My gf Aelys is going back down to San Francisco for the winter so we spent a couple of nights on the town in Coeur D'Alene Idaho. It's a scenic city on the edge of a lake surrounded by mountains. The food was great. I'm not a food critic, so I won't even try to describe it, but compared to the food here in eastern Oregon, the Coeur D'Alene food was world class. On the other hand, nearly all of the restaurants in eastern Oregon are grubby meat and potatoes places. Worse, they eat a lot of pork here. I can't eat pork -- among other things, it fscks up my stomach, and it's just gross; so for these reasons we never eat at the local restaurants. We got back yesterday and spent the night in town at her place.
I put on 3 fresh 50 microgram per hour of release fentanyl patches early this morning in addition to the 5 patches I'm already wearing that are in various stages of depletion. They're not doing much. My supply is running dangerously low, and I haven't been able to taper down as quickly as I must. When I run out, I'm done. I have no way to get more. I've never been through full opioid withdrawals before, and I'm not looking forward to what lies ahead, especially with fentanyl.
The other day on my way home from the library, on the first steep climb out of town, I heard a Pop! and looked down to see one end of the skewer working its way out of the back wheel of my bicycle. A few inches of it were sticking out, ready to drop to the road. Almost instantly, the back wheel was rubbing the bike frame and brake pad in a bad way.
I stopped, unmounted, and laid the bike down on the shoulder of the road closest to the steep downhill drop-off that goes 100s of feet down the mountainside. I pulled out the skewer by the lever end and found that it had snapped inside the hollow axle. This critical part clamps the back wheel to the rear dropouts (the back bottom part of the bike frame at the end of the chainstays). Without it, a bicycle isn't rideable. The other end of the skewer, the one with the nut, had come out somewhere down the road. From the springy snap-like sound of the pop, it must have been ejected far down the steep bank and probably beyond hope of recovery. But if I could find it, I might be able to re-attach it firmly enough to ride back to the cabin.
I spent several minutes looking for it at the spot down the road where I heard it snap, but I luck wasn't on my side. On long commutes like this one, I carry a rather extensive repair kit that has every tool and part to cover every kind of breakdown that could reasonably be expected to occur short of breaking the frame or taco-ing a wheel. This kit has tools and spare bike parts based on the kind of repairs I've had to make riding roughly 5000 miles per year for the last 15 years, and since switching from cheap department store bikes to high-end bicycles 14 years ago, I haven't broken an axle or a skewer or had a break down that was so catastrophic that I couldn't at least coast home. In the kit was a tire pump, patch kit, spare inner tube, screw drivers, tire levers, hex wrenches, spanner wrenches, crescent wrench, pliers, spoke wrench, spare spokes, chain tool, oil, duck tape, pocket knife, spare parts, and other things; but there was nothing I could think to do that would fix it enough to ride home. For a moment, I was in a state of disbelief. A stinky diesel pickup truck roared by.
While I considered my options, I fished my cell phone out of my backpack and turned it on -- I'm the only American who usually keeps his cell phone turned off. It was a little before 6 pm. The sun hanging low over the ridge to the west. I was several miles out of town where forest begins and barely had started the first steep part of the ride up the road climbing the steep rib of a mountain. Nearly 20 miles more to go using the shortest route possible (gravel roads which are slower for a bicycle). If I were to walk, it would take all night to get there. Sunset was around 6:30 that day, and then it gets cold fast so I had to come up with something soon.
I found a few feet of wire amidst the heaps of trash in the ditch on the other side of the road and spent 10 minutes wiring the back wheel onto the bike, but the wire kept breaking whenever I tried to tighten it. When I finally got something that looked like it would work, I found that peddling made the wheel slip off. Even coasting with most of my weight over the handlebars made the wheel come off. Part of the problem was a single pannier on the rear right side of the bike. I tried calling my gf, but this was the one day she had turned off her cell phone. For some reason, her cell phone works at the cabin. I found out later that her battery was dead, and she had misplaced the charger.
The bag was heavy with supplies I had gotten from my storage unit in town: steel toe work boots, clothing for cooler weather, cans and jars of food, etc. That and my backpack had my laptop, a week of newspapers and mail from my P.O. box, a couple of heavy books, and a tool kit for a motorcycle (more on that later). Counting the weight of the bike (nearly 30 pounds) this must have weighed 60 pounds.
It was relatively warm and the air was still, and I took off running, pushing the bike beside me with one hand, on the side of the road in the strip between the white line and the edge of the asphalt next to the steep gravel bank that went down the hill. At least the bike still rolled; it just wouldn't roll under my weight. I was glad that I didn't have to carry it or hide it in the brush.
