This Is F*cking Awesome

"I'm gonna pop some tags

Only got twenty dollars in my pocket

I'm huntin'
Lookin' for a come up
This is fucking awesome."

--Mackelmore, "Thrift shop."

There are many, many songs that I have considered to open this particular blog post (see vault: all start with a lyric).

Considerations included:
"Miles and Miles," by The Who, and "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)," by the Proclaimers. Too obvious.

I also considered opening with some of the songs that were in my head for excessive periods of time during the soon-to-be-detailed adventure. These include (in no particular order):
"Cool Change," by the Little River Band.
"Best Day of My Life," American Authors.
"Born to Be Wild," Steppenwolf.
"Here I Go Again," Whitesnake.
"Freefalling," Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
"Party in the USA," Miley Cyrus (not kidding).
"Titanium," Madilyn Bailey.

The list goes on, but I will stop here. Ok yes, there was some Taylor Swift in there.

So, I'm sure you're wondering, "Well, it was crazy enough that you were going to do this 375-mile Coast Ride thing, but what the EFF made you bike 500 miles, adding a 4th unsupported day?"

Answer:
"Because this is fucking awesome."
And like a true cyclist, I had $20 in my pocket. In a plastic baggie.

Early on day 2 it was decided. To set the scene: before embarking on the journey, Robin and I had only ever ridden next to each other on stationary bikes. I think there was suspicion that we might be relatively evenly matched, but as it turns out, the only other person I've been able to bike that many miles with so consistently is Huxley. I'm 100% positive she was slowing down to ride with me. ("But that's good Zone 2 training," she'd say. "And you don't complain." And then boys would pass us on a ride and she would pull out this power gear and chase them down and show them who's boss, and I would just watch in awe. Of course she always came back for me, so I forgave her. But she's the boss. And I digress.)

A lot of random conversations happen when you bike 500 miles with someone.

Climbing into Big Sur south of Monterey, Robin says, "We should just go all the way to LA."

The decision process took about as long as it is taking you to read this sentence.

Me: "That would be fucking awesome." And the next thought took about as long to form as this sentence took to write.

Me (again): "Dude, we should just bike to Kortney."

And then that was it. We'd figure out the logistics. Change the rental car. Bike to LAX.

Separately our brains had each done the math. 375 miles to Santa Barbara was three days of 125 miles each. Los Angeles wasn't that far from Santa Barbara. 475 miles is lame. 500 miles is fucking awesome. We had to bike a full 500 miles.

As he said it, I was already nodding. Yes, yes. 500 miles. We will bike a 4th day all the way to 500 miles. We will change the rental car to Long Beach. No, wait, that means driving across LA in traffic. Nix that. We will bike down to Redondo Beach or Hermosa Beach or however far we need to go so that when we turn around, we will hit LAX at 500 miles. Ok, go!

But wait, but why, again, now? Bike 500 miles, why?

It goes something like this:
Fair weather: check.
Plenty of vacation time and a boss who gets it: check.
Fantastic biking partner/friend: check.
Beautiful friend to receive us at the end: check.
Legs that can handle the effort: check.
Opportunity to bike 500 miles right-here-right-now-make-a-decision:

ON Y VA!

Facebook is deceptive, and perhaps I'm guilty of playing into that deception. I've been afraid to be fully honest with how much I have been struggling to adjust to life in San Francisco. On Facebook, there are a lot of photos of adventures and random political rantings. In an effort to NOT further alienate this city where I feel like a space alien most of the time, I have been incredibly censored in what I post. I'm recently starting to open up to people near and far about the challenges I've been having. I've been seeking gratitude (as an attitude), and I generally find it OUTSIDE, and often on my BIKE. Learning to JUST LET GO and STOP TRYING SO HARD and STOP TRYING TO CONTROL EVERYTHING is very difficult. One of the things I love most about riding and racing is the fact that so many things are outside of my control, and all I can do is cheer myself on.

