Palmdale, CA. As I arrived for the first time by road, I strained my eyes for anything which resembled my understood definition of a "dale"; for that matter, I couldn't see any palms either. What I saw was a drag-and-drop urban sprawl expanding to fill the open spaces of Antelope Valley between Edwards Air Force Base and the San Gabriel Mountains. I'd wanted to come here ever since starting the Californian long-distance circuit. Palmdale had been the venue for the "Tour of Two Forests" (TOTF), a ride which had captured my imagination from the tales I'd heard. If the reality was different from the expectation then I had to also accept the fact that I would never do the TOTF. Along with other rides, it had evaporated with the demise of Wandervogel. In 1996, "Huge Murphy Productions, Inc." [In­joke: have I spelt that right, Hugh?] took over the show and renamed the event the "Heartbreak Double", the first of which served as a kind-of wake for TOTF. Now it was, for me, the last southern Californian double; once completed I'd have done them all in a two-year bash.

It was 3:48 when fellow Western Wheeler Thomas and I checked off with time-keeper Chuck Bramwell to start the ride at Palmdale's Ramada.  Despite having guzzled 3 sides of garlic bread at Eduardo's Italian Place the night before, I felt hungry; and also cold. My earliest start for a double century was motivated by the desire to avoid much night-riding at the end of the day. Of course, in the cool of the morning it seemed questionable. The long stretch out of Palmdale was uneventful and the upcoming rural stretches unmemorable, mainly through being in the pitch dark. A nearly-full moon hung low to the south and caused the ridgeline below it to form a matte black protrusion into the dark blue sky. The 4am exodus from Palmdale can hardly be said to have engulfed us and with the exception of a highway patrol vehicle and the truck-crew for one of the rest-stops, we were alone in the night. The small towns of Lake Hughes and Elizabeth Lake slept quietly; the "ugly truck" contest announced for later that day was not provoking any great anticipation at this hour. I saw a dog running across a moonlit field towards the road and with relief estimated that I would have passed the point at which it found the road before it got there.

By the time we had climbed a few miles it was almost light and the brisk descents seemed safer for that. I reached the first rest-stop at Three Points thinking that my progress had been slow until I was forced to conclude that my odometer had registered a 3-mile deficit. Amongst the onlookers at the food stand were a couple of cardboard cut-outs of Clint Eastwood; about 3 times life-size. Partially hid in the trees, their purpose was not immediately obvious. But mine was; I stuffed some sweet-breads in my pocket and set off up Pine Canyon.

It was very pleasant indeed to be riding this canyon; the hillsides above us shone a brilliant orange in the early sun. The road twisted and turned as it climbed and was traffic-free. The silence of the morning was perturbed only by the sounds exuded by exerting bicyclists. The Tehachapi Mountains could be seen in the distance and soon a sign announced our departure from the Angeles National Forest; one down, one to go. After a short descent on road N-2, we joined S.R. 138 and headed west along a flat valley, past Quail Lake. To avoid I-5, we took the Old Ridge Route to the truck-stopper's paradise of Gorman. Partly uphill, this was largely into a wind which seemed to gain in strength rapidly. It was a struggle to make those few miles and when I finally reached Gorman, I was nearly taken out by a big semi before crossing under I-5. I wondered if any southern Californian bike tour had been devised which didn't kiss the Interstate Freeway system at some point. We ascended Tejon Summit on a quiet service road; I caught up with Thomas, though the term "catching up" seems a little self-congratulatory when the speed in question was around 8mph.

The Flying-J at Lebec served as a hub for the ride: century riders started and finished here; double riders could drop off lights and clothing. It was beginning to feel warm. I cast my eye over the surroundings, what in England would be called a "Motorway Service Area" and hardly a place for thronging bicyclists. Certainly I wasn't ever going to drive I-5 over Tejon Pass again without remembering this ride. Suddenly, familiar faces: fellow Western Wheelers, Bill and Larry. What the hell was I doing here so early? According to habit and reputation I should still be loitering around the first rest-stop at this time. Well, I wasn't going to stick around and take all this; there was a lot of climbing to do and I headed off.

The route climbed Frazier Mtn. Park Rd. and entered the Los Padres National Forest; two down, what left now? It was a steady piece of climbing. I passed lots of century riders who were obviously out to enjoy themselves for the day; the THOUGHT of it! The terrain was semi-urban with much to look at but not much to remember. I let my mind wander and considered how somebody could come up with a name like "Flying J". Would any other letter of the alphabet do as well? I decided that I wouldn't want to be anywhere near any flying "K"s, "Z"s, "X"s or other jagged letters with pointy-bits. The closest was "S" and that didn't seem to work as well as "J".

