More cycling memories from Pee Oui

America’s top stage race, the Tour of California, kicked off on Sunday in Escondido, north of San Diego. It attracts some of the best pro cyclists in the world for eight days of racing, at least those who don’t want to risk running themselves down by riding the concurrent Giro d’ Italia for three weeks.  This year the race runs south to north, which is the wrong direction in California as the coast wind is relentless, usually blowing from the north.  Usually.

The Tour o' Cali is spending little time on the coast this year so it won’t likely matter.  They only hit it once on Stage 5 from Santa Barbara to Avila Beach.  Race info mentions head winds might be a problem.  Bring it on.  I’ve biked all or parts of the coast twice.  Wind was a constant factor - good or bad.

The first time I rode the coast was in ’82 when I was young and super fit.  I did an 1,800 mile solo bike ride from San Diego to Portland.  I was completely self-contained, camping and preparing my food all the way.  I only ate in cafes twice the whole distance.

The ride brought humility, something I lacked back then.  Several friends had biked the coast.  They told me of the incredible beauty and warned that I'd want to ride north to south because of the wind.  How bad could it be?  I knew wind.  I was in great shape.  Besides, it was a tour.  And, my daughter Holly had spent a year of high school in Wisconsin .  I'd gotten 2-fer airline tickets to San Diego, so starting there made sense.  Or not.

The first day up the coast was a short one.  The wind was formidable.  My gearing ran from a 39 low to a 104 high.  Sure hadn't expected to spend so much time in the 40s.  Day two was longer, a haul all the way to Santa Monica where I'd spend a day with friends.  As I ground away on a long ocean side stretch, I could make out a strange looking outfit in the distance.  I wasn't closing very fast, but approaching saw it was a homemade bike trailer with a huge pack.  It was pulled by a guy on a Motobecane.  He was brown as a berry, lean as a whip.  His long hair was bleached blond by the sun.

"Where are you from," I asked.  "Chermany," he replied with a heavy accent.  "How long have you been riding?"  "Two and a half years."  He'd been all through South America .  "Do you know how much further it is to Santa Monica." he asked.  "About 30 miles," I said.  All the energy drained from his face.  "I sink I get a motor bike.  I am very tired of bicycling." 

I knew I was in for it.  The coast wind is tough.  It doesn't wait til mid morning to come up.  Sun's up.  Wind's up.  And it doesn't die until sunset.  There is hardly any shelter from it on the coast highway.  I saw lots of people biking the coast, but nearly all going north to south pushed by the wind.  The only people going my way were foreigners and idiots.  I knew which category I fell into. 

With that came humility.  Acceptance of what each day dealt out.  I had no set itinerary.  Keep pedaling and eventually you get there.  I'd bike until I found a beautiful spot, take a long break and bike some more.  I visited incredible places like San Simeon State Beach, Big Sur and Point Lobos, unsurpassed in the world.  The wind was there every day.  I never let it beat me down.  I just kept pedaling. 

There was no Tour of California in those days.  One had been run for several years in the '70s and attracted a good number of top American, Mexican and some Euros, but the economic climate didn't support it.  Met a guy with a bike shop in Grenoble, France in the '80s, Za-Za was his racing name, who had proudly ridden it.

The route up the coast is historic highway 101 and 1.  They were El Camino Real, the King's Highway when Spain possessed California, connecting 21 missions between San Diego and Sonoma, a little way north of San Francisco.  In the early 19th Century Spain was anxious to put substance in their claim, under the pretext of bringing Christianity to the Indians, by establishing the missions.  Many are still preserved and worth a visit.  Their thick abobe walls, built by the Indians of course, keep them cool during the day.  They are also quite earth quake proof.  The Mission Dolores in San Francisco survived the devastating 1906 while a modern church nearby crumbled. 

The real reason Spain wanted the missions was to curb the expansion of Russia in the region.  The lucrative fur trade in sea otter pelts had them pushing down the northern California coast even as far as Sonoma County.  There you can visit Fort Ross State Park where the Russian trading post is preserved.

In the 1920s the 139-mile stretch of Highway 1 was pushed through Big Sur along the coast from Monterey to Morrow Bay.  Much work was done with prison labor by crews from St Quentin this time.  It created one of the most spectacular ocean side highways in the world.  It is often fraught with land slides and repair is an ongoing process.  There is a terrific bike path the whole distance.  It's painted white and is four inches wide.  You ride it.

