WARNING: This entry is EXTREMELY wordy!
As of Saturday at 7:38 pm, I can officially call myself a Randonneur. That was the time that I made the long awaited left turn into Major’s Coffee Shop, and finished the most painful, disgustingly difficult, and rewarding physical endeavor I have attempted thus far; The San Diego Randonneurs’ Kitchen Creek 200K brevet.
My ride ended just a few moments before of the ride’s final finisher. I my time of 12 hours 38 minutes was the second slowest of the day, which sounds pretty shoddy, except that nine out of the original 25 riders didn’t finish. In that light, I’m pretty happy with my time. Amazingly, I still had 52 minutes before the clock officially ran out!
I learned an awful lot on this ride, and experienced numerous ups and downs. At the end, my odometer read 126 miles with 11,000 feet of elevation gain. My previous longest ride (about 4 weeks previous) was a 92 mile ride with about 5,000 feet of climbing. What a difference the climbing makes! I did not have a solid appreciation for the amount of elevation gain I would face, and I certainly didn’t understand how my body would react to the effort.
I arrived at Major’s at 6:30am, and prepared for the ride. I signed in, received my brevet card, and awaited the riders’ meeting. A wide variety of bicycles started the day. Several folks rode carbon racing bikes (Specialized was the most prevalent brand). I counted a couple of Rivendells, a beautiful Boulder Bicycles Brevet model, a few Schwinns (one was a single speed!), and even a recumbent. My friend Esteban didn’t arrive until just before the heard departed, so I didn’t wait around to start the ride with his group. Instead I just headed up the road (which was pretty steep leaving Pine Valley) and was on my way.
The first 36 miles was a pretty quick series of ups and downs. I was feeling good, and trying to pace myself, knowing I had a long way to go, and a huge climb ahead of me. I found myself riding with Kelly and Dave, a couple of experienced randonneurs, who were moving at a good clip. Kelly was riding the single speed Schwinn Madison, and was maintaining a great pace. Turns out he’d ridden to Yuma and back the weekend previous, and was hit by a car only 3 days before this ride. And still he was riding powerfully. We got to chatting a bit, as the miles ticked by, and he asked me a question that bounced around in my brain for the rest of the day; “You’re not going out to hard are you?” I said, “I hope not,” and immediately became concerned that I was. This guy obviously had years of experience, and something told me he knew an overzealous newbie when he saw one.
Determined to pace myself, I let Kelly and Dave slip away on the final climb before the control in Jacumba. I took it easy, and arrived maybe a minute behind. I felt like I had a lot left, but was a bit worried about the effort I had already put into those first 36 miles. I still had 90 miles to go, including the 12 mile, 3,000 foot accent of Mt. Laguna. I took my time in Jacumba, filled up on water, bought an apple juice, and headed back out onto the rapidly warming road.
Having been a bit slow at the control, I allowed several folks to catch up to my quick start, and eventually met up with a gentleman named Kevin on the steep climb out of Jacumba. We rode along and chatted for a couple of miles when I realized my rear tire was getting soft. I decided to stop and put some more air in the tire, hoping to make it to some shade before having to replace the tube. Kevin went on ahead, and I stopped on the sun-drenched roadside to realize I had no idea how to operate my new pump. Idiotic, I know. Luckily, Jack and Kathy, on their tandem, were not far behind, and stopped to help. Jack had a great pump and got my tire up to 90 lbs. I was extremely grateful for their help, as they allowed me to get out of that miserably hot valley.
I continued on, climbing slowly up to Kitchen Creek Road, and decided eventually that I had to stop and fix the flat. I pulled over outside of Boulevard, a “town” consisting, more-or-less, of a plywood Mexican restaurant and a post office, where I found an abandoned building with a shady porch, and a rail at the perfect height for hanging my bike. While sitting there, I enjoyed a banana and almond butter sandwich, and watched a half dozen or so riders pass by on their way up the hill. I spent probably 15 minutes there fixing the flat, and figuring out how to work my pump. I managed to get about 50 lbs into the tire, but I was very worried because I was unable to find the cause of the leak. But I needed to get back on the road. I left my porch just as William was riding past on his recumbent. I’d never met him before, but knew of William from the sdbikecommuter.com forum. We exchanged hellos, and I was on my way out of the dessert.
The next 12 miles went fairly smoothly. My tire pressure seemed to be holding, and I was making good time. I was trying to conserve as much energy as possible for the daunting climb that lay ahead. I turned off of Old Hwy 80 onto Kitchen Creek Road and found a group of folks huddled around a red SUV under I-8. One of the many great volunteers, Will, was set up there with Gatorade, Water, apples, Ice, and V-8. He also had a floor pump, which I thought very fortunate. I topped my rear tire off at 90 lbs, refilled my water bottles, ate some food, and thought myself ready for the obstacle ahead- Mt. Laguna.
Kitchen Creek road doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a horrendous assent. From the very beginning the incline is intense, and the heat was beginning to be unbearable. The road starts going straight up, and doesn’t seem to stop for 12 miles. Sure, there are short sections where the asphalt is forced to dip between two hills, but there is no relief from the torturous climbing and unrelenting sun. By my admittedly hazy recollection, there was no shade for probably 8 miles or so, just black pavement and white rocks marking the climb, punctuated by views that would be stunning if you weren’t suffering from heat stroke induced tunnel vision.
A group of riders all started the climb more-or-less together after the watering station under the 8, and slowly made their way up the slope. My lowest gear seemed to not be low enough, and I was forced to go a bit faster than I would have liked just to keep the wheels turning. I ended up passing several folks in the first mile or two, which I knew would not bode well for me towards the top. So it was fitting that when I was already a bit over-geared, and hot, and intimidated by the mountain in front of me, I realized my rear tire was losing air again. It got softer and softer until I had to stop and pump it up. Admittedly, I didn’t mind the break, but I was worried about having to do this several times on my way up the climb. There didn’t appear to be any decent place to stop and fix the problem, and I was getting crampy, and coming to the realization that my water supply was not going to last to the top. About 5 miles into the assent I decided I couldn’t continue on a flat tire, so I found a large rock, took off my jersey and under layer, and got to fixing the tire.
This time I knew I had to figure out what was causing the flat, as I was down to my last tube. Thankfully, I always align the tire sidewall marking with the valve stem, so when I was finally able to detect the very small puncture in the tube, I was able to quickly localize the suspect area of the tire. Sure enough, after a bit of searching in the blinding sun, I discovered a very tiny shard of glass imbedded in the tread. It was so small that it hadn’t re-punctured the tube until I had topped off the pressure at the water station, just before starting the climb. I removed the glass, made sure there were no more nasty spurs, and put the bike back together.
