I have a jersey, it's made by Rapha. On that particular jersey is the date 5th June, 1988 embroidered on one of the rear pockets. The jersey was sold by Rapha to commemorate the exploits of Andy Hampsten on the Gavia Pass during the 1988 Giro d'Italia. I'm a big fan of Rapha and a big fan of Andy so it should come as no surprise why I own this particular jersey.
The US headquarters for Rapha is located just across the river from where I work. It's a quick pedal over there most times but on Thursday June 5th of this year I chose to drive over. The day would have enough pedaling and the likelihood of my doing any of such to get home was very, very low. Rapha's US GM and super-honch Slate Olson put together the Il Passo di Larch, an 80-mile ride to snow atop Larch Mountain Road just east of Portland. We would honor Andy with an epic day's ride and bring together a collection of friends who seldom take the time to hang out as much as they should. Slate made the ride, and the day, a special event so we all would be certain to be there.
Just after lunch, seventeen of Portland's finest click-clacked their way up the metal stairway to the Rapha office above Pistil's Nursery on Mississippi Street. Outside it was 53 degrees and raining. The plan to ride to the bad weather on the mountain was now replaced with starting the ride in bad weather from the get go. Nearly everyone made some sort of joke about canceling the ride. Deep down most of us wouldn't have minded. Certainly not me.
Slate picked our spirits up by reading aloud the last-minutes messages of our no-show compatriots who suddenly had to "run some errands" or "got real busy" at work. And then he called the room to attention and introduced Andy. Live from Tuscany, on the other end of Rapha USA's renowned Line 1 was Andy Hampsten. Slate had set the call up earlier in the week and Andy was staying up late to talk to us prior to the ride.
Andy gave us a quick recollection of that day just 20 years ago and thanked us all for taking time in this awful weather to honor his effort. Slate asked if he had any advice for us and you know what Andy's reply was? "Don't go" he said with a laugh and closed with "I got paid to this."
He had one more bit of thanks and you could pretty much hear the smile in his voice as he said goodnight. Slate pushed the button to close the call and the stairs came alive with the sounds of cleats once more. Moments later the bunch was rolling up Mississippi and enjoying the last brief moments of dry chamois.
It was a mellow roll out to Marine Drive where the headwind greeted us as if we had reserved it for that very time. I abhor that road and it reminded me of why with just about 1k to go before Troutdale. Josh Creem and Ryan Weaver took off in search of town limit sign glory and fractured our group. I got stuck out on my own and almost pulled the rip cord right then and there. I held on through the freeway underpass and caught a lucky break with a red light stopping the group. But there was so much more misery ahead for me.
The group rolled OK up to Larch Mountain Road but I got popped off almost immediately. I wasn't in a lot of pain but I just simply couldn't pedal that fast. No fitness in a fitness-packed bunch. I knew I could settle in and roll it along on my own. Sooner or later the group would come back down and I could turn back with them. I didn't plan on Max.
Max from HUP drifted back from the group and planted himself in front of me. He encouraged me with words and with cadence. And I didn't
deserve it. You see, Max is HUPster and I have a well-documented history of HUP hatred. But there was Max in his all-encouraging awesomeness just towing me along. A couple of k later, there was Slate, back with Max now to share the indignity of towing my sorry ass up this miserable road in search of snow.
And so it went for a long, long time. And then a rider appeared on the facing descent but it wasn't the main bunch. He'd decided to turn back and get home for the day. Good move, I figured, but knew I couldn't leave my HUP escort with their duty unfulfilled. So we labored on and soon we hit the road closure gate; in place and closed as the signs had warned us many times prior. The group was all there with just a few descending from beyond the gate where they claimed there was snow just as we had hoped.
Max, Slate and I had seen some snow in the culverts along the way. Small little batches of lingering drifts that Slate refused to acknowledge as snow. "Debris", he would say, and push us on. But now there was snow just ahead. The main group chose to begin their descent despite our plea to have them join us for one more visit to the snow closure ahead. A buddy of Max's had just returned from up top and he was convinced to take a return trip. The four of us pushed around the gate and tapped out that one last effort to the top.
And then there it was, snow. It covered the road from one side to the other and as far into the distance as we could see ahead. We took a break, snapped some photos, and enjoyed some of Scotland's finest whiskey courtesy of our pal Brian Palmer of the Washing Machine Post. Ten seconds into the descent and we all began to wish that
we were climbing once more.
It was a glorious descent. A little scary at times with the wet road and certainly too cold for the 5th damn day in June. But it was exhilarating and we spread out and let the big rings turn. In short order we were back to those rollers along the base of the mountain and they took huge withdrawals from my meager account. On the outskirts of Troutdale once more, I detonated for what would be the final time. There was to be no coming back. Slate hitched me to his cart and sent Max and friend home as there was a flight to catch in just a few hours for one of them.
We turned onto Marine Drive and, as expected, there was the headwind waiting to deliver the unserved punishment we had left behind a few hours ago. Slate didn't say a word but he kept turning his head every few seconds to ensure that I was safe in the rocking chair. I certainly didn't have anything to say as I all I wanted to do was get back to Portland in one piece and needed every bit of whatever I had left to do it.
My spirits lifted once we turned off that dreadful path and were back in town. A couple little burners greeted us and I low-geared the hell out of them like they were the Tourmalet and Ventoux. A left turn here and right turn there and we were back at Rapha. The group was outside waiting to get in as Slate had the key to the gate. They'd already reserved a table at Amnesia Brewing so we piled inside, moaned and groaned for a bit, changed into dry clothes and hot-footed it off to the pub.
We sat together eating hamburgers and drinking beer. Bike industry nerd conversation broke out in full force. There were lots of laughs and everyone was smiling. I would imagine that far, far away, in his sleep, Andy was still smiling, too.
Thank you, Andy.
Thank you, Max.
Thank you, Slate.
Here's to you guys!
Photos courtesy of Slate Olson