The decision to GO was freeing, liberating. I was giddy at the decision. I was all, "FUCK IT. Imma RIDE MY BIKE 500 Miles."

This is not a very traditionally Abby thing to do.

Propers to Robin. A rare soul could put me at ease enough to go for it.

And now, for the blow by blow.

Day 1. San Francisco to Monterey.

Day 1 cue sheet

With my backpack on my back, and my housekeys in my seat bag, I rolled out the door at about 6:45 AM. Along the way, I coincidentally ran into my dear friend Sally, who was my hotel buddy for the trip. We chatted a bit on the 1.5-mile ride to Sports Basement in the Presidio, where the Coast Ride began. I was a bit anxious, not sure if I could do this 375-mile ride. I was determined not to get sucked into the fast groups. I knew that I could reasonably hang with them for shorter rides, but if I was going to make it the whole way, I would have to go a comfortable pace. I was nervous about flats and snacks and whether I had enough light for riding after dark. Most really long rides are in the summer, so you have enough daylight to complete the mileage. The "Total 200" ride in DC is done on the longest (or next-longest) Saturday of the year, usually at the end of June, near the Solstice. And here we are about to embark on multiple century-plus rides in January. Lights were going to be necessary, or so I thought. As it turns out, Robin and I were able to reel it in before dark on 3 out of the 4 days. Our stoppage time on the 4th day will be accounted for later. Please continue.

courtesy Sally Mitchell

It was a bit chilly that Saturday morning, and clothing decisions were difficult. Wear too little and be miserable (especially for someone with serious Raynaud's). Wear too much and have a humpback for most of the ride. We signed our USA Cycling waivers (on which I had to write my 2015 race age for the first time. Thirty nine. Fuck that.). I drank some coffee, ate a banana, threw my bag on the truck, and bought a new light (500 lumens, w00t). After what seemed an unreasonably lengthy amount of time fucking around at Sports Basement waiting for a group photo that didn't happen, Robin, Sally and I decided to roll.

Sports Basement, pre-ride

The hammering began early.

After losing Sally in Seacliff, I tried to stick with Robin. But he's a boy, and boys like to go fast. I was working too hard and I knew it. Thankfully, there were some amazing descents coming out of Daly City so I could catch up. Found Robin. We had wagered in jest over who was a bigger downhill daredevil. Bombing down a hill is "my jam." I am very "aero" and very flexible, and I can pretty much bend myself under my handlebars with my a$$ in the air, making myself like a sportscar with a spoiler, and control a technical descent like I'm skiing. But Robin has 20 pounds on me. As it turned out--in the 500 miles down the coast--there were certain descents that favored mass and certain descents that favored aerodynamics. Thankfully, we were both skilled enough cyclists to maneuver safely around each other if one needed to pass to maximize the bombing.

Because the bombing must be maximized.

Apparently I missed a stop sign on one of those magical descents out of Daly City, because I turned around and Robin was gone. WTF did he crash? I stopped riding and asked people if they had seen an accident. No crashes reported. Was he in front of me and I missed him? I didn't know what to do. I called. Phone off. Texted. No "delivered" notification. Hoping for the best, I got back on my bike and started riding.

Eventually I grouped up with some other people, and I started chatting with a younger woman from Emeryville. She was sweet, chatty, and a good cyclist. We stuck together, passing others, all the way to the lunch spot in Davenport, where upon arrival, I saw Robin, who had been there at least 10-15 minutes. Apparently he stopped at the sign I blew through and took a different turn.

Davenport, CA lunch stop

I quickly ate a fish taco (dripping with salsa-y deliciousness), pounded some Diet Coke (yep), filled my water bottles, and dropped some layers in the Sag truck. It got warm! Knowing that it's easier to ride in a group than alone, Robin and I decided to hop into a train of about 8 others. When I saw the Every Man Jack and M2 kits, I feared the worst. But Robin had a cue sheet, and Santa Cruz is twisty, so they had to follow us. #secretweapon

We stuck with Dave and Mike and Mike and Dave (maybe?) and two girls named Sue (not) through Watsonville. It's nice to not have to sit in the front all the time. And then on one long sloggy climb on San Andreas Road... they started drifting away from me. I shouted out to Robin that he could go ahead, I'd be fine, but he dropped back. I wasn't sure if he was being nice or if he was tired, but hitting the headwinds into Castroville I was *really* glad to have a partner. We decided it was easier to work together and get the last bit done. We stopped riding side by side. This would be the beginning of our unstoppability.

