The road goes ever on and on

21 Oct 2006

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

My second double century was nearly disastrous.

After riding the Malibu Grand Tour in June I got all excited about double centuries and signed up for two more. One at the end of September, through the Angles and Los Padres national forests (called the Tour of Two Forests), and one at the end of October, the Solvang Autumn Double Century.

I started out training fairly hard for these… but then I discovered I could run again. As my running mileage climbed from 0 miles/week to 60 I simply had less time to be on the bike. I went from 350miles/week (on the bike) to 200.

Less energy too. I noticed that my biking speed declined considerably. Where I had been riding at 17mph I was now riding at 15mph. That was probably just because the legs were tired.

Then my pottery class started in September and I had even less time. Often I couldn’t even fit in one long ride in a week, and my biking mileage dropped further.

How on earth do triathletes do it?

I had been unable to find anyone to ride the Tour of Two Forests with me, and I no longer was particularly interested in riding another double. And then there was the Day Fire. The Tour of Two Forests went through the heart of that blaze. I decided not to do it.

Later, I met someone who had done it and he called it the Tour of Two Fires. (There was only one fire but it was vast and lasted for more than a month).

I was having second thoughts about the Solvang ride too, but I had promised my friend Kathy that I’d do it with her. She didn’t really want to do it either, but she wanted to finish three doubles this year so that she could buy a particular biking jersey. She hadn’t had much time to train either.

Nonetheless we did it.

According to the Active.com website the ride would start at 6:30am, according to the organizer’s (Planet Ultra) website the ride started at 6:45, with civil twilight — but there was also an option to start earlier, at 6, if we promised to take 14 or more hours to complete the course.

In the Grand Tour we had started at 4:30am, we had an easier course to complete and it was the summer solstice so we had as much daylight as possible. Here civil twilight began at 6:43am and ended at 6:42pm, the sun rose at 7:08am and set at 6:17pm. We had at best 12 hours of light. As there tends to be less traffic early in the morning, it seemed best to get as much riding in the dark done in the morning.

The Planet Ultra people didn’t see it that way. We (well Kathy) tried to persuade them to allow us to start before 6, but they wouldn’t.

According to them if we wanted to start at 6 we had to check in the night before (rather than early in the morning). That meant two trips to Solvang for us, most inconvenient. Still we did it. When we got to the hotel, a little before check in time at 6pm, we found a notice at the hotel saying that check in didn’t start until 6:30. Sigh. Still we went round to the registration desk and found a line of people waiting to check in at 6. And at 6 they let us check in.

This ride seemed plagued by inconsistent times.

I found out the next morning that we could have checked in for the 6am start that morning. Grrr.

Everyone around us in line was hoping to start before 6 too. A 6am start just didn’t make sense (unless you were really fast and could finish the course in 12hours or so).

I was a little worried about the 14hour time limit. We had finished the Grand Tour in 13:30 hours so I felt we might do this one in under 14 too, and I didn’t want to be disqualified for going too fast. Kathy pointed out that if we got back to Solvang too soon we could always hang out in a cafe for half an hour. Oh. Of course. That had never even occurred to me. Anyway we wouldn’t go that fast, this was a harder course (about twice the elevation gain) and neither of us was prepared.

Solvang is a fake “Danish Village”, rather as Helen Ga is fake Bavarian. I’ve avoided it in the past for that reason. It is roughly north-west of Santa Barbara, just on the other side of the Santa Ynez mountain chain.

Our route started in Solvang went vaguely east for 15miles or so then climbed north to Sisquoc, further north to San Luis Obisbo, then back west to Shell Beach, and down the coast (south) to Lompoc and finally back east to Solvang.

Weather is always a concern in an outdoor event. The week-end before the ride it had been raining. Kathy and I agreed we would not ride if it were raining. But as the ride approached the weather changed, cold nights, hot days. Ug. Everyone else was saying how wonderful the weather was. But I’m normally out riding my bike at 6, and now it was down in the 40s. That’s cold on a bike. I’m normally out riding around at 1pm too when the temperature was in the 80s — and that’s in SB where the ocean mitigates temperature extremes. I was dreading what it would be like in the Santa Ynez valley.

I’d have to start out all bundled up, and then remove layers and carry them with me for much of the ride and then put them back on in the evening.

Despite my lack of physical preparation, I did learn some things from my last double. I had arrived in Malibu to discover my tail light didn’t work (even though I had just installed new batteries the night before). By the time we got to the first check point my headlight’s battery had faded to invisibility too. So this time I bought (and brought) 3 tail lights and attached them all. I bought a new strong headlight and a backup headlight in case the first ran out of battery (we’d have at least 2 hours of darkness, and probably more, and my big light was only rated for 2 hours at full power).

I brought a (tiny) camera too. I had almost done that the last time but had shoved it under Kathy’s car seat at the last minute, not wanting to carry it for 200miles. But Kathy complained “You brought a camera and you didn’t take any pictures?”. So this time I really would bring it.

My bike can hold two water bottles. That was adequate for the Grand Tour which was mostly by the coast and, luckily, mostly overcast and foggy and cool. The Santa Ynez Valley was not going to be cool or overcast, it was going to be hot and sunny. I’d almost certainly need more water. So I brought my camelback.

I was concerned about getting lost, especially with so much time in the dark. On the Grand Tour it hadn’t mattered too much (and I was naif enough that I didn’t realize it was an issue when I started); I was familiar with most of that route. But I’ve never biked on the other side of the mountains. So I brought a couple of fold out maps, one of SB county, one of SLO. I never once referred to them, but they were comforting to have.

On the Grand Tour I had tried to memorize the directions from each rest stop to the next. It hadn’t worked very well. But I had also seen other riders with little clips attached to their break cables holding the directions in front of them. That seemed an excellent idea. It worked too. (except when the road was rough — the directions would bounce and be hard to read).

And I brought gel packs just in case.

And I needed to pack my warm clothes.

I brought a backpack too. Last time I’d just used a fannypack, but I had a lot more stuff this time.

We arrived in Solvang about 5:30am, put the bikes together, made final decisions on what to bring, and stood out in front of the hotel waiting for the signal to start. A little before 6 someone came running up to tell those of us grouped out front that the start was off to the side. Luckily we got there in time.

There were 100 or so riders clumped up (another 100 or so would start at 6:45). The Planet Ultra representative was conducting a roll call (to make sure no one did start at 4:30am I guess). This took time. We were warned that after lunch there would a section of dirt road right at the bottom of a steep downgrade and if we weren’t careful we’d slip and fall. A comforting thought. We were told there would be an additional check point at some unspecified place. Again an effort to keep us from cheating. About 5 minutes after six we were allowed to start.

