Doing the Davis Double; everyone does Davis and some do it year in year out. Actually that's not strictly true, I do know some northern Californian long-distance cyclists who've never been out there on the yearly pilgrimage. But they're more the exception. In the words of one veteran: "Aaaww - I always do Davis." On the 3rd weekend of May, 1996, I completed Davis Bike Club (DBC)'s annual Double Century for the third consecutive time. It's pretty much the same very year, a bulk-standard ride, though each occasion had its distinctions for me, in its own way. You have to do it a number of times in order to amass enough little experiences to make a decent write up. Unlike those epic southern California doubles which, apiece, hold within them an experience of a lifetime, Davis is a more gentle introduction to supported long-distance riding with fewer surprises and less punishment. It's something any basically fit person should be able to do.

Davis is in some respects an intangible place; not really on I-80 or any of the route-markers; a near-suburban city which on the one hand seems to be a relief from the fast pace of Bay Area living, on the other hand, a place without centre or identity. Even the U.C. campus is somehow hidden amidst a web of freeway-exits. Taking Hwy-113 north (signposted Woodland) to Covell Blvd., the first signs of the event are the clumps of two-wheel mounted spots of light heading out of town.

Every year, I park my car at the same place on Villanova behind Davis High School; and every year, I set off at 04:50. At that hour it's still dark and there's about 40 minutes' riding in before dawn. It's usually not too cold but it's necessary to keep moving in the still air. The roads are busy with riders and a long line of flashing red vistalights can be seen stretching out ahead. The long haul along Road 31 is a bit of a drag, especially because we have a wind to contend with, and the first turn comes as a relief. Always Road 95A. From there, the succession of turns along the grid-like layout of Central Valley farmland appear to have no purpose to them; they serve to keep sleep-starved riders awake though and marshalls at the turns make sure no-one goes astray. I recall wryly the turn onto Putah Creek Road which I missed in the rain on one of the DBC 200km brevets in 1995. The experienced riders by now know the routes that the DBC use blindfolded. But, for me, it's always the same - I never know which compass direction I'm going in. Even the brief tangential encounter with I-505 rarely makes me realise that I'm going north for a while

It's worth concentrating on the road though: with the near-complete absence of traffic, cyclists expand to fill the available space. Soon, pace-lines have formed. I can see one bearing down on me in my helmet-mirror. Far longer than a semi, the two-wheeled equivalent of a train, it passes me, bike by bike, bogey by bogey; the occasional tandem breaks the monotonous regularity of its passing. I can hang on its tail for a few yards before it is gone into the stillness of morning. As light encroaches on the arable landscape, rider liveries become recognisable; contingents from bike clubs all over California. Tandems; in 1996, a triplet; a trike. "Whacky Races". Did I see the father-son pair on a tandem with immitation California license plates affixed to the rear rack? Or was that at Hemet?

First rest-stop, a school in Winters, at 25 miles. Plenty of fruit, water and cookies. People are skipping this rest stop and the road is busy with cyclists racing past. Time to look around and watch for familiar faces; in 1994, fellow bay area cyclists - in subsequent years, other "Triple Crown" riders. On the road again, after we cross under the freeway it's time to warm to the first climb of the day. Watch for the old guy who's mounted a radio with speakers on the front of his bike and trundles along with his own source of entertainment.

Now, we're heading for the hills. The infinite flatness of the Valley ends abruptly at the hills of Napa County which mark the skyline upfront. It should be obvious now if it will be a clear day. In 1994 it was; in 1995 it was uncertain; in 1996, thick cloud shrouded the way ahead. The climb to the Monticello Dam rest-stop is an easy one and at only 40 miles the day is young. The point in question marks the intersection of 3 county lines: Yolo, Solano and Napa. Count the counties: we have already made forays into three. Here, I saw Western Wheeler Mike in 1995 and 1996; In 1996, Western Wheeler Marc also and then Doris from the Godzilla ride a month earlier.

The subsequent remainder of the climb is not too demanding, despite the name of "Cardiac Hill" and the descent with views of Lake Berryessa, an exhilarating one. It was here that I had my photo taken in 1994 though I didn't know it at the time; it was the best of all the pictures that came in the mail after any event before or since. In most years, it's warm and pleasant; in 1996, by this time, the clouds have settled in and a light rain was beginning to fall. Moskowite Corner: haunting memories of my disastrous brevet of 1995; rain again then but also the absolute need for coffee and sustenance in the store there. Not on the "doubles" though where more training miles are behind me. Familiar territory as the road makes its way through pleasant rolling hills.

It's only 18 miles more to the 3rd feeding station; they spoil you on this ride. The little field on the left is a place you would not normally remark upon unless you happened to know that 1,200 cyclists congregated there every year. A rare opportunity to see bicyclists cause their own bottlenecks. Another place to people-watch; in 1994 Western Wheeler Liz; in 1995 soon-to-be RAAM participant, John Hughes; in 1996 in heavy rain I did not even set foot in the field, which had become a mud-fest.

