Tuesday, April 29, 2014

That's Why it's Called "Mountain" Biking


           “I never want to ride a bike again!”
I can’t believe I just said that. Anyone who knows me would never believe that those words could come out of my mouth. After all, I’m the guy who loves riding bicycles more than anyone—the guy who hasn’t owned a car in over six years; who competed in over forty races last year; who’s ridden across the United States, twice. And yet, I just said, “I never want to ride a bike again!” How could I possibly say something so unthinkable? To answer that question, we need only to travel back to earlier this morning.
Snow. I wasn’t expecting to see snow. In fact, if I had to describe the elevation at the Bear Springs Campground, I would probably say—that this time of year—if you were to go any higher, there’s a good chance you’d find snow. This morning, we don’t need to go any higher. There’s snow on the ground and there’s snow in the air—large, wet flakes. It shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. We are on a mountain; and if we were skiing or snowboarding today, the conditions would be ideal. Unfortunately, we are not skiing or snowboarding. Today, we are racing mountain bikes.
In my opinion, the “Bear Springs Trap” cross country mountain bike race is the toughest cycling event of the year. I’ve competed in six-hour mountain bike races that seemed like a walk in the park compared to the “expert” course at Bear Springs. Clocking in at just over 30 miles, the course takes its challengers through a wide range of conditions, ranging from trouble-free gravel roads, to rock gardens so complex that they can only be negotiated by the most skilled of riders. In between, there are steep hills to climb, sharp switchbacks to descend, rivers to cross, and roots and rocks to clear. Situated in the heart of the Mount Hood National Forest, the environment is so untamed that each year the promoter spends weeks in advance clearing the trails of fallen trees and low-hanging branches. And if that isn’t wild enough for you, the trail systems are so vast and convoluted, that if someone was to get lost, it is plausible that they may never be seen again. This truly is “mountain” biking in its purest form.
Just as the race is about to begin, the snow lets up, though the temperature hovers around freezing and the ground is covered with a trace of accumulation. Luckily, over the past couple of years I have invested heavily in cold, wet-weather gear—neoprene boots, rain pants, leggings, waterproof gloves, etc. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring any of that stuff with me today. Luckily, I checked the weather report before leaving my house this morning. Unfortunately, the website I was looking at did not recognize this location and redirected me to the nearest town—Maupin—where the forecast said 50 and cloudy, with the slightest chance of precipitation. Luckily, I grabbed a rain jacket and a pair of lightweight winter gloves just before leaving my house. Unfortunately, the gloves are not waterproof; nor are my shorts, or shoes, or socks, or hat.
The race starts out fine. After five miles, I might even be winning my category. But then we approach the first real climb and I immediately realize that my single speed is not geared correctly for this race. My mechanic warned me of this, but I refused to listen. As the other single speeders fly past me, I quickly decide that I am no longer competing against them—now it’s me against the course.
I hammer down single track, splashing through puddles, mud splattering everywhere. When the trail evolves into a stretch of wet rock, I don’t even attempt to ride it, choosing rather to hop off my bike and scramble across the slippery surface, which in itself proves to be quite challenging while wearing toe-cleats. I mash my pedals uphill—surprised to even make it with my monster gearing—and by the time I reach the aid-station at the top, I’m overheated and need to take my jacket off.
“I can take that to the finish line for you,” a volunteer says to me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I might still need it.” You’d have to be crazy to give up your jacket on this mountain; in these conditions. But the two guys behind me do, along with their gloves.
I shove the jacket in my hydration pack, and fix my seat post, which had slid down considerably during the first half of the race. Then I’m back on the bike—back on the filthy single track—my legs churning away. I’m actually feeling pretty good, relatively strong, even passing riders in other categories. And then it starts to snow again—hard enough to completely cover the tire tracks that came before me. Luckily, I know the course, because otherwise, it would be real easy to think that you went the wrong way. I pass a guy who obviously hasn’t ridden it before. “Are we almost done?” he asks in a voice of despair.
“Not even close,” I have to answer.
I stop to put my jacket back on and think about the guys who gave theirs up earlier in the race. The coat keeps the wet snow from penetrating, but the damage is already done—my body is frigid and I just can’t shake it. My gloves, my hat, my shoes, my socks, my shorts—they’re all soaked through to the bone. I can’t stop thinking about the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared.” I’m a goddamn Eagle Scout and I am not prepared. Then I start to recite my favorite saying, “Do you think Lewis and Clark had it this easy?” That’s what I always ask myself, and in the past—fighting the relentless winds of Idaho, the torrential downpours of the Midwest, the terrifying rapids of the Mississippi—it has always worked; it has always helped to get me through the situation. But today it does nothing. “Do you think Lewis and Clark had it this easy?” Yes! I think if Lewis and Clark got caught in the woods during a snowstorm, they would put on warm leather leggings and build themselves a fire. I have no warm leggings and I have no…wait, what’s that…oh my god…it can’t be…it is!
After getting a stick stuck in my shoe, a branch in my eye, and flipping over my handlebars, twice, I come out of the woods and am greeted by some fellow racers who have a raging fire burning at their campsite. I jump off my bike, leaving it right in the middle of the course, and run towards the flames to warm my fingers, which have become so numb that the only proof I have that they actually exist is purely visual.
“What are you doing?” one of the racers says, clearly busting my balls. “You can’t stop during a race.”
“That’s easy for you to say, you’re not racing.”
“I started the race, but after a few miles I was so cold that I dropped out.”
Normally I would call him a wimp, but today, I think he’s just smart.
I get back on my bike, but my bottom bracket is shot, forcing my pedals to periodically give way, causing my thighs to slam into my handlebars. My mechanic warned me of this, but I refused to listen. The snow turns to a mixture of slush and pouring down rain. Somehow the sun comes out, but the precipitation doesn’t let up. Maybe I’m hallucinating. What is the first sign of hypothermia? Oh, it doesn’t matter. With only a handful of miles left in the race, I’m no longer competing against the course—now it’s me against Mother Nature.
Almost four hours after I start, I finally cross the finish line, the last guy in my category to do so. Usually that isn’t saying much, but today it’s a victory in itself, for 25% of the men registered for my race didn’t even finish, while another 25% didn’t even bother showing up to the start line. This is definitely going to be one of those races that people will reminisce about for years to come—do you remember that one year…
When I get back to our tent, my teammates are all huddled inside their vehicles, the heaters blowing full force. I must look horrible, because the first thing one of them says to me is, “What the hell happened to you?”
“I never want to ride a bike again,” is what comes out of my mouth, but in reality, what’s going through my mind is— I can’t wait until next year!

