Formerly known as the "Tour of the Canyons" and "Godzilla Meets the Stop Signs", The Orange County Wheelmen put a new twist to their Double this year by taking us down into San Diego County to climb Mt. Palomar. Here's what happened.

Off to a good start, the first road on the directions sheet didn't exist in practice. Down the hill, which way to go now? Follow the signs for the Freeway? Yes. No. Surely? Not. Circled hopelessly in the intersection until other bewildered riders gathered and reason prevailed. Onwards onto Savi Ranch Parkway (why are there so many roads in southern California called "parkways"?) and out of the hideous outlet cluster and on to Yorba Linda Blvd. A strategy emerged: follow the rider ahead. A red reflector could be seen testing all possible directions at the next intersection before darting off purposefully to the right. Whilst I was not watching the road beneath me the first canyon of the day gobbled up my front wheel. A monstrous 2-inch chasm, as many inches deep, threatened my progress and drew my concentration away from the route. I consoled myself by imagining filing a lawsuit against CalTrans. But, on with the ride: follow that bike. Now along La Palma, from one brightly-lit intersection to the next, the full horror of life in Orange County revealed itself. Yorba this; Yorba that. Mmmmm muchas yorbas! How could you tell where you were when all the junctions were barely distinguishable? It would not be any better in daylight. The red dot ahead disappeared momentarily but could be seen making a sharp right onto Gypsum Canyon. I obediently followed; others followed me - it was a widely practiced trick. The red lights - there were now two - disappeared off the road down a trail into a park. Had I been unlucky enough to follow the only two other riders in Orange County out at 5am but not doing the Double? We headed into the park where the trail dead-ended; shouts behind me as a new trajectory was sought. East or West along the River Trail? West. Back up to the road. Wrong. Try again - East. Now up to the freeway and along a route parallel with it. The traffic was thick just feet away; where were all these people going so early on a Saturday morning? Was Riverside that unbearable that they had to make a bolt for L.A. at the first opportunity?

The cycle path was treacherous in the night; loose surface and centre-positioned posts. I soon passed my guiding lights and allowed myself to be followed by a strobe-light up ahead. This guy had a fog beacon strapped to his bike; he could do duty at a harbour. We crossed the freeway on Green River and I caught up with the Strobe. After a while, sounds could be extracted from him. He introduced himself as the first rider to have completed all 7 doubles - in 1994. But I bet more people would remember him for his strobe. He at least had read the map 2 turns ahead of time and knew where to go; he even shouted after me when I took an obvious right which should have been a left. It was easy to get complacent in such company. A group of us formed, bathing in the glow of the strobe. We passed through a sprinkler-deluge and the cry of "LEFT" from behind was interpreted as a cry of "WET!" which was more obviously appropriate. As we climbed a small rise and appeared to be leaving the urban area, Strobe asked if anyone had looked at the map recently. It became clear that Wet was Left and we back-tracked.

Ontario Rd. started off as a text-book example of affluent southern California suburbs, replete with Stop signs; I had vowed to count them but it was now too late and the urban stretch was behind us. Eleven miles: the double, a mean 211 miles in total, was really about to begin. The dawn was encroaching and an array of tall slender palms silhouetted against a pink-striped sky. Though any of a thousand views in southern California, it was strangely enchanting. Ontario wound its way with mountains to the right to the first of many dalliances with I-15. Strobe flashed on ahead. Others brought up the rear: a guy with black-furry ear-muffs and another who claimed personal responsibility for the amazingly pungent fragrance of a nearby orchard. When we transitioned to Temescal Canyon Rd I felt an unaccountable sense of déjà vu. It seemed the longest 22 miles of my life to the Carl's Jr. rest stop. It was cold but I felt comfortable and supped on fruit. It was already 6:30 and totally light. I wondered what I would feel like when arriving back here at the end of the day.

