Conquering the Twins

Quadruple shot 16oz vanilla latte.

This pretty much tells you how the ride is going today. Note the use of the present tense: IS GOING. It is after 5:00, and we're still 15 miles out from camp.

That is partially my fault: I needed the java in order to continue.

We've been riding since about 7:30 this morning and we're going to cover a little over 95 miles by the time we hit camp.

Today's ride -- as noted in a previous dispatch-- covered the Evil Twins, two identically seemingly endless climbs that went about 1,000 feet vertical.

The downhill, my friends, was unbeflippinlievable. I felt like I was flying. Clear, wide shoulders, covering about a million miles (estimation), overlooking Paso Robles and the Pacific. And then, when the adrenaline wore off, I was still facing 50 more miles of riding, most of it next to beautiful coastline.

Gotta get back on that bike. Fifteen more miles to go.

The Evil Twins

Riders pump tires, snack, stretch and all around prepare for the 1,000 foot climb up the section known as "The Evil Twins." The hill is apparently broken into two sections. Just as you're done cursing the first part, around the bend rests his evil twin.

King City to Paso Robles

I hear him long before I see him, but more than curiosity, I search out this big Meatloaf look-alike with the beads, cowboy hat, pony tail, lab coat and purple skirt because I NEED him. I need him like I've needed no other man in my life. More accurately, I need the power he wields and I'm willing to walk awkwardly over 200 feet in my cycling shoes to get it.

He stands with an air of comfortable authority, legs slightly apart, shaking a rattling stick covered with long bandanas and curling ribbon, at the top of which sits the head of Jack Skellington (of Nightmare Before Christmas fame). Or maybe it's Jack's twin.

Riders pass and he asks who will be next; who needs the good energy. Embarrassed riders walk on by, ignorant ignorami that they are; but I, like the several other riders around me, I am a knowing knower, and what I know has needs. I go to him like a moth to a light. A smart, needy moth.

I stand before him, my arms outstretched, ready.

He begins rattling is great energy stick and rumbles from deep within his person,"MMMMMOOOOJJJOOOOOOOO!!!!"

This is the Mojo Man, and from what I understand, he's been with the ride for at least the last few years. Some riders get it: he's just sending them good vibes. Others riders don't, and think that it's all silly and embarrassing and mumbojumbo.

And to all of this I say: YESSSSSS. Yes. Yes and more yes.

It is highly likely that what the Mojo Man does is farcical. It is certainly silly. And different. It is also very real, this transference of energy, in ways I can't completely comprehend. But I'll try to sum it up simply: Energy begets energy.

It's like a snowball rolling downhill, that slowly becomes a roaring avalanche and overtakes the hills below.

It's how we were able to ride almost 80 miles, then hop on the bike the next day and pump out another 105. And then hop on today and do another 75. The more energy we put out, the more energy we are able to put out. It goes out and yet still somehow builds within. Maybe we're sending it out to each other, each of us, our small droplets of energy, and they have a ripple effect onto our fellow riders.

Another example: Today was the biggest climb so far, known as the Quad Buster. This rat bastard of a climb covers roughly 1,500 vertical feet in just under 1 mile. There are no switchbacks. We saw the entire beast as it lay before us, and it was uuuuuugly. And so we did all we could do: We pedaled. And pedaled. And cursed and focused and sweated, and pedaled some more. And then the most amazing thing happened: About 2/3 of the way up, we heard screaming and music and cars honking. Cheering. Happiness. This great wave of energy was roiling from above, building as we neared, urging us on, pulling us up.

The whole mood suddenly felt different. Not easier; just... less hard. I took it in, all of it, the music, the cheering, all those good vibes; I took it all in like oxygen. And I made it to the top, no stopping.

SIDE NOTE: The downhill side flippin' rocked.

And this, gentle reader, this is why I seek out the Mojo Man. This is why, when he offers is booming luck, his good vibes, his good and great mojo, why I drink it in like Gatorade. Because I feel somehow different. Better.

Sated, I head out, and ride in the face of brilliant 95 degree day with the same amount of care and a little more energy.

I got the good mojo on me, baby. That's what it's all about.

Santa Cruz to King City

Today's ride was 105 miles. It was by far the longest ride I've ever done, and I think, if not for this communique, I would be off in dreamland.

