Now's the time to start training for summer's Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic

Editor's note: This July marks the 25th anniversary of the Cascade Bicycle Club's Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic — the famed STP. Thinking of riding? Now's when you need to get serious. Ten days from now, STP training season kicks into high gear with the Chilly Hilly ride, Western Washington's traditional cycling-season opener.

A year ago, Times reporter and novice cyclist Jake Batsell started training for last summer's STP, and kept a journal. For first-timers, his recollections might serve as a long-distance pedaling primer:

PEDALING ALONG HIGHWAY 507 — Lucinda Williams sings that she envies the wind. Riding my bike on a gusty mid-July afternoon, I am beginning to despise it.

Seventy-five miles into the 2003 Seattle-to-Portland Bicycle Classic, feisty headwinds are taunting me relentlessly just outside the town of Yelm, Thurston County. On an otherwise ideal day for cycling, the wind adds an extra burden to uphill climbs and erases the momentary relief of coasting downhill.

As the headwinds persist, my right hamstring starts to quiver, threatening to cramp less than halfway through the 206-mile STP course. Self-doubt creeps into my helmet-protected head: Am I really cut out for this?

A timely infusion of bananas, homemade bread and orange slices at the next rest stop dramatically boosts my spirits, and the wind begins to ease. One day and 130 miles later, I triumphantly cross the finish line near Portland's Rose Quarter, joining a not-so-elite pantheon of STP finishers.

More than 7,000 participants ride in the STP each year. Half of those are attempting the ride for the first time. The event — a "double-century" in cycling parlance — has a decidedly populist feel, beckoning a motley array of riders ranging from hard-core racers to charity groups to unicyclists.

At the dawn of another STP training season, which semi-officially kicks off Feb. 29 with the Chilly Hilly ride on Bainbridge Island, another crop of prospective first-timers are pondering whether to pedal their way to Portland this summer. To you, I submit one rookie's chronicle of tackling the STP.

A 'final' resolution

As I suspect is the case with many first-timers, my STP journey sprang from the heady optimism of a new year. In January 2003, my friend Scott proposed that we train for the ride together, aiming to finish all 206 miles in one day (the ride offers one-day or two-day options). By the end of the month, I'd sold the banged-up bike from my grad-school days and upgraded to a sleek Fuji model.

Perhaps what kept the STP from joining my crowded dustbin of failed New Year's resolutions was the fact the ride fell one week before my wedding. Training for the ride would whip me into better shape for the big day, and crossing that finish line in Portland came to represent one last, glorious feat of bachelorhood.

After a few introductory spins around the neighborhood, I was ready to start my training regimen. I didn't think I had the legs yet for the Chilly Hilly, the aptly named 33-mile trek around Bainbridge, so I let Scott tackle that ride while I headed out, solo, to the flatter Skagit Valley.

Riding from Mount Vernon to Samish Island on a crisp late-winter day, I coasted past picturesque farms and inspiring shoreline views. Such moments of beauty and tranquility became a weekly perk of training for the STP.

There were moments of humility, too. The following weekend, we met up with a pair of Scott's friends on the Burke-Gilman Trail, and I couldn't keep up with their brisk, 18-mph pace. After 52 miles of lagging behind, the day's ride was capped by a quarter-mile, enormously steep hill near Scott's house that I quickly dubbed the Hill of Death.

Halfway up the hill, my legs gave out, forcing me to walk my bike the rest of the way. Defeated, I vowed I would conquer that hill in the coming months.

Looking for a low-key training path, I discovered the 8-mile Centennial Trail, which runs from Snohomish to Lake Stevens. It was a perfect fit — not crowded, pastoral setting, smoothly paved, and not nearly as many stop signs as the Burke-Gilman. Over the next few weeks, I began to find my comfort zone of 15 mph (which is, conveniently enough, the trail's speed limit).

Beating the Hill of Death

Now fully immersed in my training regimen, I mentioned my STP plans to my future in-laws, who were understandably skeptical given the ride's proximity to the wedding. After all, who wants to see their daughter marry a bow-legged groom?

At the time, I was still deluding myself into thinking I'd knock off all 206 miles in one day. Then Scott and I rode in the Skagit Spring Classic, a gorgeous mid-May ride that includes scenic stretches along Lake Samish and Chuckanut Drive.

Our 62-mile, 100-kilometer "metric century" ride took about five hours at a leisurely pace. Since the Skagit ride amounted to less than one-third of the STP — and since we weren't exactly eager to spend 15 consecutive hours in the saddle — we scaled back our STP ambitions to two days.

That decision took some of the pressure out of our approach to training, though in retrospect my regimen might have been a little lax. Looking over my training log, the notes column contains not only geographic highlights "Skagit Valley, Columbia River delta," but also a potpourri of excuses: "rainy, wedding bands, lawn, errands."

In late June came a key litmus test: the Flying Wheels Summer Century, a hilly ride from Redmond to the Snoqualmie Valley and back. The Flying Wheels course is more challenging than the STP. Its 70-mile loop is aimed as a training ride for two-day STP riders, while the 100-mile loop is geared toward the one-day set.

