June 2-5 - Mt. Hood Cycling Classic, Hood River Oregon
Race website & results

Photos: Northwest Event Photography

Men Pro 1/2 by Michael Hernandez, the Reno Hillbilly, Team Spine

Mt. Hood was pretty damn sweet. If anyone's looking for an epic little vacation, it's the place. Driving from Reno to the Hood using the country roads is just flat out gorgeous. High plateaus, surprising bodies of water that pop up out of nowhere, rolling green terrain that just makes me weep because there are no (gasp!) Jack-n-the-Craps, Targets, Walmarts, or other such carpet-throw developments.

Sigh. Beautiful.

Hood, itself, is this weird little town that's a sociological blender drink. You've got chicanos break-dancing on a corner (I guess it just got there) across the street from a tweener hippy-trustafarian protest about a tree on the other (handing out pamphlets between bongo drum beats...oh, the irony). A fat Ford 350-dually with requisite gun racks drives by with a little spit of Skoal shooting out the window as it passes an Oakleyed young windsurfing couple in their brand-new Legacy wagon, bestickered with Dave Matthews and "Vote for Dean."

The town is hilly and windy and right on the river border that cuts a massive gorge through Washington and Oregon. To the north you've got a crystalline view of Mt. Adams, the obese sister to Mt. Hood that sits like a prim, aged spinster to the south. I fell in love immediately.

And so, to the racing - well, there was a prologue on Thursday that was fun and silly. I pedaled it with about as much seriousness as I could muster, but...I'd already snagged a couple beers at registration earlier that day (why, oh WHY did they have the reg at a brewery?). The next stage was a very cool circuit race that I was enjoying immensely. A big field, long power climbs, and a twisty twangy descent that brought out my goof-smile. Halfway threw the race...alas, I punctured at just the wrong time. We were about 2k from the top of the climb and the pack was strung back down the hill about a country mile. I had to actually turn around and ride back down the mountain to find the ‘bleepin' Shimano wheel truck. Ah well. By the time I got the wheel changed and back on track, the train had left the station and I rode it in with a shrug and a smile.

The next morning was a TT that would have been pure pleasure if I'd have been a GC contender. But, with the time loss from the previous stage...what were my goals? Well, that night was a criterium that had me drooling in my pants - so, I decided to soft-pedal the morning TT and focus it all on that night's crit. Now, I'm no sprinter extraordinaire, but I've won a few crits in my day and thought the course was about as close to perfect for me as it can get. I like my crits like I like my women - complicated, tough, and just dangerous enough to keep me on edge. The canucks controlled the race pretty well and I'll tip my hat to that cat Wohlberg - he's a beast. He's like a Wolverine on a bike, crouched and growling and itching to carve you up. I snagged a prime and tried to get some low-GC fellas to come and play in a break, but it just didn't pan out. Late in the race, my uber-teammate Mike "pass the vino" Hutchysun tried to give me a little lead-out, but I was busy having a mental enema and missed the boat. We ended up eighth and ninth...not bad for a couple of non-sprinters at an NRC crit. But, oh, I wanted more...

So, the final stage was this crazy epic ride up and down and around the goat paths of northern Hood. The rain in the northwest I've found to be categorized as: misty, pissy, stoopid, and "I wanna go home now." I think we experienced all those levels on the final stage. And then, of course, it was a sunny finishing climb...schizo Oregon weather.

As for me, all was going well until after this wicked freezing descent that forced me to put on my rain jacket. I'm delicate, ok? Anyway, after the descent, you hit this ugh-arific climb that, quite literally, turns a corner from the 45 mph dowhill and shoots up like a tall glass of water, straight to the top floor. Within a couple minutes I was burning hot in my jacket and just had to get it off. Unfortunately, that's when Moninger was drilling it up front in an attempt to break his chain...again. I'm floating back through the group as I struggle to yank and twist out of my jacket - and keep balance on a 10% grade. It was pathetic - it looked like a drunk stripper with Turrets. "F-ing sleeve," twitch, yank, "mother ‘bleep'-ing jacket," tug, rip. What a farce.

Finally, I wrench free of the stupid jacket in a flourish of arm spasm and shoulder shimmy and as I do, I feel a "flip" of something shoot away from behind my collar. "What the hell was that?" I look back and see my brand new glasses tumbling down the road.

"NOOOOO!!!"

I love those damn shades. Of course they were totally useless in the downpour descent...but, I still wanted them! So, an instant to decide - stick with the dwindling group or turn around and get the eyewear? Oh, I am SUCH a dork. I spin around and go back down to pick them up, soothing them with a little "naughty, naughty little glasses...now, now - daddy's here." Back on the bike, taking time to stuff the jacket almost in my pocket and back to the race. Hutchy is up the road playing bike-god while I'm now completely off the back again. Nothing like a few 40's placings to perk up the ego. Ah well. It was good clean fun.

And so, might I recommend all and everyone to go up to the NorthWest and experience some of their sweet-o stage racing. It's a great place to visit if you want to ride your bike and get a wee-bit hammered with micro-brews.

I'm so there.

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