Cortisone injection split-half search.

This is considerably less interesting than the ride but I thought I'd share a little of the after story.

I met yet another orthopedist today (the first I could get in to see since getting back) to try to root out the trouble that clearly was not solved by the last flock of doctors I had.

After a lot of explaining of injuries, pains, therapies and so on he had two hypotheses. There is very little evidence of damage in both my CT scans and my x-rays (annoying). One possibility is, the original injury (3+ years ago), bruised and crushed the cartilage under my kneecap. This kind of thing doesn't show up on scans usually and doesn't become apparent, visually, for years. Trouble is, it's the beginnings of arthritis and there's nothing to be done to fix it. It just gets continually worse until I won't be able to ride or run at all, much less 50 miles a day. This, of course, terrifies me. So lets all pretend for now it's not that.

Option B, usually shows up on scans but may not. The injury clearly tore some stuff up and it's possible that the remaining scar tissue is grinding around in there and inflaming things. This is a little less likely in that we should see it, but it's made a little more likely in that it seems to fit my description of pain location a little better than option A. This can possibly be fixed. So. Go tissue damage.

To figure out which it is, we picked one to shoot up with cortisone. Top of the kneecap or bottom. Since I want it to be the top, that's what we did first. I'll wait a few days for it to kick in fully then go for a ride. If we're right (and I'm lucky) the cortisone will have numbed the pain the scar tissue was causing and I'll be temporarily ok and we'll know its tissue and not cartilage. If not, we'll let the first stuff wear off then shoot more cortisone in under the kneecap and try again. In case you're curious, the first hour after the shot hurt like hell. Good lord. I don't recommend it.

This would be fascinating if the thought of a permanently arthritic knee didn't have me scared shitless.

Into the West

That just about wraps up the adventurous aspects of the trip.

The bus ride was hazy and uncomfortable but followed the beautiful Columbia River. In Portland I was exhausted but I got to hang out with Shar for a few hours before catching the train to Seattle. I had never ridden the train from Ptown to Seattle and, if you don't need a car at the other end of the journey, I can't imagine why you'd ever drive. The trip is just stunning. I used to do the Seattle to Vancouver leg all the time and that's incredible too. But this was great new perspective on long familiar land. Get this, it actually made parts of Tacoma look cool. Even if you have no great reason to go, do it for a day trip or something. Factoring in traffic, it's actually faster than driving too.

Not how I wanted the trip to end of course but it was exceptionally pleasant. Sort of as if circumstances were doing their best to make up for the bummer injury.

From great kindness to great luck

Greyhound policy is, no box, no bike. They simply will not put a bike on their buses without it being packed in a box. Trouble is, the one bike shop in Baker City was closed when I got there and would still be closed while the next two busses came and went. Two busses out of the two that come through. It was pouring and I had nowhere to stay (nearest camp ground was two miles out of town and I wasn't exactly mobile). In a stark contrast to the instant helpfulness of the smaller towns, the eastbound driver answered my request to take the bike before I opened my mouth. Seeing I was standing next to a bike and was about to ask him something, he said, "Nope. Gotta be in a box." End of discussion.

So I decided to go drink.

I thought I had gotten out of the worst part of the bind but Baker City felt more like a step backward. Nothing comes or goes in Baker City but Greyhound. You can't buy a ticket online and the desk was closed. The only busses are at 9am and 11pm. There was a 50% chance I couldn't buy a ticket (maybe from the driver?). And there was a 99.99% chance they wouldn't let me on with the bike if I could. Baker City is mediocre at best and the truck stop/bus station was several rungs below that.

Hence the drinking. It wouldn't give me an answer but it might make me feel better about the problem.

After a couple rounds at the pub, and giving my server a list of places to go on her visit to SF next month (La Trappe, Golden Boy, Zeitgeist, Philz), I went back to the truck stop and got enough cash for the ticket to Portland and some more to bribe the driver for my bike. I waited there with a great guy with a couple teeth who, despite his severely disheveled appearance, was clearly a loving husband and was very sweet when talking to his wife on the phone. We waited and 11pm came and went, as did 12 and then 1am came along and kidnapped 2am and they all left without bringing a bus. 3am stumbled in a little late (possibly worried about 2am's kidnapping) and I started to wonder why I was still sitting there. But shockingly, around 3:15 the bus showed up.

In possibly the luckiest single episode I've ever experienced, the bus driver was totally new to the job and he didn't know that I wasn't allowed to take my bike as it was. So he said, "yeah, I think we can make that fit." Brilliant.

Greyhound, of course, sucks. $80 to get from Baker City to Portland, it's 4 hours late, packed with severely sketchy antisocial people and impossible to sleep on. But then and there, no Greyhound and no novice driver and I'd still be there. So. Yay?

A Great Failure

I was 82 miles West of Baker City and well over a hundred miles East of any significantly large town back the way I came. From Baker City I could theoretically get a bus to somewhere. In the 82 miles to Baker City was a 2,000 foot climb to Dixie Pass followed by a descent then another 1,000 foot climb and descent and a third 1,000 foot climb before the long descent into town. I figured I could take a rest day then divide the ride into three 25-ish mile days. Four days to cover 80 miles seemed absurd but I was extremely isolated and it's not like you can hop on Muni, there's nothing to get you from one tiny town to the next.

