There are also a bunch of youth programs, development teams, and activities to encourage kids to get and enjoy the great riding we have to offer. Somewhere along the lines I became aware of the Blue Tailed Skinks.

For many families, the love of mountain biking doesn’t end when kids come along—the trail still calls. But unlike traditional youth sports like Little League, mountain biking can be hard to access without a community. That’s where we come in. This club creates a fun, welcoming space where kids and families can ride, connect, and grow together.

I was so impressed with what the Skinks were doing, and what they mean for the future of cycling in Sonoma county that I stepped into the role of Treasurer for the organization.

I aim to help the Blue Tailed Skinks continue to their sustainable model for getting kids on bikes, teaching them to appreciate what makes Sonoma county so special, and hopefully develop future generations of cyclists.

This year we are hiring a full-time Executive Director to mature the organization and build for the future in a meaningful way that requires a dedicated professional.

If you’re able to support the Skinks, please consider a one-time or a monthly donation here

Please donate now!

I originally started riding with a friend of mine impacted by HIV and have since come to appreciate the importance of our fundraising to support: counseling, HIV/STD screenings, linking youth experiencing homelessness and people living with HIV to housing, and so much more.

Riding with AIDS/LifeCycle has rekindled my love of cycling and since I began training again in 2021, I haven’t stopped. Riding with purpose has done wonders for my mental and physical health. Like the thousands of people our fundraising supports, I can also credit AIDS/LifeCycle for helping me live a happier and fuller life.

As in years past I will try to share as much of the ride as I can on my blog. You can read about last year with the alc2022 tag. You can also follow my training on Strava!

On behalf of all the people AIDS/LifeCycle helps I want to thank you all for your continued support this year!

I managed to complete all six passes in 7:58:50.

Enough time has passed for me to reflect on the event, almost a month now, and both my brain and legs have forgotten enough that doing it again doesn’t seem so ridiculous.

Around 5am I rolled up in my car to the starting point outside of Markleeville. A CHP officer was directing cars to park on the side of the road. Cyclists were already passing by, having ridden from their nearby campgrounds. Aside from ALC I had never seen this many cyclists in one spot. “If these old geezers can do this, so can I!” ran through my head as I put my shoes on, topped up my tires, and ate the last of my food in the car.

The Death Ride is very well supported, there are aid and water stations along the way but with a new event I trend towards more self-sufficiency; better to have too much food instead of too little.

Picking up my number the dawn’s light is starting to creep over the mountains. The air is cool and the feeling is electric. I am excited! What an adventure! Look at all these old geezers, I’ll be fine!

The first mile is a coasting downhill through the town of Markleeville. The makeup of the course means that the last mile will then be an uphill slog to the finish line. Something to worry about later!

Monitor Pass

As I turn to start the ascent of Monitor Pass I find myself passing cyclists and have to intentionally slow myself down. I know that my adrenaline is making me all antsy in my pantsy. I don’t want to use up my legs on the first climb. At this stage of the ride the mental effort expended is about discipline. Don’t be stupid, pace.

The sun streaks over the mountains as I grind up to Monitor Pass and some of the views are simply spectacular! Despite wildfire which had recently burned through the area, the landscape is still something to behold.

As I crest the climb I see the first aid station and remember: “oh right, I have to go down the other side and then back up this bastard!” I pass by the aid station, I’ll hit it on the way back, I will need it then.

Coming down the southeast side of Monitor Pass is genuinely awesome, the view opens up in a big way and the massive valley is on full display in the morning sun. There is precious little time to enjoy the view because I am accelerating and the descent is fucking insane. 40+ mph rocketing down a mountain with certain death should you be stupid or unlucky and go off the side. I have to remind myself a couple times to relax my grip on the handlebars. At one point I exceeded 49mph, which was not the fastest I would go during the ride.

Approaching the Topaz Lake rest stop the descent slows through a rock walled canyon, which gives me the opportunity to see the slog being endured by cyclists heading back up to Monitor Pass.

I don’t take much nutrition in at Topaz because I intended to stop at the rest stop back up topside. I drop some gear in a drop bag and start my ascent. Falling in with a couple of doctors I intentionally chat them up a bit. If I’m talking, I won’t be tempted to pass people on the climb as much. Eventually they fall back because my pace is too aggressive for them. Climbing solo my pace picks up as I constantly find new people to chase. My legs feel good, it’s not too hot, the view is gorgeous, what a wonderful ride!

