Category: Cycling

The time had come once again to pack up my bicycle and head off into the campo (fields) of the state of Buenos Aires to seek victory and fame in my beloved sport of cycling. The race was early on Sunday so I needed to take a 3-hour bus on Saturday to find a hotel, assemble the bike, prepare, and beat every Argentine I could possibly find in front of me — on the track of course. Here’s how it went down.

In my previous race I had partied hard the day before. This proved to be almost fatal, bringing my heart rate to a maximum of 209 during the race. The rule of thumb for maximum heart rate is to take 220 and subtract your age. I am 25 years old. None the less, I partied hard on Friday and enjoyed a successful asado at our house for 12 people. Hope the lady of my house doesn’t read this, otherwise we are all in for it! This didn’t matter since the race was on Sunday. I woke up with plenty of time, packed the bike into the box and made my way to the bus station. The trip worried me slightly since there were 12 stops between BsAs and my final destination, which meant there were that many chances for my relatively expensive bike to be stolen in a nicely wrapped package. However, no instances of bad luck on the way there.

I arrived in town and found that this place was even more desolate than Olavarria was. There wasn’t even a bus station. You just got off the bus and then you were in the middle of a dusty road with a few shops that sold really crappy t-shirts to the local workers for $3. I entered the nearest store and started asking for a hotel. A rather attractive looking lady decided she would test her drawing skills and gave me a 20-minute lecture on what there is in Arrecifes as well as where to find it and at what time. I could not have run into a nicer lady and I felt extremely well prepared all of a sudden. I walked to the prescribed hotel which was only 2 blocks but quite a chore with a giant bike box. I enter the lazy-looking “El Rutenero” hotel and book my 70-peso hotel room. It was a very nice room by any standard and I was pleased. I asked to build my bike in the reception which he obliged. While in there I became the local California celebrity who had a “que buena caja” which can probably be interpreted in a nasty way if you are American.

I rode the town and looked for the bike track. The track is normally an autódromo or a car race track and was a lot more than I had expected. Again I had to ride on dirt to get onto the track but no punctures. Seriously, Argentines — pave the roads! There were people there riding around and they were all intrigued with me wearing sandals as I rode for about 20 minutes getting a feel for the track during the sunset hours. I was approached by a few people and word spread through the few groups of people that I was a “yankee” which is a term actually listed in most Spanish-English dictionaries defined as someone from the U.S.

I went home, showered, and looked for food. Before I left I had a rather comical conversation with some fellow cyclists staying at the hotel who were racing on Sunday. The comedy had mostly to do with all of our race preparations which basically involved drinking some sort of alcohol and not getting much sleep. We were instantly friends. I left to find the Vudu bar which was on the corner of the one main street in town. As I ate, the air was filled with the noise of small wimpy motorcycles riding back and forth. I had chosen the area of town where all the kids take their shitty little moped and rev the engine and pop 3-inch wheelies with their fat girlfriend on the back. There were all sorts of bikes but for the most part they were the standard run-of-the-mill variety. Many were customised though — blue lights, handlebar flares, extended mirrors, FMF exhaust pipes, modified springs to accommodate for the weight of these fat girls, extra loud horns, and flashy paint jobs. There were a few larger sport bikes that made an incredible noise which doesn’t make too much sense since the town is only one mile square. Only a few daring souls impressed me but would have fallen on their face flat if they heard stories of Kamran and me riding at speeds in excess of 173 mph through traffic or using every lane on PCH swerving from side to side. It reminded me of “cruising the Regal Cinemas” in Simi Valley. My pizza was burnt and I didn’t tip. I even asked for a new pizza which I got — and it was burnt. Tough to do in a foreign language.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I had dreams of missing the race and I think I was just nervous for some reason.