Nothing, that is, except Oregonians. The trip so far had been lesson after lesson in the kindness of people. From Dan and Nancy at my first campground who invited me to their fire and fed me a great BBQ pork dinner, to John Smith who I'll get to in a minute, it's impossible to describe the hospitable attitude of everyone I met. It shouldn't have surprised me how I got to Baker City then, but it did.

While I was hiding from the rain and having breakfast on Friday morning, the campground Host stopped by to chat and I told him about my trip. He went off quickly after hearing I was a bit stuck but came back a minute later with David, the State Park Ranger (whom I had actually met at Ochoco park a few days earlier). David asked about my knee and almost before I had finished telling him what was up he had gotten his phone out. "There's a little local radio station in John Day (6 miles East). Let me get your number and we'll have them see if anyone is headed to Baker City."

I had assumed that, since I rode alone, I was alone. So I'd have to get myself out of there alone. I was very wrong. These folk's first thought upon hearing that someone was stuck was to find a way to help. David even said that if I didn't hear from anyone that day, he'd drive me to Baker City himself. I didn't even ask. I probably wouldn't even have had time to ask before they offered.

Michael and his wife Christie, at the campsite next to me, invited me over and offered to take me into John Day if I needed anything. When Michael decided to go anyway and I went along, he took me through Canyon City to show me the cool old mines where they discovered gold 150 years ago.

That afternoon I got a call from John Smith (the man to go to in John Day or Baker City if you've got hydraulics to be fixed) who heard about me on the radio and he came by to pick me up.

Baring riding out of there on two happy healthy knees, I can't think of a better end to that predicament.

My Heroic Left Leg

There's no fighting it anymore, my knee is properly #$%^ed. Yesterday was probably the best day of the entire trip but it was overshadowed by the increasingly obvious fact that a very specific part of my body was simply not going to make it to Bozeman. Frankly, it wasn't even going to make it to Baker City and it shouldn't have made it the six miles over the pass out of Mitchell. It wouldn't have were it not for the valiant heroics of my left leg.

Mitchell is right at the base of Keyes Creek Pass. Immediately out of town, the road steadily climbs 1,400 feet over six miles. After a day off then the easy 40 mile day into Mitchell the day before, I felt good and that my knee would be happy to continue. About three miles into the climb it became apparent this wasn't the case. Four miles in and the pain was back in earnest. Five miles in I unclipped my right leg from the pedal and lifted it onto the rear rack to keep the knee immobile. My left leg took up the charge with fervor. The last and steepest mile was a surprisingly inspiring display of determination even to me. I didn't really expect to do it but, one little goal marker at a time, my left leg, seeing its brother fall, actually drove me to the top of the pass faster than the two of them had been able to manage together.

Out of habit, I shifted to a harder gear as I got to the crest (normally to prevent a rapid increase in cadence and laziness) and I laughed at myself, not even allowing a little ease up on the crest of a one legged climb. Nevertheless I kept on and enjoyed the decent into the next valley. That valley was the prettiest yet. Dramatic cloud formations all around, huge rolling fields rising into woods which rose into mountains, sheer rock walls that jutted out of the ground at odd angles making some look like enormous sinking ships of stone disappearing into a sea of green.

The valley was broad and climbed only slightly for many more miles so I was able to get to Dayville (40 miles in) for lunch and Mount Vernon (61 miles) before the day began to fade. Even without the strain of climbing, the motion of pedaling was painful for my right knee so most of the ride it had to stay on the rack and I relied solely on my dauntless and noble left leg pedaling on. Alone.

At Clyde Holiday State Park just East of Mount Vernon I set up camp and finally allowed a little time to acknowledge that I would not succeed.

I was happy to find that I couldn't be bothered with getting upset and pouty about it. Sure, I'm extremely disappointed that I'm not continuing but I know I'm stopping for a reason and not for an excuse. It's not too hard, I'm not bored, it's not because my butt hurts or because I'm tired of being wet. I'm not remotely relieved that I'll be going back to a warm bed and regular showering. It's an unfortunate fact: If I continue, the pain will continue to be unbearable and I'll tear my knee to shreds (if I haven't already). So I moved on quickly and easily from disappointment to working out how to make my way West.

Day 7 Numbers

Start: Mitchell, OR
End: Clyde Holiday State Park
Miles: 61.11
Seat Time: 6 hours 1 minute
Average Speed: 10 mph

No way but forward

The healing hasn't taken quite so well as I'd have liked but I'm over a hundred miles from any town bigger than a handful of people, so there's nothing for it but to keep going.

Highway 26 is just beautiful. Coming down the last pass reminded me a little of big cottonwood canyon in Utah. The trucks and RVs that go by are still big ones but they are far far less frequent.

At the bottom of the pass was a neat but nerve wracking gorge, just wide enough for the road and a river. The river is clearly well above it's normal level and tearing at its banks, solid brown with mud. Problem was, since the roar of the river echoed against the canyon walls, it became impossible to hear anyone coming. It was a little concerning seeing a dump truck's side mirror pass over my shoulder that I didn't know was behind me. Thankfully, situations like that have been exceedingly rare.

In Dayville now and it's just too early to stop. I'll make for Mount Vernon (26 miles) or John Day (32 miles) and hope these clouds hold back just a little longer.