The second time I bike the coast was in 2010.  My ride coincided with the running of the Tour of California.  I the trip envisioned recapturing some of the beauty and challenge of my '82 tour, but going south from San Rafael  to San Luis Obispo with the wind at my back.  Of course, I was 28 years older, 30 pounds heavier, but the bike was about 10 pounds lighter. 

I took AMTRAK from San Diego to San Francisco.  First the Surfliner from SD to Santa Barbara.  This is a great train.  There are hooks to hang your bike on and you can buy Arrogant Bastard Ale in the 22 ounce bottle on board.  Bike on a hook, a beer with my name on it, and awesome ocean views.  At Santa Barbara you get transferred to an AMTRAK bus and the quality of the experience goes off a cliff.  The trip totaled 14 hours of travel.  When the high speed rail line is completed it will take 5 hours. 

My friend Sky Yaeger picked me up in San Francisco about 10 pm and drove me to her place in San Rafael.  We drank every Belgian beer she had and listened to her incredible retro music collection until 4 am.  My head was as thick as a San Francisco Bay fog in the morning.  Fortunately she'd scheduled a ride with friends at 11 so I had to actually get rolling.  They rode with me until they were sure I'd find my way to the Golden Gate Bridge.  The ocean side of the bridge path is designated for bikes only.  That's two-way bike traffic.  The wind was gusting so hard I had to clench the bars to keep the bike going straight.

I made it to the Point Montara hostel by dark, about 60 miles down the coast, opting for a cheap bed rather than setting up a tent in the dark.  I could get computer time at the hostel.  The hour-to-hour forecast for the next day showed possible showers and a 13 mph head wind.  Piece of cake.  Can of corn.  It was only a bit over 50 miles to Santa Cruz.  There I'd find my daughter in law's brother Bill Garcia and his family who would put me up for a couple of nights.  The Amgen Tour of California would be finishing there the next day.

One of the great things about hostels is the people you meet.  I'd had a nice time the night before talking with a German woman who was taking a break between Univ and grad school where she would study to be a submarine engineer.  Not engineering submarines, but undersea oil drilling equipment.  In the morning everyone (other stories there too) had left, but she'd been out in the fog taking photos, and she took the shot of me. 

By the time I got going it was late morning.  I got to the top of the hill, not more than a mile or so and it started to rain.  There was a cafe there so I swung in figuring a let breakfast would allow the rain to pass (it wasn't in the hour-to-hour).  Another hour of reading and writing and the rain did let up.  Heading out it was now after 1 pm.

I was heading onto a particularly deserted stretch of coast.  It swings to the southeast, into the predicted wind.  No services whatsoever save water and porta potties at the beach parking lots.  And it's hardly ever flat.  The beach access stretches are short in cove bottoms.  Elevation changes aren't that great, about 200 feet, but very steep and frequent.

The passing showers brought a strong wind, more like 20 and getting gusty.  It continued to increase.  Soon it was 25 to thirty with gusts to 50.  I was in the aero position in order to make 8 to 10 mph.  I'm starting to do the math: 48 miles at 8 mph is six hours, about the time it starts to get dark.  But, of course, I can tough it out and increase my average, to 10 mph and have a cushion.  Or maybe not.  My right knee is acting up.  I get off the bike on some really steep slopes.

I kept passing or being passed by three guys on mountain bikes with slicks each pulling gear a Bob trailers.  One had an actual surf board on the trailer.  Then the rain started.  I put my rain top on.  It flapped in the wind and soon was saturated.  Driven by the wind the rain drops stung my face and eyeballs.  This isn't supposed to be happening.  The hour-to-hour forecast had none of this.  What's gone wrong?  Technology has let me down.  The gusts slapped so hard I could barely keep  moving forward.  There was no payback on the downhills.  I had to brake to keep the speed under control as the gusts swirling through the coves had me all over the road.

Then it hit me.  I was 64 years old and I'd never ridden though a storm this bad.  With that reality my attitude did a 180 degree turn.  Now it was a challenge.  I was going to beat it.  It was a peak experience I'd probably never have again.  And my mantra came to me:  Lyrics from Simon& Garfunkle's "The Boxer."