Thursday, April 24, 2014

An Accidental Hipster

            One day, not so long ago, in a not so far away place, I was walking down the street with two close friends when they started cracking jokes about hipsters. I know what you’re thinking: What’s the big deal? Doesn’t everybody make fun of hipsters these days? Yes, they do, and therein lies the problem—I thought that these two friends were hipsters, and on top of that, I thought that they knew they were hipsters. So, I raised the question: why would hipsters ridicule their own kind? After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that it’s because, often times, hipsters don’t even realize that they’re hipsters. But if it turns out that my theory is true, then that means…oh noooo!…could I be a hipster?
            Before we go any further, let’s determine what it means to be a “hipster.” The term “hip” can be traced as far back as 1902, meaning to be “aware,” or “in the know.” The first known usage of the word “hipster” can be accredited to Jazz Musician Harry Gibson, from his 1944 album, Boogie Woogie in Blue. Accompanying the record was a short glossary of expressions that were found in the lyrics. Entitled, “For Characters Who Don’t Dig Jive Talk,” “hipsters” were defined as “characters who like hot jazz.” These “characters” were typically middle-class white youths who imitated the African-American artists that they listened to. As the popularity of jazz faded, giving way to rock ‘n roll, the term “hipsters” evolved into “hippies,” which were typically middle-class white youths who imitated the rock artists that they listened to. The term “hipster” quickly faded from popular culture, until…
            I blame the Internet, though that isn’t really fair, because I blame the Internet for most things. But I also don’t believe that it’s a coincidence that sometime around the turn of the new millennium—about the same time the Internet took off—that the term “hipster” came back into popular culture (I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that these “free-thinking” generations always seem to evolve during times of war, but that’s something I’ll save for another day). It was in 2003 that The Hipster Handbook was published by Robert Lanham, describing a generation of young urban-dwelling liberal arts graduates who took pride in living outside the cultural mainstream. Much like the original hipsters of the 1940’s, and the subsequent hippies of the 1960’s, this new era of hipsters came from white middle-class backgrounds, but unlike their predecessors, they did not follow the trends of the popular musicians of their time. In fact, they did quite the opposite—they found that the very essence of being “cool” was to contradict what was considered “cool” by mainstream society.
            So, this new generation of hipsters ignored the advertisements for fast food, opting to become vegetarians and pescatarians and whatever-tarians that seemed to be the trend that year. When the rest of the nation was listening to musicians with the letter “y” somewhere in their name (like Coldplay, Beyonce and Kanye), the hipsters dug deep into the underground indie scene to find the most obscure bands with the most ironic names. But as soon as one of these bands broke out into the mainstream (like Vampire Weekend, or Arcade Fire), they were immediately shunned for not being “cool” anymore. And when an explosion of microbreweries were proving that beer could actually taste good, the hipsters reverted back to the cheapest, worst tasting beers on the market, because apparently, no matter how horrible it tastes, nothing looks cooler than holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. But just because you eat healthy, listen to obscure music, and drink cheep beer, it doesn’t necessarily make you a hipster. After all, we are living in an age of image, not ideas, and the one thing that distinctively sets hipsters apart from all others, is their sense of style.   
            Hipsters believe that it’s cool to dress uncool. And how do you do that? One word—vintage. The fashion world changes so rapidly, that whatever seems to be in style today, will surely be out of style tomorrow. Initially, this made it super easy for hipsters to dress. They simply had to go to the nearest thrift store and buy anything that wasn’t currently in style, but was in style at some point, like cardigans, and fedoras, and black rimmed glasses, and old t-shirts (sorry, but I have no clue as to why the skinny jeans became part of their wardrobe). But then, something happened—the hipsters’ sense of style went mainstream. Their look of uncool became cool to the masses, forcing them to start dressing like the very class of people that nobody in the history of the modern world had ever considered cool—blue collar workers. And that’s where I come into the story.