I dislike mass starts (on a bike). They are dangerous. You’ve got a hundred people in close proximity. One mistake is going to cause many people to crash. I’m still not comfortable with my cleats. I worry that I’ll make the mistake.

But I didn’t. Nor did anyone else.

Kathy and I were some distance back (having arrived late at the lineup). And there was a river of twinkling taillights moving ahead of us through the deserted streets of Solvang. It was rather pretty. At 6am it was still pitch black of course.

When we got out of Solvang and into the country there was a faint lightening to the east. By 6:30 we could make out the outlines of the landscape and the east was a glowing red. A brief streak of gold across the deep blue of the morning sky pointed us east as a shooting star fell. By 6:50 we could actually see. Rolling California hills, sere at the end of summer with the occasional live oak tree.

This is wine country. And we started to see vineyards too. Very like biking in France. There was often the smell of rotting grapes. I’m not sure if we smelled the fermentation process, or if the pickers weren’t very efficient and dropped grapes and trampled them.

We turned onto Foxen Cyn Rd and started our first serious climb. I saw magpies. I don’t recall ever noticing magpies in the US before. SB is covered with crows, but I’ve never seen a magpie. Here there were no crows and many magpies.

We were climbing out of a canyon through cattle ranches. Then up higher and higher into wooded hills. As is my wont I pulled ahead of almost everyone on the up hill sections, and then was passed on the downhills.

At about 7:20 I first saw the sun. It had risen earlier, of course, but we were behind the Santa Ynez mountains and it took a while to climb above them.

Well we finally reached the summit and started our descent. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. The guys ahead of me started a drafting chain which was beautiful to watch. One would lead for as long as he could, then pull out to the side and drop back and fall into line further back. I managed to catch the end of the chain, and Kathy fell in behind me, and then more people did. I knew there was no way I’d be able to lead at that pace, I could barely keep up drafting! We were going above 30mph (36.8 max according to my odometer). The road flattened, and the pace slowed, but we were still above 25. We all were working harder now. I’d slow down on some of the turns and then had to struggle really hard to get back behind the person in front…

And here was the first rest stop, 8:47. Our group of about 20 riders all pulled in and tried to recover. I ate 1.5 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a banana, drank a lot of water, refilled my water bottles. On the Grand Tour they had recovery drink powder (expensive sugar) at the rest stops and without thinking I grabbed half a cup full of powder and added it to my water bottle. It didn’t taste sweet. It didn’t taste much of anything. Oh well.

We thanked the leaders for pulling us along.

Time to remove most of my clothing, and turn off the rear lights (I can reach the headlight on the move, but I need to get off the bike to turn off the tail lights). It was still cool

One guy had a jersey on which read “La Française des Jeux“. It seemed an odd slogan for a man to wear so I asked him about it. He said, “Yes, vive la France.” Which was not very informative. I asked why it was feminine and he just looked at me as though I were a complete idiot. I never did figure it out.

(Later I checked the internet. It isn’t a playful French woman, it’s the company which organizes the national lottery — loterie being feminine).

It was 41 miles to the first rest stop. Rather a long haul. On the Grand Tour rest stops were about 30 miles apart and that had seemed about right. On this ride we had three 40+ mile sections and those were too long, especially later in the day when it was hot and I was tired.

Somehow the large clumps of riders don’t last after the first stop. And Kathy and I pulled out alone. We headed out through nice rolling hills. There were deer out in the fields, and once a roe and her fawn jumped across the road in front of us. Then we were on a wooded road where the huge gnarled live oaks made a corridor for us.

We passed a few riders (I guess we weren’t in such bad shape as we had thought). There was one guy whom we’d pass, and then about 5 minutes later he’d zoom past us, then slow and we’d pass him again and then he’s zoom past us again. Kathy and I tried to maintain a consistent level of effort, but this guy had a rather different approach.

We reached the 50 mile mark at 9:15. Wow. If we kept this up we’d be done in 13 hours! Maybe I would have to drink coffee in Solvang… Of course we wouldn’t have another wonderful downhill section with a drafting chain again. So we wouldn’t keep it up.

Then we started to climb again. We pulled out of the woods and into the sun. It got hot. I started to drink more water. Starting with the recovery drink in my water bottle. It didn’t seem to help much, I was still thirsty. My muscles were telling me they’d been overused. When we got to the top I felt very odd. All stiff and tingly.

And I realized I had not been drinking recovery drink. I’d been drinking electrolytes (salt). I was probably extremely dehydrated now, and drinking from my water bottle would just make things worse. Luckily I had my camelback, and after sucking a large amount of water out of it I began to feel more nearly normal.

The second rest stop was only 20miles from the first. I drank more water. But I was an idiot and didn’t refill my camelback (it has a large capacity when compared to a water bottle, I didn’t think it was necessary, and I’d have to take it out of the backpack to fill it, just seemed too much work).

Kathy and I started out again. Again we passed several riders. We were now on a busy highway (166) with traffic zooming beside us. The landscape here was raw cliff sides where one side of the mountain has been uplifted leaving a bare face showing all the striations of sedimentary deposition.

I bent over my directions to get a better view of them. Bump. Hssss. Flat tire. Right behind me came Kathy. Bump. Hsss. The guy behind her managed to avoid the rock. We all stopped (and amazingly my foot came out of the peddle without a thought!). The guy in back of us moved the rock (so no one else would do what we did), checked that we were ok, said “bummer” and went on.

We changed our tubes while many people passed us beside a very busy road with far too little shoulder.

Oh, I forgot to mention, along with everything else, I also packed 3 spare tubes and a long pump.

Eventually we were ready to go on. In another 10 miles we were off that highway.

Kathy offered to lead, and I was feeling tired so I let her. After a bit two guys passed us from behind. If I had been leading that would have been the end of it because I am not comfortable drafting. Kathy, however, checked their speed out and then slotted right in behind them. I had to catch up now. They were going faster than I wanted, but again a speed which I could keep up — if I stayed close enough. I don’t like staying close enough because if anyone makes a mistake I crash. So I automatically tend to drop back and then have to struggle to catch up. Thus drafting is much harder work (for me) than it should be.

We rode behind them for another 20 miles or so, all the way to the next rest stop. It was hot. I ran out of water. It was hard to keep up. I should have refilled the camelback.