Race day arrives. I see the two older racers in the morning and we talk cycling and compare bikes and all that stupid stuff that only a real cyclist could get a kick out of while wearing tights and having shaved bodies. They raced first so I thought it was a little odd I was way ahead of them, but it was my usual habit of being overly punctual. Get a grip, you late bastards! Do you know how annoying it is to wait for people when they are late? You know who you are. I go to the track and end up setting up camp with the guys from the hotel. They have a larger group that I was not aware of. All very nice people from a place called Lomas near my house in BsAs. I figure out that I am to race in the open category for people under 38. To clear things up: there are basically three levels of cycling here. The lowest, which is the open class called the “inactivos” since they don’t race often. Then the promocionales and finally the elite. The promocionales would represent our Category 2 and 3 while the elite are basically sponsored pros. So I was racing in the weakest class but I was fine with that considering my training had been no more than 2 hours most days on a flat circuit that gets tediously boring, followed with beer and wine.

It turns out the people I was hanging out with were quite well known amongst the people there and I was introduced to many a person, often times followed with a story of why that guy is a really good cyclist and to look for him in the elites later. My race comes around at 10am. I warm up and we all meet at the starting line. There are roughly 50 racers. While we are waiting they announce that they notice I am listed from California and they decide to announce my presence to the crowd of several hundred, label me as the “yankee” (pronounced “shankee”) and ask for a round of applause — which was most embarrassing considering neither they, nor I, knew how I would fare in the race. The race starts and I lead the first lap with a fast pace since they had to give me that introduction. The race would be for 50 minutes and immediately it was very competitive with breaks constantly being executed. I stayed in the front for a lot of the time despite the screams from my corner saying “DESPACIO!!!” but it didn’t matter because this punk guy was messing with my rhythm so I was going to bury him on the uphill — which I did every time — and I think he was rather annoyed. Halfway through the race my Garmin computer falls off my bike near the largest crowd of spectators as I am zooming past at 45 km/h and I realise that $200 machine that talked to satellites was most definitely gone. I also lost my heart rate monitor which is a vital part of my racing strategy. I know I can sustain 189 bpm for pretty much 90 minutes and any higher for prolonged periods is a sure-fire way to experience total body failure, which is an unpleasant thing to say the least. So I decided to take the next 15 minutes “easy” and stay away from the front of the pack. “TRES VUELTAS MAS! TRES TRES TRES!” is heard on the loudspeaker and the anticipation and nervousness envelop the peloton. We all know that in 6 minutes the best rider will be revealed. These last three laps are tenacious and everyone is riding closer and harder, making for some extremely dangerous moments. Several riders were forced into the grass; I myself ran into the tyre in front of me and almost fell to surely be laced with tread marks on my backside, but I recovered with a good dose of panic and adrenaline. The last lap I stayed about 20 riders back. On the first uphill I swooped up to about 6th place and rode the slipstream. The last turn was extremely fast and everyone took it very wide, pulling us onto the red and white sloped kerb on the outside. The straight away was maybe 200 metres. I was in third riding in the wind of two guys who were just getting out of their saddles and staying very close to each other. I surged between them, bumping shoulders with both, hit the wind out of my saddle and never looked back. In the middle of a sprint it is very hard to consider the things around you — I could see no one in my peripheral but I was not about to verify my lead position. I dropped one more gear and enjoyed the lactic burn that was spewing from my ears and legs. I crossed the line in first position and had just enough time to get my hands in the air and scream at the top of my lungs with a passion that can only be felt during moments like these.

All the riders were very congratulatory and after the first turn I had my new friends running towards me, tackling me off the bike and hugging and kissing me. Truly amazing! Then another guy came over and gave me the chequered flag and told me to do a victory lap. I rode the lap exhausted, wishing I had more water, while a very rambunctious crowd cheered me on and applauded my efforts. I got back to the starting line and someone took my bike and then I received kisses and hugs from pretty much the entire group of racers and a load of little kids. Meanwhile the guy on the microphone is saying something about me and I turn around to find the microphone stuffed in my face. My Spanish is good enough to make new friends and command a peloton, but after a race with a racing heart and nerves, all I could muster was something like “Muchas gracias, muchas gracias Arrecifes por todo.” In hindsight I should have just started speaking English but that will be for next time.