Stopping topside at the Monitor Pass rest stop again I stuff myself full of food. It’s basically all downhill from here until the lunch stop. My neighbor gave me the advice to not fill up at lunch since that’s at the base of the Ebbett’s Pass climb. As I finish chewing and drinking a pepsi (sugar water!) and prepare to leave the rest stop, somebody knocks over a rack of bikes. Oops!

The descent down from Monitor Pass to the fork was fucking fast. I chase a couple people down the hill, hug my top tube, and enjoy the big straightaways and gradual sweeping turns. My top speed for this segment is the fastest I will go all day: 55.4mph. According to Strava, the fastest person on this segment topped out at 70.4mph which is absolutely insane.

At lunch somebody who was descending with me mentions that they saw me narrowly miss a rock on the road and were anxious that I wasn’t going to see it in time. Fortunately I did see the rock coming, which could have been disastrous, but at high speeds it’s important not to make sudden corrections!

I nibble a bit and pack a sandwich in my back pocket from lunch for later. Time for Ebbett’s Pass, the biggest bastard climb of them all.

Ebbett’s Pass

The top of Ebbett’s Pass is at 8,703ft and has a variable gradient from around 6-7% at the outset and then it gets steeper between 10-15% towards the summit.

To be honest I don’t remember much of this part of the ride. It was simply a slog, but if these geezers can do it, so can I! Honestly, much of the ride is really just a mental test of how much you can grind it out. All said and done, it was about an hour of sitting in and mashing pedals.

The rest stop is perched right at the top and a welcome reprieve. They were serving instant ramen, sprite, pepsis, and all manner of snacks with salt and sugar in them to replenish the tired muscles. As I sat in one of the graciously provided camp chairs eating my ramen I overheard a couple other cyclists talking about how many passes they were going to do. One geezer said “nope, this was it, I’m just doing this one.”

I vaguely recalled registration where you selected the number of passes. I was signing up for the Death Ride, so I said “six”. I’m going to do them all damnit! The nuance of that registration form was lost on me. A lot of cyclists do shortened versions of the ride, picking and choosing which passes they’re going to do, enjoying their ride, and going home! A lot of these geezers were going to do six passes, but not all of them. I had to re-orient my motivational tactic slightly 😄

Either way, I had summitted Ebbett’s Pass, that was the “hard one” in my head. Three of six passes completed. “I’m practically done!”

Pacific Grade

Cycling is a constant lesson in humility. The distance between the Ebbett’s Pass rest stop and the turnaround point was only 14 miles, but four of those miles were painfully steep. After 50 miles of work already, the steep climbs up Pacific Grade were brutal, for the first time of the day I started to see cyclists stopped taking a breather.

One of the punchier sections of the climb is a brief stint at 32%.

My bottles were full as was my stomach so I passed some water stops and decided to keep my momentum pressing onwards to the turnaround at 69 miles.

Upon arrival I found some shade where other cyclists were sitting on rocks hiding from the sun. I took my spot and started eating my warm sandwich. Despite those climbs there was a lot of downhill that was about to turn into uphill on the return.

The sun was in full effect, it was only going to get hotter. I filled my bottles, saddled up, and started to climb back up the backside of Pacific Grade.

Long road home

Ebbett’s Pass is a mother fucker.

The rapid descent from Pacific Grade is followed by 5-6 miles of 8-10% gradient, exposed in the full afternoon sun, with little wind, and nothing to do but look at the road in front of your handlebars. Letting your eyes drift any further ahead and you’ll be reminded of just how hopeless it all is.

I slowly crank by cyclist after cyclist hiding from the sun under the few trees providing some shade near the narrow mountain road. The previous climbs had conversation and sometimes even laughter. The climb back up to Ebbett’s Pass is silent. Nobody is talking, nobody is following, nobody is happy, we’re all just surviving. I have difficulty deciding whether it’s better to drink or douse myself with hot water in my bottles.

Thinking about the geezers doesn’t help.

My legs feel fried, it’s hot as shit, the view doesn’t matter, what a miserable ride.

Getting closer to the top I hear echoes of what I think are cowbell and shouting, the rest stop must be just up ahead! I fooled myself more times than I can remember with that mirage. By the time I finally arrived at the rest stop I was almost surprised it actually existed this time.

Give me water, give me electrolytes, give me a couple of these sprites, I’ll take some of that watermelon too. I need to sit in one of those alluring camp chairs and reconsider the erroneous decisions which led me here.

As I sit and contemplate whether I’m hot enough for cartoon steam to shoot from my ears, I see people finishing the first ascent of Ebbett’s. Those poor souls, it’s just going to get hotter, the climb back up from the turnaround is a already a bastard.

