I went back and forth a dozen times about whether I would ride the last 57 miles into San Diego or just ride in with the gear truck. I didn'f want to be caught out in the rain again, and riding through miles and miles of stoplights and street parking outside of independent coffee shops, surf shops and tattoo parlors aren't my favorite kind of riding. In the morning, the forecast said that the rain would hold off until noon, so I rushed to pack up my shit and was ready to roll out while the others were still eating breakfast.
The trouble was that my bike was locked in the courtyard, and all the people I would ask for the key were the same folks that would tell me to quit being a shit and wait for the group. Finally I snuck through a back hallway of the building, hoisting my bike over people's sleeping bags and probably dribbling dirty road water all over their stuff. But I was free!
I rolled through deserted roads past wineries and the giant sprawling haciendas of the nuveau riche, then onto a characterless bike path that went on for about 10 miles, which spit me out back at the coast. This spot looked familiar... A block later I realized why: this was the location for RAAM check-in - yet another time I'd come to San Diego to escape a crumbling relationship. Seriously! What is it about me and San Diego?!
As I rode down the coast hoping it wouldn't rain, it seemed inconceivable that 2 days before I'd been sunburnt in the desert, and the day before that I'd been frozen in the snow on top of a mountain.
As I climbed Torrey Pines, a mile-long bump up toward the UCSD Medical campus I noticed how easy climbing had gotten. I'd never been a climber, but somehow on this trip I'd developed a rep as one. The goal had been to ride myself into shape. Mission accomplished...hopefully. We'd see if I ever got up the balls to ride with a group again.
My trip down memory lane took me past the hotel we'd stayed at in preparation for RAAM and then to Mission Bay: the venue for my first triathlon. Now THAT was a race I hadn't thought about in awhile. I'd swum in 70° water in a rented wetsuit, ridden a hybrid bike in loose yoga pants and hadn't eaten a morsel or drunk anything but water for the whole 3+ hours it took to finish the Olympic distance race. Why had I come all the way down to San Diego? For an excuse to tell an ex I was still mooning over that I'd "be in town" if she wanted to get together. Seriously, San Diego! This was getting fucking weird. Later on that trip I got drunk and had an argument with a friend. To this day I don't know what I said, but the next morning she asked me to leave her house, and she never spoke to me again.
I rolled into the parking lot a little before noon; the first rider by a long shot and helped unload the bags out of the truck. I was surprised to see one of the aging tri chicks at the finish wearing jeans. "What happened?" I asked.
She had been walking back to her hotel last night when she tripped and fell. When she went to put on her shirt this morning she felt a "pop" or a "snap" and a blinding pain. She'd probably cracked a rib and was headed to the ER. My heart went out to her. The first time I saw her, her complexion had given her away as an alcoholic; a suspicion that seemed to be confirmed by the fact that whenever she could be seen after the day's riding was finished she stank of booze and her balance was a little off. It also explained why she brought a tent yet got a hotel room every night - so she could drink in peace away from others' judgement. I knew those tricks. I'd played them myself. I had marveled at how she'd managed to pull it together to ride every day, and wondered what kind of toughness she was squandering on just appearing normal. I knew she'd been drunk last night because I saw her at dinner, and as uncomfortable as the recognition of her problem made me, I knew that she must be feeling some pretty rotten self loathing right then. I wished I'd known the right thing to say... Instead I carried her bags to her car for her and asked her to let me know what the doctor said.
As shitty as the reality that I was coming home to was, San Diego had thrown back at me at least half a dozen moments of synchronicity that threw into relief that I was better than I had been on my previous trips. I'm probably going to be just fine. And next time life brings me back to San Diego, whatever lesson this particular episode is supposed to teach me will have been learned.
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