Afterwards we ate like kings with an asado prepared in the dirt. An ingenious idea, really. We drank wine and ate until I could not move anymore. These people were so genuinely lovely and I am amazed that I can somehow put myself into these situations. They invited me to their house the following weekend for another race and then another asado and fiesta where they all want to introduce me to their sisters and daughters. I don’t give out visas that easily!

I stayed and watched the next few races and got a healthy suntan/burn. A guy out of nowhere comes and finds me and gives me my Garmin and it still worked! He then lectured me about how the people in Argentina are dangerous and you need to be careful with your belongings and how I was really lucky. I was trying to disagree with him but he wasn’t having it and kept lecturing me. I think he wanted a reward or something, which I did not give him.

Another guy approached me with a 7×10 photo of the sprint finish which was awesome! I will have that picture after I go to Lomas for the next bike race.

Price to be in love with cycling: 60 pesos for the bus, 70 pesos for the hotel, 40 for food, 8 to pat for his sponsorship, and minus 80 for the prize money from winning my second race in Argentina. Hot damn!

Update: Pictures from the day

There is a phenomenon here in Buenos Aires that I have alluded to in a previous post but I feel that it deserves a little more attention now that I have become a surfing junkie on the streets of BsAs. A lot of people here in BsAs think that I am a little crazy for riding a $2,000 bicycle around the streets of a town with roads the width of our highways back home, all one way, intersected with small veins of cobblestone streets, and filled with thousands of taxis and hissing buses that will send a shiver down the spine of the bravest individual when they breathe down your back waiting to pick up their passengers and spit you out along the way. Although I save on transportation costs (buses and the subte cost $0.30 and taxis are no more than $5 for a half-hour ride), transportation time, and I get some exercise, here is the main reason I love riding around here.

Every day I leave class and inject myself and my bike into one of the main arteries of BsAs called Córdoba. This road will take you from one side of the city to the other and if you time it right you can make it there faster than any gas-powered vehicle — only a helicopter or a coked-out cartonero could beat you. My attire of sandals, shorts, no helmet, and a lock wrapped around my waist is likely not the most appropriate, but satisfactory nonetheless.

The lights here in Buenos Aires are all timed, especially on the main roads, and I would guess they used a small Fiat car with a 0.4 litre engine — as many people here have — to judge how long it takes for the cars to reach the next light. This works out perfectly for a bike. Córdoba is approximately 5–8 lanes wide depending on where you are and the right two lanes are reserved for buses and taxis. Taxis float around the city in their thousands, driving slowly along the sides of the streets, while the buses drive at supersonic speed with air shocks that hiss and spit as they jump the many potholes and dying dogs in the road.

I pick my gear and take a lead at the light to get ahead of the traffic. I can hear the couple dozen motorcycles in between the cars gassing their engines, wishing they could run the lights like I can. Then the terrible noise will start. At first faint, but I can hear it growing and it seems to be focused on me to enact its revenge since it knows that I am taking advantage of what it has to offer. I will approach the first few lights ahead of the timed green light and will take chances to run the lights if I do not hear the perpendicular horns coming my way. The noise behind me will subside but only temporarily and again it will be down my gullet. This time it will engulf me and several dozen motos surround me with a few brave cars that think they can keep up with this high-speed game. The next red light we are all in the same boat, and we pick our line between the waiting cars and gun it through gaps no wider than my shoulders, hoping that the timed green light didn’t decide to change its mind this one time. Eventually I will tire and be taken by the wave and before I know it I am in the middle of the street avoiding slow taxis, and holding on to the backs of trucks trying to gather my breath. Without one red light I can make it home several miles in 5 minutes.

Me and the motos have a love-hate relationship with each other. They respect my speed but are wary of my manoeuvrability. I could not care less about them and consider them a rock in the wave that I am riding. The larger rocks like potholes and construction points prove to be a lot more difficult, but you handle them as they come.