Once my core temperature lowers a bit, I pull myself up and back into the saddle for the “easy” descent to the finish line. My plans change slightly, I’m confident I will finish, I now want to get off this route as quickly as possible.

The descent off Ebbett’s back towards the fork has some hairpin turns which slow me down quite a bit. I’ve come too far to eat shit on some mountain road just before the finish line. But as the road straightens out, I speed up, pushing my top speed for this segment of 44.9mph. I also fall in with a couple other guys and we start a paceline towards the finish. Teamwork always makes for fun cycling and high speeds, both of which I’m glad to have at this point in the afternoon.

Climbing into Markleeville I somehow fumble my water bottle when trying to return it to its cage. While I’m fatigued, I’m not about to leave my water bottle! We’ve come so far together! Of course, the problem with a cylindrical bottle on a hill is that as I dismount it starts to roll away from me. Water bottle no! Come back!

Clickety-clack go the bike cleats as I jog downhill 15 yards to capture the bottle. I cannot help but laugh at how ridiculous the scene must have been as I sprint back to try to catch my group.

The last three miles are uphill. Only a 5% grade, but fully exposed with a headwind, and after 100mi of absolutely mind-warping riding. I don’t think I have ever hated a stretch of road like I hated that one.

Completion

The relief of crossing the finish line was delayed. My core temperature was high, my heart rate was high, i felt dehydrated. There was live music, beer, ice cream, and food. That would all have to wait. I sat on a bench shirtless for probably 30 minutes slowly taking in water and electrolytes before I started to become functional again.

At a rational level I understand that the Death Ride was a brutal slog which was more of mental challenge than a physical one. Did I enjoy it? I think so.

The brain of an endurance athlete seems to have a misconfiguration, one which makes it difficult to distinguish between a challenge, punishment, and fun. The Death Ride was all three, so who knows, maybe I will be back next year.

The “nutrition facts” panel on commercially sold food typically accounts for a 2,000 calorie daily allocation. This is a rough approximation of what the average American should eat. Reasonable I suppose, but let me share some of the calorie expenditures estimated on my recent rides:

• Patterson Pass Road Race, 43mi, 4,400ft elevation: 2,400 calories
• Sonoma Parks tour, 140mi, 6,700ft elevation: 5,122 calories
• Death ride, 103mi, 14,000ft elevation: 7,557 calories

The numbers are insane! I expect that I need almost 3,000 calories a day just to keep my weight and activity levels normal. That means for these more significant rides my body requires 3-4x the average daily suggested intake.

“I wish I could eat like you!”

I will frequently get comments about my appetite. Eating 3-5k calories a day is quite the challenge! Are you sure you’re up to it? 😄

Because I have no idea what a thousand calories look like, I have had to enlist the help of a calorie tracker. In doing so I have learned a few things:

• Making each meal ~1k calories is hard, especially challenging when eating vegetarian.
• The day needs four meals, not three.
• Feeling hungry during the day is a sign that I’m behind.
• “Palate Fatigue” is a thing.

Nutrition science is something I am learning more serious athletes spend a lot of time thinking about and experimenting with. Logically it makes sense: if your body is the engine, food is the fuel and something you should be optimizing to improve performance. As a lay person it is still surprising to me how rudimentary my own nutrition education was, remember the food pyramid?

There’s still a lot to learn and tune with my own nutrition as it relates to my weight and performance. I wish I had useful tips to share, but the experience is so individualized that I think you may be best suited exploring what works best for you. Keeping track of calories, macronutrients, and expenditures is a start, but there’s a lot worth exploring!

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures

Camp closes up early on day seven, so everybody is awake early. The alarm rang at 4:15 and there was already a flurry of activity to hear outside. People rustling in their tents, zippers zippering, flip-flops slapping against heels, the deepened morning voices of tired cyclists and roadies. I followed my usual protocol of going straight to the porta-potties before heading over to breakfast, but since everybody was waking up, there was quite the queue for number two. I decided I could wait, scurried back to my tent to get dressed, tear down, swung by the gear trucks, and then found a block of line-less porta-potties en route to the food tent.

In the food line I did not grab “The Daily Spin”, the little camp newspaper that’s printed every day, like I normally do, and therefore miss a key instruction: gear trucks will not arrive at the finish line until 1pm.

Methodically chewing eat bite of my breakfast I planned my day: my knee was doing okay, but this is the last day and the last chance to go fast with some of these other riders. I figured that either way I was going to sit around at lunch to wait for the finish line to open at 11am, so why not try to get to lunch as fast as I can!