A seasoned rider who seemed indistinguishable from Strobe appeared; my conversation piece was lost on him and when I looked at his bike and saw no strobe I understood why. I set off on the road to Temecula. On my own but with other riders in sight. Temescal Canyon, a spoilt spill-over of the urban régime, lead us down to Lakeshore, Lake Elsinore. I had definitely been here before. Not-Strobe turned up and I remarked: "Doesn't the Hemet ride come along here?". "Yup. It sure does." came the unsurprised indifferent response. So my memory lasts at least a year; I had been here before and not in a previous life. Of course, your average southern Californian rider has a sense of "so what" about such an observation.

It now became impossible to follow other riders without irresolution; some knew better than to take the bypass, others went straight through the city of Lake Elsinore. I cared little but plodded on and caught another group. One remarked to his companion that it was significant that the wind was already up. How comforting. Another rider talked of having climbed Palomar the previous weekend; why would you do that knowing this ride was coming up? No convincing answer but at least he hadn't driven 400 miles for either ride. I remembered the uninformative warning light that had appeared on my dash last night 100 miles north of L.A. and tried to banish thought of it from my mind.

I checked the map; we were already on the road that I thought was going to be two turnings ahead. Oh well, it feels OK. I adjusted my expectations. Now with other riders we made the best of a cross-wind and enjoyed what could be enjoyed of the views. The semi-tedious surroundings turned briefly into a stretch of pseudo-beauty. The route alternated between Presidents and flowering forms - Washington, Magnolia, Lemon, Adams, Ivy and Jefferson - till finally we were in Temecula. Other riders came by; comments were made about being always two turns ahead of the marked-route. The comfort of strangers.

The location of the Chevron station was not consistent with the map, but never mind, the thronging of brightly clad cyclists was a giveaway. More fruit and a place to drop off lights. Then suddenly some donuts appeared, causing a small stampede of cleated-feet. I regained my appetite for sickly-sweet fodder and was immensely grateful for synthetic denture-rotting goo.

Making no sense of the directions I skillfully picked a time to leave at which there were no other riders visible on the road and allowed my confusion to take over when confronted with the sign for Hwy-79 on one side and an overpass on the other; the ride-sheet said go under I-15 on Hwy-79. It was obvious; I took Hwy-79 until a rider behind me shouted and headed up the overpass. It was a 50-50; you win some, you lose some. I U-turned and caught him at the crest; he admitted having no idea either. We opted for a democratic decision: wait to see what the next rider does - completely irrational as the ride had never followed this course before. The next rider, a recumbent, appeared not to see us and carried on along Hwy-79. "See?" I said somewhat hesitantly and we dashed after him. After a mile we went under I-15. Who knows where we would have ended up otherwise?

Now we had to look for "Pala Rd." Was that an abbreviation? Apparently not and this turn marked the beginning of a new transition zone - into rural SoCal. and San Diego county. The terrain changed dramatically and the road began a descent through a canyon. It was beautiful and my spirits lifted as my body fell through the warming morning air. There was a shout from just behind me; it was Ear-mufflers, passing me. I can't imagine that either of us heard what he said. Other riders, with more bodily ballast than I, freewheeled past me. The road "T"-ed at Mission de Oro. Not-Strobe turned right and I followed him. As I glanced back, I saw another rider go left. I checked the map and realised our error. I shouted after Not-Strobe but he didn't hear; I had to sprint hard to catch up, alternating shouts with massive gulps of breath and silent curses of his apparent obstinacy. Finally he was convinced of the error and we turned around.

Back on course, we took Hwy-76 up a shallow grade. It was now very hot and I shed my canary shell. After so many wrong turns I had no idea of how many miles I could expect to the next rest stop. It was now becoming a hard ride, despite the apparent absence of climbing thus far. I looked at the hills looming around: which one of these was Mt. Palomar? It was still too far. General Car Fault. NO! Don't even THINK about it. The miles drifted by until I spied the roadside food-stop.