By the time I got back to climbing I had been passed by pretty much every other rider. The heat was unrelenting, and I took off my helmet to help cool myself. The slight tailwind, which would have been welcome, was just slight enough that when pedaling at 6 mph the relative wind dropped to zero. After unsuccessfully trying to maintain my cadence I decided to walk whenever I couldn’t keep my speed above 5mph. I figured that walking allowed the use of different muscles, relieved some stress from my feet, and lowered my heart rate while losing little time. The fact that I was wearing soccer shoes (Adidas Sambas) made walking comfortable and easy. It would have been impossible in cleated cycling shoes. Another rider, Juan, was having similar problems, and he and I leap-frogged each other several times on our way up the mountain, a trend that would continue throughout the remainder of the ride.
Kitchen Creek Road would not end. I finally made it to tree level, and was out of water, and out of hope. I was exhausted. I was cramping badly. I was very worried about heat stress, but I knew that I was still ok, as I was sweating profusely. As long as you’re sweating, you’re ok, I figure! For the first, but not last, time that day I pulled over into the woods and laid down in the weeds and dirt. I stared up at the blue sky, and the trees, and enjoyed the slight breeze, and wondered if I would be able to actually make it all the way up to the Laguna control. I still had about 4 miles to go, and no water. I didn’t want to go back down Kitchen Creek, but I didn’t know if I could continue. I just lay there and relaxed. After deciding that I wasn’t going to die in the near future, I got back on the bike and continued.
As luck would have it, soon after starting back up, I came across some campers. They were extremely generous and gave me a bottle of cold water and allowed me to fill my bottles. I drank the entire bottle of cold water right there, thanked them profusely, and headed up the mountain with renewed confidence. I now knew I would make it to the control.
As I rode up to the Laguna Lodge, Esteban and his riding partners were heading back down Sunrise Highway, apparently done for the day. In retrospect, that would have been the intelligent decision for me to have made as well. Somehow, I convinced myself that the hard part was behind me, and the rest of this ride would be easy-breezy. I checked into the control only 8 minutes before it was supposed to close. I had no idea I was so close to being disqualified! I’d never looked at a clock, or at the time constraint. I was focused solely on getting up that damn mountain.
The volunteer at Laguna, Julie, had a great stock of Coke, ice, water, cookies, and apples. I ate and drank and sat in the shade. I spent half an hour on the cool porch, chatting with other riders, and enjoying the fact that I’d survived. I’d finished 72 miles of the ride, meaning I “only” had 53 miles or so left, and I convinced myself that, except for a little climb out of Julian, it was all downhill. I’m amazed by the tricks the human mind will play on itself.
The 24 miles to Wynola, just outside of Julian, went by pretty quickly. It was mostly downhill, with bits of steep climbing mixed in, just to remind me I was stupid for continuing. I made a wrong turn outside of Julian, and had to back-track a couple miles, uphill, to find my way to the Red Barn in Wynola. I left Laguna ahead of Juan, and Jack and Kathy’s tandem, but arrived in Wynola just behind them. I was spent. I was hungry, but no food was edible. I was sore, and my leg cramping was getting pretty tough to deal with on the climbs. My lower back was killing me, and my left hand was cramping. All-in-all, I was a mess. But I knew that there were only 30 miles, much of which was downhill, until I could call myself a randonneur.
Greg, volunteering at the Wynola control, gave me some electrolyte pills and a carb/electrolyte drink mix. The drink was incredible and the pills were incredibly helpful. I am convinced that without Greg’s help I would never have been able to will my way back to Pine Valley.
The last 30 miles were the most beautiful (Lake Cuyamaca is stunning!) and the most painful of the entire ride. My seat was very sore, my back ached beyond belief, and my legs were done. And the hills kept on being there! I took another break on the side of the road when I just couldn’t stand sitting on the bike another second. I cussed out loud multiple times when the pain became nearly unbearable. But I knew it was almost over. Just outside of Julian, as the road turned up, I put on my iPod. I never listen to music while riding and have been missing out. The music really lifted my spirits, and kept my focus off of the odometer. I watched deer bounding across the road and around the glens surrounding the lake. I watched the shadows creep across the valley as the sun began to set, and enjoyed the cooling dusk. My body was on its last thread, but my mind and spirits were at their peak.
After an exhilarating decent, the last small effort into Pine Valley seemed nearly flat. I cruised along, and passed Juan, the last rider on the road, about 5 miles before the finish. I was surprised when Major’s Coffee Shop appeared ahead on the left, and was overwhelmed with satisfaction. I don’t really know how I managed to finish. Luck, certainly. Stupidity also. I received some amazing support from the volunteers, and, besides the flat tire, had no issues with my bicycle. I pulled into Major’s and Greg signed my card and gave me a Coke. I completed the ride in 12 hours, 38 minutes – 52 minutes ahead of the requirement.
God bless you if you’ve actually read this entire thing. I know it’s way to long, and full of redundant sentences and nonsense. This is my first real ride report, so I just wanted to get everything out before the memory faded. I’ll post some lessons learned in the very near future. Until then, thanks for reading.
Showing posts with label Cycling Experience. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cycling Experience. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Long time no blog
Wow. I've been quite neglectful of this blog for months! I think a large reason for my absence from the www was my presence in a creative writing class at SD City College. I was doing a fair amount of writing, but I didn't post anything. So here goes. As this blog has taken on a fairly cycling specific flavor (not necessarily on purpose) I'll post a piece I wrote for the class. I wrote the piece as creative non-fiction and because a smart person once said, "write what you know," I chose to write about cycling in San Diego. So I'll throw it up here. It's long, so you may want to read in chunks. I'd love feedback. The more critical the better, either of my writing or my point of view. Thanks.
DISCLAIMER: Please don't get your feelings hurt by anything you read here. I may seem critical of all these groups of cyclists, but its only because I identify with aspects of each. Obviously, a stereotype is not represntative of each individual on which it is built.
Also, I stole the name from Thom's blog, The World Awheel. Sorry, but I dig the phrase.
