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By Ben McCarty
News staff writer
June 6, 2009
It’s a
simple description for a job that can be fairly complex: Give
water to bicyclists.
Yet when
you take into account you are trying to hand off the water to a
cyclist cruising along at 20 miles per hour, trying not to get
your arm jerked out of its socket, trying not to hit the cyclist
in the face with the bottle, trying not to toss the bottle at
the cyclist, trying not to drop the bottle into the road, have
used water bottles flying at your head and have dozens of
cyclists swarming past you, with dozens more coming behind you,
any of whom could swerve at the wrong moment and cause a massive
pileup, or reach too far for water and run you down — suddenly
it doesn’t seem so simple anymore.
Yet that
is what a pack of volunteers were doing Thursday in the feeding
zone for the first stage of the Mount Hood Cycling Classic.
“It’s a
lot to think about,” feeder Jim Janney said, “With all the
bottles and riders and the guys going all around you.”
It is
called a feeding zone because the riders don’t actually drink
the water as much as they inhale it.
In one
fluid motion they grab the bottle from the feeder, open the cap
and then pour it into their mouth (or onto their face) and chuck
the bottle back into the zone. It might not actually be why it’s
called the feed zone, but if you saw it, you would agree the
reasoning makes sense.
It’s
volunteers — some of whom have experience feeding for teams in
the past, but plenty of others who are first-timers — that keep
big events like the Cycling Classic going. Volunteers like Jim
and wife Cindy, first-timers from White Salmon.
After a
quick run-down on the basic technique of water bottle feeding
from neutral feed zone coordinator Leslie Cogswell (she
recommends holding it loosely by the top so that riders can
easily grab the bottle), they got to feed their first field.
Being in
a feed zone can be incredibly boring for three hours and 50
minutes of a four-hour bike race. The other 10 minutes is a
flood of activity.
It
starts with a trickle as the lead pack, in this case two riders,
comes through. Then comes the whine of the two motorcycles
escorting the main field.
Behind
them dozens of riders, most of them very thirsty, maneuver into
position to get water from outstretched hands as a cacophony of
team names and “neutral! neutral!” rises from the feeders who
either support specific teams or who can give water to any rider
who needs it.
“They
take them fast,” Cindy said.
Seconds
later it’s over; the support caravan rolls by, with bottles
scattered on the roadside to be collected by helping children.
Only
another hour or so until the riders come through again. Some of
the volunteers gather and chat; others sit down to catch up on
their reading; others chase their kids or dogs.
Fifty or
so odd minutes later, the process starts all over again —
breakaway group, motorcycles, huge pack of riders, flying
bottles, caravan — and then settles down. This time a few
stragglers bring up the rear.
Cindy
offers one a bottle of water; he shrugs it off and keeps
pedaling, but manages to get out a “Thank you, though!” in
between the effort.
For the
volunteers it’s nice to feel appreciated. Only two more hours to
go — and that’s just this race with the pro men and women riding
it — amateur categories will race later.
It’s a
long day. It’s the same all over for other volunteers, whether
they are helping with registration, or sitting in the afternoon
heat, directing traffic and helping answer the questions of
confused motorists who have somehow missed the “Bike race ahead”
signs.
Finding
enough volunteers to staff the event in and of itself for
volunteer co-ordinator Jule Wilson, and it typically goes down
to the wire. While it is a long day for cyclists and riders
alike, the volunteers at least get the occasional break during
the long stretches when no riders are coming through.
As quiet
again settles over the feed zone, Cindy looks around at the
other relaxing volunteers.
“Should
have brought a book,” she says.
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