Stream of consciousness century

Alarm blares. 3:30 a.m. Sit bolt upright. Make coffee. Drink coffee. Hot shower. Apply embrocation. Kit up. Grab a cold Coke on the way out the front door. Checklist review. Bike in backseat. Rain cape just in case. Hit the freeway at 4:15 a.m. for 2-hour sprint under the cover of darkness on I-5 up through Los Angeles to the 101, and left turn to Agoura Hills and Renaissance Hotel. Fingers crossed and eyes bleary from interrupted sleep. The Mulholland Challenge awaits. Turn up Green Day. LOUD.

Check-in and pin number to back of vest. It’s not freezing, but it’s not warm, either. Gray clouds threaten. Full-fingered gloves stay behind. Shoe covers pulled on. Roll off the line solo a few minutes before 7 a.m. I feel nothing. Lightness. Coasting down to the shore to Malibu. Casual chat with an adventure rider. Along Coast Highway, a pace line goes by in a blur. They’ll regret it later, I tell myself. Then climbing. Up Old Topanga Canyon. Some grind in the big ring. Some spin at 100 rpm. I’m somewhere in the middle. Now heading north on Mulholland. Feel like a movie star. First sticker stop at mile 31.8, according to queue sheet. Flying along. Then more ascent past the famous “Rock Store.” Man, that’s a long line of motorcycles. And where did all these exotic sports cars come from? Oh, that’s right. If I feel like a movie star, so must everyone else. These roads are worthy of celebrity status.  Mile 43.1. Another sticker stop. Time to fill bottles with electrolytes and fuel before pedaling away.

Things suddenly getting remote. And the road is rough. Not as in difficult. As in crumbling. Potholes. BAM! God, I hope I don’t pinch flat. OK, here we go. Back skyward. My favorite. Little Sycamore Canyon is so little. Not sure why they didn’t name it “Big.” Mile 53.4 sticker stop. No bottles filled. The next 8 miles are really hard? Great. Let’s do this. Climbing. Navigating around ruts. Riding on the double yellow line to alleviate the vibrations and jackhammer my handlebars have become. Look down at Garmin. 18%. Narrow. Heavy breathing all around me. Throw it into the 39-27. Alternate between sitting and standing. Dancing on the pedals, if a Waltz counts. Pssssssffffft! Whoa. Back tire just went. On a section that is, yes, 18%. Pull over. Change tire (carrying a spare) and tube. Pump up to 80-100 pounds. Man, it’s fun to try and clip in on this kind of grade. Climbing again before descending Deer Creek. Mile 65.9 sticker stop. Left turn onto Coast Highway. Smells like fish. I thought Malibu would smell like perfume. Or money.

Decker Canyon Road. Hey, that looks steep. Peer down at Garmin. 15%. Pedal about a half mile. Look down at Garmin. 15%. This could take awhile. Queue sheet says 3.8 miles. Passing people. Loud gasps from lungs struggling to take in oxygen. Recognize a rider from Death Valley Double. Hey! Que pasa!? Stand up. Attempt to accelerate. Switchbacks. Nearly to the top. Look down at Garmin. 15%. Did it ever change? No. Mile 75.4. Sticker stop. Fire station. Lots of wandering and aimless grabbing of food. Eyes look vacant on some riders. The hills are having their way. Roll out. Encinal Canyon Road. Another healthy climb. Nothing appears to be less than 8%. What the hills lack in length, they make up in pitch. Mind games. Mile 83.4. Yep. Sticker stop. Got to make sure no one cheats in this non-race. Stunt Road is said to be diabolical on a good day. Going to hit at mile 92.6 with more than 12,000 feet of climb in the legs. And there it is. For sure. An effing mutha. Wind blasting, too. Man, people are really loud breathers here. Do I breathe this loud? Who am I kidding? Of course I do.

The top of Stunt. 96.6 miles. Sticker stop. Find a chair. Ice cold Coke. And Mountain Dew. Do the Dew! Do another one. Bad sign. Just a few more miles, and we’re at the finish, right. A century? Look at queue sheet. 116 miles. Ohhh . . . Piuma is the next climb. Majestic views of the ocean and Malibu below. Snap a picture. Hard to enjoy. “Pain is temporary. Quitting lasts forever.” Somehow, the former feels like the operative term here. Pain is eternal. Infernal. Like that which you rarely experience. Crack a joke. Still hurts. Still in 39-27 gearing. Wishing for a compact crank. Have stopped looking at Garmin for gradient. It’s a no-brainer. Somewhere between 8% and double digits.  Oh my god. Could it be time to descend? YES. But shredded physically. Getting sleepy from the effort and minimal sleep. Cornering carefully. Passed by three riders, one who buzzes me without announcing himself. Why does it only happen to me in L.A? Hilarious, no? Then a few steep pitches come into view. Suddenly there is Mr. Speedy-who-buzzes-people. Not so fast on the hills? I go by with plenty of buffer. As anyone should. On your left. I say it. C-L-E-A-R-L-Y.

Turn on Mulholland. Time trialing. Get it over now, please. Right turn on Las Virgenes. Mile 109.3 mark. Frick. I’m in suburbia. Traffic lights. This should be over, right? Wrong. Left on Agoura Road. Just over 4 miles left. Wind buffets. Legs tightening. Mind wandering. But happiness soon to follow. Good day to train. Look at Garmin. 13,600 feet. 116 miles. Not bad. Turn off Garmin. Change clothes. Clean up. Load bike. Swap stories at the hotel bar while sipping soda. Snack on blueberries. Prepare for L.A. freeway traffic. Get in car. Turn up Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Guitar riffs, unmistakable piano and solid back beat takes me home to warm shower, then total darkness. I’m out. I’m resting. I’m a cyclist.

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