Me and the Lassen Bench, we have some history. Last time, in the heat of the day, I flatted.
This year, I got myself lost. But first things first.
We rolled toward our pancake breakfast at the Fairgrounds in the early morning light, sunrise tinted by the smoke of a (somewhat) distant fire.
Up here, water still flows—a sight to savor, as California's drought worsens. Within the first couple of miles, a bald eagle thrilled me by gliding low above the road, just ahead. Mt. Shasta was barely visible through the wildfire haze. (Look carefully for the peak's reflection in the river.)
The area is rugged and remote. It can be challenging to cross a rumble strip on a bike, but fortunately there was very little traffic on CA 89 and the shoulder was reasonably wide.
A welcoming sign told us we were 2.17 miles from the rest stop. Not 2.2 miles, mind you, or 2 miles. Two-point-one-seven miles.
I remembered that first rest stop; this year, we were the source of much excitement for kids across the road—a day camp, perhaps? Some perched outside on a tall stump, others inside with their faces pressed up against the window—all eyes were on the cyclists in our colorful attire.
One of the charms of this event is the local hospitality. The American Legion served eggs (duck or chicken, your choice) as well as pancakes, and the Auxiliary staffed the first rest stop with extra care: just point at what you wanted, they handled the rest.
Our route skirted a southwestern branch of Lake Britton (which we'd visited yesterday).
We crossed the bridge above the dam; the lake to our left, the Pit River far below us, to our right.
We found ourselves with more riders, this year; maybe it was just lucky timing, but our memory of our last visit was pretty much being on our own. I chatted with a woman who's been riding in this event for 20 years, and with a guy who shared our alarm at the emergency evacuation of Markleeville on the eve of today's Death Ride (now canceled, of course).
The climbs are mostly gentle, but as we rose higher I caught the whiff of smoke in the air—I wondered how the sky could be so blue, and whether I would choose to cut today's ride short. [Ha.]
Unlike my ride buddy, I had no memory of the second rest stop; now it is one I will not forget. Four kinds of homemade breads; the young woman serving us explained that her aunt and uncle were inside, taking a break; they had been up late into the night baking for us. They came out of the house to socialize while we were there—her aunt tethered to her portable oxygen tank.
And then there was Duke (the dog). After I saw him chase a (wimpy) stick that another rider had thrown, I started looking for a proper one. And he knew what I was doing—suddenly he was right at my heels, wagging his tail. His muzzle was gray, but Duke leapt like an excited puppy when I teased him before tossing that stick.
As I reflect on the (many) rides I've done, in so many interesting and beautiful places, it is the kindness and generosity of the people I remember most clearly.
I got ahead of my riding buddies. I passed another group of riders. I was hungry. I sailed down a gentle hill, following the bend at a fork in the road, and ... stopped. Uh oh.
I didn't see an arrow on the road. My odometer suggested that the next turn, toward lunch, was a mile or so away. I walked back toward the intersection and saw arrows heading down the other road.
I went that way.
Sadly, my original trajectory had been correct, despite having missed the helpful arrows leading up to the intersection. And I had stopped just short of another set of arrows that would have reassured me I was on the right track.
I kept going, expecting to see a sign like “1 mile to lunch!” (There was none.) The miles ticked past, in a straight line. By the time I stopped to get my bearings, I was well on my way to McArthur, on the post-lunch part of the route.
My brain needed more fuel. I wasn't thinking straight.
Continuing to the next rest stop didn't seem sensible; I needed real food, not snacks. I turned toward McArthur, and the Fairgrounds. Should I just end my ride there, with the post-ride meal? [Of course not.]
I headed back to Fall River Mills, where somehow I was not the last rider to roll in for lunch.
I texted my buddies to let them know that, regrettably, I would skip the segment to the Lassen Bench and catch up with them at the finish. Refueled, I discovered that I had been riding all day with my clear lenses, not remembering to swap in my sunglass-tinted lenses. I studied the map and decided where I would cut the route short to return to the Fairgrounds.
My plan for the day had been to ride about 88 miles; I climbed 3,135 feet and rode 88 miles (just not the 88 miles I'd intended).
After we got cleaned up (and ate even more food), I persuaded my chief ride buddy to go for an evening stroll.
Unintentionally, we ended up at the fateful intersection. That's how close I was to lunch when I went astray. Just a couple of blocks away. [Sigh.] There were the arrows I'd overlooked in my downhill and distracted euphoria, as plainly marked as they should be.
Ah, well. Just might have to come back. Next year?
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