502 Miles covered
19928 Feet of climbing
17500 calories burned on average per rider
9 flat tires
1 broken frame
5 new tires mounted
1 really broken wheel
1 shredded derailleur cable
1 new bottom bracket – or was it a loose chain ring bolt?
120 GU packs
100 Sport Bean packs
20 gallons of water
2 cases of Grandma’s Cookies
12 riders
1 driver
And the not-to-be-forgotten 12 cold bottles of cold Coke at the final service stop in Santa Monica – thanks Dennis, we needed that.
And we haven’t counted the aches and pains.
The ride ended as it started, everyone still getting along, still loving the bike, and already talking about next year.
Today took us out of Santa Barbara for a very fast and relatively flat blast down the coastline to Redondo Beach. As has become the norm, miles 10 – 20 were marked with the daily flat tire – but for once, this wasn’t Jeff.
We were joined by two new riders fresh off the train from to OC; Paul Greubel and Jim “the Gimp” Spencer, part of the Canari Navy OC contingent. Along with the spare bike for Will, they also came with huge power for the flats – a point that Bobbo was very happy for, having given his all the day before in an attempt to seal the “King of the Mountain” claim.
The original plan was to try and stay together for the ride; this lasted until mile 15. This marked the second stop for flats for the morning; the first was the Gimp – which everyone patiently waited for. A few miles later, the second flat occurred, this time it was me - drat the bad luck.
No worries, I thought, the boys will wait and we will be back on the road in minutes.
Silly me; Carter – still reeling from being caught in the final feet for the sprint to the hotel in Santa Barbara, took this opportunity to lead what had become the group of Steve and John (naturally), Will, Axe, and Colin - the gang of six - in a run for the prize of who would finish first.
Don’t let anyone try and fool you, like everything in life, this was a race. As we watched our “friends” abandon us on the side of the road, I realized that it was going to be a much harder day than originally planned.
Now I’m a true believer in Karma, you get out of life what you deserve – some good, some not so.
This was to be the rule today as well. We rolled into the first service only minutes after the first group. Now I’ve spoken before of choices in life – here was yet one more. On the one hand, Carter and company could do the right thing: give us a few minutes to get water and food, saddle up and finish as a team. On the other hand, they could quickly grab their bikes, hurl a few choice bragging rights at us, and rip out for the next stage. You got it - they chose option two, to include sacrificing one of their own in the quest for victory. Poor Axe, who was having a great day, had stepped behind the building to spend a quiet moment of contemplation only to hear the cackle of his group as they sprinted away.
So now you’re thinking, what about the Karma; where does fair play come into this; how can the heroes be left behind while the villains ride off for an unearned win. Ok, I apologize, I got a little worked up there – I just watched Sly Stallone in Victory, and was caught up in the right vs wrong thing. Back to the Karma.
10 miles or so out of the service stop, as we flew down PCH toward Zuma beach, we saw Carter across the street at the local fill-up station. Over the roar of traffic, the whir of our tires, and the slapping of tongues against the tires, we heard him yell, “Hey guys! Over here!” while waiving his arms in what was clearly panic.
We screeched to a halt, concerned for the group – someone had to be. I pulled out my phone and called, ready to spring into action. The call went something like this:
“Hey, how’s it going buddy?” Carter asked – a touch of mischievous curiosity in his voice.
“What’s wrong?”, I asked, still panting from the effort.
“Nothing, I was just waving hello.”
I could still hear the laughing as I rolled back to the group. The anger and comments that were laid out in Carter’s general direction by my riding mates have no place in a family blog such as this.
Later I got the truth. It seems that in his haste to get on the road, leading a fine group of guys in his evil ways, he failed to get food and sugar. A few more miles of effort spelled his defeat – BONK!
The stop required the following:
28 oz Coke
Three Musketeer Bar
And a pre-packaged hoagie – the label said it was made in the Republic of Germany and earmarked for Team Telekom.
Later we learned that Steve had a choice comment following the phone call, Looking Carter dead in the face, “Oh you %#*@^&, I wanted to ride with them!”
The healthy food choices seemed to be enough; with his now trademark phrase “I think I have one more in me”, apparently he was able to take some monstrous pulls in an attempt to close the gap – but it was not to be. Again, this was never a race.
Once into the last Service Stop in Santa Monica – the site of the aforementioned cold cokes – we all met up for the final 20-mile stretch down the bike paths through Venice Beach. Imagine the stares at muscle beach as 14 emaciated cyclists rolled through.
Rolling into the final stop in Redondo Beach was bittersweet; though everyone was tired and sore, it seemed like only yesterday that we rolled out of San Francisco. The ride of a lifetime!
What do you say, Western Washington next year anyone?
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