Suddenly I was forced to think about more important matters like the route to hand. There was a sharp right turn onto Cuddy Valley Road, which was marked on the road surface in the distinctive bright orange "HB" logo; the riders just ahead of me took the turn so it had to be right. To my surprise the road started to descend sharply; this was not consistent with the route profile and Hugh's attractive piece of prose. I'd hate to be going down the wrong way. The riders ahead had plummeted out of sight; I became more comfortable when more riders dropped past me and I started to admire the scenery. I concluded that so far this was the most scenic of the southern Californian doubles. Rows of hillsides could be seen, sprinkled liberally with vegetation in that distinctive way. After what seemed like a lot of descent which left me confused about the real scale and meaning of the climbing profile on the route sheet, the road climbed again, gradually, and brought us to the Apache Saddle rest-stop.

Just as I arrived, I spotted another familiar face - Doris with whom I had ridden the last quarter of the Palomar Double and who was now on the century but not missing out on much of the climbing quota. This rest-stop had dwarf-carrots and midget-apricots which perked me up a bit. The other Western Wheelers appeared; a SAG vehicle launched some rock music. This was a pretty good place to be. I tried to work out the curvatures at the saddle. Were we actually going over it in the "traditional" sense, or dropping to it from a perpendicular direction? The promise was a big descent from here.

One cannot count on promises. For the next 15 miles or so, the route took an undulating route along Cerro Noreste; it seemed like being on top of the world. It was a vast clear open-space with vistas in every direction. I was liking this ride even more. We seemed to have climbed out of the "forest" and the vegetation was closer to scrub and grassland. The description "high desert" kept on going around my head, though I knew that this was not it. On a shallow descent, I caught Thomas again; this time there was a good excuse - he was mending a flat. After what seemed like an age of prevarication, the road finally decided to descend and even if this was "one of the most rewarding descents in southern California", it wouldn't make me check out the real estate market down here. Turning left onto Hwy-166 we continued dropping but the road was straight and the terrain was levelling off. It was windy and a number of high-sided vehicles caught me by surprise. The sharp left onto Hwy-33 took us away from the occasional traffic irritations but brought us into the realm of tedium management. How to cope with long straight rural roads without any features? There's a limit to how long you can read your odometer for a continuous stretch. I was taken by surprise at the sight of a large piece of spraying equipment by the road; I shouldn't have been surprised, but out there "beneath the sheltering sky", it was a significant object. After a while there were signs announcing pistachio farms; and I had thought all this time that pistachios were synthetic salty things in foil packets. Just as I was beginning to be concerned about my mileage, a building on the right turned out to represent the Ventucopa lunch-stop. I had completed the first century in a little over seven and a half hours.

Hey Bill! Hey Richard? Hey Larry! More exclamations of surprise. How could I be here already? Even my own reputation had become exaggerated far beyond reasonability. I protested that it certainly wasn't me descending off Mt. Idyllwild at midnight during Hemet last year. Lunch was a relaxed affair and the idea of trying to finish the ride by night-fall emerged as a not too unrealistic goal. I took less than my allotted hour and left Thomas to re-fix his tyre.

Out on Rt. 33 the deadly flat-straightness gave way to undulation mercifully quickly but I cared less about it than a sudden and acute case of saddle-sore. That fire-in-the-butt feeling allowed me to put on some miles but denied any enjoyment of views of the Cuyama River Valley and I barely registered our re-entrance into the Los Padres National Forest.