            I grew up in a blue collar household and have held blue collar jobs for most of my adult life. My grandfather had a beard, my father has a beard, and I have a beard. It’s pretty common among blue collar workers to have a beard. I wear clothes with labels like Carhartt and Wrangler. I wear flannel shirts and baseball caps and old beat-up footwear, not because I think it looks cool, but because that’s what you wear when your work blue collar. And now the hipsters have decided that they want to look like me. They don’t want to work blue collar jobs; they just want to steal the image of those of us who work blue collar jobs. And I don’t have a problem with that, other than the fact that I now appear to be a hipster myself. And it gets worse. I recently started riding a fixed-gear bicycle. Not because I thought it was cool, but because I plan on racing in a fixed-gear category at a local cycling event. And I love Kale.
           So I’m a hipster. Big deal. I didn’t do it on purpose. And it won’t last long anyway. A year from now, blue collar will be out and something else will be in. I’m hoping it’s a Revolutionary War look of powdered wigs and tail coats and pantaloons, but I’m not holding my breath. No matter what it is, I’ll continue wearing what I’ve been wearing my entire life. And I know that if any hipsters read this blog post, they will most certainly scoff at it, claiming something absurd, like “only a true hipster would write a blog about being a hipster.” And I’m ok with that too, because if it’s true that hipsters don’t even know that they’re hipsters, and refuse to admit that they're hipsters, then I am most definitely a hipster!

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Mountain Biking the City

             We scream down single-track, spin out on dual-track, and hammer through half-track. We bomb down technical, through the gnarl, over babyheads, across washboard. We carve down switchbacks, power up grinders, and walk up grunts. We push over whoop-de-doos and tabletops and tombstones. We panic skid and powerslide and bunny hop. We washout and wipeout and mud dive. Occasionally, we dab or biff or chunder. It’s almost always epic and we’re almost always in the zone. And you’ll never believe where we do all of this.
            We live in the city and we work in the city, so why wouldn’t we mountain bike in the city. I recently heard somebody say that Portland, Oregon would be the perfect city for cyclists if it wasn’t for the lack of mountain biking opportunities. I would normally let a statement like that slide, but it wasn’t the first time the issue has come up. In fact, since moving to Portland five years ago, I’ve witnessed numerous people make similar statements, sometimes even in writing. And every time I hear these complaints, all I can think is, what the hell are these people talking about?
            So, on a sunny Sunday in April, I set out to prove them wrong. I invite thirty of my closest friends for the inaugural “Mountain Biking the City Ride.” My goal is to ride in every off-road bicycle park within the city limits. Five people show up, including myself, and we couldn’t be any different: a warehouse worker who’s afraid to race; a pilot who rides with wild abandon, like he’s behind the controls of a stunt plane; a woman who didn’t take up mountain biking until she was forty; a cycling-obsessed adventure writer who’s looking for his next blog post; and an ex New York City bike messenger who has logged more miles than the rest of us combined. Even the boldest sitcom writer wouldn’t dare put us together in the same room, which is just fine by us, because we don’t much like being inside anyway.
            We head out at the crack of dawn and ride in parks whose names alone convey the majesty of our setting. Names that would make mountain bikers from other region’s mouths water—Mount Tabor, Powell Butte, Forest Park, Riverview. Think about it—mountains and buttes and forests and rivers, all within the city limits. Try telling somebody from Detroit, Michigan, or St. Louis, Missouri, or my hometown of Buffalo, New York, that Portland lacks good mountain biking. Then tell them that Mount Tabor just happens to be a volcano; that you ride mountain bikes on volcanoes.
       
