Day 2 - LOOK PARIS, THE LAW IS THE LAW!

While yesterday went like clockwork, the excitement of the ride pushing us along as much as the 20-mile mph tail wind, Day two would prove to be a little different. Beginning with legs that were not quite as springy, a somewhat late roll out, and our once loved wind now blowing in the opposite direction, we began what was advertised as the easiest day of the week. No sooner did we knock the dust off our tires, than the first tube exploded off Jeff’s wheel – a shot so loud and crisp that poor Will thought that he was back in Iraq as he dove for cover behind the ’73 Pinto in baby puke green parked along the side of the road.



















It was just after this that the real fun began. As we rolled toward the outskirts of Santa Cruz the directions had us making a right hand turn and crossing over highway One. The hiccup in this arrangement is that the turn fell in line with one of those octagonal red signs – you know, the ones with the giant white letters, STOP! Naturally, as three of our group failed this first test in the basic driver’s handbook, the Highway Patrol car, parked directly opposite, looked on. The rest of us, mindful of the scene that was sure to follow, came screeching to a halt, signaled and made the first legal move of the day. Not 100-meters ahead lay the next of those evil signs, only this time our new riding mate in the black and white Crown Victoria had joined the peloton. Our same traffic rules challenged riders took the same offensive driving in hand and rolled through the second Stop as well – only this time they did it beside Officer Fife.


















“ALL THREE OF YOU, PULL OVER TO THE SIDE” came booming over his PA. Jeff and I, having stopped yet again, giggled and rode on. Poor Will, being young and trusting, had once again followed Wayne and Ron, and was forced to pull to the side of the road – his head dropped in shame.

Now clustered in humiliation – “yes, officer” and “no, officer” coming in harmony, finally ended with the parting words of our small town LAW – our stalwart peace officer said, a wad of Redman dribbling down his chin, “you big city boys may think you can flaunt the rules, but the law is the law!”

Bobo, not one to let a good photo op go by, began clicking away – hopes of “why can’t we all just get along” dancing in his head.


















Things continued to spiral away as we picked up speed through the strawberry fields. Wayne’s glistening new bike began to clickity-clack with every rotation of the pedals; cursing all that is holy, he skidded to a halt and picking up his brand new Orbea, he tossed it with all his might. Seeing that he is now down to about 140 lbs, the toss was less than spectacular, and flew about a foot and half – right into the waiting arms of Curt (who is looking not much more robust, as his riding kit is beginning to hang like Ray Bolger as the Scarecrow from the final scene of The Wizard of Oz.
















Meanwhile, Steve, in a repeat of the previous day’s adventure, made yet one more wrong turn. This would not be nearly as humorous was it not for the fact that he carried a detailed route card listing every turn (see also: previous posting). This led, ultimately to today’s title bearer of the Lantern Rouge (use your best French accent here). This let Axe off the hook for both this sad title and his nickname of the day before. Although Steve was very clear in his insistence that if forced to wear Axe’s dirty red bike shorts he would go home – never to talk to us again. “Any friend of Carter’s is bound to have some kind of funk”, he shouted in despair.













Things quieted down for the run into Monterey. The group was largely together – though there was still some question as to what part of central California Steve and John were exploring. With a unanimous vote for soda and Snickers, we rolled into the local Valero service station. Milling about, sugar and caffeine easing the miles, the shop attendant, Richard, stuck his head out the door, “Are you guys going to be here for a few minutes more”, he asked – hope in his eyes. With our affirmative response, he jumped out the door, “could you keep an eye on the place while I’m gone”, “I’ll be back in five minutes”, he shouted as he tore off down the street.

Now if you have ever watched Lost, this brought to mind the poor schmo who was stuck pushing the button simply because the last guy asked for a favor while he stepped out for a break. We looked at each other and began debating who would have to relocate to the gas station until the next sucker showed up looking like an easy mark.


















The big event of the ride was meant to be the photo op as we crossed the Bixby Bridge. This was planned to be a simple task, hand Dennis the camera, line up and ride, while he snaps away. Little did we count on the fact that Bobo – our professional sports photographer - would be lining the shot up for his attempt at the Pulitzer Prize. Picture the sight of nine malnourished and shivering cyclists, the wind whipping off the ocean, huddled together while using every synonym they could think of to describe his actions.
















Colin, his trusty walkie-talkies at the ready, bravely laid out the plan. After more than 30-minutes of shivering, our combined core temperature just above “soft-serve”, were to line up and ride across the bridge – only to turn around and do it again. By this time in the ride, my inability to hide my impatience was becoming harder to suppress. A point that was brought out with much glee during the mornings roll away photo op.

Luckily, this last hurdle came with little more than 20-miles to go to the waiting comfort of the cabins, day two, officially in the bag. Here’s hoping that the law is on our side for tomorrow.

Santa Cruz to Big Sur
81 Miles
4347 Feet of Climbing