But we had now passed the halfway point! Both in distance and elevation. It took us 6:42 minutes to do the first half with an average speed of 16.8mph. Not quite as fast as on the Grand Tour, but this was a much hillier course.

At lunch, in San Luis Obisbo, I was exhausted. I drank lots of water. I filled up my camelback. I flopped on the ground in the shade. There wasn’t much shade. Kathy’s bike thermometer said 96° in the shade. It was hot. I ate. I drank some more. I ate. I drank. It was hot.

I told Kathy I couldn’t continue at this pace. She asked if I could finish. “I hope so.”

We set out again. More slowly. After a bit I perked up again.

We overshot a turn by a block (it was hard to read the street sign on the other side of the big road we were on).

Then we were on a pleasant rural road that climbed though woods beside a stream (with real water in it!). It was lovely and cool here in the shade. And climbed. And climbed. And left the stream and came out into the sun. And climbed. And got really steep. And climbed. Up and up. The view was spectacular when we had the energy to look, ridges of hills (small mountains really) all around us leading off toward the haze that must have been the ocean. We climbed.

And there was the surprise check point. We were glad of the excuse to stop and drink.

We were almost at the summit. We climbed a bit more. I wanted to stop and take a picture, but Kathy wouldn’t stop (I can sympathize, stopping breaks the concentration, and it takes energy to get started again). But if I stopped and she didn’t, I didn’t think that I would be able to catch up with her — not after that climb, so I didn’t get my picture. I should have taken a shot when stopped at the surprise check point, but I didn’t think of it then. Idiot.

We went along the ridge top for a while, enjoying the view, and then the road plummeted down the other side. This was the stretch which turned to dirt at some indeterminate point, so we went down cautiously. One of the volunteers from Planet Ultra was standing in a field almost at the bottom of a steep decline and warned us that this was the place. We went even more slowly.

And then it was dirt. It’s hard to ride a road bike on a dirt road. I clipped out of my peddles just in case I slipped and fell… but then the road began to climb again and I had to clip back in to get the power I needed.

We passed a clump of cyclists and the SAG wagon. Someone had had a flat tire. Where was the SAG wagon when we had flats?

Ignoring the dirt, the road was lovely. We were once again under live oaks.

Eventually we hit pavement again, the hills calmed down and the ride was even more pleasant.

We were now heading south-west, toward the coast, and traffic began to get busier. We had to make a left turn onto a heavily trafficked road. Ug.

We reached the coast at Shell Beach with a good view of a large rock island. Half hidden in the cool ocean haze it looked a welcome change from the inland heat. As we continued south we ended up on Hwy 1, through downtown Shell Beach, Pismo Beach and Grover Beach with heavy traffic, cars parking and pulling out, doors opening into the bike lane. Ug.

We climbed up a rather spectacular mesa, being passed (oddly enough) by a collection of antique cars, then after 6~7 miles on top of the mesa, we turned a corner, and there were the Santa Ynez mountains again! Almost home. We headed down into Guadalupe and our penultimate rest stop.

Here I started having difficulty breathing again. Strangely I don’t notice this when riding, but now we were stopped, if I drew a deep breath I started coughing. My sister thinks it is exercise induced asthma. Seems reasonable. Luckily it doesn’t seem to come on until after 10hours of hard exercise and I don’t often do that.

Onward. I’m struggling once again. Kathy sees it and she takes the lead for a while. Now I have to keep up with her.

We pass 150 miles. Three quarters done.

Suddenly we are climbing again. Steep ups and downs. We’re both tired. Kathy tells me I should take the lead because she has nothing left. As if I do. The view is probably quite nice, but I’m looking at the ground under my tires. Too tired for much else. Another bike ride has marked this course, we see their signs from time to time. On one particularly steep bit they have written “Huff & Puff”. Somehow I find this cheering.

Down.

Kathy asks “What’s our next turn?” (I’m navigating), and I misread the sheet. “Right in about two miles on San Antonio Rd.” Kathy says, in a very small voice, “Is right really the way home?“, (right would take us to the ocean, not inland to Solvang) I look again and see it is left, “Sorry Kathy.” The eye tends to slip when trying to read a sheet of paper that bumps up and down.

Kathy remarks that we’ve both screwed ourselves by not training appropriately. About 5 minutes later it occurs to both of us: “No one has passed us, we can’t be too badly off.” As if to reinforce this we turn onto Hwy 1 again and see a cyclist ahead. As the road begins to climb we pass him.

But we really are both exhausted.

Hwy 1 makes a left now, and we stop after the intersection to turn on our taillights. It’s a little after 6, there is still plenty of light but we might as well do it now. Kathy discovers her tail light’s batteries have run down. I offer her one of mine (after all she lent me a light for the Grand Tour) — and then realize I can’t get them off without a screwdriver. Sigh. Well, it’s only 10 miles to the next (last) rest stop and they will have tools there. And it isn’t dark yet.

Kathy is in the lead for a bit. I have to ask her to slow down.

In another 6 miles it is pretty dark. We’ve hooked up with another couple of cyclists, we all need moral support when navigating in the dark. We think we are on the right road… but then another clump of cyclists passes us going the other way — this is disconcerting. We check our directions, and our memories. Yes… we think we’re doing the right thing. Only the next turn isn’t where it should be. The directions have been off from my odometer in the past, so normally this wouldn’t matter, but it’s dark, and the other guys turned back. Still we keep going. We see an arrow! But it’s on the wrong road and it doesn’t look like one of ours. We keep going. Finally we find the right road. But no arrow. Oh well, we take it. And the next turn does have an arrow, and there is the final rest stop.

It’s chilly now. I put on my cold weather gear. They have hot chocolate. And hot soup. On the Grand Tour I felt nauseous after eating soup near the end. I avoid the soup. I have half a cup of chocolate but can’t finish it. My stomach isn’t interested in food. Which is foolish of it, we’ve got another 25 miles to go and I’m drained. I have a handful of raisins. That’s all I can deal with. At least I’m not nauseous this time.

But they do have a screwdriver, and we manage a light-ectomy on my bike and graft it on to Kathy’s.

A group of cyclists pulls in. One comes up to me and says “We thought we’d gone too far so we turned back, but you guys seemed so sure that eventually we turned back again.” Presumably the cyclists we saw going the wrong way. We weren’t sure. But we were right.

Luckily.

