Beef

Once upon a time – shortly before I hung up my bike for 5 years – I went on this 212 mile ride that was the toughest thing I have ever done on two wheels. In those 212 miles, there are more than 20,000 ft of climbing, including something like 6 significant climbs. About 150 miles into the ordeal, the route took us over Mt. Hamilton, the tallest mountain in the Bay Area. We went up it "the back way," which means you take about 40 miles to get up it, with most of the climbing being gradual and civilized, followed by a kick in the teeth for the last 5 miles. Those last 5 miles were where I first got off my bike and started walking. It was shameful, but what came next was what broke my spirit.

After Mt. Hamilton, the route took us through about 3 miles of neighborhoods before turning back up the most evil road I have ever ridden in my entire life. The last cross street you pass before this road turns into a wall is called Fulbar, which I read as FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition), which is a good description of Sierra Rd. It starts with a ramp of about 16% grade, and hovers between about 12% and 15% for almost 4 miles, never getting less steep than 10%. It's not so much the killer grades that get you, but that it never lets up in between. I remember walking so much of this road that I was afraid that my cleats would wear down so badly that they wouldn't clip back into my pedals.  I have climbed some pretty fucked up mountains in my time, but this was the only time in my memory that I have had to get off my bike and walk. And on Sierra Road I remember walking as much as I rode.

So Sierra Rd. (and to a lesser extent the back side of Mt. Hamilton) has taken an almost mythical role in my mind. Sierra Rd and I have beef. In the intervening years I've wondered, was it really that bad, or was it just that I had already been riding all day, already had some 18,000 feet of climbing and 150 miles in my legs? When I first moved out here, I was a terrible climber and had no idea how to pace myself through the steep and ubiquitous mountains around here. I hadn't been doing that much riding at the time, was it possible that I was just tired?

As the years went by, my curiosity about The Legend of Sierra Rd took on another layer. Slowly, I became a little more mature. I also matured as an athlete, and something hardened in me that had been particularly soft during the Sierra Rd phase of my life. When I finally reconciled with my bike about a year ago, I had lost a lot of my speed, but I found that I was a much better climber than I used to be. Maybe the newer, more mature me would be equal to it.

But the time never seemed to be right for my rematch with my nemesis. First of all, it was a pain to get to. If I'm going to drive to a ride, I want it to be more than 8 miles (even if they are the most devious, miserable, torturous miles on earth). The way the roads through the hills are, there aren't many of them, so you're either committing yourself to a gigantic loop or one tiny out and back. I had considered tacking it on to a Mt Hamilton day, but after climbing the 18-mile, 4,000 ft climb, it always felt like "enough" without tacking on the worst road I have ever ridden in my entire life. The few times I rode Mt. Hamilton in the intervening years, I also considered continuing to ride over the summit, and revisiting the final 5 miles of the back side of the mountain, which had dealt the first blows before Sierra Rd shattered me, but I'd never made it past the observatory.

I had made a few deliberate attempts to go back. Last fall I rode 36 of the 40 miles up the back side of Hamilton before I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to get back before doggie day care closed and had to turn around, exactly at the point where the mountain grew teeth. Then, last week I had planned to ride from a point 20 miles away, with Sierra Road as the destination before I rode back. However, 5 miles into my ride I found that the connecting road was closed and would be for the remainder of 2017. It seemed like I was never, ever going to have my rematch with Fucking Sierra Rd.

This morning I decided to take advantage of the weather to ride the front (easy) side of Mt. Hamilton to see how my climbing legs were doing after a long, rainy winter of almost no riding. When I parked at the base of the mountain, there was a big sign saying that the road was closed to through traffic. Well shit. There's been a lot of that lately, as many of the mountain roads are washed out or flooded from the awful winter we've had. I started up the mountain anyway, but after about 5 miles and 1200 ft of climbing, a mess of traffic cones, earth moving equipment and a whole lot of dirt made it clear that the road really was impassible. So I turned around. Now what? I could just ride back and forth on the bottom 1/4 of the mountain or... Sierra Rd was only about 3 miles away. So I followed the arrows still painted on the pavement back to my date with destiny.

