It was 5 a.m. and I was nervous.

Though the dawn of Day Six of Cycle Oregon 5 was yet to break, I knew the time to the second....I had been checking my watch every 15 minutes for three hours. I grabbed my washcloth, toothbrush and flashlight, all without opening my eyes, and ambled off blindly toward my pre-luminous toiletries.

We had ridden steadily for five days. We left Eugene under motorcycle escort and sprinted to Oakridge, climbed through pristine old growth to McKenzie Bridge, grunted up and over the cascades at McKenzie Pass, breezing down through Sisters to Redmond, hammering headwinds to La Pine, traversing scenic mountain roads to Chemult only to cower in camp, thinking of that most long haul up the hill to the erstwhile Mt. Mazama.

The departure from Chemult was more an escape from uncertainty than a studied step into the future: I was sure that thigh-chewing lactic acid monsters awaited my climb to revisit an old friend: Mr. Crater. I was right. Yet, in keeping with the camp motto of "no whining," fostered more for image than adherence to reality, no one whimpered or moaned. We all towed the line and the line pointed straight uphill.

The sun baked our backs as 2,000 cyclists headed up the ceaseless, unendingly straight stretch of Highway 138 from Highway 97 to Crater Lake that seemed to exist only to mock our efforts to be done with it. Mile after mile we ground round and round, hamburger in the making. For 15 miles I craved only a curve and some hamburger helper.

Onward we pedaled...right, left, right, left, a circle of power which seemed, to me, to recall the myth of Sisyphus: one doomed forever to roll a boulder ever uphill to a pinnacle, only to have it roll back down, there the toil to begin anew.. While doggedly covering the last few miles I began to feel somehow refreshed. Energy expended seemed to be returning. Picking up the pace, I rode smoothly to the lunch stop. Impending delirium has some time-honored warning signs, all of which I failed to notice while riding in my most manic mode.

After wresting myself from the incipient embrace of post prandial torpor, I again mounted my trusty steed and began the final assault up to the rim of the crater, a grade that was between 8 and 80 miles long, depending on your physical condition, gearing, emotional stability, concentration and relish for pain. In both baseball and cycling, in order to last to the bottom of the ninth or make the grade, you have to do it with relish.

I settled into a snail-like consistent upward pace and tried my best to overlook neuronic flashes and hums that signaled my entrance into the Hall of Pain, on the way to visit the Emir of Exhaustion. The only reprieve would be to distract myself from miscellaneous strains, spasms, sores, pinches and knots: a team captain candidate for, as I saw on a tee shirt, Team Ibuprofen.

Using a technique taught to all potential torture victims I switched my attention to more pleasant times, thinking back to my '57 Chevy, nights spent at the drive-in restaurant chasing down burgers and fries with a large coke. I all too clearly recalled the interior of the car. I could hear the radio playing while I searched the glove compartment for Sen Sens, noticing the fresh pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on top of the church key. I punched channels and pulled up a slug of golden oldies that bathed the airwaves of times past, finally settling in on one channel, there to hear a medley of the best of Elvis. One song segued into the next, as I envisioned the King Himself, gyrating on stage as his transfixed devotees swirled, swooned and shuddered.

I pulled down the visor, tapping my ring finger on the steering wheel, and began to rock to the top. I could feel the power under the hood as the King shook, rattled and rolled. I looked down at the floorboard and saw that my Nike cycling shoes were beginning to turn blue and take on the texture of suede, the significance of which I was soon to learn.

In front and in back of me on the road ascending were bug-eyed, spandexed, florescent two-wheeled creatures riding their way up this mountain of pilgrimage, all apparently in search of something extraordinary, something that would justify the tremendous effort involved. It was as if they were in search of Grace in this elevated land.

When I reached the top I parked and gazed across the deep blue lake and began to breathe deeply while my heart rate re-entered the atmosphere. Little white dots floated before my eyes and I heard a roaring in my ears that sounded like all the oceans of the world.

I heard the passenger door open and suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and what I saw made my mind go blank: It was Elvis, dressed in blue denim riding shorts and a racing jersey across which a simple "The King" was emblazoned. He removed his helmet, revealing long side burns and a pompadour, which he touched up with a little black comb that appeared magically in his hand. He smiled at me with a slightly snarled, pouting upper lip, then tuned his attention to the majesty that is Crater Lake.

I was speechless.

Fortunately, the King was not.

"You know," intoned the King. "while I was riding up that last grade I kept telling the hill DON'T BE CRUEL... TREAT ME NICE." He focused on Crater Lake Lodge and said, "Considering the climb, it should be renamed HEARTBREAK HOTEL." And Wizard Island, located within the Crater, "should be called JAIL HOUSE ROCK."

"Some people", he continued, "have no perspective for things that really matter. That lodge over 'yonder should be preserved for all time, I CAN'T HELP FALLING IN LOVE with it."

Saying this, he extended his hand and said simply: "I'm Presley King from Graceland. Nice talking with 'ya." Then he got out of the car and, with a circular gyration of his hips that seemed to arc several yards, closed the door with a bump of his butt, while timing the impact to a clap of his hands and as a faint moan escaped through his pursed lips, a soft: "bay..aa..bee!!"

My next conscious thought was that of flying down the south approach to the crater, once more on my bicycle, as our group of a hundred pilgrims to the pinnacle rolled swiftly down the hill, only our brakes and timing keeping us from becoming a sylvan souvenir of the rapid decline. The road seemed paved in yellow bricks as I had been off to see the Wizard (island).

As the road began to flatten toward Prospect and our speed decreased I began to reflect on what seemed to have transpired. Driving a Chevy, talking with Elvis, sailing through the forests on the rambling road to Oz.

A high pitched cackle focused my attention at a caped rider who pulled along side me, wearing a funnel shaped hat and looking like you know who on a broomstick. "I'm going to beat you, my pretty... and your little HOUND DOGs too." With this she dropped three gears, arose from the saddle, put power to the pedals and disappeared like smoke. Was she referring to my tired puppy-dog feet, too pooped to paw?

Then I looked at my feet and saw to my bemusement that the Nikes had become blue suede shoes and that I was, perhaps, experiencing "Toto" recall.

(Lance is cycling and writing this week, so here is one of his Golden Oldies. He may be slapped back to reality by sending email to: lance@journalist.com)