We rode from Santa Cruz to King City, two towns likely never otherwise associated, if not for this sentence. Having done all my training out near Auberry Road and Millerton Lake in the Fresno area, I'd like to point out that I have become somewhat of an expert on a few things. And if you ride those roads, pat yourself on the back: you are right there with me.

First off, these two towns (and all those in between) know nothing of crappy road conditions. What a bunch of wimps! They have wide bike lanes (yes, ACTUAL BIKE LANES), clear and smooth, with only the occasional sprinkling of rocks. I think you would all agree with me that you are not a real cyclist until you brave Millerton Road, with its six inch "lane" while drunken gamblers roar past.

But hey-- why pave and clean up the shoulder when we could have a velodrome?

Second, I know road kill. I've smelled road kill. I've practically ridden over road kill. And this stuff here, sir, is no road kill. I saw a squirrel. I saw a racoon, but it was off in the bushes, and might have died of natural causes. And I saw a snake-- a whole snake that frankly looked as though it were merely stunned so I'm not even counting that.

Look, you want a second career? Become a furrier and travel Auberry Road.

Not so out here. Where are the coyotes, I wonder? The dogs, cats, foxes, frogs and rats? I'm used to the flattened petting zoo that is my usual ride, complete with a rigor mortis ostrich.

Finally, this weather... I'm leaving that one alone. Gift horse, et al.

One hundred five miles. Despite my "expertise," it wasn't until today that I felt like a real cyclist.

Day One: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

Today was on of those amazing, incredible, once-in-a-lifetime days, from the moment I woke up, to this very minute, and counting every second in between.

Much like having a baby, despite what others told me I couldn't quite comprehend what the actual experience would be like until I faced the labor. And this, the first day of the AIDS/Lifecycle Ride, was filled with labor by more people than I can possibly count.

We rose at 3:45 a.m. to ready ourselves and taxi over to the Cow Palace for Opening Day Ceremonies by 5. There, 1,840 riders met, stretched, panicked, carbo-loaded and after much pep-talking, headed out into the balmy (for San Francisco) 60 degree weather and began the fifth annual ride.

It was a breathtaking sight: hundreds and hundreds of riders, enthused beyond words, wound our through the streets of San Francisco, taking up an entire lane of traffic.

Despite the craziness of the hour, the road was periodically lined with onlookers, cheerleaders, family members, sign holders, police officers, roadies-- all of them supporters.

The day was like a dream. One minute, we were winding our way through city streets, the next, suburbans neighborhoods. We followed foggy, tree-lined highways, only to find ourselves facing sunshine and breathtaking ocean views around a different bend. We labored up hills we thought would never end, only to be surprised by the speed and distance we covered in a matter of seconds heading downhill. There were stands of Eucalyptus trees, and stretches of strawberry fields, grassy meadows, and the expansive Pacific.

Only, this wasn't a dream, and I could feel every mile I pedaled. I knew the moment I stopped watching the road or the cyclists around me would be the moment I would lose all control of the bike. It was hazy and comfortable like a dream, but the reality of danger was intense.

One rider was seriously injured when an impatient motorist turned directly into his cycling path in order to make left-hand turn. Two others received roadrash for momentary lapses of concentration - either their's, or others. Bloody noses, scraped faces, chins and knees - abrasions on this first day that will serve as stinging reminders in the days ahead to always be mindful.

There were cheerleaders. Actual shouting, happy cheerleaders banging drums and singing out praises. There were dancers - older retirees blasting tunes from their car, energetic women in their 40s rocking our to ABBA's "Dancing Queen" and then an actual dancing queen, as in of Sheba, an undulating belly dancer who appeared out of a hazy mist in the distance.

There were the riders of the Monty Python-esque tall bikes and the low, long recumbant bikes, rolling past, and then suddenly, with the ocean crashing on my right, sloping hills to my left, a table filled with pies lay before me. Pumpkin pies. Delicious, free, perfect, totally out-of-season pumpkin pies.

I would say I was in a Slvador Dali painting if not for the lack of melting clocks - though time passed in the same, lolling fashion.

And just as suddnely as the magically appearing pie stand, the ride ended. Passing cheering people, rainbows wigs, and yet more signs, we entered a purple tent city in a park in Santa Cruz where we will spend the night.

And dream. Strange, cycling-filled dreams.