This ride deserves a head-mounted video which I will provide soon, I hope.

I show up in Buenos Aires and I am antsy for some racing action on my bicycle. I go online and look for whatever I can find and come across a very helpful website at http://www.infobiker.com.ar. I look on the calendario for whatever I can find and see that there is a race in a province of Buenos Aires in a city called Olavarria. Perfect! So I am staying in the province of Capital Federal in the state of Buenos Aires. Olavarria is in its own province in the state of Buenos Aires. This basically means that the place I had to go was 350 kilometers from where I am living. No matter, I was committed.

First I had to make sure I was interpreting the flyer correctly. Thanks to Marcos from El Dorado fame for confirming this one for me. I figured I would be in the second race which is for everyone up until 35 years of age. I assumed the Masters classes were for our equivalent of category 1, 2, 3.

So my race was at 6:40 pm, I needed to take a bus to get there. The bus I needed to take left at 7:30 a.m. from Retiro, the main bus station in BsAs. This was also the day that John Fincher was leaving so I knew he would want to go big the night before. I also needed to pack my bike back in the box that Pat bought me, get it to Retiro when it doesn’t fit in many taxis and cannot be brought on a bus or the subte (subway) and hope that it would be there when I arrive. I figured I would just do my usual method of finding hotels once I got there. I did no research on the city or the surrounding areas and here is what happened.

The night before, John meets with a long time friend Gonzalo who knows the owner of a really nice restaurant in Palermo Hollywood called Freak. We basically get catered to all night for a group of 15 or more with endless sushi, appetizers, drinks, martinis, champagne, and a whole huge bottle of sake all for about $400 US. We stayed up all night and I decided that I would not sleep and get my bus at 7:30. I left John and crew at Sugar where he was in the middle of spinning his way into the bathroom or some tourist girl’s arms, who knows. I got home, packed, and then found a taxi that I forced my bike box into. With shaved body and mini backpack, we go to Retiro for 20 pesos. I get to my bus and tip the guy 5 pesos to take care of my bike as he packs it into the bus and we ship off. The bus ride is 7 hours long and I sleep for maybe 4 of those hours. When I awake I can only see the flattest landscape I have seen outside of the midwest. Vast distances of grass fields dotted with grass-fed cows that I have been getting used to eating for the last month or so. We make one stop in a town called Azul that I knew to be close and I got out to stretch and make sure my bike was not unloaded, which it wasn’t. An hour later we are in Olavarria and it is absolutely baking outside. I get a map and directions to some hotels and walk down the road dragging a giant bike box. I am telling everyone that I am a professional ciclista and I am causing quite a commotion I might add.

I pick the first hotel called the Hotel Argentino and check in to a meager room for 68 pesos. I convince them I want a lower floor room so I don’t have to lug the box upstairs. They were very friendly and agreeable and also impressed with my origin and luggage. I put my bike together and then go for a ride to investigate the town and make sure I can find the track that the race is at. This town was extremely serious about its siesta and its mate-drinking ability. There was no one out, absolutely no one, nadie! I eventually find the track which I have to ride on a dirt road to get to, which made me a little apprehensive for worry of a popped tire right as I arrive at the race with tires at 120psi. I eat a random lunch at a gas station since that is all that was open and then head back to my hotel to catch an hour nap.

I wake up and get dressed in my tights and head off. It is still extremely hot outside. As always I am a little early but it is evident that something is going on and people are coming out. One of my worries was that I was looking into this all wrong and would come to find out that there was no bike race at all. I paid the 2 peso admission and claimed my spot on the fence. I warmed up for a bit scoping out the other riders and I quickly noticed that most of the people here had single speed bikes with a front brake only with a free wheel. Interesting. The track is only maybe 500 meters so I guess they assumed that was all they needed, que se yo? It was their track.

