Sportbike NW: Day 2
Open sight lines and zero cops beckoned us
Back when we were into yacht racing, we would sail in the Gorge a few times per year. The program went something like this: Sail all day and then drink HEAVILY so you fell asleep before your head hit the pillow. With any luck, you wouldn’t wake up during the night. You see, sleeping in a tent in the Gorge has two major drawbacks: trains and wind. The Columbia River has railroads down each shore and most serious cargo trains travel by night. If one of these babies rolls by at 2:00 a.m., you might think the world was ending depending on the type of dreams you were having. That’s just the trains. The Gorge is world famous for its wind. It’s typically thermal, with the desert heating up and pulling in cold coastal air for daytime 30-knot westerlies. At night, the eastern Oregon desert gets cold, cold, cold and the flow reverses with equal ferocity. It’s a natural 2:00 a.m. wake up call when your tent starts to roar and fold over. Though the Walking Man brewpub was fun, we didn’t drink nearly enough to sleep through the night.
I stumbled across the fairground field to the exhibition hall where Stompin’ Grounds was making coffee. I found David in line. “What did you decide? Do you want to ride 206?” “We didn’t really decide,” I reply. “We had dinner and didn’t really give today much thought. I’d like to do it, though Carry wants to do the poker run since we’ve never done one.”
We soon found Carry, and before long there was an Oregon map spread out on a picnic table. Our route would take us east on 14 to highway 97, which runs south from Yakima to Bend. We would cross the Columbia River at Biggs Junction, dash down 97 for a few miles and turn east on 206. The promise of empty twisty roads and no traffic was enticing. We were staying in an area we visit at least once a year and the expedition to Heppner was too good to pass up. We agreed we’d suit up and roll into town for breakfast.
In addition excellent beer and ice cream, Stevenson has an awesome coffee house. Bahma Coffee Bar served up breakfast sandwiches (I had an awesome scrambled egg croissant) and mean bowls of oatmeal. The coffee was excellent and the morning crowd had a higher-than-average motorcyclist population.
Highway 14 is a busy road, and keeping the three of us together was tough at times. Semis clogged the roads and passing opportunities were few. David was perhaps more bold, seizing a fleeting moment to dash around a line of trucks as we approached a series of long sweeping curves. Only a minute or so later, I saw him accelerating up a hill in the distance clearly relishing the opportunity to wring his bike out. I eventually broke “the ton” trying to chase him down.
There’s a line that divides western Washington and Oregon from the eastern half of the states. When you cross it, it gets hot. By the time we stopped for gas at Biggs Junction, the temperature was in the mid-80s. Carry and I both wore summer riding gear; Carry in mesh jacket and pants and me in perforated leather. David, wearing leathers with no vents at all, had perforation envy.
The first section of 206 was the best. The road is a classic river canyon with smooth arcing turns, clear, long sightlines, and precious few cars. We rode quickly but safely. David would wait for Carry and I to catch up when there was a convenient and safe place to pull over.
If you have driven through eastern Washington at all, then you know the terrain. There is nothing out there but fields and, in Oregon, wind farms. As David pointed out, there’s so little out there, the cops don’t even bother patrolling it. And why would they? We were the only vehicles out there. No sooner than every 20 minutes a car might come the other way.
When we rolled into Condon, I recognized the terrain. One of my favorite bicycle races is the Columbia Plateau Stage Race. The race starts in our day’s destination, Heppner, and rolls through Condon on its way to Ione. In the race, Condon marks the end of the canyons and the beginning of the rollers and relentless crosswinds that pick off those riders strong enough to make it this far with the peloton. It’s a strange feeling to roll into a town when you’ve spent the last hour riding through terrain so empty. When you suddenly approach the outskirts of town, you think “where the hell did this come from?” and “who was the genius that put this town here?” Towns like Condon, Ione, and Heppner were old farming towns, and still are, though I suspect they’re less prosperous than they once were. The towns out on the Columbia Plateau are a peculiar mix of abandoned buildings and working grain elevators. Kind of spooky actually. The local economies are depressed and the prices are commensurate with what people can pay. I know for a fact that a pitcher of good beer in Fossil, OR, costs $4.
After relaxing in the shade at the side of the road in Condon for nearly 40 minutes, we resumed the blast out to Heppner. Along the way we encountered gravel-strewn corners, cliff-side roads with no guardrails, but only one minor mishap. After carving through a particularly sweet bend, Carry and I found David parked at the side of the road motioning for us to pull over and stop. The corner was a perfect photo opportunity. We turned around to set up for the shots. Unfortunately, disaster struck when Carry pulled off the road into the deep, soft gravel and grabbed a handful of front brake. The front wheel washed out and down she went. Fortunately, the only casualty was the brake lever, which was already a replacement. I think Carry was more irritated than shaken.
We took turns running the corner, with David taking the honors for flamboyance, with Carry’s shutter capturing a moment of gratuitous knee dragging just past the bend’s apex.
You would think these river canyons, spending so much time in the shade during the day, would offer respite from the heat. You would think wrong. The crevasses cut into the Oregon plains capture pockets of hot air. Riding through them was like riding into the blast from a hair dryer. I started wishing I could seal the little holes in my riding jacket to prevent any of the dehydrating air getting to me. I knew I needed to get off the bike and rest somewhere cool.
We descended the hill with the stage race’s first feed zone and I started looking for the gravel road that leads up to it – the road where a pack of horses jumped their fence and stampeded down the road in front of the peloton one year. The terrain looked more and more familiar until we dropped into the series of switchbacks on the outskirts of Heppner that brings racers back to town three days after they left.
About ready to explode from heat and hunger, we parked the bikes, bought Gatorade from the gas station, and ate lunch sitting in the shade outside the library. It felt good to stretch our legs and tell tall tales about mountain biking, kayaking, sailing and our other favorite sports. When Carry went to the gas station for more Gatorade, she came back with three ice cream sandwiches. It was like biting off chunks of air conditioning, my temperature dropping a degree or two as the ice cream and chocolate cookie slid down my gullet.
Carry and I had an appointment to meet friends for dinner in Hood River. We consulted the map and decided a quick blast up Oregon’s Highway 84 to The Dalles, followed by the twisties up to the Rowena overlook and a casual cruise into Mosier would be the best way back. Friend Tyler was running the Moore 24 national championships in Hood River and the Friday night activity was a barbecue at the marina. All of our friends from the yacht racing days were there: Tyler and Tracy, Andy and Jaime, Doug and Meg, even Team Alinghi alumnus Mark Newbrook was there. The funny thing about sailors is they drink a lot. The only beverages on hand at the barbecue were beer and a locally-produced boutique rum. Of course. What’s a regatta without rum drinks? This is a hardship for us, as the no booze while motoing rule precludes us drinking. Unfortunately, there was no water either. After a few hours of chatting, laughing, catching up, oohing and ahhing over the motorcycles and getting Newbrook to park the SuperFriend after taking it for an illicit spin around the parking lot, we suited up for the run back to Stevenson. We arrived after quiet hours had begun and were happy to see the tent.
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