In the musky Sierra foothills, as the January sun sank, six cyclists stopped for a reality check.

Ben Lieberson, a Los Angeles chef, laid out the challenge. "We've got to go 40 miles in an hour-and-a-half," he said, no despair in his British accent.

"We can do it. Let's hammer it," replied Cole Maness, a Tennessee transplant to L.A. known to crack open a beer on a mountaintop or jump off-road for impromptu cyclocross.

They took off behind their mechanic's car and a hulking white van crammed with energy bars and water bottles, duffle bags and dirty clothes. From the wheel, Carey Schleicher-Haselhorst navigated the California back roads. Daniel Wakefield Pasley leaned out the passenger window from the waist of gray jeans he'd worn all week -- strawberry-blond hair flying as his camera clicked. "This is rad!" he often called to the world.

Half an hour later, back on flat ground, the crew waited to watch the team veer into farm country. Like so many passers-by, two women cyclists asked about the spectacle.

The explanation: These guys were riding the Tour of California a month before the real deal. This week, pros take on America's eight-stage, 780-mile answer to the Tour de France. But, for one week in January, the course belonged to a half-dozen speedy amateurs testing their limits. Cameras recorded the whole crazy ordeal, from the ride itself to the small towns and larger-than-life characters.

As if on cue, cyclists whipped around the corner, a blur of yellow and black.

"They could ride with Lance Armstrong," one of the women said.

You'd never know this was marketing, except for five cursive letters on the riders' clothing: R a p h a.

A small British company, Rapha makes expensive, high-performance cycling gear. The mother ship opened North American headquarters last year on Portland's North Mississippi Avenue and hired three thirtysomethings, who could've introduced Rapha to the United States with magazine spreads, say, or online banner ads.

Instead, they invested in a project called the Continental. A band of cyclists -- fast but not pro, thoughtful but not geeky, a touch wacky -- embarked on America's most epic rides. They pushed hard, but not so hard they missed wildflowers and cafes. They fixed their own flats. And their journeys were documented online, creating a real-life sports drama. Eventually, the stories might be published as a travelogue and guidebook.

The Continental is an extreme example of a national advertising trend. Consumers don't want to be manipulated; they want to be part of the adventure. So Adidas invites women to share training sagas. Red Bull stages contests for human-powered flying machines.

And Rapha devotes more than one-third of its U.S. staff time and marketing budget to the Continental, in hopes it will inspire people to ride. And, maybe, drop a few hundred dollars on their wardrobes.

The idea took root a couple of years ago, before Rapha had a Portland connection. Pasley, an avid rider who worked in sports marketing here, got hooked on the company. He sent an e-mail, asking to document the glory of physical suffering and roadside Americana.

Simon Mottram, Rapha's founder, loved the concept. "It's about adventure and self-discovery and the great outdoors and all that stuff," he said.

Before long, he hired Pasley to launch the Continental as a freelance gig. Just a few riders at first, and a shoestring budget.

By chance, when Mottram decided to open a U.S. headquarters, Nike veteran Slate Olson was a finalist to run it. Rapha's founder flew to Portland to interview the man -- and the city. He was sold on both and joined a growing list of cycling-related companies in Oregon.

"If we launched in New York or San Francisco, that's where people would expect us to be," Mottram said. "Portland adds a bit more edge, and we like that."

Olson rounded out the Portland office with Pasley and Schleicher-Haselhorst, who worked for Raleigh bicycles in the Seattle area. She fell for Rapha's sleek design and old-school outlook, especially the early Continental site. "Here I am, lusting after this brand for all it encompasses. And then there's a position open," she said.

As the staff grew, so did the scope of the Continental. Rapha added an East Coast team last year and, coast to coast, nearly two dozen new rides. Each is accompanied by maps, photos and riders' reflections.

Expectations are high. About one-third of Rapha's sales come from the United States, but Mottram hopes to boost that to one-half. He's banking on Lance Armstrong mania and the environmental, pro-riding movement. And the Continental.

Initially, he doesn't expect the dramatic response he'd get from traditional ads. But, even if the Continental is a slow burn, Mottram believes it will connect with his target audience: cyclists in their 30s and 40s, with disposable income and wanderlust.

Or, as Olson put it, "It's a project that really has no business in a company that's 4 1/2 years old and trying to make a profit."

But he'll take the risk.

This is a make-or-break year.

Through Continental Calling, fans compete to lead the crew this summer on a favorite route. And last month, the team tackled the Tour of California route. It was the most grueling ride yet, day after day of 100-plus miles, through forests, up mountains, past farms, from Sacramento south almost as far as San Diego.

"We want to celebrate the route, the people, the places that make this a great tour, in a Continental-style way," Pasley said a few days before takeoff.

Even for pros, the tour is a test. But coaches give advice, police officers close roads and direct traffic, a lead pack breaks the wind. Massage therapists, mechanics and chefs attend to cyclists each evening. Plus, the pros maximize recovery time by riding really fast.

If anybody was nervous, though, it didn't show when the Continental team arrived at Rapha headquarters on a sunny Saturday morning. The rental van was clean, doors flung open and a bike rack on top. In the second-story office, a conference table was stacked with hats, base layers and jackets for the six riders who signed on.

Cyclists don't earn a Rapha salary. But they get free gear, and don't pay for gas or hotels. As Lieberson put it, unless you're world-class, "You don't get rich cycling. But you might see some interesting places." He and Maness, the two Los Angeles riders, arranged to meet the gang at the start of the race in California.

The rest of the team -- two East Coast riders and two Northwesterners -- packed up for the long van ride south.