I have some short-circuit in my wiring that prevents me from “calming the fuck down” as Ride Director Tracy puts it. Riding fast with a group of other lunatics really is quite a lot of fun, and getting away from the main pack of cyclists has allowed me to enjoy the scenery much more than I had in 2019. Either way, this is the last chance to pedal hard with these folks until 2023, so I’m going to make every mile count.

Bike parking opens early and I roll out with the first 40-50 riders. We cruise along the boardwalk and into the city of Ventura for a little bit before meandering through some fields and suburban sprawl. I do a lot of the usual “on your left” routine before I get separated from some folks due to my speed and some red lights. As we ride by some naval base a bunch of fast riders come up, including the Triathelete, and I catch their wheel.

Bike friends!

The group is probably 9 people large and it includes some of the fast riders I’ve been chasing all week, plus a couple of new faces. We all cruise along together towards Rest Stop One, each keeping the pace and trading off pulls. After a while of keeping up at the number 3 or 4 position, I figure it’s my turn to pull for a bit, pop out to the left and throw down some power. My back wheel pops up a little bit as I do so, a bad habit I’m trying to break myself of, since a wheel in the air is not transferring power to the road.

The way I have found myself passing people has been to basically do a mini-sprint, something I’ve found useful in criteriums. The downside of this approach is that if the group is chugging along at 22mph or so, and I’m all of a sudden pushing 26mph, I’m going to push too far out in front. I accidentally turned “my turn to pull” into a breakaway. Oops.

The fun thing about this group of cyclists is that somebody follows my breakaway, and that just makes the whole effort feel very much like a normal crit or road race. I can feel the lactic acid building in my quads, thighs, and glutes. 545 miles of cycling has given me a lot of time to focus on getting every watt of power out of my legs, and leading out this group I’m acutely aware of each muscle involved. After a mile or so we all bunch back up and rocket onwards to Rest Stop One.

The Triathelete comments in the rest stop that he really enjoys following behind me. I’m able to push a strong pace, and I’m tall, so at his shorter stature he can tuck in behind me for a free ride. Somebody else comments how fun that bit of teamwork was, and that we’re all maybe a little competitive.

Once my routine is done, I leave the rest stop alone and push through the wind between the Santa Monica mountains and the Pacific.

At some point a cyclist I will come to know as Nils passes me, and as is my customary response, I sprint to catch his wheel and start to work together with him to keep a strong pace towards Rest Stop Two.

Nils is dutch, is about as tall as I am, has been cycling seriously since sometime last year, and is fast. He is inexperienced though, and I learn as we cruise along working together that he hasn’t really had much of this teamwork experience on ALC thus far. We trade off and on into Rest Stop Two, and then depart together to continue flying towards lunch.

Between Rest Stop Two and Lunch is Malibu. I hate Malibu. The Pacific Coast Highway is flanked on the east side by mountains, and on the west side by expensive homes and cars parked ever-so-slightly off the road. Everybody in Malibu drives like they’re the only ones on the road, and cyclists can get squeezed between aggressive drivers, and the door-zone from parked cars. The city is basically 20+ miles of coastline, and it sucks.

Fortunately the flying dutchman and I are making insane time. We spot a number of large cycling groups riding together on the PCH, which is genuinely cool to see. It seems like every cyclist north of LA has come to engage in battle with motorists for who should really get to own this stretch of beautiful highway.

At a stoplight some local cyclist with some aero kit, a fast looking carbon bike, and stacked legs pulls up next to us. When the light turns green, Nils takes off, followed by me, followed by the local. No more than a quarter mile down the road, the local flies by Nils and I.

Rabbit!

We have probably ridden 45 strong miles at this point, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to give chance. I pop out of the saddle and put in the best sprint I can muster to chase him down. I get within a few bike lengths but cannot get into his draft. Nils later told me that I had left him in the dust on that sprint too!

Disheartened I settle into cranking at my 21-22mph pace, which is meager compared to the local. Nils comes flying by me and says “why don’t I give it a shot!” So of course now I have to keep up with Nils in his sprint. His effort falls short as well, but we fall into a tight rotation and chase this local, less than couple hundred yards away, for the remainder of the PCH until we pull off for lunch.

I haven’t been smoked like that all week. Good lord was that dude fast.

Reviewing my app over lunch, I had put down 55 miles at a 20mph average speed. That’s not a straight 55 either, there were a lot of little rollers, headwinds, and stoplights in between mile 0 and lunch.

We talk a lot about racing, triathalons, and what motivated us to get into cycling while killing time at lunch. From here there are about 15 miles to the finish line, and we roll out at about 10:15.