San Diego Awheel
The beach towns of San Diego’s North County enjoy beautiful ocean sunsets, replete with all the colors of an amateur painter’s lavishness. This means that their sunrises, forced to sneak over North County’s elevated terrain, are brushed in a more subtle pallet. But on weekend mornings the rising sun brings out of the highlands an array of hues not normally found in temperate climes; the blues and greens, pinks, yellows, reds, and tangerines usually reserved for tropical fish, birds, and flowers flock to the awakening coast on two wheels. The great Saturday Morning Bike Ride migration descends, in Audis, Subaru’s, and 4Runners on parking lots all along the 5 and the 101. In every coastal town, on steeds of carbon fiber and titanium, spandex wrapped cyclists form packs, aggressive and fast, and take to the hills like salmon to the spawn. As the sun trundles toward its zenith the painted and panting swarms spill back down various tributaries to the 101, stopping in Solana Beach, Del Mar, or Encinitas for tall tales of two wheeled heroism around hot cups of espresso or cold smoothies. Their testosterone and legs spent, they retreat back to their sport wagons and SUVs for the drive home. They have worn tight shorts, sweated, bustled and jockeyed, yelled and been yelled at, and communed thoroughly enough to carry them through the next six days of family obligations, meetings, and crowded commutes. They’ll be back next weekend.
An all-together different breed of cyclist goes unrepresented in the hormone fueled Saturday morning battles. They are nursing hangovers from last night’s show at the Ché (Jim Beam shots dropped in PBR) and are unwilling to rise with the sun. Besides, most have to stamp their time card by one. Like the roadies, their uniforms also mimic forest dwellers- not birds, but lumberjacks. Denim and plaid flannel, but they do prefer their jeans just as tight as the Saturday morning crowds’ spandex. Despite requisite piercings and tattoos, the distinguishing characteristic of these cyclists is the code by which they ride: Fixed gear. One cog, one chainring, no derailleur, no freewheel, and often, no brake. They spin through traffic on modified track bikes, unimpeded by technology or reason. Like the “spandex” crowd, these hipsters practice a weekly communal ritual. Every Tuesday evening, from early Spring through late Fall, they gather in scores on the wooden bleachers and grassy hillsides overlooking the velodrome in Balboa Park. The track bikes raced here are the motivation, inspiration, and justification for the fixed gear phylum. The crowds wash down burritos with Tecate, ogle one another’s Deep-Vs and Sugino laced whips, and every once in a while, they look up and notice there’s a race going on.
Uncomfortably crammed between the hipsters, in small, smokeless pockets of the bleachers, you can often spot yet another variety of cyclist. If they weren’t at a bike race, you probably wouldn’t have known they were into cycling, and that ambiguity is a valued aspect of their style. These are utilitarian cyclists. Utilitarian not in the Benthamian vein, but in that for these riders the bicycle is a utility, a tool, a means of transport. Of course, as bicycles do, the tool becomes much more important than the utility it provides, and thus these cyclists find themselves drawn from rush-hour streets, farmers’ markets, and city counsel meetings to this place of communal bicycle worship. You could call these folks “commuters” but that would be like calling soccer hooligans “fans.” You’d be missing most of the picture. When people take to the bicycle as a mode of transport something changes. Whether the change takes place within their personal paradigms or the external universe is difficult to say, but for these enlightened cyclists the world looks different, and they seek others who share the view. This quest for community draws them to the velodrome on Tuesday nights.
Humans, as a species, yearn for community. If the cycling community in San Diego has a body its organs are the city’s bike shops. Bike shops provide parts, service, organization, and representation. They are temples, shrines, and oracles. Like livers, hearts, lungs, and guts, each shop fills a different role in the community, but like organs, they compete for the same blood and oxygen - money. In the shops of San Diego’s Up Town, hippsters, track racers, and old-school utility cyclists collectively salivate at rows of vintage Italian steel frames and display walls adorned with British leather saddles. In the big box stores, scattered like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs along the 5 and the 8, Saturday morning warriors buy carbon bits of feather-weight wonder and a new pair of flame embroidered socks. Beach cruisers are sold like tacos to sunburned college kids in flip-flops on every other corner in Pacific and Mission Beach, where the inclusion of a beer koozy can make or break a deal. There’s the track racing shop, the fixed gear shop, shops for mountain bikes, BMX, wonderbikes, recumbents, and tricycles; all filling a niche but with enough overlap that competition can be, and has to be, fierce. Shops sometimes work together to promote an event, or a group ride, or a race, but for the most part they desperately need those few dollars that are up for grabs from the “independent” cyclists. Clearly the body is healthiest when all of its needs are met by functioning organs, but in a pinch, who really needs two kidneys?
Among most groups of cyclists there is an oft heard cry for community: stronger community, more active community, a lobbying, organized, respected and acknowledged community that, through bicycles, can change the city, the country, and eventually the world. In a Saturday morning pace line you can hear the call to organize for fewer potholes and wider bike lanes. Suburbanites want more bike paths. The cry comes loudest from the every day cyclist, the commuters and utilitarians. These are the cyclists who battle the lonely and dangerous city streets day in and day out and truly understand what a car-centric world we live in.
On the last Friday of every month, in a swirling mass of wheels, bells, horns, and hollers, the San Diego bicycle community swarms around the big fountain in Balboa Park. Parents and kids, BMXers flipping tricks, fixed gear riders with bags of canned beer, utility cyclists with trailers carrying radios and dogs, and everyone in between, riding anything they can dream, gather for Critical Mass. “CM,” as it’s known on the forums, attracts a huge number (sometimes as many as 1500) of cyclists under the premise of “taking back the streets.” The idea is that by riding en mass bicycles can, once a month, rule the car-dominated realm. The churning throng rides West out of the park, and for the next few hours proceeds randomly around the city-blinking, ringing, honking, and hollering- staking the bicycle’s claim to the roads.
If there is a whole community event in the San Diego velo culture, this is it. And yet, even in the context of Critical Mass, the community is not complete. As in other historic calls-to-arms there are draft dodgers and conscience objectors. Conspicuously absent are the spandexed weekend warriors. For them cycling is a recreational pursuit; a means of staying in shape and competing against others for high thrills and low stakes. Monday through Friday, for the most part, they are members of the ruling car-driving majority. Also missing from the mass are those who believe the intended significance is lost on the participants. Can drunken college kids and aggressive teens on dirt bikes ever convince the auto-blind convention that the bicycle, as a legitimate means of transport and conveyance, has a real and useful place on the roads and in society? Many think not and choose non-participation as their voice against what has become, at least in their minds, an excuse for condoned anarchy and rebellion.