It is now full dark. I can’t see my odometer. The directions are based on distance from the start and say things like Left turn at mile 178.5 onto Santa Rosa Rd. But I won’t know where 178.5 is now (of course my odometer wasn’t in perfect agreement with their mileage but was usually within half a mile or so and was helpful).

We set out. There are some guys about a block in front of us, we follow them. We all miss the second turn. Someone figures it out and we all turn round in a clump. There are about 10 of us now (where did they all come from?). And I am determined to stay with everyone else as long as possible. I’m also completely exhausted and it’s really hard to push now. The group is moving fast.

We turn onto Hwy 1 for the last time. More traffic than I’d like. And we must make a left turn in the pitch black against it. The leaders have set a stiff pace. I’m struggling. Kathy asks if I can make it. I’m going to force myself to until we get off Hwy 1. Once off it, we take Santa Rosa Rd for 17.5 miles (and have less than 4miles to go on easy to find roads after that) so once we get there I won’t worry much about losing the route — even though I’m supposed to be navigating.

And here’s the sign for Santa Rosa. I can’t see the road itself in the dark, on the left, but the leaders seem to know and we all get across.

Other people in our clump must have felt the way I did, for several riders now drop back. I keep going for another mile before I finally give up. Kathy says she’s happy to go more slowly.

The man at the last rest stop told us there were no more bad climbs. But the ups and downs of Santa Rosa seem hard to me. It is black as pitch. Ahead of us we see the slowly receding tail lights of the group in front. Behind us we can’t see anything of the group in back. There is almost no traffic. Up and down in the pitch black.

“Look at the stars, it’s such a beautiful clear night.” I glance up. I can’t really see the stars, my eyes are dazzled by my headlight perhaps. I don’t want to take my eyes off the road for long either; it is very twisty and even with a strong light I can’t see very far ahead. There is no moon, nothing augments my light — but I suppose that means the stars look brighter.

The road seems to go on for ever. I ask Kathy to stop so I can eat a gel pack. I really should have eaten at the last stop. Up and down. Dark. Where is highway 246? we must have done 17.5 miles by now. No. Up and down. We see a busy road ahead. After 5 minutes we still haven’t reached it. We can’t have taken a wrong turn, there aren’t any turns. Just darkness. On and on.

The road makes a right angle turn, and suddenly here’s a highway. But it’s 101. Not what we want. On again. There’s a stoplight ahead. We reach it eventually. And it’s 246! Only 3.8 miles to go now, only one more turn. We drove on this yesterday when we were wandering around looking for the base hotel. We know this bit of the route.

Still those 3.8miles seem to take an eternity.

Kathy starts to sing.

I have no energy and she’s singing? She’s just so pleased to be done with this ride, so pleased to have finished her three double centuries.

We aren’t done yet, I say, there are another 2 miles to go.

Later Kathy tells me she was singing “Ring of Fire” to describe the sensations she felt from her seat. Being both musically illiterate and exhausted, I don’t notice this detail at the time.

Kathy points out that there’s one more double century this year. I could do a third and buy a jersey too! It’s next week.

No.

And we take the final turn, and then into the hotel’s parking lot. Unclip from the bike, stagger inside to the final check in. 15 hours and 7 minutes. We are 67 out of 168 finishers out of 192 starters. So even unprepared, even with flats, we are faster than most.

I wonder if the timer remembered that we didn’t start at 6 but at about 6:05.

But I don’t think to check my own watch.

My breathing seems to be back to normal.

	Solvang Autumn	Grand Tour
Total Time	15:07	13:34
Riding Time	12:59:42	11:40
Total distance	202.5	206
Elevation Gain	11,000ft	6,000ft
Average speed	15.5mph	17.3mph
Maximum speed	36.8	35.7

Not as fast as the Grand Tour, but it was a harder course. The route was far more scenic too. In an odd way I enjoyed this more. I’m pleased (and exhausted).

Perhaps most important of all — I always got my feet unclipped in time, and never fell over.

Epilogue

Six days later I was chatting with Kathy in pottery class, when in waltzed two friends wearing — the triple crown jersey that Kathy has just achieved. They had gone to the web-site and painted the design onto two tee-shirts. Then they gave us the shirts… I hadn’t earned the jersey, and was initially reluctant, but was quickly convinced.

More Quality Time on Highway One, Malibu Grand Tour

24 June 2006

Thou art to continue

Measure for Measure, II, i, 181

The alarm went off at 1:45am. Presumably the other alarm had gone off at 1:40am and I had slept through it. I set two the afternoon before just in case this happened and then tried to go to sleep before dark. I had to be at Kathy’s at 2:30, dressed, fed, packed and ready to go down to Malibu. We’d loaded the bikes the day before.

Six weeks before the Boston marathon my knee went pop and I couldn’t run it. For once the weather there was perfect, it would have been a great run. My doctor finally got around to scheduling my surgery — and chose the day I would have flown out, so I could not even visit my friends.
I got depressed.
Then the surgery happened and it didn’t seem to amount to much. I walked out of the recovery room with essentially no pain.
But the next day my knee started sloshing. No one had warned me of that, it frightened me. And it hurt to move.
I got depressed.
A week later I was much better, and was told I could start riding my bike. Not just could, but should. Ten miles a day. Then a few days later my PT suggested a 40 mile ride.
The thought of running worried me. Would my knee go “pop” again? Would the other knee? What was wrong with me that caused me to torque my menisci?
The physician’s assistant assured me that tearing one meniscus did not increase the probability of tearing the other. Statistically. But surely those statistics were based on tennis players and basketballers, people who tend to tear their menisci, rather than runners, who don’t often. And so are those statistics applicable to me?
Who knows. Everyone is a special case. The only way to find out for sure is to try, and that seems a bit risky.
I ask my PT about what I can do to correct my imbalances (not now, not yet, but when I’m more fully recovered from the surgery). He agrees it’s too early to try anything.
My friend Kathy has started doing 200 mile bike rides (in a day). Perhaps I should go in for that? Presumably it will be less stressful on the knee, and since it’s my current therapy it might even help me to recover. Or that’s my rationale.
I mention this to the PT, half expecting him to demur at the idea. Instead he tells me I should start riding 50 miles a day to train (that’s about twice what I do on a normal day).
There are two rides (or tours as they seem to be called) coming up “locally” one at the end of May in Davis (which seems too soon after surgery, and anyway I’m leaving for France the next day), and one at the end of June in Malibu. That sounds doable.
These are not races. I don’t even know if they are timed (though I do intend to keep track). Kathy says she doesn’t ride in a pack, so they don’t have the aspect of bike racing that I dislike (fear).
I don’t ride particularly rapidly. I figure it will probably take me about 16 hours of riding time (maybe less, but 16 sounds conservative. Of course there will be stops for food and other functions so elapsed time will be longer.
Ah… it’s the weekend closest to the solstice. The longest day, good thought. Riders to start between 4:30 and 6:30 am. I’d best start as early as possible. Lights are required. Yes, even at the solstice there aren’t 16+ hours of daylight in southern California. Sunrise: 5:45, Sunset: 8:15, day length: 14:30.
So in the four weeks before I leave for France I manage to put in approximately 300 mile weeks — not quite the 350 my PT asked for, but close. Never done four of those back to back before. I average about 12 mph, but that’s mostly because of city driving, on longer rides without stop lights I can average 15+. I don’t think I can keep that pace up for 200, but I manage it for 32 (then a few hours rest while I measure water quality) and then for 32 back. Not the same as 64, but not bad.
Let’s see 200/15= 13 hours. So even if I go unexpectedly fast this will still be a very long day.

