Odyssey of the VOG - Oregon Coast Bikepacking Race 2022

The Odyssey of the VOG, 2nd edition

349 miles of coastal gravel road riding in Oregon

32,000 feet of climbing

65% unpaved

All photos generously shared and skillfully taken by co-race founder

Seth DuBois @ebb.media @experiencebybike ebb-media.com

The Plan

PC: Seth DuBois

In our second year as sponsor of the Odyssey of the VOG, I’d intended to be at the Grand Departe to see the 2022 racers and riders off on their journey. But early in the Spring, on a whim, I decided it might be interesting to see how my body reacted to an over-night ride. I figured “I’m going to be at the start line, why not just hop in and ride the thing.” Clearly it was a well-considered decision and I adhered to a strict 6 month training regimen ;)

Don’t get me wrong, I did train a bit, and I obsessed about my gear. My poor wife had to listen to me explain endlessly why my most recent iteration of bike, build, and bags was sure to be the right one. First, a hard tail with unconventional bars, then bolt-on aero bars, then it was my gravel bike with 650b and so on and so forth. In the end, mother nature would decide all, for all, and I couldn’t be more satisfied with my gear selection.

The big decision was not bringing a shelter. This was key. “If I don’t bring it, I won’t be tempted to use it”, was my rationale. The rest of the ride would revolve around that decision. I kept telling myself, it’s just one night, you can do anything for 40 hours. I now know, that reasoning does not hold up.

The Forecast

I generally start following weather forecasts about 10 days out. I build my kit ahead of time and then fine tune as the picture becomes clearer. At 10 days, it looked variable. It’s the Oregon coast range, so everything is about 15% worse than predicted, but even considering that, the 55% chance of rain for two days, 8-10 mph winds, and temperatures in the 50s was going to be completely manageable. Unfortunately, by the Grand Depart, this had deteriorated to 100% chance of 1.5 inches of rain, 20+ mph winds (gusts in the 30s) and temperatures that might hit the 50s. So yeah, weather was going to be a factor.

Even with the forecast, the evening before as racers sat around an imaginary campfire and talked gear choices and race stories, I couldn’t help but feel many were being lulled by the calm skies and moderate evening temperatures. Even the next morning as we rolled out, the skies were lightly overcast, no wind, rather warm, and it would stay that way for the first three hours as the race disappeared up the road and the chase for the course FKT was on.

The Ride

PC: Seth Dubois

Having not ridden for 30-40 hours non-stop before, I settled into a deliberate pace. I’d keep an occasional eye on my average speed, try to keep it over 10 mph for the ride but mostly I was keeping an eye on my heart rate so that I didn’t get overly excited in the early going. By mile 40 and Falls City, I was a bit ahead of schedule with the early 4,000 ft of climbing, valley roads, and dry skies behind me.

I considered this the true start of the day, The next 45 miles and 5,500 feet to Grand Ronde would give us a sense of how the race would play out. In a word, wet. In another word, cold. I rolled in to Grand Ronde, still slightly ahead of schedule and despite being very chilled on the descents, feeling great. I did a quick resupply on some snacks and water, and as I was rolling out I got to chat with Miles Boucher who had caught me while I was in the store. He mentioned he was fighting some cramping and discomfort which must have been brutal in those conditions and we agreed we’d see one another up the road. I wouldn’t see another rider for 18 hours.

From Grand Ronde to Pacific City lies one massive 3,000 foot climb over a 9 mile stretch. The riding was good but visibility was getting worse by the minute. Deep forest roads through valleys shrouded in clouds, tire sucking mud alternating with the chunky broken basalt of logging areas. At times I was grateful for the low visibility as we pushed through clear cuts and active logging zones. But by now I’d entered that deep focused state of forward movement. The thinking mind hushed to silence by the sound of rain and tires and breath. I tried to hold that mental space, but eventually I arrived at the top and needed to make some kit adjustments. The endless descent to the coast would require donning the waterproof gloves and windproof booties. The hardshell and hood would go on and I would try to stay just above shivering until Pacific City.

Arriving at the coast, the wind and rain were ripping. I stopped at a Mexican Restaurant for a burrito to warm my body and spirits. With 30 miles up the coast to Tillamook ahead of me, it was time for rain pants. As I ordered I kept an eye out for other riders, I saw none. I kept moving.

I try not to stop often. I keep the “do three things” rule in mind for stops. So when I saw a pit toilet on the side of the road, I invented two other things to do and decided to check in at home. I knew Alison would be watching the dot, and I wanted to let her know that my spirits were high despite the adverse conditions. It was uplifting to hear her voice, and laughter at the fact I was calling her from a toilet. I pressed on into the dark.

The Weather

I’ve seen worse conditions at the coast, but not often, and never from the saddle. As I made my way around Cape Meares I was riding the centerline of the road and primarily out of the saddle. If I didn’t, gusts of on-shore wind would hammer me right to the edge of the pavement without warning. Cold sea spray and cross-headwinds made for slow going. I’d ridden 145 miles and needed to conserve energy, but at the same time I needed to get off the coast, I needed to stay warm, I needed to avoid over-heating, I needed to think about the re-supply, I needed to focus on riding through the darkness and rain. A dance in between spaces. Closed roads, emergency crews clearing trees that had dropped on phone lines, constant debris, and suddenly, Tillamook.