Obviously, within a medium as varied as the modern bicycle, the practices, methods, ethos, and creeds of its patrons will cover a wide span of experiences. For some, a bicycle is akin to a tennis racket. For others, it’s an accessory, like a skateboard, or Air Jordans. A bicycle, depending on the build and design, can careen down rocky mountain trails, jump over urban ravines, descend flights of concrete stairs, or climb high alpine passes. Bicycles carry men to glory on the cobbled Champs d'Elysées, and they carry men to work on dew wet early morning roads around the world. People carry their children, their groceries, and their aspirations on narrow inner tubes and aluminum wheels. For every different way of utilizing a bicycle there is a corresponding conviction about the machine’s ultimate purpose. With those deeply held beliefs come powerful insinuations against people who use the bicycle differently. Racers disdain commuters for their plebian employment of the beautiful instrument. Utility cyclists scorn the carbon-fiber weight weenies and their five thousand dollar toys. Everyone who hasn’t tried one, and some who have, considers fixed gear bikes a nonsensical and impractical ornament of modern pop anti-culture. Down hillers think cross country riders are dorks. Climbers think bombers are lazy and crazy. Not even BMXers respect other BMXers. On cycling forums, blogs, and bike shops bulletin boards riders claw for community, but on the streets of San Diego they avoid eye contact, sprint past, and judge every other person they observe employing the bicycle in a way different than their own.
The cycling community in San Diego is as diverse as the city itself. Across the beaches, the valley, the uptown mesa, Downtown, South Bay, and East County people on bicycles race, pop wheelies, jump onto and off of rails, ride dirt, street, vert, and track. Curmudgeon ancients on old English three speeds, like the suspendered grandpa at the family gathering, decry any use of post war technology. Black haired hoodlums on urban stunt bikes fill the role of the mischievous little brother. The cool, older siblings race without brakes, wheel to wheel, on the banked concrete of the velodrome. Strange cousins ride recumbents and double-decker monstrosities built in basements. The Mom and Dad of this dysfunctional family are the conscience commuters who halt at every stop sign and red light, signal turns, and wear reflective helmets. San Diego’s cyclists are a dysfunctional collection of preference and personality, and so resemble a real family much more than a mere community. Every family is rife with infighting, jealousy, and contempt. But families are held together by love. In the case of the bicycling family, it’s the love of freedom, of breaking the mold, of shifting the paradigm. No family is perfect, but with a little understanding, patience, and grace, all families progress toward a common goal. Family trumps community any day.
As the sun rises behind the hills and peeks between the sky scrapers of the Finest City and across the Big Bay, men and women, driven by some combination of economy, fitness, convenience, and philosophy converge on a single point on North Harbor drive, on the Broadway Pier. The riders arrive on suspended mountain bikes and high-end race bikes. They come on old-school steel and space-age carbon. Nearly every ideation of bicycle carries a cyclist to the ferry landing, bound for Coronado. They all board the boat together, and slip their wheels into the single bike rack in the middle of the main deck. Clad in full spandex racing kits, gym shorts and tee shirts, cutoffs or slacks, they take their seats and settle in for the ride across the peaceful bay. The ferry leaves, and for twenty tranquil minutes the family enjoys the sparkling view, and contemplates the day to come.
If you read the whole thing, thank you. If you wish to comment, please do.
I'll probably post some other stuff I wrote for the class in the next couple of weeks. Not about bicycles, but the world isn't all about bicycles, just mostly.
DISCLAIMER: Please don't get your feelings hurt by anything you read here. I may seem critical of all these groups of cyclists, but its only because I identify with aspects of each. Obviously, a stereotype is not represntative of each individual on which it is built.
Also, I stole the name from Thom's blog, The World Awheel. Sorry, but I dig the phrase.
San Diego Awheel
The beach towns of San Diego’s North County enjoy beautiful ocean sunsets, replete with all the colors of an amateur painter’s lavishness. This means that their sunrises, forced to sneak over North County’s elevated terrain, are brushed in a more subtle pallet. But on weekend mornings the rising sun brings out of the highlands an array of hues not normally found in temperate climes; the blues and greens, pinks, yellows, reds, and tangerines usually reserved for tropical fish, birds, and flowers flock to the awakening coast on two wheels. The great Saturday Morning Bike Ride migration descends, in Audis, Subaru’s, and 4Runners on parking lots all along the 5 and the 101. In every coastal town, on steeds of carbon fiber and titanium, spandex wrapped cyclists form packs, aggressive and fast, and take to the hills like salmon to the spawn. As the sun trundles toward its zenith the painted and panting swarms spill back down various tributaries to the 101, stopping in Solana Beach, Del Mar, or Encinitas for tall tales of two wheeled heroism around hot cups of espresso or cold smoothies. Their testosterone and legs spent, they retreat back to their sport wagons and SUVs for the drive home. They have worn tight shorts, sweated, bustled and jockeyed, yelled and been yelled at, and communed thoroughly enough to carry them through the next six days of family obligations, meetings, and crowded commutes. They’ll be back next weekend.
An all-together different breed of cyclist goes unrepresented in the hormone fueled Saturday morning battles. They are nursing hangovers from last night’s show at the Ché (Jim Beam shots dropped in PBR) and are unwilling to rise with the sun. Besides, most have to stamp their time card by one. Like the roadies, their uniforms also mimic forest dwellers- not birds, but lumberjacks. Denim and plaid flannel, but they do prefer their jeans just as tight as the Saturday morning crowds’ spandex. Despite requisite piercings and tattoos, the distinguishing characteristic of these cyclists is the code by which they ride: Fixed gear. One cog, one chainring, no derailleur, no freewheel, and often, no brake. They spin through traffic on modified track bikes, unimpeded by technology or reason. Like the “spandex” crowd, these hipsters practice a weekly communal ritual. Every Tuesday evening, from early Spring through late Fall, they gather in scores on the wooden bleachers and grassy hillsides overlooking the velodrome in Balboa Park. The track bikes raced here are the motivation, inspiration, and justification for the fixed gear phylum. The crowds wash down burritos with Tecate, ogle one another’s Deep-Vs and Sugino laced whips, and every once in a while, they look up and notice there’s a race going on.
Uncomfortably crammed between the hipsters, in small, smokeless pockets of the bleachers, you can often spot yet another variety of cyclist. If they weren’t at a bike race, you probably wouldn’t have known they were into cycling, and that ambiguity is a valued aspect of their style. These are utilitarian cyclists. Utilitarian not in the Benthamian vein, but in that for these riders the bicycle is a utility, a tool, a means of transport. Of course, as bicycles do, the tool becomes much more important than the utility it provides, and thus these cyclists find themselves drawn from rush-hour streets, farmers’ markets, and city counsel meetings to this place of communal bicycle worship. You could call these folks “commuters” but that would be like calling soccer hooligans “fans.” You’d be missing most of the picture. When people take to the bicycle as a mode of transport something changes. Whether the change takes place within their personal paradigms or the external universe is difficult to say, but for these enlightened cyclists the world looks different, and they seek others who share the view. This quest for community draws them to the velodrome on Tuesday nights.