One day I rode out to El Capitan State Beach, sat at a picnic table and looked out at the sea, and ate my lunch.
A (coastal scrub-)Jay landed about 2 feet away. I’ve never seen a scrub-jay that close, and it was beautiful. It cocked its head and looked at me. I very slowly moved my hand out to it hoping it might hop onto a finger. It didn’t. Then it flew off.
And landed on my shoulder. I turned and looked at it. It looked at me. It walked around my neck to the other shoulder.
I tore off a small bit of my lunch and put it on the table in front of me. The jay flew down, grabbed it in its beak and flew off a few feet. It came back for another crumb, and this time flew over to my bike, perched on my tire, held the crumb in its two feet and pecked at it with the beak. I was a little worried that it might pop the tire, but it did not.
I gave it some more crumbs and it really flew off.

Then I go biking though the farms of the French countryside with my parents. The Charente, in the land around Cognac, between Angoulême and Sainte. I assume I’ll just do even more riding now that I have no distractions. But I’ve forgotten just how heavy and clunky our rental bikes always are. And it rains almost every day. And the countryside can be beautiful so I tend to stop and look at it, at the wild flowers, at the wheat fields, at the vineyards, the swans, the occasional chateau, the odd Roman ruin. If I averaged 40 miles a day I was lucky and 50 was probably my maximum. Oh well. The prehistoric cave paintings we stumbled on were worth the trip.
In France I tell my family about the tour. My mother says “I guess you are less likely to hurt yourself on a bike than running.” This seems unlikely to me. My aunts say “That sounds strenuous, so you shouldn’t do it.”
Nothing like a little encouragement from the family.
When I come back there are three and a bit weeks to go. I get Kathy to ride with me to Ventura one morning. She starts out far too fast… only it isn’t too fast, I can keep this pace. We average 16.5mph down to Ventura (32 miles). I guess I have never before pushed myself on a bike. Interesting. Perhaps I didn’t know how before.
The following Wednesday I do a 66mile loop down to Ventura, around Lake Casitas, through the mountains between Ojai and SB and back to SB. I get down to Ventura at an average pace of 17.9mph. Wow. I slow down on the hills, of course, but I still average 16.2 for the entire loop.
I’ve been considering buying a new bike, and considering getting clip-in pedals (I’ve been riding in toe-cages for the last 20 years). The week before this I bought bike shoes and used them in spinning classes. Clipping in seemed a bit difficult, but clipping out was easy — and clipping out is what worries me; I need to be able to stop after all. So, confident of my new found skill, I go off to buy a new bike.
On my first test drive, at the first intersection about 20 yards from Fastrack (the bike store), I come to a stop and slowly fall over into a puddle.
And my feet won’t come out even now I’m on the ground.
So much for my confidence. After this I’m more careful, clipping out almost as soon as I clip in when I go round the block. No more mishaps. I buy the bike, and I ride it home safely and upright.
The next day is to be my last long training ride, two weeks before the tour. I’ve decided to do the standard 66 mile loop around the lake and then ride out to Refugio (about 30 miles in the other direction), getting about 120miles in. Nothing like 200 of course, but probably more than I’ve done in a day before.
I take the new bike.
I only fall over twice.
There’s a coyote standing on the horse trail right next to the bike path about 30 feet from a house. He just watches me. There’s a Jay in the bushes screaming alarm calls at him. He isn’t bothered by that either. I’m surprised by his boldness… but then I think “How could I hurt him? I can’t even stop the bike without falling off. He’s perfectly safe.”
I get down to Ventura at 18.3mph. I get around the lake at 17.5mph. I do the first 100miles at 17.2mph. I complete the 126 mile trip at 17mph.
My legs don’t seem to get tired, but I’m learning that I really need to eat. The reason I slowed down at the end was that I hit the wall. I hadn’t taken in enough calories and suddenly I was going 11mph. I stopped (without falling) and had lunch. I felt better after that, but it takes time to digest, and I was an hour or so before I got back up to speed.

The Malibu Grand Tour is the oldest double century in the US, and it has several options in addition to the double. You can choose to ride 200km, 200, 300 or 400 miles. You can also choose a mountainous or a flatter route. I had no interest in doing 200km=125miles, I’ve done that, no particular challenge there. But being a bit nervous about 200miles I opt for the easier route.
A map.
Because they have 300 and 400 mile option, some of the aid stations remain open until 3 or 4am the next morning. Some of these stations are in a nice building with comfy chairs and amenities, but others are just a corner by the side of the road. These are all manned by volunteers (most of whom have done their own bicycle ultras). These guys are dedicated.

Most of June has been foggy and cool, but the day after I did my 126 mile ride it turned sunny and hot. Very hot. Not what we want for an endurance event. The next week the fog rolled in again, and we were much relieved, but the Friday before the event the weather for the next day was predicted to change yet again, with temperatures above 100.