The descent down Sage Canyon Rd. is always a favourite part of the ride; tight turns, narrow road, washed out in places in 1995; sheltered by trees; a brief conversation with Western Wheeler Bill in 1996. Soon, the turn on to Chiles and Pope Valley Road, a slight climb, Rust-Ridge Winery on the right and the ride continues up Chiles Valley. The rains of 1996 force me to keep moving to keep warm; I dread a puncture or anything to cause me to stop and I regret the last-minute decision to leave an extra layer of clothing in the car; then, the inevitable odometer failure. The next rest-stop, Pope Valley Grange Hall, was one I skipped in 1994 but not in subsequent years. In 1995 I was shedding layers of clothing; in 1996 I try to dry out my odometer and struggle to keep warm. This was not the Davis Double I had come to expect.

Now we make our way out to Lake County, but not before passing the infamous "Hubcap Heaven", a ranch adorned with shiny hubcaps of all shapes and sizes. Then on into more of the generic pleasant wooded rural scenery; so captivating that in 1994, at mile 80, I was fighting off sleep - but that was my first double and I had not slept well before. On that occasion, the tinkling sound from my freewheel soon brought me to my senses and I had to wedge the lock-ring back tight again. That was the price of trying out a new freewheel on a relatively ambitious ride.

After some incomprehensible detouring around the outskirts of Middletown, we finally arrive at the 95-mile high school rest stop. This is a memorable food-intake point: they have boiled potatoes, year in, year out and piles of strawberries, though in the pouring rain of 1996 fresh fruit seems inappropriate. There's even a chance to use a regular rest-room. From there till the lunch break some 18 miles later there's some potential climbing. The "traditional" route follows Big Canyon to Siegler Canyon into Lower Lake. The roads are a little roughly-surfaced but the climb up the canyon comes as a welcome opportunity for exertion and presents the highest point of the ride. I skipped the rest-stop halfway up the climb in 1994, despite the Hawaiian style dancing girls. What? In 1996, the weather suddenly clears up and I just grab fruit from a tray as I pass; I spy the roadside cutaway where I'd required mechanical assistance for my freewheel in 1994. In 1995 the road was washed out so the route had to take Hwy-29; a long hot toil on a busy road with as much climbing as the scenic route but inevitably faster.

Get in line. At Lower Lake High School for lunch, there's the opportunity to wait around and make your own sandwiches. I spent over an hour there in 1994; 45 minutes in the later years when I was more concerned about the clock. Usually this is the point at which to touch base with all the other riders I know; the day is more than half over.

Although only 20 miles to the next feeding station, the heat of the day is usually beginning to take its toil at this point. Minor roads lead out of Lower Lake, via a garish new outlet park, a Walmart outpost, to Hwy-53. This is the ugliest spot of the ride; as if from nowhere suddenly one finds oneself on a thriving beltway of civilisation; official DBC "SAG" wagons offer limited comfort. But, with equally baffling swiftness, out of Clearlake, rural serenity is restored and a brisk descent brings us to the junction with Hwy-20. The sharp right turn leads us into the last climbing of the day. Along this stretch in 1995, I nearly drained two water bottles. After an initial ascent which is moderately testing, there's a descent to lull one into a false sense of security. The ensuing climb is aptly named "Resurrection". But it's an even graded slog up to the seventh rest-stop and despite being exposed, is hardly the worst climb in northern California. It's even two-laned so that trucks can give the cyclists a wide berth.

The hallmark of the Resurrection rest-stop is water; lots of it. There's not much space to lay bikes down by the road side and it's necessary to fight a way through to the food. In 1994 I had a final bash at my freewheel with a big wrench supplied by a SAG-wagon; from then on, it stayed tight for many months. In 1995 I looked around me and marvelled at the efficiency of the organisation of this event; an impressive feat of logistics, worthy of its State-wide reputation. In 1996, a mere feeling of déjà vu.  The 133 mile mark had been a mental barrier the first time around: if I passed it, I was into a new physiological régime; now I have been there several times and the novelty is wearing off.

On to the summit, a further few hundred feet of climbing, and the most thrilling descent of the day. By now the riders are well spaced out, no more of that "one of a crowd" feeling. Cross the Colusa county line for our brief incursion into the 5th county of the day and the right onto Hwy-16, something of a psychological threshold because from now on its a uni-directional route back to the plains; a mere 60 miles to Davis. In 1994 I was happy to have made it this far; in 1995 and 1996 I was already beginning to map out the split-times for the rest of the ride.

After the long drag past the field of Llamas (was that really what I saw?) and rural structures which seem interesting at the time but are now no longer memorable, the brisk drop down the little canyon is a miniature piece of fun. In 1994 I shed my chain as I shifted gears in preparation for the descent; in 1995 it was here that I heard the first sounds of a persistent rattle from beneath; I'd sheared a chain-set bolt. In 1996, a stiff breeze from down-canyon greets me and I now dread the route ahead.