Turning onto Lockwood Valley Road I had the feeling of entering an "outback" territory. Farmland stretched out on either side until we forded the Cuyama River without causing enough of a splash to cool tired legs. I still kept on going, though the heat was beginning to be noticeable. My water consumption started to increase dramatically as the road started to climb. The valley narrowed but not enough to cause any shelter from the rays of the high sum. I felt my pace drag. The vegetation was predominantly ground-hugging scrub. What trees there were cast their enticing shadows far from the road. Ahead, in the overhang of a lone tree, I saw the drooping figure of a cyclist. I thought of Edward Abbey's writing: forlorn animals hanging their heads in the fiery heat of Utah's canyons. I joined the other rider and wilted over my metal frame for a few minutes to regain strength. A slow stream of riders passed me uphill. Continuing, I sucked on water from my Camelbak, though when the stream turned to air as the tube became twisted, I found another excuse to drink from the pool of darkness afforded by a solitary tree. Setting off again, the climb steepened and a lady-rider passed me. I tried to hang on her wheel hoping to be somehow dragged up to the pass; this worked for about a half-mile till we turned a corner and I saw a vehicle powering up a steep rise to a gap in the rock walls, the presumed summit. I could only drop back, forced into my own pace; had I known that the rider was Muffy Ritz, two-time runner-up of women's RAAM, I perhaps would have expended less effort. Back on my own, though, the climb seemed less harsh up close than from a distance and the previous exertion had reinvigorated me. As we neared the summit, the distinctive broken-heart motif for the ride had been sprayed on the road. I saw the funny side of this until reaching the false crest. No sign of a rest-stop and still more climbing to Heartbreak Pass. Now I understood more clearly.

After a mile or so, the road-side Heartbreak rest stop was buzzing with the news of popsicles in the cool-boxes. Little did I know that my comforting icy snack would be about the last thing I would digest properly on the ride. Nevertheless, it felt good to have less than 3,000 ft. of climbing to go plus a good deal of descending and only 75 miles.

After a short descent off the pass, there was more climbing through thicker forest to Lockwood Summit before the relief of some descent, but not the one I had been waiting for. The road entered farmland again on the way up to Owl's Barn Summit, what seemed like an interminable climb. I felt tired of cycling and couldn't even muster energy to down some food. Appetite gone, I just concentrated on the ride. I merely waved at Doris who had stopped with another rider, and carried on. The first portion of descent off Owl's Barn was not particularly exciting or easy. It actually seemed to be quite hard work and I felt somehow cheated. Not until the turn back on to Frazier Park Road, did the descent begin in earnest. I had aimed to be at the Flying J by 4pm. It was a few minutes past that when I rolled in after a fast drop of several miles.

The 150-mile mark has now become some physiological threshold for me; yet again I found myself on the ropes. The sudden feeling of nausea caused me to lack appetite for essential fuel and to take far longer there than was reasonable. Having loitered for over 45 minutes, and flirted with several food-sources without any fulfillment, I decided to face the road again. Bill had given me some stomach-settlers and both he and Larry had left a few minutes before; I knew that I would not catch them. Doris bade me farewell from the wheel of a big 4WD on her way home. Now I was on my own.

I crawled up the tiny climb to Tejon Pass and worried about the winds ahead. As I descended into Gorman, I really felt no better at all and the remaining 53 miles seemed an eternity. I fantasized about coffee and the sight of a McDonald's caused me to consider instant gratification. It was a slow afternoon in Gorman and the McDonald's staff were lounging around outside smoking. My arrival precipitated some action from them and presumably disappointment that I was not a big-spender. Any coffee would have done at that point and I contemplated the ramifications of being "saved" by a McDonald's.  But, hey - don't knock it: it's what makes this country great.

After the "Road to Damascus"-like instant conversion to fast-food-outlets, I regained strength, stamina and energy and headed off down the Old Ridge Road. Now the wind was a tail-wind and I felt like flying. Back on to Hwy-138, I was at the Highland option branchpoint just before 6pm and felt strong along the flat stretch into Antelope Valley. But by the turn on to 245th St. (a perverse street-naming system, I thought, out there not far from the middle of nowhere), I was losing power. The hills to the south, the northern reaches of the Angeles National Forest, provided some feature on which to focus. Out ahead and to the left was a general flatness. We crossed the California Aqueduct. I say "the" Aqueduct - I wasn't be sure that it was the same one I had seen near Altamont Pass the weekend before. After a mile longer than expected, a long mile it felt, the final rest-stop came into view amidst a clump of joshua trees.

By now, I was seriously in need of food; I scoffed some apricots hungrily and gratefully. Being advised that the table would not support my weight, I was told I could sit on the step of the van behind. I needed that, but the stationary state feeling of comfort was soon replaced by a general billiousness. The smell of plastic from the van triggered something off and I raced to a secluded spot to witness the apricots become forcibly ejected from my system. Onlookers cheered me on my display. So much for that. For a while I felt better. Thomas showed up, with another Western Wheeler, Mike, who had first told me about this ride and who must by now be a many-time veteran of it. Not out of unfriendliness, but out of a desire to find a different audience, I set off again.