Humans, as a species, yearn for community. If the cycling community in San Diego has a body its organs are the city’s bike shops. Bike shops provide parts, service, organization, and representation. They are temples, shrines, and oracles. Like livers, hearts, lungs, and guts, each shop fills a different role in the community, but like organs, they compete for the same blood and oxygen - money. In the shops of San Diego’s Up Town, hippsters, track racers, and old-school utility cyclists collectively salivate at rows of vintage Italian steel frames and display walls adorned with British leather saddles. In the big box stores, scattered like Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs along the 5 and the 8, Saturday morning warriors buy carbon bits of feather-weight wonder and a new pair of flame embroidered socks. Beach cruisers are sold like tacos to sunburned college kids in flip-flops on every other corner in Pacific and Mission Beach, where the inclusion of a beer koozy can make or break a deal. There’s the track racing shop, the fixed gear shop, shops for mountain bikes, BMX, wonderbikes, recumbents, and tricycles; all filling a niche but with enough overlap that competition can be, and has to be, fierce. Shops sometimes work together to promote an event, or a group ride, or a race, but for the most part they desperately need those few dollars that are up for grabs from the “independent” cyclists. Clearly the body is healthiest when all of its needs are met by functioning organs, but in a pinch, who really needs two kidneys?
Among most groups of cyclists there is an oft heard cry for community: stronger community, more active community, a lobbying, organized, respected and acknowledged community that, through bicycles, can change the city, the country, and eventually the world. In a Saturday morning pace line you can hear the call to organize for fewer potholes and wider bike lanes. Suburbanites want more bike paths. The cry comes loudest from the every day cyclist, the commuters and utilitarians. These are the cyclists who battle the lonely and dangerous city streets day in and day out and truly understand what a car-centric world we live in.
On the last Friday of every month, in a swirling mass of wheels, bells, horns, and hollers, the San Diego bicycle community swarms around the big fountain in Balboa Park. Parents and kids, BMXers flipping tricks, fixed gear riders with bags of canned beer, utility cyclists with trailers carrying radios and dogs, and everyone in between, riding anything they can dream, gather for Critical Mass. “CM,” as it’s known on the forums, attracts a huge number (sometimes as many as 1500) of cyclists under the premise of “taking back the streets.” The idea is that by riding en mass bicycles can, once a month, rule the car-dominated realm. The churning throng rides West out of the park, and for the next few hours proceeds randomly around the city-blinking, ringing, honking, and hollering- staking the bicycle’s claim to the roads.
If there is a whole community event in the San Diego velo culture, this is it. And yet, even in the context of Critical Mass, the community is not complete. As in other historic calls-to-arms there are draft dodgers and conscience objectors. Conspicuously absent are the spandexed weekend warriors. For them cycling is a recreational pursuit; a means of staying in shape and competing against others for high thrills and low stakes. Monday through Friday, for the most part, they are members of the ruling car-driving majority. Also missing from the mass are those who believe the intended significance is lost on the participants. Can drunken college kids and aggressive teens on dirt bikes ever convince the auto-blind convention that the bicycle, as a legitimate means of transport and conveyance, has a real and useful place on the roads and in society? Many think not and choose non-participation as their voice against what has become, at least in their minds, an excuse for condoned anarchy and rebellion.
Obviously, within a medium as varied as the modern bicycle, the practices, methods, ethos, and creeds of its patrons will cover a wide span of experiences. For some, a bicycle is akin to a tennis racket. For others, it’s an accessory, like a skateboard, or Air Jordans. A bicycle, depending on the build and design, can careen down rocky mountain trails, jump over urban ravines, descend flights of concrete stairs, or climb high alpine passes. Bicycles carry men to glory on the cobbled Champs d'Elysées, and they carry men to work on dew wet early morning roads around the world. People carry their children, their groceries, and their aspirations on narrow inner tubes and aluminum wheels. For every different way of utilizing a bicycle there is a corresponding conviction about the machine’s ultimate purpose. With those deeply held beliefs come powerful insinuations against people who use the bicycle differently. Racers disdain commuters for their plebian employment of the beautiful instrument. Utility cyclists scorn the carbon-fiber weight weenies and their five thousand dollar toys. Everyone who hasn’t tried one, and some who have, considers fixed gear bikes a nonsensical and impractical ornament of modern pop anti-culture. Down hillers think cross country riders are dorks. Climbers think bombers are lazy and crazy. Not even BMXers respect other BMXers. On cycling forums, blogs, and bike shops bulletin boards riders claw for community, but on the streets of San Diego they avoid eye contact, sprint past, and judge every other person they observe employing the bicycle in a way different than their own.
The cycling community in San Diego is as diverse as the city itself. Across the beaches, the valley, the uptown mesa, Downtown, South Bay, and East County people on bicycles race, pop wheelies, jump onto and off of rails, ride dirt, street, vert, and track. Curmudgeon ancients on old English three speeds, like the suspendered grandpa at the family gathering, decry any use of post war technology. Black haired hoodlums on urban stunt bikes fill the role of the mischievous little brother. The cool, older siblings race without brakes, wheel to wheel, on the banked concrete of the velodrome. Strange cousins ride recumbents and double-decker monstrosities built in basements. The Mom and Dad of this dysfunctional family are the conscience commuters who halt at every stop sign and red light, signal turns, and wear reflective helmets. San Diego’s cyclists are a dysfunctional collection of preference and personality, and so resemble a real family much more than a mere community. Every family is rife with infighting, jealousy, and contempt. But families are held together by love. In the case of the bicycling family, it’s the love of freedom, of breaking the mold, of shifting the paradigm. No family is perfect, but with a little understanding, patience, and grace, all families progress toward a common goal. Family trumps community any day.
As the sun rises behind the hills and peeks between the sky scrapers of the Finest City and across the Big Bay, men and women, driven by some combination of economy, fitness, convenience, and philosophy converge on a single point on North Harbor drive, on the Broadway Pier. The riders arrive on suspended mountain bikes and high-end race bikes. They come on old-school steel and space-age carbon. Nearly every ideation of bicycle carries a cyclist to the ferry landing, bound for Coronado. They all board the boat together, and slip their wheels into the single bike rack in the middle of the main deck. Clad in full spandex racing kits, gym shorts and tee shirts, cutoffs or slacks, they take their seats and settle in for the ride across the peaceful bay. The ferry leaves, and for twenty tranquil minutes the family enjoys the sparkling view, and contemplates the day to come.
If you read the whole thing, thank you. If you wish to comment, please do.
