Baby monster

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The Tour de Dad has entered the brutal phase. Less than 250 miles remain, but each comes at a price.

Yesterday, the Weather Channel had promised northwest winds, and the athletes gamely talked of another 90-mile day. The morning’s southeast winds, the riders knew, would fade. But they did not fade. They strengthened. Around noon, the winds seemed to shift, only to cruelly smash right back into the riders’ faces. And then there were those hills. “Baby Monster,” ravaged Fred’s legs – he nearly called it quits after the 26^th mile. When my dad reached BM’s peak, he slowed to yell another joke in the direction of the sag wagon. Instead he wobbled and, still clipped in, the wind threw him to the ground.

Yet the riders again showed resilience. The got their 60 miles. But neither hot tubs nor ribeyes could heal the wounds of the previous day. Those were spiritual lacerations. It is anyone’s guess whether the quest would have continued had it not been for the timely visitation of Larry and Karen Odegaards and their dog Odie. These fellow members of the Hubbard Bike Group hurried in from Minnesota to cheer the riders tales of high adventure and assuage their creeping doubts. Larry and Karen, and to a lesser extent Odie, understood those trials known only to Hubbard Bike Groupers, and their support would prove critical for what followed the next day.

The winds shifted, now they did indeed blow from the northwest. But they blew cold. My dad packed on the layers and had me check and recheck the hourly forecast Weather.com, despite its recent treachery, while he paced about Lee’s Travel Court.

And for the first time on the Tour de Dad, he broke out the goggles.

“Are ya going skiing?” Fred asked when my dad climbed into the truck. The sky spit rain, the winds roared in 30 miles per hour gusts, pushing the riders all over the road. No matter.

It is true that the riders joined me in the truck, skipping yet another chunk of the Lewis and Clark Trail. That’s because the little signs marking the Lewis and Clark Trail pointed directly at an I-90 entrance ramp. So the riders had a choice: seven miles of interstate or seven miles of truck. So, did the riders chicken out? No. You see, there were trucks, high winds, and other stuff.

After that little jaunt at 75-miles per hour, the riders remounted. Yes there may have been less joy in their riding and more weariness in their peddling. And yes the old sense of adventure may have been replaced by a grim determination.

As a hobbit once asked, “do adventures never end?”

This one should. In about four days.

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