A reasonable title for this post truly would be "Half Mile Pulls on the Road to Becoming a Pavement Connoisseur." With matching Garmin 910xts on quick-release mounts, we shared time in the front, taking turns pulling for a half mile and bitching about the pavement. Or swooning over its smooth wonder. But mostly bitching.

Of all the many things we saw that day, there were these short rainbows in the sky. Nature's beauty stops me in my tracks regularly. If I had to guess, the ice in the high clouds causes them. I pointed them out to Robin and then silently said a prayer on each one. Something about seeing a rainbow makes me think, "I'm supposed to be here right now." It's an odd sentiment, perhaps, but I feel like a rainbow is God's way of saying hello. When He speaks and you hear it, then you are where you are supposed to be.

Once we hit Pezzini Farms (where the lovely Cath taught me the phrase "Carpe Toilet" which is the logic that, maybe I don't really really have to pee right now, but we are on a really really long bike ride, and I'm probably going to have to at some point in the near future, and here is a FLUSHING TOILET... SO JUST MAKE YOURSELF GO PEE RIGHT NOW), I was "a homing pigeon."

Of course I knew the way to Monterey.

When we got to the hotel where the Sag truck had our bags, I knew that we still had some work to do, and I didn't have the heart to break it to Robin. We had about 5 miles left including a giant climb up Forest Avenue in Pacific Grove. I might have unintentionally intentionally lied. But the amazing Ms. Elizabeth drove down and pick up our backs (and later, Sally), and waiting for us at Doug's awesome place in Pacific Grove were a shower, a kitchen, and room to chill. Oh yes, and we had a cat, too. THANK YOU, DOUG! OMG and LAUNDRY. THANKS FOR THE LAUNDRY, DOUG!

End of Day 1. Little did he know at that time we had 370 miles to go...

Thank goodness for Elizabeth, Bentley, and wine!

Day 2. Monterey to Morro Bay

The second day was arguably the most challenging day in terms of elevation gain. It was also the most challenging in terms of distance to lunch (like 80 miles!). But the second day was magic.

Sally and Robin and I set out a little later than we planned. On account of all the eating. Chocolate covered raisins IN YOUR OATMEAL? Genius. Thankfully, the amazing Elizabeth delivered our bags to the Sag truck so we didn't have to backtrack wearing packs. Have I mentioned she's amazing?

The day started with a climb up Route 68 to Route 1. My memory served me incorrectly, as I told Robin and Sally it was a descent. I guess I have a tendency to forget painful things and focus on the good.  At one point on the first day Robin said, "The only reason I climb up a hill is so I can bomb down them." Dude, you stole my line. After that climb, Route 1 down to Carmel is downhill in traffic with stoplights, but somewhere south of Point Lobos State Park the lights disappear and the traffic thins. We stuck together for a bit, but Sally's legs were feeling a "little sticky." She's a good sport and didn't mind bringing up the rear.

Sugar Shot

Big Sur. Bridges. Climbing. Twisty descents that favored mass. Half mile pulls.

"So much blue."

I don't recall exactly where we were when the fateful conversation that lead to the 500-miles-decision happened. But it was somewhere around here.

yep, biked over that

it was warm enough to ditch the vest, but the pockets were helpful to carry all the food

Occasional photo stops made it so we didn't get too far in front of Sally. She passed us during a quick pit stop at Big Sur Station, but I recognized her purple vest outside of Esalen, a well-known hippie dippie retreat center (where I would gladly live, if I could). As a hippie dippie herself (LOVE YOU, GIRL), Sally had to stop and take a photo.