I'll probably post some other stuff I wrote for the class in the next couple of weeks. Not about bicycles, but the world isn't all about bicycles, just mostly.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Rides Worlds Apart
I went on two bike rides this weekend, and they couldn't have been more different. The variety of experiences a person can have on a bicycle is amazing, and I pity those who never get out and ride.
Saturday morning I woke up, and after waging a serious debate against myself, I drove up to La Jolla for the San Diego Bicycle Club (SDBC) Saturday morning ride. I ride with the "B" group (not quite as fast as the "A"s, but certainly not there for joy ride). This is supposed to be a "training ride," a good fast workout. But for a lot of the people who show up on Saturday mornings, this is their weekly race. They attack each other, take off on sprints, attack the climbs, and generally push the pace to a blistering tempo. The problem is that there is no finish line for any of these sprints, and no points awarded for King of the Mountains. It isn't a race, just a chance for someone to have their "moment of glory." Some guy will go off on a wild hair, and make everyone work really hard to keep the group together, then the dude will fade very quickly to the back and spend the rest of the time trying to hang on. Meanwhile some other dude is now pushing the pace. It gets old.
The good part of all this is that you can get a great, fast ride in. The regular route starts at the La Jolla Village shopping center, winds 35 miles East and North, through the hills, to the coast, and down to Solana Beach. Then everyone stops for coffee or a smoothie, before finishing the last 12 miles back to La Jolla. This Saturday, the group I rode with (started with about 50 riders) averaged 20.3 mph for the first 35 miles! That's fast in my book. I did the run up Torrey Pines back to La Jolla by myself, and finished with a 47 mile average of 19.4 mph. I felt great, and had a wonderful workout to prepare for Tuesday Night Racing.
Sunday morning Gelsey (my wife) and I participated in a ride which is pretty much the polar opposite of the SDBC Saturday morning pain-o-rama. We joined the DownTownies for the weekly two-wheeled jaunt about town. The leisurely roll started at Velo Cult bike shop in South Park and toured several neighborhoods (South Park, Morley Field, Normal Heights, Kennsington) before settling in at the Old Trolley Barn Park in University Heights for a picnic. It was a wonderful group of people to spend a beautiful Sunday morning with.
All in all, a great weekend of bike riding. Toss in a Nuggets' improbable (and somewhat sketchy) win over Dallas, and the long awaited viewing of Slumdog Millionaire, and it really was a great two days. I can't wait until every day is a weekend.
(The picure is from two weeks ago at the velodrome. I'm in back. This was during the unknown distance race. #2 is fast, and I couldn't get around him for the win. I got 2nd.)
Saturday morning I woke up, and after waging a serious debate against myself, I drove up to La Jolla for the San Diego Bicycle Club (SDBC) Saturday morning ride. I ride with the "B" group (not quite as fast as the "A"s, but certainly not there for joy ride). This is supposed to be a "training ride," a good fast workout. But for a lot of the people who show up on Saturday mornings, this is their weekly race. They attack each other, take off on sprints, attack the climbs, and generally push the pace to a blistering tempo. The problem is that there is no finish line for any of these sprints, and no points awarded for King of the Mountains. It isn't a race, just a chance for someone to have their "moment of glory." Some guy will go off on a wild hair, and make everyone work really hard to keep the group together, then the dude will fade very quickly to the back and spend the rest of the time trying to hang on. Meanwhile some other dude is now pushing the pace. It gets old.
The good part of all this is that you can get a great, fast ride in. The regular route starts at the La Jolla Village shopping center, winds 35 miles East and North, through the hills, to the coast, and down to Solana Beach. Then everyone stops for coffee or a smoothie, before finishing the last 12 miles back to La Jolla. This Saturday, the group I rode with (started with about 50 riders) averaged 20.3 mph for the first 35 miles! That's fast in my book. I did the run up Torrey Pines back to La Jolla by myself, and finished with a 47 mile average of 19.4 mph. I felt great, and had a wonderful workout to prepare for Tuesday Night Racing.
Sunday morning Gelsey (my wife) and I participated in a ride which is pretty much the polar opposite of the SDBC Saturday morning pain-o-rama. We joined the DownTownies for the weekly two-wheeled jaunt about town. The leisurely roll started at Velo Cult bike shop in South Park and toured several neighborhoods (South Park, Morley Field, Normal Heights, Kennsington) before settling in at the Old Trolley Barn Park in University Heights for a picnic. It was a wonderful group of people to spend a beautiful Sunday morning with.
All in all, a great weekend of bike riding. Toss in a Nuggets' improbable (and somewhat sketchy) win over Dallas, and the long awaited viewing of Slumdog Millionaire, and it really was a great two days. I can't wait until every day is a weekend.
(The picure is from two weeks ago at the velodrome. I'm in back. This was during the unknown distance race. #2 is fast, and I couldn't get around him for the win. I got 2nd.)
Thursday, April 30, 2009
More Tuesday Night Races
I raced at the Velodrome on Tuesday night. It was a fairly successful evening. We didn't get much of a warm-up, as the juniors were on the track right up to race time, then they gave us an 8 lap motor pace. It was cold out, so that didn't really get the blood flowing like I might have hoped.
Anyway, first race was a 4 lap scratch. I lost track of laps, thought we only had one and a half left, and took off. Well, we had two and a half, so when I crossed the line thinking it was over and I had destroyed the field they were ringing a bell signaling one lap to go. Yuck. So I tried to hold off the pack for another full lap and failed. One guy blew past me in turn 3, and another barely got me right at the line. I came in 3rd by a few inches.
The second race was an unknown distance race, which I hate. But I played this one pretty well. I found a nice spot to attack, and a fast guy went with me. I pulled for a lap, then he took a lap in the lead, then the bell rang. So I couldn't be in a better spot! One lap to go, just me and another guy way out in front, I have his wheel, and he's already done a full lap pull. But I failed. I couldn't get around him. I didn't really time my slingshot move very well, and ended up just trying to power past him, but that dude was strong and had a nice finishing kick. He held me off by a wheel. So second place in that race.
Third and final race was a ten lap point-a-lap, with the final lap awarding 3, 2, and 1 points to the first three riders. After a few laps I found my self down low, with people seeming to be a little tired. On the back stretch I decided to just go for it, and see what I could come up with. I sprinted away from the pack and took the lap, and the next one. Another guy had my wheel, and I let him pull the next lap. Then I took a pull, but on the back side we got stormed past by the field. I ended up crossing the finish line half a lap behind everyone else, but my two points were enough to tie up third place.
So, for the night, I garnered two thirds and a second place finish. Not too bad, but I'd have liked another win. Next week. . .