The pace is slowed due to traffic, more climbing, and the general mayhem that comes with riding through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. At one point a car almost turned right into my, leading me to loudly share some profanities.

The last couple miles of ALC are some of the more dangerous ones in my opinion, a very hectic urban environment with tired cyclists and weekend drivers.

I crossed the finish line at almost exactly 11:00am and ALC is over.

As luck would have it, I forgot to pre-arrange shipping for my bike. I just kind of forgot that I had to register ahead of time for it to be put on a truck and driven back to San Francisco. Instead I had to pay a bunch of money so my bike could be packed and that I could safely take it home on the plane with me.

I also didn’t realize that gear wouldn’t be there until 1pm, so I had to sit around in the shade chatting and napping until gear trucks arrived.

Once I had everything collected, my gear, my giant bike box, my sweaty ass, trying to get a giant car to carry all of my stuff to a hotel proved to be equal parts annoying and time-consuming. I ended up leaving Fairfax High School at about 3pm, and didn’t get find a shower until after 4pm.

The beauty of ALC as a cyclist is that you kind of just have to wake and ride your bike. Life on the ride is simple: eat, pedal, eat, sleep, repeat. Once ALC is over however, you are quickly reminded at how much other shit there is to do other than cycling.

From a cycling perspective, day seven might have been the most “put together” of the days on ALC. Great teamwork, good legs, and high speeds. I felt challenged and like I left nothing “out on the road” when I was done. The change in skill and perspective from 2019 to 2022 was significant, I can only hope that I continue to improve and 2023 that much better!

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures

When I woke up and bundled up to begin the morning routine, porta-potties, breakfast, change, tear down tent, gear truck, and bike parking, the air was so cold I could see my break in the light of my headlamp. The grass was wet, my flipflops got wet, my little toesies got wet, and top to bottom I was fucking cold. Shaking while I wolf down my breakfast, I would occasionally look over at some bear wearing shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt comfortable as can be; suffice it to say with my build I don’t “winter well.”

By the time I had wrapped up with the morning business, I scuttled over to the gear trucks, discarded my jacket and proceeded along to bike parking. Today was the day when apparently everybody else finally figured out that being early to bike parking means an easier roll out and less traffic to deal with. As such, there were huge lines before bike parking even opened, queues once we were in bike parking, and then lots of standing around in some gopher-holed Lompoc field.

A roadie told me to tighten my helmet before I left. It was tight enough, but there’s no sense arguing with roadies who are trying to keep everybody safe. I pulled aside, made a show of tightening it, and then clipped in and sped off.

Leaving Lompoc was tedious residential street cycling with lots of traffic from other cyclists. My training in criteriums has made it such that I have gotten pretty good at quick bursts of power, which came in very handy as a tool to get away from the packs of cyclists that would bunch up at stop signs and red lights. Nothing against them, there’s just a much higher likelihood of something going wrong when you put enough moving people close enough together.

As we left the city, the hills started to roll towards Rest Stop One. I caught a fast wheel and we took turns puling. He would shout “left!” as we would come upon slower cyclists. His tone sounded harsh, which is probably how I sound too, so I made a point to say “good morning!” in a cheery voice as we passed. “Left!” “Good morning!” “LEFT!” “Good morning!” “LEFT!” “Good morning riders!”

The system was working well until I was pulling up a hill and could feel the front wheel sinking every time I would pump my arms. Flatted! My harshly toned compatriot moved along as I pulled to the side to change my tube. I cleared the tire and pulled the tube out of it’s little box, started to unscrew the valve and the damn think came apart! Fortunately a Training Ride Leader (TRL) stopped to give me a hand, and an extra tube. While I was putting his tube into my tire, he kept his thumb out to try to get a pump from a sweep vehicle; I had already burned through one of my two CO2 cartridges.

I didn’t pay enough attention and pinched his tube, tearing it. Fuck. Once Sweep arrived with a pump, we gave my original tube a try and it was able to be pumped, so I asked the TRL to change the tire since we didn’t have another tube between the two of us. He managed it successfully into the tire, and the tire onto the rim, and I was back in business! I thanked him and we both joined the column of cyclists off to Rest Stop One.

Riding without a spare tube makes me anxious.

At Rest Stop One the bike techs were swarmed so I didn’t buy another tube, and instead did my routine, lined up to leave, and figured I would take my chances. Departures from the stop were staged because we were going to climb up the Goviata pass which is a strong climb following by a swift descent. Sister Tutti was in line with me and clamored to be on the right “where the slow people are going to be!” I stayed left and pushed hard up the pass.