We reconnected as three for a short bit before another snack stop (where we ran into Mike!). Riding with a female yoga teacher and... a boy... was an interesting comparison of consumption. Sally and I started with lots of bars and fruit and even egg frittatas in our pockets. Robin had us converted to Snickers bars and Coke pretty fast. Let's be real: Garmin estimated that I burned about 25,000 calories in 4 days (and officially 5 of my 8 depression pounds are gone, w00t.). I'm sure I won't touch a Snickers for a long time, but dammmmmmmmmmmmmn they are good. And Coke is ambrosia.

More climbing and descending. More ocean and cliffs and bridges. More rocks that I claimed where whales.

"NO, I SWEAR THAT THING IS LIVE!" They were rocks, of course. On all the many group rides on Skyline drive in Shenandoah, I was always the one who *didn't* see the bear that EVERYONE saw, so I wanted to see a whale. I suppose I should go on a whale watching trip. They are out there, I'm sure of it.

*****

"Do you ever think, as you're bombing down one of these hills that maybe there might be a truck coming the other way, and for whatever reason they have to swerve into our lane, and then... I mean, that's it?"

Another little ice-cloud rainbow was above us.

*****

The lunch stop at Ragged Point was an opportunity to chow a burger, carpe some toilet, grab snacks off the sag van, and refill the water bottles. Robin and I took off for Morro Bay. The terrain changes a lot at that point. Rather than steep sloggy climbs and twisty fun descents, Route 1 from Ragged Point to Morro Bay consists of miles of straight-ish rollers. And we all know how I feel about rollers:

Rollers are my bitch.

Fueled with fresh meat and determined to hit the sag truck before sundown, we crushed. Garmin suggested we were averaging 22 miles per hour at that point, despite the CRAP pavement. We took turns hammering, until we couldn't. Just when I would think "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh I dunno if I can hold this pace any longer," Robin would suggest backing off a bit. Great minds. We did still have like 30 miles to go.

And then there were the Elephant Seals.

courtesy Sally Mitchell

We hadn't grabbed a cue sheet that day since we didn't start at the sag truck, so when presented with "Option A: stay on Route 1 with traffic and climb that big hill over there" versus "Option B: take the bike route through Cayucos and soft-pedal a bit," I marveled at the genius of "the bike route."

Thanks, Bike Route!

courtesy Sally Mitchell

We made it to the sag before sunset, but the sun hid behind "The Rock." Sally was able to get a photo because she paused to take it in. Smart woman.

That night, I ate more food. #captainobvious

I also sweet-talked the hotel owner into letting me use the laundry. This would not be the end of my sweet-talking for the ride. Because sometimes you catch more flies with honey.

Day 3. Morro Bay to Santa Barbara.
.

I don't remember the climbs being that bad!

"I'm riding for tomorrow" was the theme of the day. At this point, Robin and I had already decided that we were definitely continuing on for a fourth day. Kortney was ready to host us, and our determination was high. It was a lovely day, and clothing decisions were again difficult. I decided to keep my vest, which seemed really silly in the middle of the day and really useful at the end. Robin went hardcore no jacket. Sally kept her vest as well. Sadly, she lost an arm warmer that day.

We all met at the sag truck early to drop off our stuff and get a start on the day. The pack of speedy dudes and ladies were there. I saw Emily and Ellen for the last time that morning. Robin and Sally and I decided to let the big pack depart and get out of sight so that we had no temptation to chase them.

I took more pictures on Day 3 on account of the flatter terrain

Sally and Robin

Little did we know that I would get a flat right out of the gate, so we didn't need to artificially put space between us and the hammerheads (said lovingly). 

I changed it pretty quickly! I didn't know I needed to pull up that arm warmer. Rule #82.

And then there was a headwind. Whew. And we were very glad to had a group of three to work together instead of two, because half-mile-on full-mile-off was way better with a headwind. But at least it was a pretty morning!

