Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Mom's, I learned, was generally the wrong choice.
Maybe I've just been lucky, but without trying I've run across places where they ob-
viously care about, well, taste. In Tillamook, directly across the road from a run-of-the-
mill motel, was Kendra's Kitchen, where I had a creamy pepper soup and oysters in a
broth of chilies and lime—not exactly run-of-the-mill cycling fuel, or run-of-the mill
four-lane-highway food, either.
Last night in Troutdale, a suburb to the east of Portland where the road up the
Columbia River gorge begins, I ordered egg rolls and pork and shrimp with vegetables
delivered to my motel from a restaurant unpromisingly called Unique Buffet. I was de-
lighted. Hey, I'm no food critic, but I've had bad Chinese food before, and this wasn't it.
I'm not forgetting those margaritas and fajitas in McMinnville. And this afternoon along
the gorge road, instead of stopping for lunch I bought a pound sack of Rainier cherries
from a girl at a makeshift farm stand that was set up in a parking lot; they were superb.
I know, I know. I'm expending so much energy, working so hard all day that anything
would taste great. Maybe so. On the other hand, food is comfort.
I've been a little disheartened because I've been struggling so much going up hills.
Yesterday, leaving Estacada in the morning, my legs felt rubbery and weak and I rode for
only half a day before stopping in Troutdale, early enough to catch Jan before she went
to sleep. We've figured out a plan. I send her an email, ordinarily when I wake up, and
she calls me. She has a phone plan—must be an expensive one—that includes unlimited
overseas dialing. It helped to talk to her.
Then I wrote to Andrew Crooks at NYC Velo for advice. He said I could replace my
rear cassette, substituting a larger sprocket with more teeth that would lower my lowest
gears and give me some relief on stiffer climbs. It was 53.2 miles from Troutdale to Hood
River, a lovely, winding route through gladed woods that climbs above the Columbia, af-
fording a cyclist—and parades of picnic-bound tourists in SUVs—views of pristine wa-
terfalls and striking vistas to the east and north of the wide river and the state of Wash-
ington on the other side. It was a rewarding day, though a little too much hard work for
the distance I covered, so I decided to take Andrew's advice; in the morning I have an
appointment at the local bike shop to install a rear cassette with a more accommodating
gear ratio.
Tonight I ate upscale, at an haute fish place with a porch and umbrellas and a view
over the Columbia where, at dusk, the windsurfers who gather hereabouts were still gyr-
ating in spectacular orbits, the angled sun glancing of the flashing colors of their sails.
The whole thing was as pretty as a music video.