Passing on the climbs during ALC is probably 50% competitiveness and 50% safety. I want to be away from people during the descent because speed increases the risks of somebody doing something unexpected, or stupid. My top speed on the descent was about 47mph, which is fast but no longer scary for me. Fountaingrove Parkway in Santa Rosa, which is my backyard lunchtime training route has me hitting between 45-50 on the downhill segments with regularity. The only difference is that I never have to compete with other cyclists for space.

Suffice it to say, everybody made it down in one piece, and I continued to push hard along the coastline towards Santa Barbara. The rest stops on day six typically have limited bike parking, so the more people I pass, the less bullshit I have to contend with in the rest stops.

50% competitiveness, 50% safety.

Rest Stop Two was extremely foggy. Some day I’ll see the coastline north of Santa Barbara, but to date I have not been so lucky. In Rest Stop Two I stopped by the bike tech and ask for two tubes. He hands them to me, and when I go to give him cash he says “uh, can you do Venmo?” “No.” “Well, we can’t accept cash…uh, can you just pay for them at lunch?” Honor system works well for me, so I thanked the tech and left.

After my departure I continued my “on your left!” routine. I spotted a cyclist who was off to the right and asked “do you have everything you need?” “Do you know how to change a tire?”

I pull over, the karma of cycling dictates that:

• If somebody pulls you, you either trade pulls, or pull somebody later.
• If somebody changes your tire, you better change somebody else’s tire later.

I was due. Fortunately he did have everything he needed, and was running the same Continental race 28s that I run, except his were brand new. Mine have had some miles put on them and they’re still a pain in the ass to get off the rim, when they’re brand new they are incredibly annoying. My pretty red nails took a little bit of damage getting that bastard off the rim. We chatted as I changed his tube, he asked some questions and was obviously paying good attention to how it worked, so I did my best TRL impression and trying to make it a Learning Opportunity ™.

Once he was sorted, I sped off into the fog. Twice now a tire change has undone all the hard work I had done passing cyclists!

I made good time heading into lunch, but may have pushed myself too hard up the climbs since my right knee started nagging me once again. Not content with slowing down, I instead started to focus my stronger strokes on the left. The woman who gave me a massage on Day Three noted the stronger muscle development in the right leg, so I figured left-leg training was in order anyways.

Lunch was…calories. But unfortunately not much to gush about, I put the calories down, headed to Medical for sunscreen, and rolled out.

The Funky Monkey I met in bike parking that morning and a buddy of his left around the same time, and so we worked together a little bit trying to escape the menagerie of stop lights Santa Barbara presented. “Stopping!” Foot down, green light, “Rolling!”, clip in, damnit, get in the clip you bastard, sprint a bit, settle in, well shit another red light, “Slowing!”, “Stopping!”

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

The route comes along the bike path right by the beach in Santa Barbara, which is where I can see the pier so often used in B-roll shots of “Psych”, one of my favorite shows. Instead of Shawn and Gus, we end up having to dodge joggers, other cyclists, surfers, and tourists pedaling these four-wheeled pedal-car contraptions. I was happy to find make it to Rest Stop Three because it meant at least a break from the avoidance drills.

A number of people skip Rest Stop Three, because there is an unofficial Ice Cream Stop hosted by Santa Barbara a few miles down the road. This is a mistake. Rest Stop Three is at a cute little beach side park and if it’s not foggy, which it was, it can offer some really beautiful views to sit and enjoy while you eat trail mix and poptarts sliced in half.

Of course I stopped at the Ice Cream Stop. I ate plenty and then thought to myself “now that I’ve got a couple scoops of ice cream, and a cup of berries in my stomach, how about a bike ride again!” There’s a little kicker right as you resume the route which I took nice and easy for fear of losing my ice cream and berries. But after a mile or so I was clear to resume riding like a lunatic.

Weaving along the coast line through bike paths, frontage roads, and underpasses, I finally made it to some of the scenic oceanside riding that I had been looking forward to.

The views are simply spectacular. The waves crashing into the beach, pelicans flying together across the water, and people wading into the water. What the pictures won’t show you is that the waves are crashing into the beach because there’s a very strong cross wind pushing them into the coastline, that same wind is also pushing against me.

My pace slows. My knee is hurting, my left leg is feeling tired, I’m thinking of Santa Rosa and just feeling a little deflated.

Then Eli powers past me.

Fuck yes!

I will never let a strong wheel pass me. Eli is a giant of a man. I don’t actually know him, he just has a license plate that says “Eli.” I stand at about 6’4” and he’s definitely a few inches taller than me.