It was becoming extremely windy and the back side of the circuit was full on into the wind. Just over the dirt road you have to ride on there is a field that is being burned to make way for new crops, but also creating plenty of smoke for us cyclists to inhale as we romp around the track. First race is for the old guys older than 35. They are fast and I was impressed. During this race I made friends with some older guys who were constantly inspecting my bike and asking me all sorts of questions regarding price and stiffness. They also told me about a 60 mile race going on the next day in a nearby city that I needed to go to.

Then my race was up. It would be for 40 minutes and there were probably 30 or more riders. A lot of machismo going on it seemed but that is just the usual Argentine spirit. The race began and a group quickly shot out in front. I waited for the peloton to organize which it never did. So I decided to take control and spent the first 5 minutes catching up to this group with no one wanting to take turns with me going into the wind. I caught them and then spent the next 5 minutes leading the pack trying to keep a fast pace to wear down any stragglers. I notice after 10 minutes my heart is near 200 bpm and I needed a break. For the next 20 minutes there were a few breaks but nothing significant and myself and about 10 others had set themselves up to be the main competition. I moved into 6th position and planned on sprinting the final lap full out. With 1.5 laps to go someone goes but I hear the bell and we are not even close to the line so I sprint to catch him, pass him, and then cross the line thinking I won but there was still one lap to go. Fuck! I did not travel for half a day to get screwed like this. On the back side I was in the lead and I didn’t want to see what was behind me. In front of me there were dozens of spectators in the track screaming “VAMOS!” “DALE!” which was most inspiring I got to say. Final stretch came, I was back out of my saddle and I was getting wobbly arms and I had never felt so exhausted. I was passed at the line and took second place by only 2 feet. I slumped in my bike and rolled around the course absolutely exhausted.

During that final sprint which I started half a lap too early, my heart got up to 207 bpm. I challenge you to just try and tap your finger, make a sound, or do anything that fast in one minute. Absolutely amazing what the body can do. An average speed of 23 miles an hour I suppose is OK considering the ridiculous wind on one length of the track. Second place won me 40 pesos but let’s consider the cost for my love of cycling. 140 pesos for the bus, 70 pesos for the hotel, 20 pesos for race admission, 40 pesos for taxi to and from Retiro, 50 pesos for food. Total of 320 pesos or $90 US to do this race minus $15 bucks for the prize money. I love cycling.

I stayed the rest of the night to watch the rest of the races. The next exciting race was the kids under 17 race which was pretty good. The kid who won was dropped way early but since the pack was cat-and-mousing it the whole time he caught up late in the race and took the trophy. No money for the kids. I wish I could have heard what the announcer was saying for my race — I was too busy sucking wind. Probably went something like “Naranja! Naranja! Naranja!”

The last race was amazing. These were the pros and you could tell by their bikes, their legs, and the extreme speed they were riding. It was just absolutely amazing how fast these guys were going for 90 minutes. They could not pedal on the turns since they were angled so far over. That happened to me only once where I dragged my pedal but I was pedaling the entire time through all the curves. There were maybe 40 guys to start but anyone not in the running for the 300 peso purse just dropped out and the final sprint was only with 6 or so people.

During this last race I made friends with this guy Luis who had a friend in the race who did not end up winning. While we talked about cycling and comparing lives in different countries, his family was giving me food and drink and were absolutely amazing. While Luis had his little girl climbing all over him while we talked I had this random little kitten just show up and climb my back and snuggle into my neck and hair. A little random — hope I didn’t get fleas. Luis invited me to his house and he showed me his bikes and we talked cycling and politics while his family rushed around me listening and rubbing my tattoo and watching me ride his ridiculously expensive bike. We ate and drank and it was an absolutely precious time that I could never repeat. One of those moments in traveling that are hard to explain to people and you can only wish that everyone in the world had these moments to be able to appreciate the good-hearted nature of almost everyone on earth. They did not have much but were willing to share all of it with me and didn’t mind that I was wearing my tights the whole time.