Beginning when the skewer broke and during the next hour, 23 vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, a few cars, 2 motorcycles, and 1 logging truck would pass me. Not a single one offered to help or even slowed. One white pickup threw (passenger side) a huge cup of coke and swore at me. Keep in mind that nobody who makes it this far from town would push their bike unless they had trouble. If you are tired, you keep riding, no matter how much it hurts. If you can't, you wouldn't be there to begin with.
Eastern Oregon is the Appalachia of the West. It's the part of the state that is a "Red" politically and culturally. A disproportionate share of its population are uneducated and have been unemployed since the timber industry collapsed in the 1980s. And they hate bicycles. I know I'm generalizing, but in a place like Portland or Minneapolis all you have to do is have a flat tire and 5 people stop and offer to help you before you have time to get out your patch kit.
After an hour of jogging up the mountain, I was beyond the range of cell reception so I didn't bother trying to call my gf again. Then I started to "bonk." I had no energy to do anything but shuffle along. Luckily I had bought some Cliff bars at the small grocery store in town, but I hadn't brought much water because I wasn't expecting to be out that long. Besides, there's a stream that runs in the gorge below most of the route. If I get thirsty enough, I'd drink from that. By now my mouth was dry and my throat felt like it was clenching. For some reason, I didn't want to climb 500 feet down to the stream in the bottom of the gorge. The way down was dark and steep. But luckily there was an abandoned cabin nearby, and I suspected it might have a spring or a well nearby. The clue was the trickle of water running down the bank below it.
The sun had sunk below the ridge, and clouds blazed a coppery red directly overhead and East across the valley all the way to the snow-capped mountains about 50 miles away. Higher on the ridge to the West, wind gusted through the tree tops of the dense forest. The air now smelled like mountain air. It was clean and crisp. I was above and miles from the valley which this time of year is acrid with smoke from wood heating fires and motor exhaust.
I climbed the fence and walked up the overgrown drive through the dark woods. Behind the rotting main cabin, water flowed out from the spring in the collapsed spring house. The water was cold and clear and tasted pure. I drank a pint or so and refilled my bottle. By now, I felt a new surge of energy. It would be twilight for another hour.
The air was now chilly, but I didn't feel cold because I had been running. I still had another 2 hours or so to go at a jog -- one more hour of climbing (mostly up) over the ridge, and then a descent onto a hilly plateau and a long gradual upward climb again. I was wearing my bike shorts and a cotton sweatshirt. I couldn't find my bike shoes that day so it was either Teva sandals or army boots. I don't know why, but I had put on boots. They kept my feet warm, but they're heavy. The shirt was now soaked and it was cold, so the risk of hypothermia is always lingering in the back of my mind. As long as I kept running, I could generate enough body heat to offset the cold of the damp sweat shirt.
I got back on the road, and after 2 hours of uneventful jogging and some shuffling when I was tired, I arrived at the cabin. My gf was keeping supper warm...
I put on 3 fresh 50 microgram per hour of release fentanyl patches early this morning in addition to the 5 patches I'm already wearing that are in various stages of depletion. They're not doing much. My supply is running dangerously low, and I haven't been able to taper down as quickly as I must. When I run out, I'm done. I have no way to get more. I've never been through full opioid withdrawals before, and I'm not looking forward to what lies ahead, especially with fentanyl.
The other day on my way home from the library, on the first steep climb out of town, I heard a Pop! and looked down to see one end of the skewer working its way out of the back wheel of my bicycle. A few inches of it were sticking out, ready to drop to the road. Almost instantly, the back wheel was rubbing the bike frame and brake pad in a bad way.
I stopped, unmounted, and laid the bike down on the shoulder of the road closest to the steep downhill drop-off that goes 100s of feet down the mountainside. I pulled out the skewer by the lever end and found that it had snapped inside the hollow axle. This critical part clamps the back wheel to the rear dropouts (the back bottom part of the bike frame at the end of the chainstays). Without it, a bicycle isn't rideable. The other end of the skewer, the one with the nut, had come out somewhere down the road. From the springy snap-like sound of the pop, it must have been ejected far down the steep bank and probably beyond hope of recovery. But if I could find it, I might be able to re-attach it firmly enough to ride back to the cabin.
I spent several minutes looking for it at the spot down the road where I heard it snap, but I luck wasn't on my side. On long commutes like this one, I carry a rather extensive repair kit that has every tool and part to cover every kind of breakdown that could reasonably be expected to occur short of breaking the frame or taco-ing a wheel. This kit has tools and spare bike parts based on the kind of repairs I've had to make riding roughly 5000 miles per year for the last 15 years, and since switching from cheap department store bikes to high-end bicycles 14 years ago, I haven't broken an axle or a skewer or had a break down that was so catastrophic that I couldn't at least coast home. In the kit was a tire pump, patch kit, spare inner tube, screw drivers, tire levers, hex wrenches, spanner wrenches, crescent wrench, pliers, spoke wrench, spare spokes, chain tool, oil, duck tape, pocket knife, spare parts, and other things; but there was nothing I could think to do that would fix it enough to ride home. For a moment, I was in a state of disbelief. A stinky diesel pickup truck roared by.
