I just came back from riding the 37th L.A. Wheelmen Grand Tour.
The T-shirt points out, in Californian parlance, that "It's
a Double, Dude" and it's a garment I'll be proud to wear.
Here's how it went, for me:
I checked in at the Start/Finish and was posed the question "'Traditional'
or 'Lowland' route?" The choice involved an extra 4,000ft
of climbing, but as the total was still pretty meager, I plumped
for the hillier 'Traditional' course.
After some deliberation over whether to retrieve my long lycra
leggings from my car, I decided not to (after all, this is southern
California) and headed out on to the road at 5:57 am. The Pacific
Coast Highway ("PCH" to the cogniscenti) was smothered
in fog and even though it was half an hour after sunrise, lights
were necessary for a while. I reassured myself that the fog would
dissipate later on and the return route would afford lovely coastal
views. For now, another cyclist, Mike, joined me, asking if I
knew his friend who hadn't shown up. Negative. Anyway he was
a "local", one of the L.A. Wheelmen. He described what
the roads were like on a better day. I took off my glasses to
improve my view; fogged specs are worse than short-sightedness
on days like this. After about 15 miles, the Wheelman commended
me on my pace and said he would let me go on ahead, immediately
before contradicting himself by taking off to join some other
riders who'd just passed us. I saw him at intermittent intervals
during the day.
The route left PCH after 25 miles to follow the perimeter of the
Mugu Naval Air Base, along the imaginatively named Navalair Road.
At mile 34, in Pt. Hueneme, there came the first feeding station
and a place to drop off lights, etc., also. It remained cold
and dank.
We headed into the Interior. Relieved of battery-pack and upper-body
garments, progress was swift at first, though a little chilly
as the fog extended inland. Soon, up the Portrero Valley, structure
to the fog layer could be seen and knollish hills came into view.
Two short climbs ensued; billed as the "hardest of the ride",
they cannot compare with, say "The Wall" of TUC (Ferndale,
CA) fame, but they tested my knees and caused me to arrive at
the second summit gasping. This was the rubicon; out of the blanket
of featureless sea fog, we were now under the relentless rays
of the sun. I removed my thermal top (which I normally wear all
year around) and put on shades. Another rider had stopped; she
had flown from Boulder, CO, to do this, her first "double".
It made me feel slightly better for having driven 412 miles to
do it. We rode together for a short while before I made some
distance on a subsequent climb. We were in ranch country. I
thought of Ronnie and Nancy, eking out their days in not dissimilar
pastures nearer to Santa Barbara.
We then wound through countless suburbs, from Thousand Oaks, up
towards Simi Valley. Sure enough, we passed right in front of
the driveway to the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library
and Museum. I joined another rider; she, Stephanie, had only
come from Long Beach, Orange County, was also an intended "Triple
Crown Dude", and had done the Grand Tour before. Apparently
it could be even hotter than it was now. We coalesced with another
group of cyclists and played an unintentional game of leapfrog;
I would be impatient with the pace up each of a series of rises,
and break away to the crest watching the gap widen through my
mirror, only to see them storm past me a third of the way down
the other side. My lack of critical (bio)mass not serving me
well in this respect. And so on, over all the undulations until
the 2nd feeding station at mile 79. It was just after 11 am.
I somehow thought that the feeding stations were spaced farther
apart than on other rides, e.g., Davis D.C.
But anyway, I couldn't summon up much appetite, due to the heat.
At this point, it was getting to be on the hotter side of pleasant.
I lay down in the sun and dreamt - of what I can't recall, but
I woke with a start after about 10 minutes, "suddenly"
remembering that I was in the middle of cycling a "double".
I gave my number to one of the "Staff Dudes" (as his
T-shirt casually stated) who was checking riders' progress.
It was 36 miles to "lunch". Better eat something; I
reluctantly took a banana; it was long past that time in the season
where I'd exceeded my tolerance of them. I figured on 2 hours
to make this next section but I did not figure on the sun. Heading
out of Simi Valley, we took the quiet rural Grimes Canyon. A
week ago I had cursed the mid-40's around Lake Tahoe and looked
forward to a nice warm ride. Now, the heat was withering. I
dallied a couple of times for water. There was a neat little
descent with views of bizarre undulating terrain through the haze.
On to South Mountain Road, through some orchards. And there
was the sudden, irresistible urge to hang out in a shady spot
for a while. A concerned SAG wagon pulled over and I gratefully
topped up my water supply.