     We don’t just stick to the dirt trails and single tracks of the parks; we ride anything and everything that we can get our tires under. We test our skills on the pump track at Ventura Park, our endurance in the backwoods of Rocky Butte, and our finesse on the short track at Gateway Green. We ride over makeshift jumps and down sets of stairs. We ride on new woodchip trails in old homeless camps. We ride on old slopes of soil in new homeless camps. We take shortcuts down alleyways and detours around construction sites. We marvel at views of Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, of the downtown skyline and the many bridges across the Willamette River. We lose our veteran along the way due to injury, and then our newbie due to fatigue, but the rest of us ride on, all on single speeds, all grinding out the miles, tired and hungry, but never complaining.
            In the end, we ride just over sixty miles in just under seven hours—not a bad way to spend the day. Even though we take advantage of every mountain bike park in the city (that we know of), after all is said and done, we barely scratch the surface of what’s currently available. But yet, I know that people will still complain. I know that naysayers will argue that there are other cities that are better—cities that always make those yearly lists in the magazines—like Park City, or Bend, or Colorado Springs. Well, I’ve got news for you—those aren’t real cities! They don’t have skyscrapers or professional sports franchises or crime!
             The five of us meet up after the ride to celebrate our accomplishment. We drink craft beers and eat food that we would only think about eating after a hard day of riding.   We compare notes and crack jokes and embellish stories. It may seem funny to think about, but if it wasn’t for mountain biking, none of us would be here right now; we would have never met. Hell, if it wasn’t for mountain biking, there’s a good chance that I might not even be living in this city. I am grateful for mountain biking. And I am grateful for this city. But more than anything, as I look around and see the smiles on my friends’ faces, I am grateful for mountain biking in this city.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Reasons We Ride the Ronde

