AIDS/LIFECYCLE 2005
Day 3: King City->Paso Robles(77 miles)
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We are getting up early in King City for a very special reason; we're going to eat breakfast at Denny's. This is a two-fold blessing. One, because I have fond memories of the Denny's in King City from driving up 101 (although I later realize it's a different Denny's entirely). But also because I relish the idea of a big diner breakfast.
We're all sore today, even those of us in the best shape. C- is whining about how to get a dead man onto a bike. J's quad is tweaked. I feel good on the bike, but getting up and down out of the tent is painful, and my IT band seems like a long, painful, taut string from my right ankle to my right hip. No matter-the thought of a melting block of butter sliding off of a stack of pancakes is more than enough to get me out the door.
This morning, while leaving the camp grounds, right before I leave, I notice two men as follows: 1) A bearded white guy wearing a tall hat, a sort of Johnny Cash dark cowboy hat, lots of beads, dressed more or less like the fantasy of a Cajun witch doctor, brandishing a staff, which, when he brings it to the ground, shakes with more beads, who chants "mojo, mojo" each time someone gets on their bike and begins this third day-a shorter, 75 miles, but with the most feared hill: "quadbuster". The other man, African American, wearing a lacy, light slip, is screaming, "who wants a hug?" And people wheel their bikes through the dirt, fill their bottles with water and three flavors of Gatorade, apply sunscreen, and he embraces them, gives them a little love to start the day.
The posse parks their bikes at Denny's. C- is moving a bit slow, and we're late taking down our tents, and the rest have already ordered.
Normally, you'd expect five people sitting around in a Denny's booth sipping coffee, reading the paper, and indeed that's going on, and more. Some of us are using other booths and other people to stretch, so there's a lot of motion. D- goes to the bathroom to "drop off the kids", who can't stand the portapotties, and he always knows a diner or winery to make a small morning field trip. I'm mailing a post card to my dear friend S-, who has hand painted seven postcards, one for each day, for me to write on and send back to her. I'm too tired to do this in the evening, so it has become the first thing I do each morning.
It was DN's 40th birthday that day, and in the morning he got his presents, including a jersey that said "It's my 40th birthday". He said later that the plastic lettering stuck to his skin, and was quite uncomfortable. In an odd coincidence, it was also another rider's 40th birthday, and he also had a special jersey, and I was climbing the prologue to Quadbuster when I informed him of his twin.
After a write the postcard, I ask the waitron where the nearest mailbox is. It's there that another of those sweet moments transpires. They don't know where, but a man eating at the counter is going by the post office and offers to drop off the postcard. It's a little thing, but I can't help but think that it's this spirit of trust and generosity that is the real "meaning" of the week.
We eat large portions of pancakes and eggs and meat (not me, of course), wash our dehydrating coffees down with water, get out of King City. Quickly we begin the slow incline towards Quadbuster. I'm still passing people, and the hill, although steep, doesn't seem too nasty. The only thing keeping me from going faster is not knowing how long the hill is. People are stopping, huffing. What I've heard is true-there are, in addition to the many well-wishers cheering us on, a number of riders who are going up and down the hill. At first I am pissy about these people, as if they were flaunting their calves on people who could barely make it up the hill, but then I noticed that they were literally pushing people up the hill.
Again on Quadbuster, I had this strange feeling that I wasn't suffering enough, or that I didn't deserve the cheers-it wasn't hard for me, so why should I be applauded? But then I thought I do deserve it, and all these people who are sacrificing themselves, they all deserve it. People who had never rode a bike, who never worked out, who felt they had to try-yes, they deserved it.
There were 100 people at the top of that hill, and we stopped and cheered the people who followed us.
There were 50 miles to go, but it all seemed downhill---good wind, great trails, brown and brushy like Calabasas, with the occasional winery. All of a sudden, we were three days into the ride, 260 miles, in Santa Maria. There's another long day tomorrow, 100 miles, another century, and then the rest is cake. Again, I went to sleep early, but everything felt easier and easier, more and more like summer cap, and we would go into the rest stops, curious, to see our volunteers dressed as Secret Servicemen: "excuse me, sir, you look suspicious, I'll have to check you out, please park your bike to the left". Or as a car mechanic: "I need to see what's under your hood", with cute adages on the portapotties and I Can't Drive 55 on the stereo. Many rest stops were at Missions, and, taking off our helmets, we'd rest for a few moments, sitting in the cool pews, thinking mostly about why we were here. The coolness of adobe, the lone man selling ice cream from a cart in the dirty lot.
That evening in Paso Robles, D- and G- had gotten motel rooms, and we went out to a fantastic barbecue and burger place. There I met G's girlfriend, and their friend T-. They had met T- on last year's ride, but in the meantime he had gotten into two bad bike accidents and was now blind. Yet he possessed an amazing strength of spirit, not to mention as big of a potty mouth as everyone else. There's a dirty old blind man, but he's a dirty young blind man! In any case, much fun, though C- ate one too many hamburgers, and I had become obsessed with chocolate milk shakes!
They all went back to their motel, but I begged off. I thought I would go back to the tent and read, but guess what? I went to the cafeteria and ate another serving of food before I went to sleep.
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