Despite the first imposing grade, that looks like a vertical wall right into the sky, I was pleasantly surprised at how easily I got up the first ramp of the climb. Some roads are just like that. You get some point of reference where you can see it from the side, or you look at it head on, dwarfing some tree or house, and it just looks worse than it is. But after that ramp, the road started doing that twisting thing where it looks like it's going to flatten out just around the next bend, and then you round the bend and it's even more steep. The road quickly went from shitty suburbia to the kind of super conservative church that you always find on the edge of towns (like they need some sort of buffer from society), to Scarface mansions, to farm land, to the sort of empty landscape you see in the travel scenes in Lord of the Rings. I climbed until I was heaving for air in a way that usually leads to puking. When I could handle my lungs burning no longer, I pulled over and took a solid 1-2 minutes to get my breath back under control. But I did not walk. I rode the rest of the way to the top, tasting blood in my mouth and heaving like only TV characters ever do (because in real life nothing is compelling enough to push yourself that hard -- nothing, that is, but a quest). But I got to the top, having pedaled every inch. I had climbed just under 2000 feet, in about 3.5 miles.

When I got to the summit there was a roly-poly middle aged cyclist dude stopped in the middle of the road. He was the kind of guy who is slightly overweight, and all of his gear is a solid color and never with any race or team logos on it. You know, the Pearl Izumi type. The type of person who puts SPD pedals on a road bike. "Is... this... the... top?" I gasped.
"Yeah," he said. His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly. Neither triumphant nor tired. "Where did you come from?"
I told him I'd tried to ride up Hamilton, but when it was closed I'd come over here instead. "God I hate this road," I finished.
"Yeah, it's much harder coming up it from this direction," he said, as if he were comparing sides on a freeway overpass, not the most diabolical road in North America, possibly the world.

I hated this slightly overweight "recreational rider." I am not in fantastic shape (it's been a rough winter), but I was willing to bet that I was in much better shape than this guy. This hill had handed me my ass 5 years ago, and my heart had threatened to burst to get me back up it this morning, and here he was talking like it was just some neighborhood hill, not the life-altering challenge that it really was. How had he even gotten his pudgy butt up here?! It would be like climbing Mt Everest, and finding Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons sitting at the summit, eating a microwave burrito under the Tibetan prayer flags and saying, "Of course, it's tougher without oxygen."

After I had thrown the pudgy guy off the side of the mountain to his death, just to hear him express some sort of strong emotion as he screamed on his way down, I had a new challenge: getting back down safely. I am neither the most confident descender, nor a total sissy pants. What I do NOT appreciate are descents so steep that I can't stop if I want to; the ones where when you release your brakes you feel like you're going into free fall, and if you feather them the moment the brake pads touch the rims it throws you off balance. Sierra Rd, of course, was like that the whole way down.

I descended that road like your nana. I hung onto the brakes so hard I thought that I would break something. While I only had to stop once on the way up, I had to stop twice on the way back down to give my arms a break because I thought my grip would fail. I'd said it on the way up, and I meant it even more on the way down. Fuck that road!

But I did it. I have set myself a list of 25 roads that I want to ride this season, and now that I've crossed off Sierra Rd and lived to tell about it, I do not plan to go back.

Christmas Ride Day 6 - San Diego, again

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. 

Christmas Ride Day 5 - Sag wagon

Today's ride was some 55 miles of mostly downhill. Claire's ride wes somewhat shorter than that.

Ever since we arrived in Hemet, everyone had been apprehensive about the weather report for the rest of the trip. Would it rain? Would it hold off? What percentage chance of precipitation indicated just a sprinkle and what percentage a soaking downpour?

In the morning I looked at the weather report, and thought I might be able to outrun the rain if I got started early and shook a leg. I tried to appear helpful, but those in charge took that to mean that I *actually* wanted to help and gave me things to do. By the time I was actually put together and ready to go, half of the riders had already rolled out and it had started to sprinkle. Also, the ride leader was looking at me accusingly. "I helped with clean-up, and I'm not feeling super awesome so I'm going to try to roll out and beat the rain..." I said by way of explanation. 

"Have you ever ridden this route before?" he asked. 

"No but.." and I waved my cue sheet to finish the sentence. 

"Let me show you something..." he said, and proceeded to read the sheet to me line by line. I had already memorized the first 4 turns, but his monologue had obliterated that memory. 

At the turn at mile 44 I stopped him. "Trying to hold all this in my head is going to break my brain," I told him, trying to take my cue sheet back. He relinquished it, but not before returning to mile 22 to tell an anecdote and make a pun.