While I considered my options, I fished my cell phone out of my backpack and turned it on -- I'm the only American who usually keeps his cell phone turned off. It was a little before 6 pm. The sun hanging low over the ridge to the west. I was several miles out of town where forest begins and barely had started the first steep part of the ride up the road climbing the steep rib of a mountain. Nearly 20 miles more to go using the shortest route possible (gravel roads which are slower for a bicycle). If I were to walk, it would take all night to get there. Sunset was around 6:30 that day, and then it gets cold fast so I had to come up with something soon.
I found a few feet of wire amidst the heaps of trash in the ditch on the other side of the road and spent 10 minutes wiring the back wheel onto the bike, but the wire kept breaking whenever I tried to tighten it. When I finally got something that looked like it would work, I found that peddling made the wheel slip off. Even coasting with most of my weight over the handlebars made the wheel come off. Part of the problem was a single pannier on the rear right side of the bike. I tried calling my gf, but this was the one day she had turned off her cell phone. For some reason, her cell phone works at the cabin. I found out later that her battery was dead, and she had misplaced the charger.
The bag was heavy with supplies I had gotten from my storage unit in town: steel toe work boots, clothing for cooler weather, cans and jars of food, etc. That and my backpack had my laptop, a week of newspapers and mail from my P.O. box, a couple of heavy books, and a tool kit for a motorcycle (more on that later). Counting the weight of the bike (nearly 30 pounds) this must have weighed 60 pounds.
It was relatively warm and the air was still, and I took off running, pushing the bike beside me with one hand, on the side of the road in the strip between the white line and the edge of the asphalt next to the steep gravel bank that went down the hill. At least the bike still rolled; it just wouldn't roll under my weight. I was glad that I didn't have to carry it or hide it in the brush.
Beginning when the skewer broke and during the next hour, 23 vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, a few cars, 2 motorcycles, and 1 logging truck would pass me. Not a single one offered to help or even slowed. One white pickup threw (passenger side) a huge cup of coke and swore at me. Keep in mind that nobody who makes it this far from town would push their bike unless they had trouble. If you are tired, you keep riding, no matter how much it hurts. If you can't, you wouldn't be there to begin with.
Eastern Oregon is the Appalachia of the West. It's the part of the state that is a "Red" politically and culturally. A disproportionate share of its population are uneducated and have been unemployed since the timber industry collapsed in the 1980s. And they hate bicycles. I know I'm generalizing, but in a place like Portland or Minneapolis all you have to do is have a flat tire and 5 people stop and offer to help you before you have time to get out your patch kit.
After an hour of jogging up the mountain, I was beyond the range of cell reception so I didn't bother trying to call my gf again. Then I started to "bonk." I had no energy to do anything but shuffle along. Luckily I had bought some Cliff bars at the small grocery store in town, but I hadn't brought much water because I wasn't expecting to be out that long. Besides, there's a stream that runs in the gorge below most of the route. If I get thirsty enough, I'd drink from that. By now my mouth was dry and my throat felt like it was clenching. For some reason, I didn't want to climb 500 feet down to the stream in the bottom of the gorge. The way down was dark and steep. But luckily there was an abandoned cabin nearby, and I suspected it might have a spring or a well nearby. The clue was the trickle of water running down the bank below it.
The sun had sunk below the ridge, and clouds blazed a coppery red directly overhead and East across the valley all the way to the snow-capped mountains about 50 miles away. Higher on the ridge to the West, wind gusted through the tree tops of the dense forest. The air now smelled like mountain air. It was clean and crisp. I was above and miles from the valley which this time of year is acrid with smoke from wood heating fires and motor exhaust.
I climbed the fence and walked up the overgrown drive through the dark woods. Behind the rotting main cabin, water flowed out from the spring in the collapsed spring house. The water was cold and clear and tasted pure. I drank a pint or so and refilled my bottle. By now, I felt a new surge of energy. It would be twilight for another hour.
The air was now chilly, but I didn't feel cold because I had been running. I still had another 2 hours or so to go at a jog -- one more hour of climbing (mostly up) over the ridge, and then a descent onto a hilly plateau and a long gradual upward climb again. I was wearing my bike shorts and a cotton sweatshirt. I couldn't find my bike shoes that day so it was either Teva sandals or army boots. I don't know why, but I had put on boots. They kept my feet warm, but they're heavy. The shirt was now soaked and it was cold, so the risk of hypothermia is always lingering in the back of my mind. As long as I kept running, I could generate enough body heat to offset the cold of the damp sweat shirt.
I got back on the road, and after 2 hours of uneventful jogging and some shuffling when I was tired, I arrived at the cabin. My gf was keeping supper warm...