I drove to Kathy’s. She had told me I could tell her condo because all the lights would be on, and no one else would be getting up at that hour. we had both forgotten that to much of the world 2:30am is late rather than early, and the complex was ablaze with lights — people partying on Friday night.
We got down to Malibu around 4 (check-in started at 3:30) and there were already bikes heading down the road as we turned off Hwy 1 to drive up the last half mile to the start. I remind myself it isn’t a race, no reason they can’t start early.
We pick up our packets, and get scanned in. We don’t realize it, but this is our official start time. Then we go back to the car, pull the bikes out, put them together, figure out what we’re going to take with us (I’m taking lots of gel-packs, recovery-drink powder, electrolytes, three water bottles, spare tubes, pump, sun-screen, etc.), figure out what to wear. I take a wind breaker. It’s pleasantly cool, and blessedly foggy. Of course it’s 4 in the morning.
I discover that my rear light isn’t working. That’s a shock. I can’t ride without a rear light.. Thank god for Kathy, she has a spare light. It’s designed to be a front light, is blue and is a bit too bright, but it’ll do, it’ll do. Whew!
In our check-in packets is a double-sided, double-column page of directions. I don’t quite grasp what this entails yet. When I run a race, the course is always clearly marked, there’s never any doubt where we go. And there’s always someone just in sight whom I can follow (I’m never first). Besides it’s pretty clear what we are going to do now — we go up Hwy 1 for 25miles and then find the rest stop at Port Hueneme. So I just glance at it and store it in my fanny pack.
We go back to the start, almost ready to go now. Kathy was given the wrong directions so she nips in to get the right set. As she comes out there is a group of a dozen or so bikes counting down. It’s just 4:30. And they’re off. And then we’re off! I click my stop watch (the one on my watch) to mark our start — who cares about the official time.
There is a distinction between the stopwatch on my wristwatch and the one on the bike. The wristwatch measures elapsed time. The bike stopwatch measures biking time. We stop for all kinds of reasons: At stop lights, to eat, to read directions when we get lost… so these two numbers will be quite different. Both interest me.
It’s rather pretty as we start. Pitch black of course (moon almost new, enough overcast that the stars aren’t visible), but there is a line of bikes going down the hill with their rear lights twinkling. Like Christmas lights.
I quickly discover that the route isn’t as simple as I thought. We don’t go onto Hwy 1 in the obvious way, we spend some time on the surface streets of Malibu. There’s no indication as to where we should turn either (this turns out to be wrong– there are orange arrows painted on the road at most of the turns, they are invisible at 4:30 though, and even when I look for them I sometimes fail to find them, or I (color-blind I) follow a green arrow from a race last month). However that’s ok because we’re in a pack of riders and the guys in front know where they are going.
We’re in a pack of riders. One of my fears. If I make a mistake — I crash into someone. If someone else makes a mistake — I crash into them. My feet are locked in my pedals and I won’t be able to get them free if I need to stop suddenly.
The people behind me are complaining about my rear light. It’s too bright, and it isn’t red.
We come to an intersection and I realize my speedometer isn’t working. Did I put the wheel on wrong? I pull over, and stop (without falling!). No it’s just that the sensor got knocked too far from the wheel, I correct it and everything is working now. (but I’ve missed the first half mile or so).
We go again. There’s no traffic in Malibu at 4:30.
By the time we’re on Hwy 1 we’re stretched out into a line rather than all bunched up. That’s a little better, but still everything is too close. If I drop back far enough to feel safe someone from behind just slots into the space. So I have to drop back even further. And it’s dark. I can’t see the road particularly well. Someone passes me and complains about my light as she does so:
“That light is really annoying”
Tant pis.
We’re going more slowly than I would like, I think. But I look down and see we’re going about 16.5mph. To think that a month ago that would have seemed really fast. Or perhaps I’m drafting and I’m just not used to it.
Around 5:30 I start to be able to see things. There’s a guy beside me and he has a little clip on his break cables which clamps his directions where he can see them.
Me: “That’s a great idea!”
Him: “Hunh?”
Me: “That clip for holding directions.”
Him: “Wxxfl”
This is a rather beautiful bit of coastline all craggy with the surf crashing against the rocks. We’re on the inland side of the highway so don’t get to see the ocean as well as I’d like. Oh well, it will be better in the evening on the way back.
We leave Hwy 1 when it turns into freeway. And the route is again more complex than I had thought. We’ve got another 10 miles before the first rest station. But the guy up front knows where he’s going so we can just follow along.
Kathy tells me she’s just seen a kestrel, indeed has seen several. I’m all excited, I’m no good at identifying small hawks, and ask her to point it out the next time she sees one. Kathy laughs. A kestrel is a kind of bike, and points to a bike in front. It does, indeed, say kestrel on it.
The first rest stop is a bit of a disappointment. There isn’t much to eat. But I fill up my water bottles, drop off my light, give them my number (so they know I got this far), remove my wind breaker, use the restroom … and then discover that there is fruit outside. That’s better. I try to memorize the directions to the next rest stop, but they don’t stick in my mind well. I have a gel pack and we’re ready to go again.
Kathy and I are in a slightly different group this time, some of the same people, but some new faces too. Most are doing the highland route and they branch off from us soon after the first stop. After this there are just us and Bret. So we get to know Bret. Bret is 28 has done many double centuries and triathlons and is considering trying to go out for the Race Across America next year. He’s planning to do the 300mile route (to qualify for RAM you need to do 400+miles in 24 hours — that’s about 17.7mph for 24 hours — I can’t hold that pace for 4 hours). So this is training for qualifying for RAM.
Bret is a strong cyclist (as he’d have to be) and takes the lead. He also can read the directions on the fly.
I’m at the back again. Kathy is very interested in Bret’s plans to do RAM and so they keep together talking. We continue to do 16+mph. Sometimes I feel guilty about being at the back and pull out in the lead, but my attempt to memorize directions didn’t work and at a major intersection I have to fall back and let Bret take over again.
Bret finds out that this is my first double century and asks if I’d like some advice. I say sure. “Always eat more than you think you need to, and eat before you feel hungry.” I’d sort of gotten that idea from my own 126 mile ride, though I had not expressed it so coherently. Sounds reasonable. “Don’t spend too long at the rest stations.” Dave (the owner of my bike store) said the same thing: “If you spend 10 minutes at each station you’ll add about an hour to your 12hour day of biking. You’ll regret not being home earlier.” That, too, sounds like good advice. Though the idea of biking 200miles in a 12 hours seems unlikely.
We get to the next rest stop in Morepark, I’ve never been here before. Morepark is inland and the sun has shaken off the clouds and is shining. We sail down a nice shady street before turning into the park with our stop. The highland route has joined us again, briefly, but there aren’t many people at the rest stop. The restrooms have just been opened, which is rather comforting for us, a little disquieting, no doubt, for those before us. But then there probably aren’t that many. We’re going fairly fast and on the easy route and we started on time.
They have peanut butter + jelly sandwiches here. And fruit. And recovery drink (the real stuff, not Gatorade). So I eat, use the rest rooms, give my number, drink my recovery drink, fill my water bottles, rearrange my fanny pack so that the gel packs are on top, try to memorize the route, and we’re off again.
Once more it’s the three of us, and almost immediately we are back in the fog and overcast. Which is nice. We’ve turned and are heading toward the coast to Ventura. Bret and Kathy are going more slowly now than I’d like (about 13mph), so I pull out in front to encourage them to go faster. But this only has the effect of having me go faster while they don’t. Not what I was intending.
Later Kathy tells me this was because I did it wrong. I needed to slot myself in right in front of them, while my natural tendency is to give people lots of space when I pass them — less chance of crashing into them that way. I was just too far ahead for them to be able to draft off me.
As we approach Ventura, I’m going down a road at about 20mph when someone passes me. This surprises me — 20mph seems very fast to me. Another group of Grand Tourists has caught up with us, or with me, rather, they’ve already passed Bret and Kathy. So now I try to hang with these people. And then Bret catches up and takes the lead as we go up the hill into the park in Ventura with the next rest stop.
Give number, eat, drink, recovery drink, fill water bottles, use rest-room, try to memorize directions. And we’re off. Pretty much the same group we came in with. Brett and Kathy hang back again, and I let them and go ahead with the group who caught us. We’ll meet up in Ojai where we have lunch.
There’s a bike path that follows the Ventura river all the way up to Ojai, and I’d just assumed we’d take it. That’s the way I always go. But we don’t. I actually did a pretty good job of learning the directions this time, and I know where I’m going for once.