"... so don't go the 'Wong way!'" he finished. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought as I finally broke away. I'd had a conversation with him the night before as one equal to another, and it had been fine but when he had his "leader" hat on he was insufferable. 

I had gone back and forth while getting dressed: winter clothes or not? Booties or no? I had settled on a summer weight kit with a base layer and fleece lined arm and leg warmers. I hadn't brought any rain gear, thinking desert rain or San Diego rain would somehow be less wet than San Francisco rain. As I rolled out and felt the icy clammy wind on my shoulders and neck through the jersey, I started to realize that I'd made a terrible mistake. I thought of turning back, but my stuff was already packed and buried under about 100 other suitcases. I was committed and I could already tell it was a bet I was going to lose. 

After about 10 miles I started feeling icy rain drops, but it wasn't the sort of rain that made you wet... yet. By mile 15, though it was raining hard. The cold rain stung like needles and made the road slippery. The rain was also making my rims slippery and my brakes weren't working too well. Every time I've tried to ride in the rain lately I've hit the deck and shed some blood, so I was feeling pretty skittish. With the cold and the wet and the slick it was a damned crappy day to be riding almost exclusively downhill. 

By mile 20 I was soaked and frozen. I have a policy against finishing any ride or run that is going to make me want to quit riding/running. So when I hit Temecula and saw a Starbucks next to a donut shop, I called it a day. I bought a coffee and called the sag wagon, and then went to buy a donut. Once I had eaten 2 donuts, the rain had stopped and I probably could have kept riding except that the second I stepped back outside I started shivering violently again. There will be other chances to beat the shit out of myself. I got in the van. 

From the van I got to see the beautiful oak-lined road and canyon that everyone said, "looks like riding in northern California." It did in fact look like wine country... which is only 2 hours away and easy enough to get to. Not to mention the road looked pretty slick and had plenty of sand patches and crumbly potholes. I didn't feel too bad... instead I felt inspired to find other rides, on other days, when it probably wouldn't be raining...

Christmas Ride Day 4- the Irish Goodbye

Last night I found a small office with a door that closed, and was looking forward to a quiet night ALONE with my book. But instead I got cornered by a guy (who really is quite lovely) who wanted to watch the movie together (this ride is a lot like summer camp). Then, he asked me out. So after politely turning him away, I felt like I couldn't just fuck off to be by myself without hurting his feelings. Plus, he had cookies. 

So this morning I was more strategic about my exit. I cracked about 2 dozen eggs to help with breakfast, cleaned up a bathroom stall including picking up a used tampon off the floor, and watched a bunch of the veteran riders strategically hang out drinking coffee while others busted their asses to clean up the church we'd stayed in. I decided that I'd done enough.

"Hey, look over there!" I didn't say. And then rode out in the other direction. My early escape was also made possible by the fact that there were only 2 turns on the entire 55-mile route: the one onto the scenic highway, and the one off of the scenic highway. Technically I would be riding the non-official route over the mountain rather than around it, but the only people who would be doing the "official" route were the "less experienced" riders, and flatlanders from out of state. Being around people all the time was really starting to grate on me, and I needed to make sure that I wasn't captured by a group on the 20-mile ascent. 

As I pulled out onto the freeway, I passed the rapey vampire triathlete lady ("I vant to suck your vheel!"). I politely and cheerfully said good morning, while making sure to pass her and her much less annoying companion at a pace that did not invite them to follow. 

And then I was just me and the road. For about 22 miles the road took me up to about 5,000 feet through the rocky desert moonscape with views down into the valley and across to the other mountains. It was impressive enough that I stopped to take a few pictures. That's saying something. 

At the top I had expected the bitter cold of 2 days before, but the weather was sunny and warm with practically no wind. It really was a perfect day. Over the next 10 miles or so I gradually gave back about 1000 ft of the 5000 I'd earned, shooting through wooded areas, campgrounds and meadows... and of course horse farms. Other than the horse farmers and wilderness firemen, it seemed like the sort of place that only a few hundred people a year saw during camping or outdoorsy vacations. Of course, the several hundred cars that passed me on the shoulderless road belied that, but there was only one near-accident that I saw in 50 miles, so let's ignore that...