California in January? Or Wisconsin in June?

There was a sag stop only 20 miles from the start in San Luis Obispo. I have always been told that "SLO is really cool, you should go there sometime." Unfortunately we only had an unnecessarily long coffee stop at this hipster cool spot.

Robin had his first cappuccino in 6 months. I don't know WTF is wrong with him that he gave up coffee for 6 months because that's just silly and unnecessary for life.

Back on the road, we worked as a threesome (heyyyyy), and there was no need to hammer when you are riding for tomorrow. Route 1 is not particularly interesting in this part of California, but it does go through Pismo Beach.

I'm Captain of the Pismo Beach Disaster Relief. Some people lost all their belongings. Don't you think that includes athletic equipment?

Staying on the cue sheet involved lots of turns, agricultural roads, one really stupid ridiculously steep climb, a nice descent that favored aero, and some rollers. And then... we hit... THREE HUNDRED MILES!

We had to stop for a selfie at 300 miles!

And then there were sloggy climbs. Where as super steep climbs are my nemesis, apparently living in the Bay Area has made me pretty strong at long gradual climbs. They are also great for on-bike photography!

Just keep swimming--I mean, pedaling! With a compact crank and an 11x28 cassette on my dear Sugar, I can just chew up a climb like this...

Sorry dude, I dropped ya. #yougotchicked #idropboys Yes, that's a glove in my bra.

We made it to Lompoc for lunch just before the sag van took off. And we grabbed more than enough bars from the bag. I think it was at this point I fell in love with raspberry GU Chomps.

It was a warm day for January 19! Note the shoved up sleeves. Not a generally accepted technique among cyclists, but I was hot. I am hot. Wait. I mean, thanks.

How do you feel about more climbing, Robin?

Sally was a bit behind at this point, and it was windless. That is to say, on the crummy pavement, taking turns in the front made no noticeable difference on the level of effort, so we rode side by side and told stories. And then the climbing didn't suck so much. Goofing off helped Robin distract himself from climbing, as well. A demonstration:

And then, atop the climb, we stopped and waited for Sally. And ate. I've learned over the years of riding and racing triathlons that my stomach and my brain don't communicate well when I'm working really hard. Stomach doesn't think it's hungry (it is). On long training rides and runs (and especially race day) I have trained myself to eat "on the clock" so that I don't bonk or cramp (see: Eagleman 2012). Climbing up those hills, I didn't feel much like eating, and then I'd take one bite of Robin's Snickers and suddenly everything in my pockets needed to be eaten immediately. Whatever it was.

"When I did this route before, this is where I started singing 'Born to Be Wild.' Get your motor running, girl."

Thanksssssssssomuchforputtingthatsonginmyheadforthenext30miles.

What followed that last big climb was a BOMBER of a descent and then 20ish miles on the 101. I'm not going to lie. The traffic and the condition of the pavement was not conducive for me. Normally I would have tried to beat Robin to the bottom, but on that descent, I just tried to control the bike as it topped 46 miles per hour.

As we turned towards the coast and picked up speed, the temperature changed. It got cold and foggy. Grrrrrrrrreat conditions for the 101. Robin and I went into "get it done" mode and pulled half miles. Apparently there would have been a great view if it hadn't been for the fog. Hands on bike. Lights on.

The exit to get off the 101 could not have come any sooner. Or later. Or however I can express that I was excited to see the exit and get off the 101. We stopped again to regroup and eat our last snacks before heading into Santa Barbara. At this point, it was pretty chilly, and I got my vest and arm warmers back on.

The last few miles from exiting the 101 to the hotel in Santa Barbara seemed like "way more than quoted." It got a bit dark, there was rush hour traffic, and we got stopped at every other light. But eventually, we made it.

End of the Official Coast Ride!

That night, Sally and Robin and I celebrated by not leaving the hotel. We sat at the bar, drank wine and shared 5 plates of food. After eating all the bars and gels and chews and Snickers and crap, all we wanted were vegetables and fish. And Sally and I woke up STARVING the next day, haha.