Anyway, first race was a 4 lap scratch. I lost track of laps, thought we only had one and a half left, and took off. Well, we had two and a half, so when I crossed the line thinking it was over and I had destroyed the field they were ringing a bell signaling one lap to go. Yuck. So I tried to hold off the pack for another full lap and failed. One guy blew past me in turn 3, and another barely got me right at the line. I came in 3rd by a few inches.
The second race was an unknown distance race, which I hate. But I played this one pretty well. I found a nice spot to attack, and a fast guy went with me. I pulled for a lap, then he took a lap in the lead, then the bell rang. So I couldn't be in a better spot! One lap to go, just me and another guy way out in front, I have his wheel, and he's already done a full lap pull. But I failed. I couldn't get around him. I didn't really time my slingshot move very well, and ended up just trying to power past him, but that dude was strong and had a nice finishing kick. He held me off by a wheel. So second place in that race.
Third and final race was a ten lap point-a-lap, with the final lap awarding 3, 2, and 1 points to the first three riders. After a few laps I found my self down low, with people seeming to be a little tired. On the back stretch I decided to just go for it, and see what I could come up with. I sprinted away from the pack and took the lap, and the next one. Another guy had my wheel, and I let him pull the next lap. Then I took a pull, but on the back side we got stormed past by the field. I ended up crossing the finish line half a lap behind everyone else, but my two points were enough to tie up third place.
So, for the night, I garnered two thirds and a second place finish. Not too bad, but I'd have liked another win. Next week. . .
Going Fast, Bluegrass, Down Townies and More Bluegrass
I'm not so good at this Blogging thing. I always neglect it. Anyway. . .
Since my last entry things have been busy. Last weekend was a pretty great time. Started Saturday morning with a long and FAST ride with the San Diego Bicycle Club. We averaged over 19mph for the first 35 miles! That is hauling in my book. I thought I would vomit more than once, as I haven't done any distance riding in months. I was so slow from Solana Beach to La Jolla (up Torrey Pines) that my final stats for 48 miles had me at just over 18mph. My quads were cramping, I was so wiped.
I spent all afternoon/evening on Saturday at the Adams Ave. Roots Festival, which was really a good time. Some of the bands were lousy, some were awesome, food was good, and beer was cold. The best performance came from Chris Hillman, Herb Pederson, and Bernie Leadon.
Sunday morning, bright and early, I met up with the Down Townies ride out of Velo Cult bike shop in South Park. This was the first time I was able to go on this regular Sunday morning ride, and it was pretty nice. Nice, leisurely pace through quiet neighborhoods, around Balboa GC, into Normal Heights, and finally to Cafe Calabria on 30th in North Park. Then back over to the Roots Festival.
Sunday at the festival was not nearly as much fun. It seemed much "cheaper." The bands weren't as good, and the atmosphere was not as cool. My boy Dave bought us all Luchador masks, and he spent the entire day in a bright pink one.
As we were leaving, I put mine on also. Some cops started harassing us as we were getting ready to go. They obviously thought we were some punk kids they could push around. We were on the street on a closed off section (port-a-potties were blocking traffic from one end, and a beer garden was blocking the other). They started yelling "get off the street" at us. So we get on the side walk, and they start staying "go home." I asked if we were breaking any laws, and if not, would they mind leaving us alone. Of course, being power mongering cops, they didn't like that response a lot. Had I not been drinking (not that I was drunk, but who wants to risk anything) I would have been much more confrontational, taken badge numbers, and the like. I hate when stupid cops give policemen a bad name by acting like total donkeys.
Anyway, that was the weekend.
Since my last entry things have been busy. Last weekend was a pretty great time. Started Saturday morning with a long and FAST ride with the San Diego Bicycle Club. We averaged over 19mph for the first 35 miles! That is hauling in my book. I thought I would vomit more than once, as I haven't done any distance riding in months. I was so slow from Solana Beach to La Jolla (up Torrey Pines) that my final stats for 48 miles had me at just over 18mph. My quads were cramping, I was so wiped.
I spent all afternoon/evening on Saturday at the Adams Ave. Roots Festival, which was really a good time. Some of the bands were lousy, some were awesome, food was good, and beer was cold. The best performance came from Chris Hillman, Herb Pederson, and Bernie Leadon.
Sunday morning, bright and early, I met up with the Down Townies ride out of Velo Cult bike shop in South Park. This was the first time I was able to go on this regular Sunday morning ride, and it was pretty nice. Nice, leisurely pace through quiet neighborhoods, around Balboa GC, into Normal Heights, and finally to Cafe Calabria on 30th in North Park. Then back over to the Roots Festival.
Sunday at the festival was not nearly as much fun. It seemed much "cheaper." The bands weren't as good, and the atmosphere was not as cool. My boy Dave bought us all Luchador masks, and he spent the entire day in a bright pink one.
As we were leaving, I put mine on also. Some cops started harassing us as we were getting ready to go. They obviously thought we were some punk kids they could push around. We were on the street on a closed off section (port-a-potties were blocking traffic from one end, and a beer garden was blocking the other). They started yelling "get off the street" at us. So we get on the side walk, and they start staying "go home." I asked if we were breaking any laws, and if not, would they mind leaving us alone. Of course, being power mongering cops, they didn't like that response a lot. Had I not been drinking (not that I was drunk, but who wants to risk anything) I would have been much more confrontational, taken badge numbers, and the like. I hate when stupid cops give policemen a bad name by acting like total donkeys.
Anyway, that was the weekend.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Racing Season has Begun
Last Tuesday night was the start of the track racing season at the San Diego Velodrome (http://www.sdvelodrome.com/). And, crazy as it sounds, I won the frist race! I raced in the "C" group, the slowest of the three classifications, but as I hadn't done any training all winter other than commuting I didn't think I stood a chance.
The first race after the warmup was an 8 lap scratch race. Last season I made the mistake, almost every race, of trying to lead out and race from the front. I'm not Prefontaine, so this didn't work well for me. I was constantly getting passed by several riders on the last lap. So this year I decided I was going to hang back, almost chronically. My goal is just never finish last (which happened several times last year, after leading for several laps). I feel that if I race to never finish last, then I'll have a much better chance of being in a good position to win in that last lap. My sprint is pretty solid, so I'm going to try and rely on that aspect of my abilities to win for me, rather than endurance and high sustained speed.
Well, the new strategy worked very well right off the bat. I hung out at the bottom of the track for most of the race while others jostled for position up top. Then, with about a lap and a half left, I saw a fast guy start to lead out. I was in the perfect position to jump on his wheel, which I did. He did a great lead out, we seperated from the pack, then, with about 200 meters left, I passed him and took it the rest of the way.
