So, to make a long story short, I decided for some damn-fool reason that I wanted to take a pleasant Sunday bike ride, only instead of pleasant, it should be harrowing and extremely painful. I’m weird like that. I therefore rose at the ungodly hour of 5:30am and struck out into the pre-dawn cold and damp with a pannier full of Powerade and trail mix. I live in Seattle and I like mountains and wilderness, so I headed east. My goal? Snoqualmie Tunnel, an abandoned railway passage through the heart of the mountains near Snoqualmie Pass. I like wilderness, I like abandoned frontier infrastructure, and I like spooky things; and at maybe 75 miles from my front door, it seemed just at the outer limits of what I felt I could reasonably bike in one day.
I should have sensed the impending tramp of doom when, after about 30 miles, thick into the forests east of Issaquah, I came down with a nasty case of flat tire. Rear wheel, looked like a pinch flat. No worries, I always bring spare tubes and a CO2 pump on long rides! A few minutes later I was back on my way. A slight hiccup. I was still confident.
Well, I survived a good fifty miles or so of slogging to connect with the Iron Horse Trail, the railroad-turned-bikeway leading to the tunnel. Despite the settling autumn chill, the sun was out, everything was gorgeous, and I was feeling great. Until I got another flat. Rear wheel again. Gosh darn, I guess I wasn’t careful enough replacing the tube, must’ve pinched it. I replaced it again and continued on, despite the fact that I was now out of spare tubes and CO2. I was sure it was a fluke. Couldn’t happen a third time.
Well, I reached the tunnel. Rode through it (it’s bone-achingly cold), then rode back. Even took a triumphant selfie showing my shade goggles and helmet hair. Then I started back down.
Of course, I’d gone about one mile when my rear tire went flat for the third time. This time I was in a pickle. I was easily 25 miles from the nearest podunk, which, incidentally, was the last place I’d had any cell phone signal. Most of that distance was a gravel road about as smooth as Israeli-Palestinian relations and with twice as many rocks. And I wasn’t riding a mountain bike or anything else that could be expected to take a bumpy ride with grace. I was on my trusty Specialized Allez, which takes my off-road excursions only under protest.
Well, to make a short story shorter, I decided that walking 25 miles only to face the prospect of being forced to spend a night in North Bend was not my idea of a good time (I’m savvy enough to know that that kind of story always ends in a chainsaw murder). So I did the only thing I could do: I took my road bike with a completely flat rear tire down 20 miles of gravel and rocks (and 5 more of blessedly smooth highway) at speeds as fast as I could manage. This ranged from 15 to 25mph, and it was about as enjoyable as having jackhammer wedged between your buttcheeks.
Well, once I staggered into North Bend, I discovered that there is actually a bicycle shop there, and, miracle of miracles, it was open. The damage was, of course, extensive. The rear wheel was trashed (but it needed replacing anyway, especially with its suddenly acquired habit of devouring tubes), and somehow the jolting had straight-up broken the bracket holding my pannier rack to the frame. I got all that fixed up and a brand new wheel installed for just shy of $320. C’est la vie.
At least I was able to finish my ride home, pushing my odometer to 145 miles just before I keeled over and died on my thrice-blessed front porch. Now, at any rate, I know why you never want to hear the words “taint” and “complex mass of bruises” in the same sentence.
