Went out Saturday with the intention to do a long training ride in preparation for the Crusher in the Tushar. What happened was a mixed bag of pleasant riding, catastrophic mechanical failure and then good old fashioned poor decision making.
I rode out of town turning north along our usual route from the Sugar City Cemetery up and through St. Anthony, then turning north of the Del Rio Bridge. At the second major eastward turn of the paved road, I took the path less traveled by, north into the
Sand Creek WMA.
Despite the proximity to my parent's cabin, I'd not been up this road for probably 30+ years. The last time I remember distinctly was trudging down the road towards my folk's cabin in the Twin Groves area, having been dropped off 10 miles north so that my friends and I could complete one of three required 10 mile hikes for the
Hiking Merit Badge.
Eventually I wanted to end up at the
Sand Creek Ponds, which are memorable to me as the first place that I ever caught a fish with the new green and white
Zebco fishing pole my parents got me for my eighth birthday. I don't know that I'd been back since, and I wanted to see if the area was idyllic as the memories I'd burnished with age.
The road turns to a wide and mostly straight gravel that you'd find on most of the roads above the dry farms, and had been graded once this spring with some smooth sections at the edges. I was met a few miles down the road by an Idaho State Trust lands employee warning me that I might end up getting hit by an Aerial Herbicide application that was going on. I'd seen the plane overflying the area, and told the lady I'd take my chances. Fortunately, the plane stayed clear of my path the rest of the day.
The evening before I rode out I'd noticed that the rear tubeless wheel on my gravel bike was flat, but we'd been having troubles getting it to hold air earlier, so I thought that perhaps all it needed was another good ride to get the sealant spread round. I aired it up that night and came in the morning to find it pretty low again. But I thought it'd last at least half a ride, so I put my hand pump in my rear pocket and headed out with all the optimism in the world.
Before hitting the gravel I'd stopped to air up the tire once and was feeling pretty good about how it had held up over the first 45 min or so. When I eventually made it up and over the gently rolling hills to the Sand Creek ponds I was still doing ok on pressure. There were a few areas of looser sand along the gravel road, but near the ponds the road turns into a harder packed dirt that rolled much more quickly with some sandy soil mixed in.
The ponds and surrounding area didn't disappoint. This is undoubtedly the best time of year to be there. Everything was verdant and lots of folks had setup camp in the nearby areas and then gone fishin'.
Ponds 3 & 4 were closed to access for waterfowl nesting. I enjoyed the facilities at Pond #1 and then swung up to Blue Creek Reservoir, about a mile further north where the road ends.
 |
| Blue Creek Reservoir |
I figured I'd air up the rear tire before heading back down the road. On the way in I'd paid close attention to see what marked roads headed east, and only saw two: Lemon Lake Road, and July Creek. Having scouted the maps before leaving, I was pretty sure that July Creek would eventually dump me on the N. Antelope Flat road in Island Park, and saved that for another day (hopefully with friends along to scare the bears). So I pointed the bike south with the plan to backtrack to the Lemon Lake Road and then head east towards Ashton.
Not even a mile south of Pond #1 I was startled by what sounded like a gunshot, and then felt like a sucker punch to the gut when I was immediately riding on my rear rim. I guess I overestimated my strength with the hand pump, because my rear tire had blown out entirely. After getting the tire reseated on the rim I figured I'd see if it was possible to re-inflate with a hand pump. Yeah, that was a no-go. So on to the trusty CO2 cartridge.
Now at this point, a wiser, more experienced cyclist would have calmly pulled out his tube and with a knowing shake of the head unthread his valve stem and tuck it away in his back pocket to deal with later. That fellow would probably have brought two tubes along, just in case something like this happened.
But, I am apparently, not that person. Yes, I had a tube. And a patch kit. And two CO2s. And a hand pump. But it was
a tube, as in singular. In my mind, I was on a self-supported quest, simulating like difficulties that I'd had on the Crusher before. And I was not going to use that tube unless I really, absolutely had
no other option. And when I looked inside that tire there were at least two good ounces of Orange Seal waiting to go to work on whatever craziness might come.
As Forest Gump would say. Stupid is as stupid does.
So out came the CO2. With several satisfying snaps the tire seated back on the rim and was holding air - sort of. I hand pumped it some more, and noticed a pretty substantial leak along the rim right near the valve stem. Frozen orange seal from the CO2? Probably. Just ride it out a bit and it'll seal up.
That's the mantra of the remainder of my ride. Stop. Re-inflate, ride it out. Have faith in the Orange Seal. It will seal. It will seal. (It's got a stinking SEAL in it's logo)
I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that my riding time was a little under 7 hours total, but the elapsed ride time was close to 9 hours. That's nearly two hours of hand pumping.
Yeah, I guess I can be that compulsive, when I
have to.
Don't judge.
At any rate, I finally made it back to Lemon Lake Road. At the next intersection I actually turned north. I'd seen on my perusal of Google Earth that this might eventually dump me onto the Sadorus Hill road which was terra cognita for me, and it looked much more traveled. In hindsight I think if I'd continued east I'd have saved myself a few miles and the headache of some very rough gravel patches interspersed with sandy track (think the
Sarlacc pit road on the Crusher).
But eventually I was back on tarmac near Ora Idaho, and Ol' Blue was pointed toward 511 Main like a horse to water. Actually all I really wanted at that point was a Snickers bar (and some water).
I crossed the Ora Bridge and rolled into Ashton, watching the wind and clouds to see how miserable it might be cycling home. Good news, the wind was neutral (mostly). Bad news, wind around here is usually heading from high pressure to low pressure, and the low pressure is usually... yeah, a storm.
So taking the traditional route home down along Fall River into Chester and then from St. Anthony into the rainstorm between Salem and Rexburg left me one limp, wet rider as I pulled into my driveway and punched the stop button on my Garmin.
All the nitty gritty can be found in the link below. Just don't trust those last power numbers. That's not me pulling a Froome in the last 20K. That's when the water was shorting out the battery on my power meter.
Can't wait until next weekend...
We still had time to #chasethechaise.
There was a hundred-mile section through the night with no amenities that I rode cleanly, then I rolled up to a gas station at 2:30 a.m. and it wasn't open. I had planned for that possibility at the last store and had a Red Bull and a bag of MnMs just in case, so I slammed those and kept pedaling. I only had a couple swallows of water for the next forty miles but that didn't bother me. I know in races that I walk a fine line and I could crater or bonk, but I'm pretty confident I won't.