The next day I tried to get to Atalaque to go to the 60 mile ride but would not arrive until way too late so I had to wait for my 5pm bus back to BsAs. I walked the ghost town looking for anything and then ate at a parrilla and had two beers. My hotel had agreed to leave my bike case there so I did not have to drag it around even though I had checked out at 11am. I went back to the hotel, a little tipsy, and asked if I could have a mate (pronounced maa-te, it’s a tea-like drink here renowned for its compartir aspects) with the girls that run the hotel. They loved me and invited me into their back room for a drink and a huge cake. We talked about the town and where they met their husbands and how I don’t like reggaeton and why they were not fat even though they had dulce de leche for lunch. This went on for hours. Eventually I asked if I could take a nap which they were happy to offer — they gave me my old room and I napped for an hour before my bus. Another experience that is hard to communicate how much something like that can mean to someone.

Another long bus ride home and I got back. Nothing bad happened and in fact I wish I could have stayed and continued the adventure. All the portenos thought I was crazy for doing this but that is why they are portenos and think the rest of the country is a little weird. Next race, two weeks! Back to the training track.

And all this using only Castellano!

Going into the last turn of the race with 100 yards to go, sitting in the top 20 spots, two guys crash to the floor, skidding and ripping their jerseys. I slammed my brakes, putting me into a 20-foot skid that was halted by a guy’s ribs as he lay on the ground, pretzeled into his broken bike. I somersaulted off the bars, doing a crab position onto the bike’s pedal, and then rolling onto the asphalt. I stood up with adrenaline sputtering out my ears and, looking around, I saw a pair of orange lenses on the ground. That day I had just bought a pair of orange lenses for my glasses and I freaked out that I had already broken them. I had to touch my eyes to assure myself that mine were still on my head. But I sympathised with the owner of the lenses. I then worried about my wheels, thinking they may have bent. I then picked a bike off a guy lying moaning on the ground, and then opted not to help move him for fear of a lawsuit. I then gave a high five to the guy I had been with earlier as we went into the turn, as he looked like he had gone through a similar experience.

I expected my first road crash to be a gnarly skid at 30 miles an hour around a turn, which sent me skidding for 200 feet as the tight spandex tore off my body and was replaced with road rash, slamming into hay bales and bouncing ten feet into the air doing twists, only to land on a big-bosomed girl holding two one-litre beer mugs.

The Mulholland Challenge has proven to be one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. It is a 108-mile cycling race through the Santa Monica mountains of Southern California involving 11,500 feet of climbing with grades often over 6% and reaching 18%. Also on this particular day, the weather peaked at 105 degrees to make things that much more exciting. Here is a great quote from the people that put on this masochistic event:

The Way of Planet Ultra
Planet Ultra is a state of mind, a way of life, a place to seek solace and inspiration, to take refuge, to find insight and inspiration. It is both terra firma and terra incognita, myth and mystery, muscle and mind. We live with the motto “by endurance we conquer.”

Very applicable to many situations.

So prior to doing this ride I was scoping out blogs to get an idea of what I was about to do. This one gives a hilarious account of the ride, and although it made me laugh, I was half laughing from fear of this monster I was about to try and tame. This other site gives a more objective version of the ride but is not nearly as hilarious — it does show some interesting graphs that give you an idea of how much climbing is going to be involved.

Well let me help the future Mulholland challengers as well…

Pre-Race Preparation

1. This race is hard. In fact, it is not a race as I learned early on at about mile 14. It’s a race of survival, just looking to make it to the end. So train beforehand or you will be ridiculed by all these old guys who dominate this race as you bail out. I had ridden one 80-miler beforehand with at least 100 miles a week riding for a few months. I still felt unprepared.
2. Bring full-fingered gloves with a jacket. The first 30 or so minutes through the early morning canyons were agony with 41-degree temperatures. It’s worth the very little extra weight.
3. Seat bag: tube, 2 CO2 and adapter, multi-tool (which I got Justin to carry, sucker).
4. Get the compact crank setup. All the good riders had them, there’s no reason not to.