I’m with two guys now who are going at a reasonable clip. And then the chain comes off on one guy’s bike so he and his friend stop. I push on. After a bit Kathy catches up with me. Bret has tired and is nowhere to be seen, Kathy says he says he didn’t get enough sleep last night. We keep going up Ventura Rd and then onto Hwy 33 (much too busy for my taste), and finally off on Creek Road which goes in to Ojai the back way. This is the area in which I do water testing, and I’m checking, as I go, whether the streams we test are still running (some dry in the summer). But they all still have water. At one of our sampling sites, I see a black tailed deer and a fawn stepping daintily out of the woods and then running back in as I whiz past.
A swallow comes flying by and then hangs in the air about 6 feet in front of me for a few seconds before he flits off.
Kathy has told me she can’t keep up with me. But she seems perfectly capable of catching up with me. Maybe she’s better at sprinting than I?
We get into Ojai together and have lunch. And recovery drink. And water. And give our numbers, use the rest rooms, and memorize the directions to the next rest stop. This is an area I know pretty well — not the little back streets of Ojai — but once we get out of the city the route back down to Ventura, so I feel I’m actually memorizing them.
It is hot in Ojai. 83 in the shade. Kathy has a thermometer on her bike computer which reads 96 at one point.
Bret has caught up again. He doesn’t seem to eat much and is ready do go when we are.
As is a tandem bike. Kathy thinks we should draft behind the tandem. But they take off far too fast. Bret manages to catch up with them, but Kathy and I don’t … until they make a wrong turn and backtrack. Then we all slot in behind them. Or Bret and Kathy do. I’m no good at it. Probably I want to hang back too far and am not really drafting. Or something. They go at about 30mph, and I fall further and further behind.
Eventually Kathy sees that I’m a couple of hundred yards back and she drops back too. I feel badly about this — if she can draft with them she should, I’ll manage. And then I wonder: How can she hang with someone going 30mph when she was complaining about me going 20mph before lunch?
Ojai is about 300ft elevation and Ventura is sea-level, so we’re going downhill now and 20mph seems comfortable to us both.
We get to Ventura, and I had thought the next rest area was the little park at the beach on the SB side of Ventura. But it isn’t. The park is merely drawn in a similar typographic style, I’m not sure why. So we press on up the coast toward the Rincon (just outside of Carpenteria).
The wind is against us now, and we slow down considerably. The wind always comes from Pt. Conception and blows down the coast, but today it seems particularly vigorous. We complain bitterly about it and drop down to 11mph for a bit.
At least we are back in overcast again. With the wind it’s even chilly.
And we see Bret again. He couldn’t keep up with the tandem either, though he did last longer than we did. But it seems he can’t keep up with us now. And we leave him behind.
We push on up the coast. We both know this bit really well; it’s one of our standard routes. I get hungry halfway to the Rincon and stop to eat a gel-pack, while Kathy stops to massage her feet — hers get cramped and hot on long bike rides.
Something has shaken loose on my bike. There’s a little jingle as the bike moves. Eventually I track it down to a small chrome dome that seems to have popped off the front wheel. It’s between the front fork and the wheel on the axle but has some room in which to slide along the axle… and jingle.
I don’t think it’s functional. I hope not.
We get on the freeway here; we’ve got about 3 miles of freeway riding to do (there is a bikepath on the freeway).
At the Rincon there is no rest stop either. We look at the directions. Oh. The place they call the Rincon is not the actual Rincon, but is the next freeway exit. Sigh. We get back on the freeway and go to the next exit.
Give our numbers, eat. I don’t want to eat now, the thought of food makes me nauseous, but I eat anyway. Drink recovery drink, fill water bottles.
I ask if someone can look at my bike. No one there is a bike mechanic, but they agree with me that my jingle probably isn’t significant. There is a bike store about a mile from here in downtown Carpenteria, of course, but… I decide I don’t need it.
Now we turn back to Malibu. The people at the rest stop tell us we are now going home, but home is in Santa Barbara — 15miles in the opposite direction.
Bret has once again caught up and is ready to go when we are (does he not eat? or does he eat really fast?). He has decided not to do the 300 mile loop but will just do the 200 miler that we are doing.
The wind is with us now, and we are going downhill as we head back onto the freeway. Bret just takes off. I’m going about 26, and Kathy’s right behind me, but in 5 minutes he’s a quarter of a mile in front. And there he stays for about a mile, and then slowly we catch up, and pass. We slow a bit (19) to let him draft if he wants, but he can’t keep that pace either.
Off the freeway now. At the state park at the end of this bit of Hwy 1 we see two guys who’ve been drafting off us for a bit head off in the wrong direction. We shout at them (this is still a route we know well). And on into Ventura.
I need to stop to look at the directions now, and then on. The two guys have caught up again. They are the two I was following just before Ojai, the ones who had to fix the chain. After about 5 more miles one of them offers to go in front. This is welcome. I’ve been leading since before Ojai, for the last 60 miles or so. Kathy has offered before, but always says she will slow down, and I’d rather not do that. So I let him, and he leads for the next 5 miles or so.
I apologize for the jingle my wheel makes, and he says I really need to get my pedal clips checked. My feet keep slipping out inappropriately. I explain that I’m new to clip-in pedals and I clip out if there is even a slight chance that I’ll need to stop and put my foot down. He agrees that this is a good idea for a beginner, and asks if I’ve fallen. “Four times in the first three days, but not since.”
At the next stoplight. I put my foot on the ground and then slowly fall onto the other side.
So much for hubris.
The final rest stop is the first rest stop. I really don’t want to eat, but I have some fruit, recovery drink fill my water bottles … oh yes, and pick up the lights that I left here this morning. I shan’t need them. It’s about 4:30pm now and there are only 35miles to go, but I need to get them home… Give numbers, restroom, etc.
The two guys who’ve been with us on the last leg took off before we did (and we don’t catch them up again). But someone else leaves when we do.
The directions say: “Take J street to Hueneme and turn left”, there are orange arrows at the first big intersection on J pointing left, and we follow them. And then realize this is not Hueneme, it’s Pleasant Valley. This is the route we took this morning on the way to Morepark. We don’t want to do the tour all over again.
We go back to J, go to the next big street, and it is Hueneme. A relief.
And head down it. I’m tired now. I tell Kathy I’m going to slow. That’s fine with her. Except we aren’t going particularly slowly and after a bit we both speed up back to 18mph or so.
And then we’re on Hwy 1 again. Only another 24 miles or so.
It’s daylight now, and we’re on the ocean side of the route; we have an actual view. Occasionally we get splashed by spray as the waves crash below us. Pelicans fly past. Dive. Rock on the waves like small boats at anchor.
Two guys come zooming up from behind us, pull in in front of us. And slow down. This is frustrating. I don’t like it when someone passes me and then slows down and goes more slowly than I was going. Then there’s a downhill bit and they take off again. Ah, I think, that’s ok then. But there’s another uphill bit and I’m right behind them once again. Kathy and I are both stronger hill climbers than most people. This keeps going on. At one point they are going particularly slowly (13mph) and Kathy says, “OK, pass them if you must”. And it seems I must. I take off.
I’m getting into Malibu now, and the gentle hills earlier on Hwy 1 are becoming steeper and longer. I’m trying to keep a good pace, but it’s getting harder.
I’m amazed at how different it feels biking than running. When I’m running my legs fill with lactic acid, but here there is very little sensation of tiredness in the legs. Oh, on a very steep hill my quads will burn, but most of the time there’s nothing. Does that mean I’m capable of going even faster on the bike than I’m now going? Of course in any endurance event you want to work below the lactate threshold, but in a marathon it still builds up. On the other hand my lungs are feeling … raw. I’m coughing a lot and an attempt to take a deep breath results in a coughing fit. This is more noticeable when stopped than it is when riding. It reminds me of the way my lungs felt after running a 5 minute mile in high school.
I guess in biking the tiredness is more general, while in marathoning it is more specific?
At the bottom of a hill I am shaken out of my reverie by Kathy saying “I’ve spent the last 20 miles trying to catch up, and now I’m about to lose you again”. And we head up the hill, and I guess I do lose her for a bit.
The hills are so high here. I don’t remember these on the way out. Have I gone too far? No, I’m at 198 miles so there’s still a way to go. I guess it was just dark.
It’s hard to keep pushing myself.
But I do.
This stretch of Hwy 1 is unpleasant. There’s too much traffic. People park on the shoulders so there’s no good bike path. People walk between the cars and the traffic so there’s even less of a bike path. People open car doors. Cars pull out in front of you, or stop in front of you.
Nerve-wracking.
As I reach the top of each hill I hope it is the last. But it isn’t. And it isn’t. And it isn’t. And then, at last it is.
And I can see the place where we need to turn up. I’m stuck at a stop light. It’s a long light. Various people I’ve passed catch up with me. We’re off. I have to make a left turn now, but the traffic is so heavy I’m not sure I can cut over into the left hand lane. Ah… the light behind changes again, and there’s space, so I cut across. There’s no one in the left turn lane but me. It’s a trip light, and it’s not going to trip for me. I wait for a car to pull up. A bicyclist does instead. And another. And here’s Kathy! She did catch up! Good for her. And finally there’s a car behind us, and eventually we get a green arrow and head up the final hill.