One car sat behind me for long enough to make me concerned, and when it pulled alongside, I realized that it was the director's car with his family. His wife - who is lovely and hardworking - leaned out the window and started taking pictures. I tried to look badass, but eventually I got sick of posing and stuck my finger up my nose. She lowered the camera. "Don't worry! We got you, girl!"

Wait... did she think I was the sort of person who couldn't wait to pick my nose until I was alone... and there was no camera in my face? I find that I am really confusing to people from the south, and my jokes usually wind up making me feel awkward and embarrassed. Oh well. 

I had to climb back up several hundred feet in a couple of miles before I could come down off the mountain, and that's when I realized that my legs were bone tired. Not sore, just really REALLY tired. Luckily it was over quick and all I had was another flowing, gradual, perfectly graded descent where I hardly had to touch my brakes. I tucked and dove down the mountain. As I whooshed along I reminded myself that THIS is why I do all those tough, early training sessions: to be able to come out and have experiences like today. It had been a ling time since I did a run or a ride that made me remember that...

Because of my early start and not stopping for lunch, I was the first one to arrive at the night's sleeping spot. I had already grabbed my stuff, set up my sleeping spot, showered and hung my towel out to dry, and was helping unload the rest of the truck when the vampire triathlete rolled up. "Hey! I was looking for you to keep riding."

"Errr, I'm gonna go get pizza now," I said, throwing the last duffel on top of the pile. I had been back for over an hour. What did she mean "looking for me?" Creeper. 

"Is there wifi here?" she interrupted herself. I waited until she was staring down at her phone and just... wandered off. Sometimes when you feel cornered constantly, the old Irish Goodbye is the only thing left in an introvert's tool kit. 

Christmas Ride Day 3 - the desert, and the world's worst pavé

This morning I got up early to get an early start. I know about all the science about drafting and shit, but I've been surrounded by people 24/7 for 2 days and I just wanted everyone to leave me the fuck alone! I helped make the coffee, I helped clean up from breakfast, I cleaned up my little sleeping corner, dropped my bags off at the truck and was ready to go. I went up to the ride director, a real pedantic schmu--- gentleman and asked, "Do I go left or right out of the parking lot?"

"We as a group would really appreciate if you didn't leave early because we've still got to clean up and you'll be leaving us holding the bag..." And he continued to lecture me like I was a kindergarten class for another 2 minutes. 

"I have already helped prepare the coffee and breakfast, and helped prepare dinner and clean up afterward. And I noticed you didn't do anything to help with dinner, and saw you didn't get your ass up till breakfast was served this morning, you sanctimonious fuck!" I didn't say. 

I helped throw bags on the truck, then went to mop the snack room floor on my hands and knees with a paper towel. "Do you want to leave early with us?" asked a triathlete who had said she "wanted to ride with me" in a way that felt a little bit rapey. 

"I got called out, so he'll be looking for me at pre-ride announcements," I grumbled. "Go on without me." 

As everyone was wrapping up, the irritating director shouted, "I need someone to clean the bathrooms...!" Immediately I headed that way, hoping that if I spent 5 min in the bathrooms picking up TP, cleaning toothpaste out of the sink and taking out the trash I might get to miss his long-winded description of the route. This was a man that I had heard spend 5 minutes describing every inch of the route to someone who had just asked if they should go left or right. He may love the sound of his own blabber, but I sure didn't. If you're going to describe the 5 turns before and after, every market I will pass along the way, and the history of the geological formations 10 miles to the east, then I will not be able to remember if I was supposed to go left or right after all. 

Unfortunately, I did not miss the speech. He described every significant feature of the 78 mile route, as well as several insignificant ones. The only thing that mattered was that somewhere up ahead in the desert I was going to have to ride over some REALLY shitty pavement. "It's worse than you think," said a triathlete chick next to me. "And it's even worse than that."

"What's wrong with it?" I asked. 

"It's just really poorly maintained." I'd ridden in New England after a bad winter. I'd ridden Morgan Territory Rd in Milpitas. I was sure I could handle a bad road, but I didn't want to be with anyone when I did. 

So when the route took us past some iron sculptures of monsters and dragons and everyone stopped for a picture, I rode on. "I'll steal some pics off Google and post them on Facebook later!" I shouted as I turned around. Buuuut... I missed a turn, and wound up hooking up with the back end of the group with 5 extra miles added to my route. Damn. 