I pop out of the saddle and sprint to catch up to him. It is not very often that I will catch a wind breaker like Eli, and I feel invigorated to fall into his draft. “Thanks for the ride!” I shout up to him. He turns his head to the left, revealing the gold piercings in his ear and his mustache “I just love the ocean.”

You know what Eli, you love it, I love it, let’s hammer.

I’m just thrilled as the dickens to have a draft to pull me along.

Eli drags my sorry ass all the way to Rest Stop Four where I go through my routine. He must know lots of the roadies here because I lose him at some point while he’s giving out giant-man hugs.

Spirits lifted, it’s something like 10ish miles to home, and I’m eager to get there.

A couple miles out of the rest stop I pass a couple cycles and hear “I love your pace!”

I’ve gotten some compliments this year, especially in my slutty red dress, but ones like this are my favorite. I turn back and there’s another cyclist doing to me what I did to Eli.

The karma of cycling dictates that:

• If somebody changes your tire, you better change somebody else’s tire later.
• If somebody pulls you, you either trade pulls, or pull somebody later.

It was my turn to pull, and I was happy to oblige. I turned on my phone’s screen so that I could maintain a steady pass for us both and we sped along at about 21mph. My new bike friend was as happy to see me as I had been to see Eli, so I was delighted to pull him home to camp. Dodging tourists along the board walk we finally rolled into the Ventura camp, 61st and 62nd.

Working together with a fellow cyclist makes me forget about my nagging knee. It makes me forget about my legs and butt sore from a long week of cycling. It makes me forget just about everything that isn’t what is happening right now in the moment. Working together with a fellow cyclist reminds me how much I really do enjoy riding bikes!

We chat a bit as we grab our gear. He does endurance racing, I talk about crit racing, we geek out on cycling a bit before I head off to the showers.

Tonight is the last night of camp. We’re 70 miles from the finish line, which really doesn’t feel so far. 84, 109, 76, 88, 43, 88. There are 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles and only 70 of them remain.

The guy I finished the ride with today asked what other races/rides I’m doing this year. I have some ideas on that, but honestly nothing can hold a candle to this one.

Tomorrow will be bittersweet.

We will have accomplished what we set out to do. We raised the money that needed to be raised, pedalled the miles that we marked out for us, and made the memories that only an event like ALC can provide. But it will be all over.

All over until AIDS/LifeCycle 2023.

I can’t wait.

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures

If you are in the market for a good cycling dress, I advise the following criteria:

• Breathable and airy, to enhance evaporation
• Close to the body, to reduce drag
• Short, to avoid messing with your pedal stroke or wheels

Following these criteria I ended up with a trashy little backless number with criss-crossing straps which I am confident have left “X” tan lines down my back.

Dresses are of course not compulsory, which adds to the fun of the day. In addition to the cheerleaders, pirate wenches, and bombshells there are Waldos, Lobsters, Marios, Ketchups, Santas, and so much more. For those who have lived in San Francisco, it has a very Bay to Breakers vibe.

I departed camp late for two reasons: first the final destination didn’t open until 1pm, so there was no sense in leaving early. Secondly, wearing a tiny dress is cold.

The last time I did a century I rode around 40 miles before my first rest stop. While that was foolish, a comfortable pace and a hearty breakfast can take me quite a long way. Today I needed to hit up two rest stops, a water stop, and lunch. I needed to stop because I knew I was going to have some time to kill.

Getting to Rest Stop One was through the streets of Santa Maria. Leaving later meant a lot more cyclists on the roads ahead of me, and today is not a fun day to compete with traffic since we’re all squeezed onto bike lanes during rush hour traffic.

Despite it being a recovery day, I still popped out into the lane to crank it past some slower cyclists. Everybody is entitled to their own pace and rightfully so, but I get particularly anxious in traffic like that since the risk of accidents goes up quite a bit. Generally speaking the safest place to be is often in front of other cyclists, regardless of speed. Another cyclist followed my initiative and ended up riding with me for a while, before I lost him in the pack again.

“Ho, ho, ho!” proclaimed the Santa as we rolled into Rest Stop One. I parked and went about my routine, albeit in slow motion so that I would eat up more time.

The segment to Rest Stop Two takes us out into the country on nearly shoulder-less country roads. I cannot imagine the thoughts of the folks driving by seeing hundreds of fabulously dressed cyclists. As I passed two men working on some utility cabinet, I noticed that one was holding his phone up. I should have yelled or catcalled at him, but I’m really not good at thinking of those things in the moment. Oh well.