During the Race

1. Don’t drink their “Sustain” powder. Tastes like shit and makes you feel like you’re gonna yak at mile 93. Just go with the Gatorade.
2. Take the anti-lactic acid pills. Just do it. I took 5 before we started and another 5 at mile 70.
3. Don’t ride alone. Always have someone there to push you or you’ll succumb to the mountain mind games.
4. I carried two water bottles. They recommended bringing a camel pack on the website but we already ignored their request to change our gears, so why bow to the water demands as well?
5. In my jersey pockets I had 5 lactic acid pills, 2 Clif bars (which I didn’t eat), two gel block bags, an extra tube, a camera (which I got X to carry), and a banana at the start. I would pick up granola bars at each stop and eat them on the way.
6. Drink more water than you think you need. You know you’re dehydrated when you’re sweating salt crystals.

Ride Description

I didn’t have a computer — I knocked it off one ride and have never replaced it. So this account won’t give you the mile markers you’re looking for, but the sites I mentioned above do a good job of that.

We started at 6:32am and it was extremely cold. I opted not to bring arm or leg warmers for heat and weight reasons. Justin, Xavier, and myself were in the 5% of people who came as poorly prepared as we did. Going through Las Virgenes road is relatively painless and most people were not going really that fast. The hill is short and easy and then you get a fantastic downhill looking over at the Pacific Ocean as the warm air hits you coming from the west, providing only a small relief to my numb fingers.

You go south on PCH and we were pushing pretty hard. I considered conserving for the unknown hills I knew were coming but competition brings out funny decisions in a person. A left turn onto Topanga Canyon and this horrible wind just smacked us in the face, lowering my morale as we trudged up this slow ascent. The wind eventually subsided as we got deeper into the canyon. Apparently on the way up Topanga a guy got knocked down by someone who got a flat tire. I would have cried if that happened to me.

The first hill was a slow steady grade and I felt really good at this point and went up it quite easily. Apparently Xavier cramped at this point, mysteriously. The first sticker stop (you have to collect five stickers through the race) is about 30 miles in and a welcome relief. I felt comically delirious at each of the sticker stops. From here there are just a load more hills; none are particularly difficult until you get to Cotharin. Here is where I left my Impact Racing brethren and surged forward to not see them again for about 8 hours. This hill was brutal and the sun just started to come out.

Eventually you get to the top and the road turns really bad with huge cracks all over it. Going downhill and hitting these things at 50 km/h and not getting a punctured tire is just ridiculous. I saw several guys pulled over on the way down; one apparently broke his steering tube and another guy went down hard requesting that he could ride to the “clinic” in Malibu. I heard of three bad crashes throughout the day. At the bottom you hit PCH and then you go south again. Riding PCH at speed gazing out over the horizon is an activity everybody should do in their lifetime. Eventually we arrived at Decker Canyon and began the hardest hill of the race. It started with 18% and probably averaged 10–12% and went on for some 8 miles. I rode well and found a group of Orange County riders to motivate me to get to the top. I got to the top and at the sticker stop I was laughing because I really didn’t think I should have been able to climb that hill.

Next came some slow rollers through the interior peaks of the Santa Monica mountains. Beautiful scenery on a truly gorgeous day. I didn’t find this section so bad as the hills never got too steep, but I did have to do it on my own. At the second-to-last sticker spot you are at about mile 79. You are told that the next and last sticker spot is not that far away. But you have to go up Stunt Road. At mile 90 the road goes at a steady 8% grade for 4 miles. The key here is the mile 90 factor — not the hardest hill normally, but a very different story after the day you have just had. I had to stop twice on the way up, I believe for overheating reasons as I felt a little dizzy. You get to the top and they were the friendliest sticker stop yet — they pretty much carried you to a chair, fed you a bottle, and served homemade chocolate chip cookies.