Soon we came to Santa Paula. It was definitely too hot to enjoy
any bodily motion. I noticed the "heavier" cyclists
pull over at a gas station. I joined them. We were at the 100
mile mark and I had 7 hrs on the clock. Slower than I had hoped,
but my pace had really slowed in the last section. I was feeling
a little queasy and the thought of anything sweet, sugary or what
I really needed was not invigorating. I solved the problem with
a bottle of grapefruit juice; for once, "the business".
So, "Do you get used to the heat?", I asked one of
the others, whose jersey sported a SoCal club logo (I forget which
one now). "You never really get used to it." came the
fatalistic reply. That was comforting.
Another long climb up Ojai road was ahead. I stopped once more
before a water-stop at a park demanded another pull-over. Stephanie
and a friend showed up. On recommendation of the ride-support,
restroom facilities were taken advantage of here. People went
their separate ways for the next stretch. There were 4 more miles
of climbing, with some shade afforded by the trees. At the summit
was a Fire Station. Stephanie pointed out the hose-pipe, which
proved some more useful relief.
Having descended the remaining 7 miles to the Ojai lunchstop it
was nearly 3 pm, so the last section had taken over 3 and a half
hours' riding time. The pasta/savoury lunch was a welcome offering
though it was still difficult to force down more than a sandwich
and some pasta. I took a 15 minute siesta. Numerous people were
quitting the ride at this point and being sagged back to Malibu.
I convinced myself that it would not come to that with the simple
observation that it was a mere 25 miles back over the hills to
the coast then 60 miles straight down PCH to the finish. A breeze!
By the time I left lunch, at about 3:30, the heat seemed more
bearable and the most irritating thing initially was the number
of STOP signs to obey on the quiet route out of Ojai. The main
climb back to the coast was on Hwy-150, supposedly closed to traffic.
Desires to use the whole road were soon quashed when the first
high-speed sports car hurtled past. The climb was pretty evenly-graded
and, although unsheltered from the cruel sun, was a battle fought
and won with confidence. I passed only a handful of riders on
this desolate stretch of road.
The first glimpse of the coast was instantly disappointing. The
fog was back. Actually, as I later found out, it had been there
all day. Out came the thermal top again. At the rest stop I
saw Mike again, for the first time since the morning. He had
found his friend and was now waiting for him to cope with some
mechanical difficulties. More sweet things to eat and I checked
the time: it was after 5pm; my hopes of finishing the ride in
daylight were diminishing.
I set off swiftly down Hwy-101 for 5 miles. That was a fast way
to do 5 miles but all the better for being over and on a quieter
stretch of parallel bike-path and road. It was 25 miles on the
flat to the last feeding station where my lights were. No problems.
My pace slowed up somewhat, probably due to lack of food and
I grabbed a PowerBar from my saddle-bag. The battle to get the
wrapper off and successfully consume small bite-sized chunks of
it distracted me for a few miles. The terrain was dull as we
approached Oxnard Beach. Is there really any life between the
Freeway and the Sea?
Mile 158, I was counting them now. Harbour Blvd., a relatively
busy road with a narrow shoulder. Some softness at the front.
Flat tire. My first of 1995 and also my first since the 4-in-a-day
personal record, last October. The fix was pretty straightforward,
though all the people I'd left behind at the last rest-stop now
overtook me, one by one. Offending piece of glass removed, new
tire in place (no time to fix the hole now, better to get going
and make the most of daylight) I was back on the road. It was
now after 7pm.
Mile 161 and not far now to the feeding station; it was getting
cold and I wanted my other top. Harbour Blvd. became Channel
Islands Blvd. More softness at the front? Another flat! I pulled
over on the Channel Bridge. Was it the same one again? I couldn't
find the new hole - suddenly I saw a sag wagon and gesticulated
wildly with both hands. The driver waved back and drove on.
I jumped up and down and he pulled over in a place which would
probably get him a ticket. I wanted to know if he had any tubes,
but we didn't speak the same language. This took some effort
getting across, but one was found. We moved off the bridge so
it would be more convenient to set things up. I found the new
hole, of unknown cause, benefitted from use of a track-pump and
headed off again. It was nearly 8pm and darkness was noticeable.
3 miles to the feeding station.
There was a premature end-of-ride atmosphere here. Everybody
looked tired, dirty and weather-beaten. People were quitting
and finding other ways of postponing the start of the last 35
miles. I related my tale of 2 flats in 3 miles. Stephanie generously
gave me another spare inner tube. Another rider optimistically
pointed out that "these things usually happen in threes".
I installed the lights on my bike whilst some noodle-soup was
cooling then it was time to go.