That night was also the night that some random guy from the Speedy Gonzalez group uttered the fateful phrase "Have you ever heard of Amtrak Express?"

That was the last piece of the puzzle to make Day 4 a slam dunk. And the laundromat behind the hotel: slam dunk #2.

Day 4. Santa Barbara to Manhattan Beach to LAX.

What's Amtrak Express, you ask? It's this thing where you can put bags on a train and not ride the train. For $42, Amtrak took our two backpacks from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles.

Isn't that some sort of security nightmare? Don't you know about these things because you work for Homeland Security?

Yep, it seems sketchy that you can put stuff on a train and not yourself. I kinda didn't care. Option B was buying a t-shirt and shorts at Walmart and driving back to the hotel to get the stuff. This worked. The train station was semi-sort of-between LAX and Kortney's apartment. Giant shout outs to Sally, Mike, and Jackie for driving our stuff to the train station!!

We rolled a bit late. Ate a decent breakfast at the hotel with all the friends who were done riding. They all thought we were crazy. But when you are in go mode, sometimes it's easy enough to just stay in go mode.

And then it was time to go.

And we both thought our tires were low. Not a great way to start a day that will involve biking over 100 miles. We tried to Yelp up a bike shop, but nothing was open that early (even though it was a later start, it was still early for the rest of the world).

And then when we got to the water, we realized we were in a tourist town.

"Those guys are DEFINITELY going to have air!" Yay for bike rental place!

Free air!

And then we were rolling. It was a bit garbage-y getting out of Santa Barbara (stops, turns, etc.) but we just stayed on the official bike route. Just when it was about to open up, we realized that we were nearing 400 miles. And just as the desire for coffee became present, Crushcakes in Carpinteria was there. (Carpinteria, not Santeria. Carpinteria, not Santeria. Dammit, now that song is going to be in my head for like, I don't know, 30 miles.)

"Hi, do you have any gluten free options today?" I asked, with baited breath. And then this happened:

Crushing a GF Red Velvet cupcake.

My mom has an amazing red velvet cake recipe. It's so dense and delicious, and I haven't had it in like ten years. I went gluten free in '05 after years of misery and more scopes in places no one wants to talk about than all of your grandparents combined, so don't you dare accuse me of trying to be trendy. </soapbox>

After cakes, we actually started making some progress. It was a little unclear at times where to go, but we just followed the bike route, and we were treated to this:

All bike lines should be so amazing.

Biking between Carpinteria and Ventura was bizzare. The bike route is right on the coast. As is a giant RV park. For surfers or other people who make good life choices (Racing a triathlon in Half Moon Bay in 57 degree water temperature in April? Bad life choice compared with the dudes surfing in said bay at the same time. Running the last half mile of the Big Kahuna Triathlon in the sand? Bad life choice compared with the 500 people LAYING ON THE BEACH as you run by. Biking 500 miles down the coast? Bad life choice compared with all the people chillin' in an RV getting ready to surf. You get the idea).

And when we got to Ventura, I was doomed. Having been the lead singer of a classic rock cover band that regularly joked about becoming a Tom Petty tribute band, just the word "Ventura" did me in for like, I don't know, 30 miles.

And all the vampires walking through the valley...

Ventura to Oxnard. Miserably boring. Robin succcessfully yelped us a good lunch spot, but then we had to sit outside to mind the bikes and everybody got a little cold. And then there was the Naval Base just north of Point Magu, where we stopped to look at the flying stuff. And boys like rockets and stuff. (So do certain girls, actually!)

It's like strapping a lawn chair to two rockets.

We might not have screwed around as long at the flying things if we had known about the delay that was about to befall us.

Behold:

Not a single sign on the bike path.

So apparently Route 1 got washed out from all the rain a few weeks ago... and us NorCal kids didn't follow the SoCal news. Apparently there were lots of signs on the highway itself, but we weren't on it. So we didn't know.