It was the same bunch of riders, all in all. A couple of recumbents; Black-ear-mufflers, Strobe, Not-Strobe and other famililar faces - Gentleman Jim Watrous of heinous Hemet fame. People were saying how good Hemet had been this year; yes, but what about those of us who did it last year? I made a passing comment to Not-Strobe; it passed beautifully and I understood the cause of the problem - his ears were firmly plugged with cotton wool. Why would anyone do that? "Noon at the summit.", I repeated; "It'll be tough." The rest-stop captains said gleefully "But there's hardly any stop signs". Clearly a new theme for 1996 from the club whch had tried to keep the whole ride in Orange County on previous occasions: would you laugh or cry at the prospect? More fruit and out on to the road for the mere 17 mile climb to the Observatory lunchstop.

For 5 miles I made good progress; rhythm, pace, boogie. I passed a tandem and numerous other riders and even managed to take my helmet off and strap it to my bike whilst riding. But soon there was a penalty. I stopped at the first junction prior to the climb up South Grade Road. It was hot and I felt tired; I was beginning to lose it. I struggled with the next mile or two, 6-7 mph, that dread speed at which my odometer goes walkabout and registers a fictitious 60% increase in miles ridden. The roadside markers, every half mile, did not tell me what I wanted to know: how far to go, not how far had I come. We passed the 3,000ft. marker; how high was the observatory? I couldn't even see it. Or was it anything to do with those couple of satellite dishes on the ridge up there? I stopped for the first of many times.

One by one, the riders I had passed, began to pass me. There was nothing I could do; I crammed food inside me; at another shady spot, water. Time after time, mile after mile, I fought to conquer the climb. I told myself: this is no worse than Mts. Diablo or Hamilton. But it was. I got an elevation check from a sag-wagon; precise but inaccurate figures shouted after me. I calculated that we had a further 1,600 ft. of ascent. About a Page Mill and a bit more. But I could see this taking me more than 50 minutes. It was the 80+ miles on the clock already that clearly had something to do with it.

At the junction on the ridge, I started to count the riders on the descent. It was 5 miles to lunch. I wanted to be there before the 50th rider passed me. I think I counted to 57 as I struggled up the last few hundred feet of ascent to the 5,530ft. marker and parking lot. It was a little after 1pm. So much for grand intentions: 2 hours 40 mins for the climb - ridiculous. Don't even think about the headwinds this afternoon.

People had already been sagged up to the summit so I felt better to have made it at all. The Palomar Observatory dome was concealed behind some trees; other foliage obscured any views of the surrounding landscape. This could have just as easily been Gibbel Park at Hemet. Riders were sprawled around on the ground, interspersed with their bikes in semicircular rows. That would be a neat picture I thought and pulled out my little camera. Finding that the battery had gone flat I cursed the useless object that I would end up carrying around all day.

I sought several opinions about the route down; it would be a hell of a mistake to go the wrong way off this mountain. Spiritual guidance was not required and the consensus of uninformed persons was to go straight at Mother's Restaurant. I said I knew why that place was called "Mother's" but nobody guessed what I was on about; cyclists here are more polite than I had figured, it seems.

On with the descent, the road turned out to be well-marked with "OCW" in blue paint. The 11-mile descent off the mountain was easy and not too gusty though cool. The hoped for spectacular views that could have been had on the ascent-route did not materialise and a kind of ordinary panorama of rural fields lay beneath us. I fought against sleep on the long glide down. The yellow line in the road before me became hypnotic. Trance-inducing features abounded; I must have closed my eyes for no more than fraction of a second longer than a blink but it was long enough to cause a hurried correction to my course. At the bottom, I found a shady rock and sat down, attempting to nap for a few minutes; but it just wasn't comfortable enough.

Two short and uninspiring 4-mile sections led us to a water stop. This had the attention and frills of a British Rail branch line station on a Sunday. A couple of boxes of water bottles left by the road, announced by a hand-painted sign. Pour it yourself. But what more would you want? - it was only 11 miles to Sunshine Summit. A real sign pointed to Imperial County along S.R. 2. I felt a long way from home.

