Road Riding Rox

For the second Tuesday in a row I have had no work, and am still nursing a bit of post-exam ennui, so I decided to spend today's precious booty of discretionary time on a road ride, this week with a cool new guy from Capetown that I met on my commute from Being Alive last week.

The unruly energy feeling is beginning to creep back in, I think as much from two and a half months of almost total denial of fun or down time as much as anything. Or maybe I'm just smelling the barn and making a crazy break for it because I'm finally so close back to home after this long, long outing. In any case, it's a very good thing that finals are less than 3 weeks away, and these are my last finals ever. There are not words to express how ready and how excited I am to get back to a more balanced and human schedule again, to pick up my music, my books, my friends, my bikes, my trails, etc. and all the things that feed my soul and make my heart sing.

So I picked up the road bike last week, and shucked it of all its commuter trappings. It took forever to assemble everything I needed, and I was 2 blocks from my house before I realized I'd ridden off and left the water bottles stranded on my table. But my lazy start and disorganization paid off as the cold cloud cover retreated and the warm sun took its place--warm enough for a sleeveless jersey, even.

As I wended my way down to PCH I considered my options: should I go for a complete ass-kicking up Fernwood-Saddle Peak that would get my body's attention, or should I listen to the insistent burn in my quads left over from Sunday's dirt adventure and go for a more measured return to sporty life? Yeah, of course--duh! You know perfectly well I chose the ass-kicking because I almost always do. It's my...idiom (Super Nerd Points for those who get that reference).

And it wasn't nearly as painful as I had feared it might be, although I was slow and stopped when I felt like it without apology. It was such a beautiful day--I could almost have mistaken it for spring, except the shadows my figure cast across the road were different. And resigning myself to riding a little slower reminded me all over again of David Byrne's splendid quote about loving to forget, because it makes everything a joyful new discovery again. Since I wasn't obsessed with the computer or obligated to try and keep up with a group, I got to truly listen, to be empty so that I could be filled with the present. I smelled the chaparral on the air, I saw riotous color flecks of wildflowers defiantly blooming like warm spring was around the corner, and the ribbon of black road unfurling itself before me and impelling me shamelessly deeper down the primrose path of clandestine delight over being out in this on my simple, pure contraption of aluminum tubes when by all rights I should be doing something more grownup and staid on a late Tuesday morning. I had the saddle and the descent all to myself. I felt the golden nourishment of the warm sun on my skin. It felt like love. It was love. Everything about such days and rides is love.

Today's ride felt much the same, although the weather was different and we decided to go for Piuma since Chris is fairly new in town and hasn't learned all of his Malibu canyons yet. I picked him up at Ocean and San V and away we dove, down, down chilly Santa Monica Canyon to the coast road below. It was as if the weather has having a tug-of-war between cold damp grey and understated sunshine until we began heading north up into Malibu Canyon when the cloud won out. The whole canyon was bald and frizzle-fried and burnt-smelling from the fires last month. The ceiling was high, but there were swirls of mist blowing through the gaps in the higher ridges, and a wicked cross wind on Piuma that nearly blew me off the backside of the overlook. It was almost cold enough to climb in arm warmers, which for me is pretty cold--somewhere floating around are pictures of me racing the '93 Mt. Baldy HC in the snow wearing nothing but my skimpy little skinsuit and being totally comfortable (until I spent 10 minutes at the top waiting for the team van that had all of my warm clothes for the descent, but that's another story...might I add that the frigid descent through the icy rain was another story still...)

Around Valle Lindo we finally gained the ridge above the thin cloud we had been switchbacking in, and the wind mellowed and the sun felt gentle and warm, the sky open and azure. Chris beat me to the top by a couple of minutes and I rolled up to find him splayed out on the pavement by the mailboxes, like a lizard warming himself on a rock. I smiled 'cuz I like to do that too, and I propped up the bike to join him. Neither of us said anything, just sat quietly listening and enjoying our endorphin cocktails. Somewhere down the canyon there was construction, maybe more of the fire crews we saw starting to shore up the scorched earth hillsides against the rains that are surely on the way. There were birds singing, and a plane flying overhead, and a low-pitched roar that was probably faraway traffic but I like to think is the sound of life ringing through the mountains like it has since long before we were here to hear it, and will until long after we are gone.

The chill of the descent woke me right up, and the mist was so heavy you could smell it, practically taste it. I was glad I had stuffed my bulkier rain jacket into my pocket and didn't care if it made me look ridiculous. The ride back in on PCH had the definite feel of an afternoon late autumn ride, and Sunset Beach was just beginning to fill in and shape up. I wished I could have spent the whole afternoon relaxing, having coffee with my new friend and maybe reading time on the comfy couches at that little place on Ocean Park that featured the single-most god-awful Joni Mitchell rip-off act I have ever heard last Thursday night. But, alas Shang Han calls, at least for 3 more weeks.

There is always next Tuesday though...