62.10 miles (Total: 3957.98) Avg Speed: 11.4mph Max Speed: 27mph
Terry was up early as usual and tip toed around the rest of us asleep on the floor. He set out as we enjoyed a more than casual morning chilling out in the bikehouse with some radio. After we set out and reached the next town of Dayville we found Siemen who had stayed there the previous evening. He told us he had immediately regretted not staying at the bikehouse when he left.
Morning at the Bikehouse Inn
We entered into a canyon before starting the major climb for the day, it rolled up and round into a continually stunning Oregon landscape. We took a rest under some trees on rocks halfway up and discussed snake bites, Jessica has some special kit to combat certain bites. We really needed Terry, he would know about snake bites for sure. I enjoyed the climbing as usual and was looking forward to arriving in Mitchell this evening where they have a town bear who was rescued by a guy as a cub and now has a purpose built home.
Wim armed with a Bike pump.
Defeating the final climb.
When we eventually got to Mitchell expecting stores and restaurants we found what looked like a ghost town, where was Terry? Every single building had closed signs outside. Even Henry the bear wasn’t in his home, where did he go!
Henry the bear was not home, disappointed.
We find Terry at the only place in town open, sat out on the deck outside talking with some people. Turned out the town was once booming but since the logging industry in the area was closed down it went bust. The bartender blamed the ‘Left-Wing liberals from western Oregon’. Another bunch of cyclists going the other way were in town and it soon turned out they were winemakers from the Napa Valley carrying over 200 bottles of their own wine in their support van.
I order the Nealeigh Burger from the menu (named after the biggest guy in town, Mr Nealeigh). Needless to say I destroyed the burger to the astonishment of the owner. I have become known not only for my appetite from the others but the speed in which I can clear a plate. The winemakers left then returned with several bottles of wine and they just kept pouring more and more for us. We sat late talking still in our bike clothes and didn’t go over to the city park until dark. After an ice cold dip in the stream behind the park we didn’t bother to set the tents up, I found my inflatable pillow had a hole so had to makeshift a pillow out of clothes stuffed into my mat sac.
The Nealeigh Burger
Napa Valley winemakers.
Can’t move for free wine!
Terry was up before the rest of us, as always, tiptoeing carefully around the bodies still asleep on the Bikehouse floor. He rode out alone while the rest of us took a properly lazy morning with the radio on, no rush at all — the whole day would only run to sixty-two miles, nudging the total toward 3,958, so there was time to spare. When we finally caught up to the next town, Dayville, we found Siemen, who’d stayed there the previous night and now openly regretted not sticking with us at the Bikehouse instead.
Morning at the Bikehouse Inn
We rode into a canyon and up into the day’s main climb, the road winding through some of the most striking Oregon landscape yet. Halfway up we rested on rocks under a stand of trees and somehow ended up on the subject of snake bites — Jessica, it turned out, carried a proper kit for them. What we really needed was Terry, who I was fairly sure knew everything about everything, snake bites very much included. I enjoyed the climbing as much as ever, looking forward to Mitchell that evening, home to a town bear rescued as a cub and given a purpose-built enclosure of his own.
Wim armed with a Bike pump.
Defeating the final climb.
Mitchell, when we finally rolled in expecting stores and restaurants, turned out to be closer to a ghost town — every single building shuttered, closed signs everywhere you looked. Even Henry the bear was nowhere to be found, his purpose-built home standing empty.
Henry the bear was not home, disappointed.
We found Terry at the one place in town that was open, out on the deck talking with strangers. The town had boomed once, we learned, back when logging was still the industry, and had gone bust the day it wasn’t. The bartender had his own theory, blaming “left-wing liberals from western Oregon” for the whole decline. Also in town, heading the opposite direction from us, was a small group of cyclists who turned out to be winemakers from Napa Valley, hauling over two hundred bottles of their own wine in a support van behind them.
I ordered the Nealeigh Burger, named for the biggest man in town, and demolished it in a way that visibly startled the owner — I’d built something of a reputation among the group by now, not just for the size of what I ordered but for the speed I could clear a plate. The winemakers disappeared and came back with several bottles, then kept the glasses filled long after any of us had a reason to still be sitting there in our bike clothes. We didn’t make it to the city park until well after dark, took an ice-cold dip in the stream running behind it, and skipped the tents entirely. My inflatable pillow had sprung a leak somewhere along the way, so I improvised one out of clothes stuffed into my empty mat sack and called it close enough.
The Nealeigh Burger
Napa Valley winemakers.
Can’t move for free wine!
2 comments from 2010
quality! nice big update, and nice last photo ha
Still loving the blogs Ryan :-) Shame the wine cyclists weren't heading the same way as you...