It has been so cold this winter. Okay, not Boston cold, but cold for a place where the same wardrobe usually gets you through the whole year. In the Bay Area it usually doesn't go below 45 degrees at night, even in the dead of winter. And it might only go below freezing once or twice a year. This year it has been in the high 30's/low 40's every morning for weeks. I have already run out of fingers (on one hand) to count the times there has been frost on the ground. When it's not freezing, it's raining.
I sure picked a crappy year to try to stop driving to work. My workouts this year have consisted of outdoor (always outdoor, so the dog can come) runs, riding my bike to/from work and outdoor 5am swims. I am so sick of being cold all the time!
So when I had extra vacation time to burn and I saw a listing for a 6 day bike ride in the desert east of San Diego, I thought, Awesome! Sun!
I am often wrong about such things. But I forgot that I don't know everything when I decided that it would probably be warm at the start at the University of San Diego. But the weather didn't know how it was supposed to be making warm, so when I got to the start (in SAN DIEGO I remind you!), it was in the lower 40's. Luckily I was wearing everything I owned, so I was warm. But if I had to pee I was screwed.
Eventually after about 20 miles of riding through neighborhoods and strip malls I was able to ride for long enough between lights to warm up. For a second. But then someone had to pee, so we all pulled over at the next gas station.
I was wearing bib shorts, under a base layer, under 2 jerseys so I wasn't going to pee unless it was an emergency. I saw a couple of people sitting by the gas station entrance, and one more twerp riding around in circles "for Strava" and rode up to them. "Hey, are you guys going to keep riding?" I asked.
"WE are..." said the female one, in the voice that Mean Girls use to let you know that you're less than dog shit, and should probably just douse yourself in gas down at the pump and set yourself on fire.
"Ummmm... okay," I said and started riding. But they were in fact NOT leaving just then, so I stood alone on the side of the road and ate a snack bar. When the Mean Girl group finally rolled I got to ride with them for about 100 yards down a hill, most of which I spent clipping in. Then they all flew through a yellow light at the bottom of the hill. I was the caboose, and it turned red on me, so I stopped and watched them go. Whatever. I didn't want to be their friends anyway.
I made new friends, and together we decided to skip lunch and decipher the cue sheet. A good stranger to ride with won't make you sit down for a 3-course high-fiber meal before a 20-mile gradual climb. A great cycling stranger will look at the cue sheet with you to make sure you're reading it right, they won't just blindly follow you, then blame you when you find yourself on the shoulder of the freeway lost and alone. We had decided on every turn while looking at the cue sheet together, which is why I felt okay when I led my two buddies onto the freeway. We had all read the line out loud, and agreed "Left onto Hwy 8. Stay on the shoulder. It's legal," meant that the only way we were going to get to a warm shower was to ride 3.5 miles uphill on the interstate. "Alright... single file... here we go!" I said as I pointed my bike onto the onramp. "It's legal!"
 |
| Wind be whipping like... |
Once on the freeway I almost forgot about the 70mph traffic when I felt the crosswind. There are gentle winds that stir the leaves, then there are heavy winds that bend boughs, and then there are What the Fuck winds that make plants fly in all directions like they're running around in a blind panic. This was a blind panic wind, the kind that can pick you up in a gust and throw you over the guard rail down the 300-foot cliff-slope. And I thought all that was fucked up until I reached THE BRIDGE. On the bridge I could look at nothing but my front wheel to stave off the panic attack or else I kew that I was just going to do every time I'm in a high place - lie down flat on the ground and refuse to move.
"Hey, I think we dropped Male Companion back there," said Female Companion.
"Should we stop and wait?!" I asked, trying to hide my panic. I wanted desperately to stop, but wanted even more desperately to get the hell out of there. (Did I mention I was hit by a car a few weeks ago? So, while the situation was terrifying, my tunnel vision may have been a little exaggerated.)
"No, I think we can just slow down," said Female Companion. Noooooooooo! That didn't involve stopping OR getting the hell out of there. I used every ounce of willpower I had, and slowed down. And stayed slow. Finally, at long, long last we pulled off. No road trip pee-mergency will ever make an exit ramp such a relief ever again.
On the freeway we passed 3,000 feet. When we got off the freeway, we also crossed the snow line. The fucking snow line! In San Diego! The jackets that had come off briefly before the freeway, now came back on. For the remaining 12 miles, I had to ride around snow patches. I realize that I was on top of a mountain. And I realize that it is late December. But there were kids having a snowball fight! 50 miles outside of San Diego. That's just not right!
No comments:
Post a Comment