I could see a clump of neon up ahead, and dropped the hammer to catch them. For 15 miles I chased at my top speed, turning myself inside out to catch first one and then another rider who'd dropped off the back. I had about 500m left to close when I heard someone behind me, "CAR BACK!" I looked behind me: one of the first guys I'd caught had been sitting on my wheel for at least 10 miles and hadn't come up for a single pull. I mean, I probably wouldn't have let him, but the gesture would have been nice!

I passed the group in the most unsatisfying way when they all stopped to shed layers. While I had been chasing, we'd ridden over a few miles of consistent and aggressive frost heaves, so I was sure the terrible road was behind me and I was probably okay to be a little more sociable. I hopped on a few pacelines through the desert. I'm not comfortable in packs at the best of times, and after one particularly aggressive pull I decided that I really didn't have the power to keep laying down efforts like that, and I would rather spend this ride watching the scenery than staring at someone's back wheel. 

It's a good thing too, because a few miles later the bad pavement started on a downhill. It was so much worse than anything I had ever ridden. It was worse than chip seal. It was worse than when they score up the road for repaving. It was worse than frost heaves, plus patches, plus potholes. It was worse than cobblestones. There were some cars up ahead doing some dodgy driving pulling out of a turnout and I thought, 'You'd better figure your shit out, because I'm pretty sure I can't stop.' I slowed to a crawl and did my best not to let the road kick the shit out of me for the more than 3 miles it took to get through it. I felt like I was getting beaten up. Some jackass passed me and said, "So this is what it takes to get you to slow down!" I killed him. 

Shortly thereafter everyone stopped for lunch at a gas station fas food branch (the Blimpees at the chevron in Saltan City - where all champions dine!), and I grabbed some fun sized Almond Joy bars (like a grown-up who knows how to take care of herself) and went on alone. The sandy and rocky desert was still all around me, and the Saltan Sea of to my right, but I was on a 4-lane highway with only so-so pavement and tons of road debris, so let's fast forward through the next 20-30 miles to Coachella. I knew I was in Burning Man and (obviously) Coachella territory, so I thought I would be in a remote desert that would be friendly to hippies and drugged out professionals escaping responsibility for a few days. What I was NOT expecting was a town dominated by miles and miles of lush green polo fields in the middle of the desert. You know: polo. Where rich white people ride on horses with croquet mallets while other rich white people in funny hats eat unpalatable snacks with made-up names. That is Coachella for the other 49 weeks out of the year, I guess. 

Then I got to Indian Wells, which I thought I recognized from Badwater or Furnace Creek or one of those other rugged back-of-beyond events held in terrain that kills people. What I was not expecting was Disneyland for old people: golf courses, fancy restaurants, gated communities, an antique store with a marble archway that looked more like it might be the sort of place where the queen of England would buy a tombstone... and more of those lush green lawns between the road and the sidewalk, tended by friendly Mexicans. Fucking Disneyland for old white people!

I was the second one in, and as I dismounted a station wagon pulled up with the pedantic fucker's tandem on the roof. So instead of sitting down and eating snacks and drinking buckets of water, me and the Mean Girl from the first day helped unload the truck of 100+ suitcases. I didn't even throw any of the heavy stuff at his rotten daughter whose constant stream of consciousness chatter amounted to her shouting, "look at me! Look at me! Look at me!" over and over, and getting underfoot.

Tomorrow I am riding out early. 

Repraise

It's funny how life brings things back around. In 2010 I drove down to

San Diego and spent my first Christmas in California riding Mt Palomar followed the next day by this incredible descent called The Glass Elevator. In 2010 I was a broken soul on my way to healing. Now, exactly 6 years and 1 day later I found myself back on the Glass Elevator, at the end of another relationship and yet firmly established in California and much healthier in my soul as well. It seemed especially fated because for 5 of those years, I had been off my bike. I hung up my bike literally the day before I met Richie Porte, and started riding again a few months ago... almost 6 years to the day after I arrived in California. I'm telling you, this sort of timing only happens in novels. It seemed fated. 

Everybody (or nearly everybody, anyway) left together this morning, but all the potholes and shit in the road washed there by the snow made me antsy to have open road ahead of me. So after a couple of miles I just rode away from everybody up a hill. I would ride a few miles with others here and there for the rest of the day, but for around 6 hours I was completely alone. 