It was warm and windy; this was the beginning of the dreaded 40 mile stretch into Temecula. But first, I wondered if Sunshine Summit was really a crest. There was a 3,000ft. marker; so there was at least some descent in store. The 11 miles proved to be 12 and the city limit sign for Sunshine Summit claimed an elevation of 8,677 ft., something I could not believe. Make the "8" a "3" ? Divide by the square-root of 7 ? A roadside store boasted ice-cream; now there would have been a great place to put the rest stop, but it was not to be and the real food was further up the road.

With 31 miles to Temecula, I knew that I had to make it by dusk; it was 4:30pm which gave me 3 hours. I hoped that the winds of Death Valley would not visit us again. The going was easier than I expected. The first 10 miles were a speedy descent even into the face of a stiff but not oppressive headwind. I stopped at another roadside shack to conquer a banana and discovered my saddle bag open. I certainly wasn't going to backtrack 10 miles to see if I'd lost anything; a quick count located all the important items. A few riders passed me. I couldn't finish the banana; save it for the next 10 miles.

We crossed the Riverside Co. line; signs for Hemet but none for Temecula. More downhills and progress was good; I'd made the next 10 miles by 5:50 and carried straight on through my self-imposed breakpoint. Another 5 miles and we were at Temecula city limit. Strangely reminiscent of Davis outskirts. Flat and newly-developed. Where before there had been nothing, now there was little more. I needed to eat and remembered the stump of banana; it was the last banana to break my Camelbak so-to-speak. I felt instantly nauseous. A banana too far; Apocalypse Banana. At least it was flat into Temecula and the last 6 miles were easy. The riders around me joked more about the wildly inaccurate directions to the Chevron station. I tried not to think of my stomach.

There's nothing particular about a Chevron station to make me want to throw up but on this occasion I really wanted to. Instead, I got some stomach settlers and for the first time considered SAGging in. I sat down and felt even more nauseous and began to get cold. Taking the SAG would be easy; I couldn't face another 54 miles in the coming darkness even over known territory. Southern California Doubles. Again. I imagined a new life for myself in which I did not drive 450 miles to ride double centuries but had other more sane commitments. I convinced myself that I did not need the Triple Crown again this year; that the fairest reflection of my strength and stamina would be to quit now. I thought of getting my car fixed and the cosiness of my motel room. All these things made me feel warmer but no less settled. After all, this was no worse than Hemet, 1995. There was nothing for it: The Comfort of Strangers. most riders had aleady left but I introduced myself to one who looked like she would also quit. Here was the deal: company on the road after nightfall would make it seem allright. It seemed fair and another rider was found to make an even more substantial group.

The 3 of us set out into the dusk. It felt better to be out on the bike again; my stomach seemed more settled now that there was the familiar bodily rhythm going. Introductions were made; Doris who had no lights; John who was well-prepared for anything and seemed to know all the roads; and a 4th rider, Bryan, who appeared suddenly. Between us we made a team effort. I led for the first stretch until the SAG vehicle brought John's lights. We made good progress and soon 10 miles had shot by. I daren't eat anything, I just took the occasional swig of water to avoid disturbing the delicate internal equilibrium. When SAG showed up and John mounted his Night-Sun, I emitted a series of inelegant belches and was rightly branded an "English lout". On into the night; much fun in Lake Elsinore as we missed one of the many possible turnings; John was in favour of dead-reckoning rather than a serious map-stop - mainly because he didn't want to hear my bellicose burping again. The 4th rider made it known that he was the organiser of the Central Coast Double. So, EVERYONE was doing this ride.

John came from Redondo Beach, and regarded this area as home-territory as much as anywhere else within a 100-mile radius of the L.A. basin. Soon we were up on to Temescal Canyon and John was warning us of climbs, descents and twists and turns ahead. In the rural pitch-black, this was impressive familiarity. His Night Sun flooded the road ahead with light and made my poor 6W effort seem like a cheap toy. On a long fast descent, I discovered the incapacitating effect that long-distance cycling has on the intellect: I could no longer form the name of the town that we had just come from even though I knew its name was similar to Temescal. Teculopia? Temecopar? Temucopia? I just could not crack it. Blather, blither, blur. Mental oblivion.