The Flying Wheels' hills weren't the only obstacle. My 70-mile ride was mostly clear and lovely, but it started and ended in a downpour. The last 10 miles were a miserably soggy stretch during which passing SUVs sprayed me with water as a fierce wind whipped off Lake Sammamish.

A week later, Scott and I returned to the (thankfully dry) Snoqualmie Valley, logging our first bona fide "century" ride on a flatter version of the Flying Wheels course. In my five months of training, I ended up tallying about 850 miles — well below the 2,000-plus miles recommended on the Cascade Bicycle Club's Web site, but enough saddle time to leave me confident I could handle the STP.

Two days before the STP, after an easy 20-mile ride along the Sammamish River Trail, the Hill of Death loomed on the way back to Scott's house. I churned my legs furiously up the hill, determined to make good on my earlier vow. Surprisingly, I reached the top rather easily.

The Hill of Death had been vanquished. I was now ready for the STP.

The real thing

On STP Saturday, my alarm clock unapologetically roused me from a deep slumber at 4 a.m. Shortly after 5:30, in the shadow of Husky Stadium, Scott and I climbed aboard our bikes and started pedaling.

"All your hard work and training has paid off — you're on your way to Portland," the starting-line announcer said reassuringly, more convinced of the outcome than I was at that ungodly hour.

As we cruised along Lake Washington Boulevard, the sun peeked over Bellevue's office buildings, casting a glimmer off the lake. For the next couple hours, the course stayed relatively flat and easy — though not necessarily picturesque — through the stoplights and intersections of Renton, Kent and Auburn.

At mile 43 came the Puyallup Hill, the STP's steepest incline. Maybe the morning adrenaline hadn't worn off yet, but for me the one-mile hill was a piece of cake — nothing compared to the mammoth climbs of the Flying Wheels ride, let alone the Hill of Death.

For the next 10 miles to Spanaway, as Scott forged ahead at a slightly faster pace, I tried to latch on to the end of a group cycling line in a futile attempt to master the art of "drafting." Unfortunately, my pace was either too slow or too fast for every group I encountered, so I fell into cycling purgatory, fending for myself against the increasingly strong headwinds.

Those blasted headwinds dominated the 44-mile stretch from Spanaway to Centralia, the ride's midpoint and the first overnight stop for two-day riders. I watched with utter envy as some cyclists who were done for the day reveled in luxurious massages. Scott and I still had 28 miles to go before reaching our overnight accommodations at the Vader Lions Club.

Turns out I could have used a massage. Twelve miles later, in the middle of a 2-mile incline near Napavine, my right hamstring succumbed to a full-fledged cramp. After resuscitating the muscle, I pounded out the final 16 miles to Vader.

Exhausted, we arrived at the Lions Club, where I immediately unfurled my sleeping bag and joined a handful of fellow riders who had collapsed onto the hardwood floors of the club's bingo hall. It must not have been a pretty sight — one cyclist who arrived an hour later surveyed the scene and proclaimed, "It looks like a SARS ward in here!"

Thankfully, a scrumptious lasagna dinner and ham-and-eggs breakfast prepared by friendly Lions Club volunteers had us in better shape for the second day. We set off just after 6 a.m. under a welcome cover of clouds that would keep the sun at bay for the final 76 miles.

As we navigated a set of rolling hills on the way to Castle Rock, my right hamstring started to act up again, prompting a gas-station stop for ibuprofen (note to self: next time, bring along a few capsules). For the rest of the ride, I'd rely mostly on my left leg during hills and inclines.

We crossed into Oregon from Longview on the Lewis & Clark Bridge, a steep, one-mile-long span of steel and concrete arched over the Columbia River. Pedaling high above the Columbia's waters with 52 miles left to Portland, the lyrics of Woody Guthrie never rang truer: "Roll on."

During the final stretch along Highway 30, with my pace slowed down by my gimpy hamstring, I came to appreciate the easy camaraderie of cycling. Passing riders, instead of blowing by anonymously, offered jokes and words of encouragement along with the obligatory "on your left" warning.

Once the Portland skyline appeared on the horizon, a renewed sense of vigor kicked in, and before long I was coasting past the finish line at Holladay Park, greeted by scores of people cheering and clapping. The finish-line festival was a lighthearted mix of music, food, relief and accomplishment.

According to my bike's odometer, I finished the 206-mile STP in just under 15 hours, averaging 13.7 miles per hour — slightly below my regular pace, but respectable in light of the hamstring incident.

What's not so respectable is my post-STP cycling record: For the rest of 2003, the road bike stayed in the garage as I surrendered to the irresistible lure of watching football on TV while riding my exercise bike.

Still, even that half-hearted winter regimen has my legs in better shape than they were a year ago, so I've signed up for the Chilly Hilly. Come July, if the winds cooperate, I'll be cruising to Portland in no time.

Jake Batsell: 206-464-2718 or jbatsell@seattletimes.com