Hahn Rossman, who runs a metal shop in Seattle, was drawn to the Continental philosophy of riding. But, given the rainy season and a recent surgery, he wouldn't normally ease into race shape with such a beastly ride. "This is either the best preparation ever," he said, "or the worst."

Tune in

• Rapha Continental project: Rapha's photos, writing and video go live with each corresponding day of the tour www.rapha.cc/continental

• Tour of California: Pros rode the prologue Saturday and tackle the first of eight stages today www.amgentourofcalifornia.com

Ryan Thomson, a designer and 3-D artist at a Portland architecture firm, started riding as a kid in southern Oregon and races for an un-team called the Gentle Lovers. And, of course, Rapha. "You always try to validate it. Is this worth the time and effort?" he said. "The people I've met and the experiences I get are irreplaceable."

A few days in, the group settled into a routine. Meet at 6 every morning for granola and yogurt at the night's motel, usually a cheap roadside joint. Weigh in. Pasley, the chief documentarian, snaps photos. Schleicher-Haselhorst assembles a loaf of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and loads the van. And cyclists squeeze in to drive to the start of the next stage.

Tuesday morning, while Barack Obama's inaugural address boomed from an Italian cafe in downtown San Jose, the guys stripped T-shirts and pulled on gear. They massaged sunscreen onto their faces and pain-relief cream onto already-burning leg muscles. Schleicher-Haselhorst dispensed Advil.

"The big climb of the day comes right away," Pasley announced.

As their legs pumped, the guys spread out and found their own rhythms. San Jose faded into the background, a fuzzy grid of ranch houses giving way to cows in green fields.

"Up, up, up, up!" Schleicher-Haselhorst called out the driver's window. "Beautiful."

Along the roadside, a brown calf loped next to Jeremy Dunn, the baby of the group at 28 and the founder of a Boston-based cycling magazine called Embrocation. Dunn pedaled slower and held out his hand -- a peace offering. But his bovine friend gave up.

At the top, the guys jumped off their bikes to hug and refuel.

"Every time it started hurting, I just looked around and thought, 'This is gorgeous,'" said Dan Langlois, the second East Coast rider, who has a story for every tattoo: scissors because "they're a handy tool," a bowling ball from a trip to Fargo, N.D., the word "ACTION" because that's his nickname.

Seven hours, 90 miles and a few wrong turns later, a golden sunset and the stench of manure welcomed the group to Modesto.

The van pulled up to replace water one last time for Thomson, the Portland rider, known as "Evil" since his bike messenger days. He said he'd love a Gardenburger and a salad with vinaigrette.

"Really?" Schleicher-Haselhorst asked, incredulous.

"No. I could eat six tacos, then a steak."

She laughed.

"Five more days?" he asked.

"Five more days, Evil."

The next day, while the team battled daylight through the Sierras, Pasley had another mission: documenting roadside attractions. He shot film, ripped from packages with his teeth, and used every conceivable vantage point -- lying on his belly, standing on the van.

Pasley knew he was onto something in Cathey's Valley, a wayside that consisted of a post office and the Oasis Market (daily special, beanie weenie soup). The more photos he took, the more people emerged.

"Where are these pictures going?" one bystander asked.

"The FBI?" another chimed in.

"On the Internet?"

But nobody objected.

In Mariposa, a mountainside hamlet, Pasley approached a woman in bright red slacks with his usual query. "Excuse me, can I take your photograph?"

Turned out she was a nanny from France and once lived close to the Tour de France route. She wanted to know everything about the Continental. Several miles down the road, Pasley photographed a stern-looking woman tending a fire in her front yard.

"I feel like some kind of 18th-century crier," he said when he returned to the van. "'The Tour of California is coming! The Tour of California is coming!' 'Really? Like the Tour of France? Right here on this very road?'"

In the final stretch, a motorcycle cop asked about the cyclists. Of course, Pasley asked to take his picture. And, of course, the officer said yes. He explained that he'll block roads for the tour; he uses his radar gun to clock the pros.

Ten minutes later, the riders pulled into a field a few miles shy of Clovis. It wasn't safe to ride anymore, with traffic whizzing by in the dark. So the guys loaded their bikes and changed clothes behind orange trees.

Just before they left, the officer showed up again. He turned on his lights and escorted the team to the town brewpub.

Thursday began as one big problem. Rain, a flat tire. Rossman desperately wanted to find a replacement for a broken coupler on his bike, although the mechanic from Sram -- a component company that partners with Rapha -- had rigged a temporary solution.

Pasley called for advice from Ira Ryan, a Portland bike builder who had to sit out this trip. "We're on day five of 100 miles, in the rain, in a town that smells like skunk, on a highway," he announced gloomily.

When a strained thigh got so bad he could barely ride, Dunn pulled out for the day. He changed into long underwear and stretched out in the van to rest up for tomorrow.

"You know you're doing the right thing," Pasley told him.

"I know. It's just hard to stomach."

Rain pounded harder, splattering mud on riders' faces and sucking color from the landscape. The Rapha crew hadn't seen a town in hours. Rossman quit, too, nervous about his tenuous bike. While he tracked down a part, the sky dried up.

"I think I'm collecting heroes this week," Schleicher-Haselhorst said softly.

"What do you mean?" Rossman asked.

"You guys. Look at them up there."

Four riders zoomed ahead, down a road that stretched green and brown forever.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm just having a moment."

The team kept moving. To a farm field with an inexplicable floral couch in the middle. To the curve where James Dean died. To that night's destination, and on and on.

-- Laura Oppenheimer; loppenheimer@news.oregonian.com