            Don’t stop! Whatever you do, don’t stop pedaling. If you stop, you’ll never get going again. Brynwood Lane is the steepest street in Portland, and if you dare ride a bicycle up it, you’ll most likely need to talk to yourself in the third person. You’ll need to use that little voice in your head as motivation, or else you’ll probably scream as loud as you can—which I’ve seen grown men do. I’ve also seen chains pop from the immense pressure put on them, as well as a variety of uphill “crashes,” including one cyclist who popped a wheelie, flipped onto his back, his bicycle landing on top of him, his feet still clipped into the pedals. I’ve seen lots of people slouched over their bikes, shuffling up the hill on two feet. But those are the types of things that can happen when you attempt to power a bicycle up a hill whose grade climbs above 30 %. That’s why you don’t stop!
“And why are we doing this again?”
            Those words, or a variation of them, seem to be the most popular phrase uttered throughout the ride. And we all seem to have our own reasons. My teammate Jim, whom I’m sharing this day of suffering with, is quick to answer, as if he has pondered the question for some time. “If I’m not doing this,” he says, “then I have to go work. This is much better than going to work.” But is it?
            My reason isn’t as justified as Jim’s. “If I wasn’t doing this,” I say, “then I would just be doing a similar ride by myself. This is much better than riding by myself.” My reason is a bald-faced lie—there’s no way I would do a ride like this by myself.
            We are in the midst of the De Ronde van Oeste Portlandia, or the Ronde PDX, as it’s better known. RideOregonRide.com calls it “inarguably the toughest under-50-mile road ride in Oregon.” With 19 climbs, over the course of 43 miles, riders who finish the route will have ascended over 7,400 feet by the end of the day. That’s like riding a bicycle to the top of the Empire State Building about six times; or the Eiffel Tower seven times; or the Statue of Liberty twenty-five times; or, well, I think you get the picture. And it’s not only the total feet of climbing that makes the ride challenging—it’s the extraordinary steepness of the hills. In fact, the men who designed the route specifically set out to find the steepest hills in Portland. And just why would anybody do such an incredibly cruel thing like that?
            Though the ride has been going on for seven straight years, attracting hundreds of determined cyclists each time, the website for the Ronde PDX remains rather vague. It’s only one page and says very little. “Tradition has it,” it reads, “that on the 14th Day of Worship, the hard men of the land shall gather to match their skill and strength against each other on the inclines of Flandrian earth, stone and tarmac.” Since 1913, the nation of Belgium has celebrated the Ronde van Vlaanderen, (or for those of you who don’t speak Dutch, The Tour of Flanders) a legendary one-day road race that takes particular pride in its rough cobblestone roads and excessively steep climbs. The original race organizers never set out to use such steep or poorly constructed roads, but that’s all that were available in such a small geographic area. On the other hand, the men behind the Ronde PDX intentionally set out to find the most grueling hills imaginable; some more difficult to ride than any on the actual Tour de Flanders.
And just how do organizers get away with producing such an incredibly difficult—and some may say dangerous—ride in the heart of one of the largest cities on the West Coast? Easy—they refer to it as “unsanctioned.” Now, when you think of unsanctioned bicycle events, what usually comes to mind are hipsters doing alley-cat races, or playing bike polo on “fixies;” or punks racing downhill on bikes that seem way too small, or jousting on bikes that seem way too tall. The Ronde is anything but. Most everybody here is a serious rider. You almost have to be to ride 43 miles. You most definitely have to be to ride 43 miles of excruciatingly steep hills.
Personally, I’m impressed with anybody who is even willing to show up at the start line. I’m even more impressed with the ones who don’t seem to fit in, the ones without the fancy bikes and slick kits that I recognize from the local race scene. There’s the guy who’s going to do the entire ride in a full-body Spiderman costume. And the guy on the fat-tire mountain bike, with enough bags and accessories attached that you’d think he was on a yearlong excursion through the Himalayas. And of course, the most impressive of them all—a seven year old boy, riding a bike with 20 inch wheels. And even more impressive than seeing these cyclists at the start line, is knowing that they crossed the finish line (though Spiderman did shed his mask somewhere around mile 20.) Yes, even the child, even though it took him all day (you can read about his accomplishment at http://bikeportland.org/2014/04/07/the-7-year-old-who-conquered-portlands-toughest-bike-ride-104139)
After 19 hills and five hours of rain and fog and mud, Jim and I finish for our fourth consecutive year. Knowing the course, and the hills, and what we’re “up against,” I do admit that it gets easier each time, though I will never, ever call it “easy.” There is a grand sense of accomplish when you’re finally finished, though the original question still lingers—Why are we doing this again? At this point, we have nothing to prove. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. Jim may use his “getting out of work” excuse, but if he suddenly became a millionaire and never had to work again, I know that he’d still be here. I can say that it’s good training, or a great topic to write a blog about, but then again, I’ve done it in the past when I wasn’t training, and I wasn’t blogging. People like to say that it’s because we’re all a little bit crazy, or that we love suffering, but those seem to be facts rather than reasons. Maybe the answer is the simplest one—the one a child would give. Perhaps the one that seven-year-old gave to his friends at school on Monday morning.
Why are we doing this again? Because. Just, because.  

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Drinking Whiskey with Lewis and Clark