And the reroute was going to be miserable. Like a ridiculous climb over the Santa Monica mountains and extra mileage through Thousand Oaks. As we stood there, contemplating our fate and route, an off duty policewoman came through to go shoot at the range just past the blockade. As she spoke to the guy holding us back, I asked for help. We were 450-odd miles in. We were looking at a lot of work and darkness if we had to bike. She offered to drive us after her hour of shooting.

We considered it. We thanked her for her offer.

And then the dude holding us back relented. There had been an accident between two trucks the day before, and they were just contractors. If cyclists got injured, they'd be doomed. The dude went and asked his boss if we could go through.

And then we got waved through.

There were two spots of construction. A few REALLY BIG TRUCKS and REALLY BIG ROCKS. We carefully went around them, making sure that everyone saw us before we proceded.

Biking on a closed highway for 10 miles. Pretty sweet.

When we got through to the other side, it was a downhill into Malibu. I begged for a Starbucks pit stop, and after contemplation, I gave into the cappuccino desire. And it was good. And at a Starbucks in Malibu, I expected to see famous people but did not. And I decided that Robin had famous doppelgangers.

And then there was climbing. And traffic. And a narrow bike lane in traffic. And Pepperdine University. (How can anyone graduate from that place with all the surfing??).

We continued on. I was... just about done. Praying for Santa Monica to come. It was farther than I wanted.

No, but just stop for a second. It's been 20 years since I've been to Santa Monica!

We were on a bike path right in the middle of the sand. Other than super steep climbs, my nemeses in biking are (in order of nemesis-ness):

1) Railroad tracks
2) Sand

Sharp turns in sand = Abby fall down.

We had to slow down. And no one wanted to add time at this point.

And then the sun was going down.

And no one wanted that either.

And to get to 500 miles (because WE ARE GETTING THERE, DAMMIT), we had to bike passssssssst LAX. And then turn around and come back.

LAX. So close, but so far away.

And then we were using my 500 lumen headlight, which I shouldn't have had on high, because then it started dying. At this point, progress was slow and careful. Lights from the power station helped. I almost couldn't keep up anymore.

Robin was doing some excellent math. Or Googlemaps was. But either way, he said, "We turn around here."

I trusted.

This is the last stop.

We had to get off the water and cut over the the airport. Luckily it was well-lit, but it was highway and there were cars. We stopped to awe at the giantness of LAX. It was kind of cool.

And then I made Robin check his Garmin every 30 seconds. We didn't want to miss it. (Note: I reset mine each day, but he kept his running for the whole ride.)

About half a mile from the AVIS Rent-A-Car. It happened.

We must have both been braindead because Robin biked right past the Avis. We turned around to pull into the lot and biked up to the door.

And then we got off of the bikes.

After a snafu with the first vehicle (GAH!) we were finally on our way to the Amtrak station. I am sure I looked crazy as I clomp-clomp-clopmed through the station looking for the freight pick up place. Bags retrieved!

Buzzing by LA at night. Cool.

I offered to rocheambeau for the first shower, which Robin accepted. Dude, shoulda just let the lady go first. I'm just saying. But I won. #karma

Kortney made an amazing healthy dinner, and we shared some wine. Somewhere between drinking a third glass and talking about God, Robin passed out on the floor.

Kortney is amazing.

My gratitude for your hospitality will never be rightly expressed, KP!

Day 5. Los Angeles to San Francisco.

This about sums it up:

Enough said.



Thank you, Robin. I will never forget this trip for the rest of my life.

Have I recovered? Ish.

Have I ridden a bike since? Almost every single day.

Have my legs forgiven me? Shut up, legs!

Ride on!



Free Love

"What's gonna set you free?
Look inside and you'll see
When you've got so much to say
It's called gratitude, and that's right."

--The Beastie Boys, "Gratitude."

This afternoon, taking advantage of the chilly but dry and sunny weather, I did something that had been on my mind for a while: I washed two (out of three) of my bikes. As I was detailing Sugar and Cadel, passersby commented on what I was doing.