It was a relatively easy 15 miles in the same direction before the next junction. The wind was mainly behind us and the going was flat. Daylight was receding and the sky turned pink behind me. From time to time, the road carried out a self-correcting process and dog-legged; the short stretches with the cross-winds were annoyingly slow. I felt that I was on a death march, starved and frail. Cross-streets were numbered every tenth or so. We would turn onto 90th. I almost wished the numbers were in random order instead of the painfully slow count-down that I was experiencing.

At the turn, I took the opportunity to break. Thomas and Mike turned up and stopped; Mike also complained of "total internal system failure" and carried on after we had agreed that if I had not made it back by 10pm, I would be getting a ride. It had just turned 8pm, with a little over 15 miles to go, and I switched on my lights. The outskirts of Palmdale seemed tantalisingly close across the flats of Antelope Valley. I knew that rides I had done before had been much worse than this, but I still had to figure out how to make it.

After a further mile battling the cross-wind, a SAG wagon drew up. Knowing it was a ridiculous request, I asked for a coffee. They stopped and offered me more stomach-settlers. This seemed a useful compromise. The lady, a nurse, told me of other riders who'd been sick and had been sagged in already; apparently in worse shape than me. This information did not stop me throwing up again; there was something strangely comforting about the shadow of the vehicle. Now I had nothing left; I couldn't eat anything and was running on empty. I was determined to finish this, my last southern Californian Double. As soon as it was no longer a struggle to get back on my bike, I set out. I rationalised: most of the riding was with the tail-wind; a smaller fraction with the cross-winds. The route was now zig-zagging, Davis-Double-style, into Palmdale.

Left onto Ave K, I made the most of the draft and thought about my coordinates on this huge alphanumeric grid. "Where the streets have no name." Was this the place U2 immortalised in their Joshua Tree album? The miles seemed to go quickly until the next turn onto 60th St., welcomed by a Palmdale City Limit sign. I felt that Palmdale was vying with Mt. Isa, Queensland, to be world's largest city (in area). There was a bleak and windswept Arco station on the right and I thought about coffee again; something told me to wait until the next facility on the same side of the road as me. The next 3 miles seemed to do nothing towards the goal of reaching civilisation. High fences to suburban housing estates lined the darkened road. What do people do here at night? Where was there to go? No fast-food opportunities, no more gas stations, no artificially-lit plazas of convenience; and no outlets of consumerdom. Where was southern Californian living when I needed it? I caught another rider at the left turn onto Ave "N" and gained some distance on him with the brief tail-wind. At the right on to 50th St., we were treated to another Palmdale City Limit sign. I silently cursed Town Planners. I practically fell off my bike under a street lamp and threw both it and myself to the ground. The other rider caught up and joined me. Just 7 miles to go. I thought about the map: the next turn was a right, after 5 miles. I could not understand the geometry any more and I could not face another 5 straight miles in this direction with the cross-wind. There was also supposed to be another 200 ft. of climbing in store. I pictured myself requiring a coffee to make the last "ascent" of the day. I must have grumbled all this out loud for I remember the other rider commenting optimistically about the impossibility of finding a coffee out there.

I could take little of that, grabbed my bike and set off into the night. I swear I was only doing 6-7mph, utilising my last available reserves of energy, when a glorious realisation came upon me, the most uplifting moment of the day: the road veered sharply to the left and stretched out into the distance before me. Invigorated by this sudden turn for the better, with the fresh benefit of the tail-wind and heartened by the presence of a couple of shopping malls flooded with artificial light, I concentrated on the countdown to 10th St. The last turn of the day took us into view of the Chevron Station by the Ramada, with Hwy-14 as a backdrop and showed us Palmdale Blvd up a slight rise ahead. On this occasion, central Palmdale seemed less of a shock and an anticlimax. I dashed for a green-filter in the midst of the intersection, clearly surprising some motorists and recognised Eduardo's Italian place on the left as I gathered momentum on the home stretch. Chuck's familiar tall figure clutched a clipboard at the Ramada;  the same apparition who had greeted me at the end of Death Valley. Again, the checked-off feeling; again the relief to be back at the end of the ride; and again the feeling of pushing the physiological envelope yet further. But on this occasion, more than ever, the feeling of satisfaction of having conquered the course; and, now, that "complete the set" feeling. It was 9:34pm; Heartbreak 1996 was both my hilliest and fastest southern Californian double.

Richard Bone

June 10th, 1996