The route took me up and over a mountain with snow-covered meadows and icy winds. I was wearing one of those fancy wind-stopper kits and thick neoprene gloves that I could never afford when I used to ride, and I constantly wondered at how I used to ride in Boston through snow storms and in freezing temperatures without a second thought. How the hell did I do that?!?! If I didn't have all the best gear on, I would have been miserable!

Actually, with the heavy winds, the snow and the long climb I was surprised I wasn't miserable anyway. As it was, I was practically euphoric. Sure, I would have liked a lot less snow and wind, but every time I got grumpy all I had to do was look up and the grouchiness just fell off me. You should know (if you don't already) that this cheeriness is not my natural disposition. 

I stopped for lunch and 2 Companions that I'd shared a few miles with yesterday materialized. We discussed taking a side route that added a few miles, but cut out a dangerous and non-scenic road. I said I was going to take it. Male Companion said he would stick to the cue sheet. Female Companion shivered and thought about triathlons. Or that's what I guess she was thinking about because when we parted ways a few miles later I heard he shout, "IS THIS THE WAY?!?!" Aw shit. Come on. 

I had been enjoying my alone time, and didn't really feel like babysitting someone who wasn't paying attention. I especially didn't feel like spending the next 12+ miles playing the triathlete dick measuring game. After a few minutes of climbing and polite conversation I took a pull and went to my happy place alone in front. After a few minutes she pulled up next to me, "So where should I go if you drop me?" I went back and forth with myself for a few minutes. Do I do the nice thing and wait so that we can ride together, or give her directions and ride at my own pace? I gave her directions. She had Google Maps. She had a cue sheet and a route map. She could distract herself from triathlons long enough to find her way home... right?

A minute or two later, I heard her call out "car back!" Once the car was clear, I looked back. She was already about 30 yards behind me. I slowed down so she could catch up. She didn't. I figured we were on the same page and rode on, back in my solo happy place. 

I dropped down off the side road and rejoined the highway. After a few minutes, I saw a sign that said "Hwy 76." Hey, wait. Am I dyslexic? I thought I was supposed to be on 79. I pulled over, pulled out the map and breathed a sigh of relief. 76 would meet up with 79 in a couple of miles. So I kept riding... and riding... and riding. I thought something might be wrong but the wind was at my back, I was on a slight downhill, and I kept convincing myself the intersection would be around the next bend... or the next... or the next? I had gone 5 miles in the wrong direction, downhill and downwind before I finally looked closer at the map and realized I'd gone the wrong way. Well shit. 

And that was when the low battery beeps started on my Garmin. I had gotten lost, my Garmin wasn't going to make it to the last climb, let alone all the way to the finish but I was still ebullient. I started making up songs and singing them in funny voices to keep myself entertained. 

Once I was back on track I did turn into a vicious crosswind that threw me a few feet across the shoulder, and then into a sucking headwind that could have stopped my bike short if I'd tried to coast. But eventually I turned up the final climb and even the headwind couldn't bring me down. I climbed for 12 miles singing (to the tune if If You're Happy and You Know It):

I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!

I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!

I've got 8 or 9 miles then I'm really gonna drrrrrop... (sung in funny dramatic voice)

I've got 8 or 9 miles to the top!

With about a mile to the summit, I heard a shout from the side of the road. "You want some water?!" Shouted one of my new friends waving a jug above his head from the stoop of one of those mini marts that you find in towns with only a handful of residents in the back of beyond. It looked like the sort of place where Yosemite Sam would do his grocery shopping when he couldn't drive the 2 hours out to the Wal Mart.

"I'ma push through to the end!" I shouted. I could see where the road dropped off the edge of the world. 

The Glass Elevator is a 10+ mile descent that drops off the plateau thousands of feet above straight into the desert. It is perfectly paved and perfectly graded so you hardly have to touch your brakes, and you get expansive views of the valley and the boulder-covered mountains. Once I started the descent, nothing could dampen my spirit. No shit. I was singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" at the top of my voice. I didn't want it to end. 

I wish I could bottle up today -- every minute of it -- and uncork it every time I felt down on myself. Moments like today on that mountain are what life really is all about. I'll forget that when I'm back in the real world. Remind me. 

Christmas Ride Day 1 - Newsflash: it's winter

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!