            According to Tripadvisor.com, the Columbia Inn in Astoria, Oregon, is the worst hotel in the city. Ranked #8 of 8, it averages 2 out of 5 stars, with over half of the reviewers rating it as either “poor,” or “terrible.” No one has ever rated it “excellent.” But, in its defense, there is no other lodging in town that offers a cheaper room, or a closer walk to the bars. Plus, can you really trust anyone on the Internet anyhow? (Except for me, you can definitely trust me.) For example, the headline of a post written by “orandny” reads: “It’s a room and that’s all.” What were you expecting “orandny?” You rented a room! And that’s all you rented! Did you think it was going to come with your own personal butler? It’s apparent that “orandny” can’t be trusted. I mean, what kind of name is “orandny” anyhow? Another post simply says: “Ughhh!” Ughhh? I’m not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds exotic—I book a room for the weekend.
            It’s early evening on a Friday night when we arrive at the Inn and half of the place is under construction. Workers stand next to their pickup trucks, outside their make-shift work tent, sipping on beers and speaking in a language that isn’t the one I’m fluent in—just like being in the Caribbean! There are no other vehicles in the parking lot, which means that we’re the only paying customers in the entire place. Now, I don’t frequent many hotels, but I’m pretty sure that’s a good sign. Before I even open the door I’m already giving this place at least two stars!
Our room is newly remodeled and as far as I can tell, we could be the first people to stay in it since the renovation. The bathroom is cleaner than the one at my house; the television is nicer, with more channels; and from the look of the sheets, we won’t even need those sleeping bags in the trunk of the car. And bonus! The next day we are treated to an early morning wake-up call, with the beautiful melodies of a circular saw intertwined with the rhythmic sounds of nails being hammered into drywall. How did they even know that I wanted to get up at 8am on a Saturday morning following a night of heavy drinking? Looks like somebody just got bumped up to three stars!
My girlfriend thinks I’m treating her to a vacation on the coast, but in reality, I just needed a ride to Fort Clatsop to visit Lewis and Clark’s winter camp. (Only joking, Honey, Happy Birthday!) When the Corps of Discovery reached the Pacific Ocean in November 1805, the Columbia Inn did not yet exist (though some reviewers on Tripadvisor.com are under the assumption that it’s in fact much older), so Lewis and Clark and their men were forced to find other accommodations. Unfortunately, the Holliday Inn and the Red Lion were completely booked for the Northwest Fur Trading Expo, forcing the Corps to build their own hotel, the luxurious Fort Clatsop.
The dimensions of the entire fort are only 50 feet by 50 feet (about half the size of a basketball court), and at first glance, it doesn’t look like much. It reminds me of a giant version of something I would build out of Lincoln logs as a child. But when you consider the fact that the entire structure was built in about 3 ½ weeks—using primitive tools, by today’s standards—then it suddenly becomes a lot more impressive. With five total rooms, each containing tables, chairs, bunk beds, and a fireplace, Fort Clatsop would have definitely received a five star rating if Tripadvisor.com existed in 1805. But when you take into account that the small structure housed 31 men, one woman, and a baby (which, by the way, would make an excellent title for a sitcom) the fort suddenly becomes a lot less luxurious. In fact, it makes me feel rather relieved that I get to return to the Columbia Inn, whose rating has just climbed to four stars.
My girlfriend thinks that we’re going out to the bars to celebrate her birthday, but in reality, I’m drinking out of respect for Lewis and Clark, because they couldn’t. It’s not that they didn’t want to drink—in fact, most of the men were heavy drinkers, including Captain Clark—it was just that they ran out of their 120 gallon supply of whiskey long before they reached the Pacific Ocean, forcing them to remain “on the wagon” until they returned to St. Louis the following summer. A rather impressive feat, if you ask me—I’ve traveled across the United States twice by bicycle, but never in my adult life have I gone that long without drinking! So, since Lewis and Clark spent the entire winter in Astoria without drinking a drop of alcohol, tonight I will make up for it, in their honor, of course.
I drink a bottle of Miller, and chase it down with a 22 oz IPA and a plate of deep-fried Calamari. I follow that up with two 16 oz Fort George IPA’s that were brewed with coffee—to really kick the night into overdrive. Then I switch to the Corps’ drink of choice, swallowing down a whiskey sour and then sipping on an old fashioned. The brewery doesn’t serve hard alcohol, so I settle for another 22 oz IPA and a baked calzone. I return to the liquor, drinking two whiskey and Cokes while singing along to Shaggy at a tiki bar. And just when I should be calling it a night, I head to the gas station to grab a six pack and a bag of some strangely appealing snack called barbequed golden rings. And then…
I wake up with a monster trying to dig its way out of my stomach. I rush to the bathroom and hover over the toilet, seeing how far I can stick my finger down my throat. Just when a day’s worth of fun begins to escape from my body, something occurs to me: in the middle of the night, when you’re violently throwing up, isn’t every toilet, in every hotel, just about perfect? You might even say, “Five stars.” So, if you’re ever in Astoria, Oregon, and you need a place to stay (or a toilet to use), I highly recommend the Columbia Inn. In fact, it just received its very first “excellent” rating on Tripadvisor.com.