But suddenly, in front of us at a underpass of I-15 was a big sign announcing the Carl's Jr. in 5 miles. Never before has reaching a Carl's Jr meant so much to me. Another swig of water. Another twist in the road. Another generic semi-urban housing estate. Then the cluster of hordings and neon lights. Yeeee Haaah! The famillar red and yellow logo looming over a gas station. It seemed a minor triumph but there were still 22 miles and it had taken us over 2 hours to come from . . . I checked the map . . . Temecula. Hah!

Another cyclist confessed to being "bloody knackered"; even without the north-country accent those two words alone gave away his British identity. I accused him openly: being "knackered" had blown his cover; and he could not "bloody" deny it. I overheard a couple of riders claiming to have nearly fallen asleep descending off Mt. Palomar - so it wasn't just me. Then, Strobe showed up and I felt somewhat heartened by this: pleased that he was still going strong; pleased to be matching his pace. John, an expert in all local riding matters, had already thought of a minor variaion to the day's ride which would bring the mileage down to 200 and reduce the climbing: he reckoned that, as it was, it would be 11,000 ft. by the end of the day. So the Internet alert from the Triple Crown coordinator was correct.

Meantime, standing around, getting cold, I felt my stomach turn. I had given up on a big cup of noodle soup after a few sips and had only managed a couple of pieces of orange. I'd filled my water bottle and really wanted to head out again - I wanted to save myself for a big splurge at the end and wasn't sure I could hold myself together for long enough. Doris, John and I looked for the Central Coast coodinator but he'd already set out so we formed a threesome and continued. It was nearly 10-O'clock. The 10 mile stretch back down Ontario was mercifully swift and we caught the final rest-stop staff by surprise not just when I belched loudly for their benefit - hardly anyone was stopping to trouble them. They had no oranges and I was in no mood to stop so we continued; the other Brit. caught us up at some lights, cursing at motorists, but not barping.

Soon we were on the Freeway-side bike trail; it was crowded with cyclists bolting for home. Strobe (or was it Not-Strobe?) had pulled over to fix a flat. Poor guy - so close to the end. But by now it was a free for all; from here, the ride-sheet described a minor variation of the route out, for the route back. We adhered to the course though others went the more familiar route. The alternate route skirted the hills to the south of the Riverside Freeway and afforded vista-ful views of Yorba territory. I learnt that Doris was actually from Yorba Linda. Imagine that: she could go to the Nixon Library every weekend (if she wanted to). My near brain-death seemed complete when I was unable to recall the name of the town in which my motel was located; Piscalia? Pilucia?? After a while, Doris correctly translated this into Placentia. Never mind, I knew how to get there. Provided my car would start. Don't even THINK about it. By now I couldn't even sip water from my bottle. I felt rumblings and bubblings from within me. I had made the last 50 miles on just water and a few pieces of orange. Miracle.

We caught a glimpse of the Countryside Suites across the Freeway and we knew that it was all but over. A turn onto Weir Canyon and a final turn on Savi Ranch, lead us to the Mirage St. climb to the check-in area. We were directed round to the back of the building where there was a promise of soup and soda. A lethal mixture, I decided. But I knew that a gulp of soda would be all I would need. Safely registered, I bade farewell to my riding companions; more swiftly than I would have liked but I felt volcanic forces at work within me. I freewheeled gently back down to my car; it was cold and quiet and no-one else was around. My body and my mind spoke in unison - nothing could stop me now: this would be a great time to throw up. So I did. And it was good.

Richard Bone

April 22nd, 1996

† This write-up can also be found on the OCW Home-page, http://www.Beach.Net/ocw/godzrd.txt