From here you have 1.5 miles of pretty tough climbing left and then you’re home free. This was the one part I almost cramped on and I attribute it to the homemade chocolate chip cookie. A great downhill looking over Calabasas is next and then you have an annoying uphill on Las Virgenes to go back to the hotel where the race began.

Personal Reflection

This race is not attempted by young people for some reason. It is all 30+ year olds with many well over 40. My cohorts and I were the only youngsters I saw, although Xavier and Justin said they spotted a 20-something rider and a few youngsters who likely did not finish the race. The only explanation for this is that young people nowadays are bred not to be masochistic. I think the older mentality is summed up through the quote I started this post with.

After 8 hours and 36 minutes the ride was over. For the last 2–3 hours the theme of the ride was “just make it stop,” and the thought of lying down brought me to the finish. In the end, I have no regrets and am extremely happy with my performance. I would do it again, only after the Big Bear climb and maybe riding from LA to SF.

What’s next? I’m thinking velodrome racing.

On the way to yoga this last Monday, I am riding the fixed gear down Orange Ave. This road is a long residential road that can be quite busy and there are many stop signs down its length. The best part of riding this fixed gear for me is to go faster than cars. To do this efficiently I end up running many stop signs which can get you in trouble with Johnny Law, but I have been lucky thus far.

As I approach a stop sign, I pass a line of stopped cars, none of which have their indicator on, so I decide to fly on by. Well the car at the front starts to turn right and I had roughly half a second to realize I was going to hit this car as I was doing close to 35 km/h. Prior to this moment I had envisioned myself cushioning myself against the car and just turning with it to avoid any crashing, but when it came time to actually enact this escape plan, it failed miserably. I hit the car hard above the front right tire and flew over the hood. Fortunately I didn’t have my clip shoes on otherwise the bike would have flown with me. I lay in the middle of the road in front of the car with many other cars around and bright beams in my eyes. I propped myself up, smiled, and went to get my bike. The guy came out of the car asking if I was all right and saying something about me coming out of nowhere and that I should be more careful. I looked at him and, ignoring the pain in my knee and foot and his frustrating comments, smiled and shook his hand saying I was cool and I was sorry to get in the way. He wanted me to stay to inspect myself and the bike but I knew I was in the wrong and I jumped on my bike with a crooked handlebar and ripped grips and bolted for the gym. Didn’t get his number or name or anything. My first hit and run. Yoga soothed my nerves for the next hour.

Lesson learned? I have now flown over two hoods in my day and I stood right up each time so I think I am cool to hit cars from now on. With this being said, I resolve to still not put brakes on my bike and pedal faster and harder next time to avoid a crash.

It has become very obvious to myself and all those around me that I have this infatuation for bicycles right now. I justify this lust with the osteonecrosis that I have in my hips which has rendered me a non-runner. Cycling has quite simply stopped me from going mad with frustration ever since I had to give up soccer and other running related activities. Fortunately for myself it is possible to stay fit with a degenerative bone disease.

I spent several months building a fixed gear. It began with a trip to San Fran where I spent the days walking the streets gazing at these fixed gear bikes. All the while I had Robert describing to me why the people that ride those things are horrible horrible people. His reasoning had something to do with the fact that he lived on the dubious part of town, and the bikes seemed to crest the hill from the fancy part of town. He never really could explain his hatred; I attributed it to his awkward body structure that probably disallows him from participating in bike riding.

From there I spent the days painting the beast and trying to figure out how to make a fixed gear work with a vertical dropout. Bike nerd talk, but basically the tire cannot go back and forth to adjust with the tension in the chain. Apparently rather dangerous to do. Now I can reach speeds of 60+ km/h and frequently have to take random turns since I cannot stop due to there not being brakes.

I view the scenic mountains of southern California on this tank. A 1996 Honda CR250 gets me through dangerous times at Pismo and more. My ass is currently sore (in a non-homosexual way) from riding this thing so much recently. Everyone is worried that I ride this monstrosity to work every day at speeds in excess of 160 km/h.

Anyone got a mountain bike frame that would be good for a single speed climbing bike?