The eighth feeding station at mile 147 has its own hallmarks - more boiled potatoes and "valet" parking. It's a pleasant little oasis and a place it's sad to leave for the route-march to Davis. Hwy-16 levels out by the town of Rumsey from where it's an uninteresting drag through fields on both sides to the Canon School and Indian Bingo Hall. In my first Davis I'd been taking the second half of the day nonchalantly and arrived here at the wrong time. A time at which departure is suspended for half an hour while the bingo parlour empties itself of human game. Whilst on that occasion I was tired and not particularly anxious about daylight hours and finishing times, in the subsequent years I was keen to get there well before the dreaded exodus of square-counters. I remember requesting tea in 1995 and then turning it down when I saw the scoop of powder being readied. There are seats and shades though so it is very tempting to lounge around; a further deterrent to departure is the struggle to extract the bike from the neatly-stacked piles of valet-served machines.

It is from here that Davis drags; Some 35 miles across the fields to a town which is mentioned on no signs and which cannot be seen from any distance. One's only belief that it exists at all is the dim recollection that one was there, once, a long time ago, earlier on in the morning of the ride. What climbing there is, has been accomplished; the majority of the miles are already behind; but the winds of the Central Valley must now be conquered.

In my first Davis, I just trundled these miles, feeling more pleased with each mile passed; I was setting new personal records every minute. In 1995, I was storming for home, realising that a 14-hour clock-time was unattainable but that thirty minutes beyond that was possible. I felt strong and even managed to keep with various small groups of riders benefitting from slipstream. In 1996, I've wilted on the previous stretch and care less about finishing times; I set out with Doris but soon part company when I appear to regain some strength; I start by trailing another pair of riders but soon take the lead and give them the benefit of my draft. The wind that had been troubling us suddenly seems to do an about-turn and I speed off ahead and am alone on the road. Through Capay, a town of sorts, we look for a turn onto a numbered road, 85B. The dreaded numerical grids of California flatlands. The main roads are forsaken now for agricultural sections and interminable dog-legging begins.

The Forbes Home, penultimate feeding station at mile 178, can be seen from far away. In 1994 it was beginning to get dark at this point. In 1995 I was rationing myself to 10 minutes at the last stops and was indifferent to the facilities here; I had done Davis in a hurry without originally intending to - it was merely an easy requirement to fulfil in order to become a Triple Crown holder. In 1996 I thought about the end and the day's events; when I finished I would have the Triple Crown for a second time, but my third Davis has been different: the winds, the winds and the rain.

I set out onto the bitumen grid again and brace myself against the wind, stronger than in previous years, which alternate across and up ahead. The roads, as with last year, seem vaguely familiar at each juncture, yet I can never predict what the next turn will be. In 1995, I had been engaged in a madcap self-imposed race against the clock. There were a lot of riders out here and I had been passing them spectacularly. This year there are fewer of us and I plod on at the most comfortable pace that I can, recognising Western Wheeler Eric on a fixed-gear bike, from up behind. The last rest-stop at mile 194, where I drink coffee, confuses me; it seems to be at about the right place but has fewer trees than in previous years. The sun is behind us and still fairly high in the sky; this is the point where I had attached lights to my bike in 1994 and donned a warmer layer of clothing for the cool night of the valley. In 1995 I breezed past this point and headed for home, the wind in my soul.

It's the turn on to Road 31, now from the north, which heralds the home straight into Davis. Still it's not possible to see any town-like features; a couple of water-towers, highest points for miles around, punctuate the otherwise featureless flatscape. The Davis City Limit sign announces entry to nowhere in particular but acts as an uplifting signal so close to the end of the ride. This same stretch which had seemed to take so long in the pre-dawn hours now is blissfully swift. Past the shopping plaza, indicator of life beyond, and right onto Sycamore, the route follows back-roads to the High School. It was after dark in 1994 when I rolled up passed the finishing post; in 1995 it was still light when I arrived at 7:20 pm, a ride-time of exactly 14:30; in 1996 it is at 7:42pm and the light is beginning to fade.

The same end-of-ride food every year greets the Davis finisher; in 1994 I was relaxed enough to eat it; in 1995 the smell of the traditional obnoxious chilli turned my stomach and I needed a massage to recover; in 1996 I go straight for the ice-cream.

Davis is a double to enjoy in hot sunny weather and when quality of ride-support matters. Davis 1994 was my relaxed introduction to doubles; 1995 was an enjoyable revisitation; 1996 was a slog marred by disappointing weather and made dull by the familiarity of uninteresting terrain. Davis is a ride that needs to be done with a higher sense of purpose on which to concentrate. I had first time around, the novelty of the surroundings and the thought of passing a new physical barrier; the second time around I enjoyed it for the commitment to finishing in a faster time and for the sense of reminiscence I had of the route; the third time around I could not overcome the sense of "been there, done that" and the absence of the bright warm skies I had sought, at least for the first half of the ride, was enough to dampen the experience. Davis: Just do it.

Richard Bone

June 1996