That hill just keeps going and going. The road is aptly named: 7 Mile Hill. It tours the cherry orchard and town cemetery, curving around knolls, curving past organic farms, up and up. Over our shoulders we could see Hood, like some snow cone, so white in the blue-blue. And then, the road tilted up. Like a machine, Linda pumped up the hill, and I zigzagged, watched my heartrate flash at me from my monitor: 178, 185, 193… I just didn’t want the pain when it exceeds 200. And just when I thought I might lose it, the crest came in view. There was Linda staring out at the Columbia, taking in the liminal place between Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams. And we breathed.

Somehow I hadn’t thought there was a mile of uphill after the turn off to Dry Creek Rd, which leads to Osborn Cutoff, then to our road, Further Valley Rd. The sign says 6 miles to Mosier, and somehow the math had eluded me. We made it to the summit of 7 Mile Hill, 1780 feet up in 7 miles. 
And oh, the downhill was worth it, 6 miles of screaming turns, basalt cliffs, no guardrails, 15-mile-an-hour turns, wild blue flowers showing off against the dark, dark rocks, The Dalles far below, and we clocked 38 miles an hour and couldn’t stop laughing at the bottom. 
It was a short ride, and my ribs hurt from laughing.

hungover

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What does it say that I have the images of last week’s ride still in my head, the images of three weeks ago, too?

Last week I rode from Lyle, WA 20 miles along Rt. 14 east, to Rt. 97, went uphill to Goldendale, and headed west for another 40 miles. Did I mention the rain? Did I mention the wind? 30 mph gusts. Oh yeah, baby.
But what sticks in me is the viewpoint of what used to be Celilo Falls. As you face south, belly up to the road sign, the guardrail, to the right is Portland, and the mighty Pacific, to the left is The Dalles, the bridge, and in front of you used to be thousands of salmon, a series of falls, and one of the greatest trading places in North America. The wind blasts the basalt columns in there, the sage holds on until it can’t, and magpies lift off in all their starkness, their bright black and white. I do not feel alone there.
The browns with the shock of green grass, yellow delicate flowers, startled birds, they stick to my heart during the week. They are the resting place. They are the lingering escape.

Pushing off…

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Here’s to keeping your metal clip off the pavement, raising one foot to the petal, leaning a bit forward, balancing, waiting for the light, the tuck of abdominals, and pushing off with the first sentence of the first post about 50 rides to raise money for 50 African women for my 50th birthday.


Here’s for riding together.

Join me?
-Kate