All in all, a pretty great way to start the season. Now I have to follow it up with more victories, and maybe an advancement to the "B" group. The problem is that I don't really do much training, so getting faster is gonna be tough. I intend to ramp up the efforts, but whatever.
I don't plan on racing tonight, the second week, because I am exhausted. I worked until 1 am last night. And I'll be out of town next week, so no racing then either. So my next chance to dominate will be the 28th of April. I hope the other guys don't get in shape between now and then!
The first race after the warmup was an 8 lap scratch race. Last season I made the mistake, almost every race, of trying to lead out and race from the front. I'm not Prefontaine, so this didn't work well for me. I was constantly getting passed by several riders on the last lap. So this year I decided I was going to hang back, almost chronically. My goal is just never finish last (which happened several times last year, after leading for several laps). I feel that if I race to never finish last, then I'll have a much better chance of being in a good position to win in that last lap. My sprint is pretty solid, so I'm going to try and rely on that aspect of my abilities to win for me, rather than endurance and high sustained speed.
Well, the new strategy worked very well right off the bat. I hung out at the bottom of the track for most of the race while others jostled for position up top. Then, with about a lap and a half left, I saw a fast guy start to lead out. I was in the perfect position to jump on his wheel, which I did. He did a great lead out, we seperated from the pack, then, with about 200 meters left, I passed him and took it the rest of the way.
All in all, a pretty great way to start the season. Now I have to follow it up with more victories, and maybe an advancement to the "B" group. The problem is that I don't really do much training, so getting faster is gonna be tough. I intend to ramp up the efforts, but whatever.
I don't plan on racing tonight, the second week, because I am exhausted. I worked until 1 am last night. And I'll be out of town next week, so no racing then either. So my next chance to dominate will be the 28th of April. I hope the other guys don't get in shape between now and then!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Back in Pursuit
Critical Mass, I think, was a huge success this last Friday. It suprises me to say that, because it has been a huge mess the last few months. But it really went well this time. The San Diego Police were really helpful and supportive, which, some would argue, ruins the whole point of CM. I disagree. I think it keeps people safe, keeps them sane, and hopefully the cyclists' positive energy and attitude rubs off on the police who will, again, hopefully, start seeing cyclists as people and not as renegade anarchists. Enough about that.
I started back on my road bike last night. 25 miles out to Cabrillo Nat'l Monument and back. I was heading out to the monument as the sun was setting, and it was an incredible sight. No green flash, but just beautiful. Very clear sky, red sunset, blue water. Wonderful. The ride was good, despite all the traffic and traffic lights. I am encouraged by my fitness level, given that I have not really trained in months. All of my miles of late have come on my commute, 5 miles at a time. So a solo 25 miler was a good start, and a good test. I was able to average nearly 18 mph even with all the traffic lights.
The one thing that really startled me on this ride was the sheer volume of single passanger vehicles on our roads! Trying to get through the foot of Point Loma was insane. I could not believe how thick traffic was, and how many cars were on the roads, and how many of those cars had a single person in them. I forget because I don't spend too much time in traffic anymore. It really is sad. We live in San Diego! It was a beautiful 60 degrees last night. And all those people were sitting in their cars. I wonder if this state of personal transport will ever change in this country. At one point, while waiting at a light, I looked up and down the streets and didn't see a single pedestrian or cyclsit other than myself. But, given the time, I could have counted thousands of cars. It makes a person really think about where we're at.
Enough of this for now.
I started back on my road bike last night. 25 miles out to Cabrillo Nat'l Monument and back. I was heading out to the monument as the sun was setting, and it was an incredible sight. No green flash, but just beautiful. Very clear sky, red sunset, blue water. Wonderful. The ride was good, despite all the traffic and traffic lights. I am encouraged by my fitness level, given that I have not really trained in months. All of my miles of late have come on my commute, 5 miles at a time. So a solo 25 miler was a good start, and a good test. I was able to average nearly 18 mph even with all the traffic lights.
The one thing that really startled me on this ride was the sheer volume of single passanger vehicles on our roads! Trying to get through the foot of Point Loma was insane. I could not believe how thick traffic was, and how many cars were on the roads, and how many of those cars had a single person in them. I forget because I don't spend too much time in traffic anymore. It really is sad. We live in San Diego! It was a beautiful 60 degrees last night. And all those people were sitting in their cars. I wonder if this state of personal transport will ever change in this country. At one point, while waiting at a light, I looked up and down the streets and didn't see a single pedestrian or cyclsit other than myself. But, given the time, I could have counted thousands of cars. It makes a person really think about where we're at.
Enough of this for now.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Critical Mass & Creative Writing
I'm going to actually try and use this blog now. No one reads it, and probably nobody will, but maybe that isn't the point. I'll tell all you non-existant readers what's what. First off, this Friday night, is Critical Mass here in San Diego. This thing is a critical mess, I think, but I'd like it to be better. CM could be a wonderful thing, but right now it is a huge black eye on the cycling community in this city. It's really a great thing in a lot of cities, from what I hear, but around here it is dominated by idiot kids addicted to the mob mentality CM creates. But there is no way to fix that from the outside, right? I have to participate if I'm going to make a difference. Some folks from a new forum I'm part of, http://www.sdbikecommuter.com/, are going to put together some handouts and really try to start making a difference. I plan on helping with that (at least cleaning up the fliers that are dropped all along the way). We'll see how it goes.
The best part of CM is all the sweet parties. It's basically a big rolling party, which is hella fun, but then afterwords there are a few more parties going down. Most notibly is http://www.sdfixed.com/ 's Foot Down at the Ruby Room. Should be a good event, if it's anything like the last one.
I start a creative writing class in a couple of weeks, and am very excited about it. It's web based through a group called Writer Village. They offer this first intro class for free. I'd rather take a real class at the community college or something, but was unable to find anything that would work with my schedule. Oh well, this will be better than nothing and will get me writing.
Well, this has gone on long enough.
The best part of CM is all the sweet parties. It's basically a big rolling party, which is hella fun, but then afterwords there are a few more parties going down. Most notibly is http://www.sdfixed.com/ 's Foot Down at the Ruby Room. Should be a good event, if it's anything like the last one.
I start a creative writing class in a couple of weeks, and am very excited about it. It's web based through a group called Writer Village. They offer this first intro class for free. I'd rather take a real class at the community college or something, but was unable to find anything that would work with my schedule. Oh well, this will be better than nothing and will get me writing.
Well, this has gone on long enough.
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