In the clearing stands a boxer

And a fighter by his trade

And he carries the reminders

Of ev'ry glove that layed him down

Or cut him till he cried out

In his anger and his shame

"I am leaving, I am leaving"

But the fighter still remains

I realized it's not throwing punches that makes a fighter.  It's taking punches and coming back to fight again are the mark of a fighter.  That day I was taking punches.  But the fighter still remains.  But the fighter still remains.

Bill mercifully drove out and met me in Davenport, a one tavern (more mercy) town just north of Santa Cruz.  This was good as one beer was not enough and it was getting dark.  So I didn't have to navigate to his home.  He'd snagged VIP passes to the tent 50 meters from the finish line for the Tour of California the next day.  There were big screen TVs, free food and beer.  Bill and I are proof you can drink Michelob Ultra Light for 4 hours straight and not even get a buzz (yes, that was the only beer available). 

Got to watch Zabriskie, Rogers and Leipheimer sprint for the win and the phenom Peter Sagan, who just one a stage in this year's tour, cross first from the bunch.  Later I got autographs from Cancellara, Voigt and O'Grady.  Told O'Grady the poster I had brought along had the autographs of 16 Paris-Roubaix winners on it, but not his.  "We'll have to fix that right now, won't we mate." he shot back.  I learned the finish time that day was slower than the slowest predicted time by a lot.  They had ridden through that storm the day before too.  Lance Armstrong finished in the pack, but I didn't sport him.  More on Lance later.

I caught up with the three riders with the surf board a couple of days later in Monterey.  They were glad to see the guy they called "Ax Man" for my plastic ax/flag pole.  There is safety to be had with high vis.  They told me they'd only made 15 miles the day of the storm.  Made me feel pretty good about my fight to ride 50.  Their combined ages likely barely exceeded mine.

When I checked in at the hostel in Monterey there was an extremely fit looking cyclist in line behind me.  He was a Hollander named Jon Schmitz.  He was riding with minimal gear, just a tiny, well ventilated back pack.  He had made it all the way from San Francisco that day, 150 miles.  Schmitz planned to do 107 miles from Monterey to the hostel in Cambria .  Included is the Big Sur and other killer climbs.  He was heading south to catch a stage of the Tour of California too.

I'd planned on camping in the Big Sur and making it a two-day trip.  A wicked strong tailwind was predicted.  I'd noticed a Kinko's/Fed Ex a block from the hostel and it hit me I could ship my camping gear home and with a lightened bike make it to Cambria.  Nearly 20 pounds lighter I faced the century challenge.  The climbs were daunting, but the scenery spectacular.  The wind felt like a big warm hand pushing me up the hills.  Once over and on the flat near San Simeon if was flying like Lance on a double-dose day.  Made it to the hostel in Cambria just after dark.  Schmitz was already in the sack and very surprised to see me.

The next day I had a good tailwind again for the 40 mile ride to the hostel in San Luis Obispo.  I did a side trip 15 miles to scenic Morro Bay with it's 500-foot hay stack rock, the remnant of a volcanic plug.  After 70 miles riding it was time for some sampling at Central Coast Brewing before an early rest at the hostel.  I had to be on the Surfliner heading back south at 6:45 the next morning to make it to Los Angeles in time for the Tour of California individual time trial.

It was only about ten miles from the train station to the race venue in downtown L.A.  The TT is known as the race of truth since riders go against the clock.  This would be a showdown between Zabriski, Leipheimer, Sagan and Mick Rogers who would win the race overall.  It was spectacular to watch.  You can really tell who's on and who's not.  A big disappointment was Cancellara.  The individual TT is his speciality.  He's famous for cutting through the corners full power with razor thin clearance.  That day he was just dogging it. 

Bigger news than Aussie Rogers winning would be Floyd Landis press conference that afternoon where he expanded on his confession that he had doped during Tour de France and his accusation that Lance Armstrong had too.  We all know where that lead.  Didn't hear the conference.  Was pedaling back to the station for the late Surfliner back to San Diego and more Arrogant Bastard Ale as I watched the sun set over the Pacific.  The end of an exciting week on the coast in many, many ways.

I’ll be on the coast again Memorial Day week.  Nothing as ambitious as before, just a couple of days on the central coast near San Luis Obispo.  I’ll check out the reports that Cal Trans, their DOT, has resurfaced Highway 1 with some cheap material that has made it unsafe to ride and blog my impressions.   Some club riders are calling it a travesty and group tours have been cancelled. 

Stay tuned,

Pee Oui