It was already dark and I cursed my luck. The route out through
Hueneme back past the Mugu Naval Air Station and on to PCH was
tedious and uneventful. It was very dark and that's about all
I remember. The 6W halogen bulb I'd fortunately brought did
a good job. I regretted not being able to see my odometer. The
psychological trick here was to think of things in small sections.
The first target was to make it to PCH (10 miles). For a brief
time I thought I saw two cyclists' red-flashers up ahead, but
I never caught them.
On PCH, it was a question of bracing oneself for the long haul.
It was pitch black. On the left hand side was an impenetrable
void of steep rising backdrop; on the right there was the audible
thunder of pounding waves but with no visibility of breakers.
It was surreal. The cars sped by relentlessly in both directions.
One of the "Quad" riders pulled past, with personal
sag wagon "in tow". The blinking lights receded up
the coast gradually. I was alone again.
Mile 180: After 5 miles of PCH, my back wheel went flat. It was
totally dark, apart from car headlights. There was very little
shoulder. I turned the bike over on the embankment of pebbles
which served as the coastal edge roadside barrier. I used a 2W
halogen bulb as guiding light. I tried to arrange things neatly
so that I wouldn't lose anything. I was suddenly now grateful
of Stephanie's spare tube and was just on the point of installing
it when she showed up with 3 other cyclists. They obligingly
stopped and helped pool some lights for the few minutes it took
to put things together again.
Just 20 miles to go, now. My intended finishing time had gone
back now from 10:30 pm to "anything before midnight".
I rode with the small group, which included a rider with back-aches,
for a few miles. Then the group fragmented and I was on my own
for a while. I had to stop to pig down some food; just 13 miles
to go. In the featureless darkness, the miles drifted interminably
by. Then, at the top of a rise, there was the "last water-stop".
Actually there was more than water; there was soup and hot chocolate
- neither of which was remotely appealing. I spotted some lemon-juice
mixture, though, and that really hit the spot. I passed up on
a last banana. The occasional "Quad" rider could be
seen passing in the opposite direction, private sag following
closely behind. There were just 7 miles to go. My spirits were
suddenly high.
I set off with three other cyclists and began the last count down.
With a little less than 5 miles to go, I consoled myself that
if anything went wrong here I could walk the rest. That did not
prove to be such an idle thought. Mile 195: we entered a construction
zone of PCH; the pace not being to my liking up a climb, I shifted
gear and brought about an almighty clatter from the rear of the
bicycle. Of course I stopped, and it soon became clear that I
wouldn't have gone very much further anyway. I shone my light
on the works. The rear derailleur dangled uselessly in the dirt.
One end of the chain trailed free from a frenzied coil of links
wrapped around the freewheel. The on-the-spot consensus was that
that was the end of the ride for me and the other riders said
that they'd inform the Start/Finish people to send a SAG out to
get me. So much for that. I was less than 5 miles from being
a Triple Crown finisher and I'd just suffered the worst mechanical
mishap I'd ever experienced. (It's never happened to me before,
honest!)
The traffic poured on past through this narrow neck of road.
I had to do something. Off came the back wheel again; the chain
unwound itself revealing a sheared link. I unbolted the mangled
gear-changer from its cable and pocketed it. The gear-cable protruded
awkwardly but not dangerously, from its mounting. Now, if
only I had a chain-tool ... I reassembled the chainless
bike and decided to trudge up the hill. There was nowhere for
a sag vehicle to pull over there anyway. Just before the crest,
a sag-car drew alongside; not the one I'd requested and with no
chain-tool but she kept behind me while I coasted down the other
side. I was surprised at how short a distance I managed to freewheel
before my momentum was lost. Now I just had to wait. In a well-lit
spot opposite a "76"-gas station, I pulled over and
leant on my frame. It was already after midnight. Before long,
the sag wagon arrived, complete with chain tools aplenty. I took
out half a dozen links and made the instant conversion from 12-speed
to 1-speed granny-gear and hopped on. I was definitely going
to finish now.
Two more small climbs and the Start/Finish beckoned. It was 12:44
am. Hands covered in grease, I went inside to check in. "Rider
193?", the lady said. "You know??", I replied
in surprise before remembering that my number was on my helmet
for all to see. There was laughter. It had been a long day.
Richard Bone
June 25th, 1995
To complete the weekend, the blazing heat in the Central Valley
caused the seals around my car headlights to contract; in the
fog of summery San Francisco, moisture got in and short-ciruited
the wiring; next day when I started up, 3 turn signal bulbs blew.
That was another $75 to fix, on top of the new gear-changer I'll
be hunting for ... One week later, I packed my T-shirt for a
trip to the east coast; my baggage was lost, never to be seen
again. Luckily, Rod Doty of LAW had a few spare shirts ...