For the record, how can still ring your bike bell when you’re this drenched and cold.

The Decision

In the moments between arriving in town and having ridden by several stores and gas stations closed for any sort of re-supply, my body temperature plummeted. The cold and wet was finally becoming a real issue. I spied a laundromat and shamelessly rolled inside to gather myself. It was brilliantly lit and warm inside as dryers hummed and the air was filled with the perfume of dryer sheets and detergent. I extracted my frozen fingers from soaking gloves to check  my phone and find some local stores, I battled outside into the wind and rain, only to find them closed and retreated to the laundromat once more. It was time for a new plan. My phone rang.

Alison was still awake, still watching, no doubt worrying a bit. I’d arrived exactly on schedule in Tillamook but the 24-hour market I was relying on, no longer existed. And my recent foray into the weather to find other stores left me with the impression my mind wasn’t working 100%. The cold had got to it, my ability to think clearly, find food, plan ahead was impaired. With 100 miles until the next service, I could not go on without re-supply. She told me most of the front group had “scratched” at Pacific City and one rider seemed to be at a hotel nearby. We agreed on Plan B, I’d try to find a room. I did have a Plan C, which was to slowly rotate my wardrobe in dyers for a few hours while sleeping next to my bike and start again when stores opened in 6 hours. But fortunately, by the fourth hotel I called, I found a room. The best $205 I’ve ever spent.

By 6am, I’d slept for 5 hours and dried the most offensive of my wet clothes. I loaded up at Fred Meyer, espresso at Starbucks, started riding under dry skies and I made it an entire mile before the rain started again. It wouldn’t stop for many, many hours. The next 100 miles were full of incredibly stout climbs. The most unrelenting being up from Jordan Creek where I quickly realized my 46x42 gearing was simply too tall for the loose and surprisingly steep grades. I would be caught here by a rider who wasn’t showing up on Trackleaders but who had also stayed over in Tillamook. He’d arrived in town at 9pm, then started after me from town, and eventually would finish several hours in front of me. Basically, he was flying, and I was not. But I soldiered through and by the time I descended into the valley and began riding around Hagg Lake, I was FINALLY out of the rain. I couldn’t believe it.

The Low Point

I should have been elated, rejuvenated, inspired to press on, but I wasn’t. Maybe doing the math got the better of me. I realized I wasn’t going to finish until around 5am. Maybe I just hadn’t eaten enough on that last descent, maybe it was getting to that point on the loop that was closest to town, and the reality that calling in to be picked up wouldn’t be a huge imposition on a friend as it was only a 30 minute drive. Whatever it was, I knew this was the moment I’d come here to push through. I’d expected the low point to be in the middle of the night, not the late afternoon in the best weather of the race, but these things can’t be predicted. I stopped on the side of the road. I ate, lubed my chain, shed some waterproof items, and had a little chat with myself.

“What else would you be doing?

Have you really come this far to bail now?

The worst is surely behind you, the whole point was to ride through the night, it’s just going to happen on the second night.

This makes for a much better memory than if it had gone perfectly.

See it through.”

And so I did.

Finishing

I loaded up at a country store and immediately began climbing back into the coast range, back into the dark, and of course, back into the rain. It would rain throughout the next five hours, 5,000 feet of climbing and 45 miles. But finally, upon returning to the valley for the second time and heading back toward the finish I would find dry, empty roads, dark and quiet villages, an occasional farmyard dog barking in the distance, and long straight, unforgivingly bumpy gravel roads.

At 3:55am I did some quick math, 9 more miles. Done before dawn. I wouldn’t even try to calculate if there was any climbing, I just focused on the hour in front of me. I can do anything for an hour. But suddenly I spit out on to a paved road and saw a sign for a winery. Had I seen that sign before? Did I make a wrong turn? Did I see it two days ago? How delusional am I right now? I was looking at my map and slow pedaling when I heard a holler, I looked up. I thought I saw a light in the middle of the road, but not a car and not another bike. This light seemed to be drifting back and forth, slowly, side to side. Shit, now I AM hallucinating. C’mon, keep it together, just one more hour. Then another hoot, voices, a whistle? Holy shit, is this it? Am I done? I know this road, that’s the Grange up there, that’s Ben, and Seth hollering, and Trish!

When the directors meet you at 4am as you roll in solo, it’s a feeling as good as any stadium filled fanfare. I was filled with joy and disbelief and a good amount of discomfort and hunger. I rolled past their pole mounted lantern to the finish line and returned to fist bumps and a portrait. The first words I first spoke were, “So….much….water”.

Looking back

This is already way too long and both of you reading this are probably over it. So I’ll save my real reflections on the race format, endurance riding, expanding perceived limits and the like for a separate and shorter post. But I will say this.

I’d do the VOG again.

This community is truly special.

I incredibly grateful to the race organizers, the bad-asses who even toed the line, and the support of my family and friends keeping their eyes on my dot.

Looking forward with thanks,

ba