Elapsed time 13:34 hours, Biking time 11:40hours, Average speed 17.3mph (27.8kph), Max speed 35.7mph, total mileage: 204miles, elevation gain ~6000ft. It’s a little after 6pm.
(This year 233 people finished the 200 miler, 28 the 300 and 2 the 400. And 92 finished the 200 km.)

Yay!
Dave (at the bike store) had a better idea how long it would take me than I did. And Kathy finished with me — so in spite of all her claims not to be able to keep up, she did.
Kathy and I hug.
We get off the bikes, park them, take off our shoes (they don’t want bike shoes on the inside floors) and go inside. Our final check in. According to their count we took 14:01 hours. Next time I’ll know better than to check in before I’m ready to leave.
I’m coughing.
I drink some water. Kathy eats a bit of chicken. We sit outside for a bit and chat with some of the other finishers. Kathy has more energy than I. She chats. I sit. And drink my water. And cough.
We had talked about having a meal at a restaurant, but I find the thought of food disgusting at the moment. Kathy’s a bit better off but she’s more interested in a shower and bed at home than food.
We head back up the coast on Hwy 1. Our final time today. Basically we are retracing the route we biked (no diversions to Morepark and Ojai though). The sun is finally breaking through the clouds here on the coast. We keep seeing cyclists biking down Hwy 1, and we wonder which will make it back before dark. Sunset is 8:15, civil twilight ends at 8:45. We look for Bret, but don’t see him. We wonder why we never saw the sag wagon after the first stage. We see one poor guy sitting by his bike with his head in his hands.
Kathy stops at a convenience store so I can get some ice for my knee. A good idea. My knee feels fine, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. My cough has vanished as I’ve rested.
For someone who woke up before 2am, I don’t feel at all sleepy when I get home. I still don’t feel hungry either, but the next morning I’m starved. My knee came through just fine.
The next day I check in with Dave at Fastrack: the jingle isn’t significant, and he fixes it with a couple of hammer blows. So the bike is fine too.

I think I want to do another one. Or try for 300 miles next year?
But today, I don’t need to do anything. And that’s a welcome change.