"Wow, you must really love your bikes."

"That's a labor of love."

"You show your bikes a lot more love than I do!"

I smiled and said something friendly back, generally about how I ride them a lot and they get dirty. I scrubbed at the cassettes, washed frames and brakes, and removed greasy specks with my secret weapon (Mr. clean Magic Eraser! Works like a charm!). I contemplated this notion:

Do I love my bikes?

It didn't take me long to arrive at the conclusion that I don't love the machines themselves. Sure, I name them (Bella, Sugar, and Cadel are the current fleet; past members included Candy, Ruby, and Tuesday). I wash them. I tune them and replace their parts and try to take care of them. These are acts of operations and maintenance. Are they acts of love?

Certainly, I don't feel about my bikes the way I feel about people. I don't "love" my bikes the way I love my family and friends. Scrubbing a cassette isn't like cooking a meal with my sister, or painting with water colors with my nephew. Greasing a chain isn't like chatting with my mom, or texting with Pam, or meeting Christy for dinner.

So, why do I "love all over my bikes" (as Kim would say)?

I value greatly the experiences and friendships that have come to me through cycling. I value the weekends at Deep Creek and the mutual suffering of roads named Sugarlands, Limestone, Bowman, Miller, and the climb to Wisp. I value pit stops in Poolesville with Olwen... and all the Doritos. I value the camaraderie of a perfectly executed double pace line at Asilomar Beach. I value Martha chasing after me on that darned QRoo as I gazelled up the hills at Sea Otter on Miss Sugar... and now that she has a real road bike, I love her for chasing after me to come ride with her in Utah. I cherish getting lost with Pam in West Virginia. I can't live without being deafened by cicadas with Olwen on our Skyline Century. And the barbecue potato chips that saved my life. I need to chase Scottie's jorts in Colorado. And I love his "computer" that reads "BAMF" at all times (and altitudes). Lest Kim be left out, I will say just this: Pinkypants. Cruising the course in San Diego with Andrea. Riding Sean's wheel like a pro on the P-loop. Breaking 50 mph with those 4 random dudes from Georgia. Crushing technical descents in Marin and likening it to skiing. Sunrise on Spanish Bay. Finding Jan and Cath, then Doug, Elizabeth, Kathy, And Sheri in Monterey...

The things I've seen, the places I've been, and the friendships I've made--because of the bikes--have changed my life.

I don't talk about it much, but here it is: when I ride, I pray. I didn't know I was doing it at first. Once, on one of my first really long rides, I was admiring the rolling hills and countryside in Montgomery County and I realized that I'd been talking to God for a while. I was singing a children's hymn, "Thank You, Lord," in my head. It was like it was playing in the background and suddenly the volume got louder and louder as I rode on. As I climb a hill, I thank God for giving me the strength to make it up. When I see a beautiful landscape, I thank God for putting me in that place at that moment so I could see it. I thank Him for giving me the opportunity to spend time outside in beautiful places with beautiful people. I thank Him for keeping us all safe. I call riding my "gratitude time."

In the past several years of life's twists and turns, I confess my faith has often been shaken. When things seem most confused, I can shove snacks and cash in my jersey pockets, fill the water bottles, jump on the machine and know that somewhere out there, the volume will start to increase, and the gratitude will take over. Whatever the plan is: thank you, Lord, for giving me life. Right where I am.

I've been struggling to find my path lately. Rather than dwell, though, I have been riding a lot, finding lots of gratitude and having some good chats with The Big Guy.

So. The bikes. Do I love them?

Sure, in a way. Goodness knows we spend a lot of time together. They are the instruments of some serious joy. Of course, when they wear out or break down (or if I win the Mega Millions), they could be swapped out for new instruments. I certainly don't feel that way about my friends!

I love the life that the bikes have enabled, and I will show those machines my gratitude and LOVE with a bath every now and then, yes.

Thanks, bikes.

More thanks: friends!