Rest Stop Two is on the other side of a couple little rural climbs and tucked in the field behind a small country school. There I ran into Sister Tutti, one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence that does the ride. I had helped her with a computer problem on Day One and we’ve greeted each other every day since. She is an elementary school teacher and has incredible energy. For Red Dress Day she was also in her garb, so I had to have a picture together. I also ran into the woman who I had cycled with previously, and she shared more of her face glitter with me. It looks very pretty highlighting my cheekbones, but after the next time I apply sunscreen it turns into just my whole face glitter.

We climbed out together towards Lompoc and lunch. My right knee keeps stiffening up. The quad muscle that comes over the inside has been tender since yesterday, and while I’m sure the foam rolling I did helped, it’s still slowing me down.

Like a big stupid dog chasing a rabbit around a track, I cannot seem to just chill and sit in. As I see more cyclists ahead that I can pass, I crank onward.

This segment is the one in 2019 where my frame broke. The memories are still so vivid to me, the climb where I hear the snap, the straight away where I could hear a clanging when I put power down, and the shoulder where I stopped with a team mate to figure out what was making that noise before tackling the big climb that lay ahead. Almost exactly at mile 25 of Day Five, I thought my ride was going to be over.

I considered stopping for a picture, but the new miles of that climb was in front of me, and I wanted to get to it!

We don’t have a name for this climb, but we probably should. It’s a long and gradual slog up the hill towards what I would come to learn is now called Vandenberg Space Force Base.

Space. Force. Base.

I caught a red light right at the entrance and took a number of pictures. It is just as funny in real life as it is in that documentary with Steve Carell. I still cannot believe it’s a real thing.

Anyways, I grab a wheel to follow to the water stop, and kill some more time. Before leaving I was complimented again on the strappy dress, which I’m sure made me blush under the glitter that was by now smeared across my face.

The dress also turned some heads as I passed by the federal prison on the outskirts of Lompoc. That I was not as thrilled by, but I could only chuckle to myself as I entered the cross winds after the facilities. Bright yellow helmet, smeared face glitter, backless red dress, and celeste colored bicycle, I would turn my head and stare too.

The ride into lunch was quick thanks to a nice little tailwind to scoot us into town where we took over some city park. Still quite early, I decided to have two lunches while I nursed my knee in the grass. Basking in the sun, there just wasn’t much to do other than eat, tan, and socialize. Camp sits only a few miles beyond lunch, and those would be very easy miles.

I don’t know what number into camp I was today, but it also doesn’t matter. We were all getting into camp early. Over 2,000 cyclists have each put down over 275 miles this week, their legs acclimating to the demands on them, their minds knowing what they’re now capable of.

43 miles is a short day.

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures

The alarm peeped at 4:15 and I immediately started marching over to the breakfast tent shivering like a little dog. Hustling to take the tent down and drop off gear before scurrying off to bike parking I had stopped shivering which is a good sign, but also an indication that the day will be quite warm.

The route today was meandering through Paso Robles and had me riding next to some fixed gear cyclists. They’re known for their siren call of “Fuck yeah rider!” Pulling up alongside them at a stop light I ask if they were riding freewheeling hubs or true fixed gears. Freewheeling hubs are effectively single speed which allow you to coast if you stop pedaling, while truly fixed hubs means that the cyclists legs have to keep moving as long as the wheels are spinning. The curly mustachioed man smiled and said “Freewheel? Never heard of her!” and then laughed exactly the laugh you’d expect from a man sporting curly Qs and covered in tattoos. I watched them descend a small hill and it was mesmerizing as their legs pumped almost in unison, quite like cylinders of an engine. As we approached the evil twins, I gave them a “fuck yeah riders” for good measure and commenced climbing.

It’s not a race, it’s a ride.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t get competitive on the climbs. En route to Rest Stop One I started passing people on some of the rollers, jumping out to the side “on your left!”, standing out of the saddle, and really pushing as much power into the pedals as I could. In Rest Stop One a fellow cyclist told me that it was a lot of fun to try to keep up with me on those climbs. I felt quite flattered! We chatted for a bit, turns out we were both former members of Team ALCaholics. We parted ways and I fell in with a woman I had met and rode with over the past couple days,

Despite her insistence of not being a strong cyclist, she very truly is, and for whatever reason doesn’t ride with clips. You see that more than you’d think at ALC. Cyclists of all skill levels and with all kinds of equipment load outs riding the route, raising money for a great cause. What you don’t typically see are such strong cyclists riding without clips and this year I have ridden with two very strong riders, mashing pedals with their street shoes.

The two of us chatted as we climbed before I pushed onward from evil twin one to evil twin two, where I ran into the Triathelete. I had chased him a couple of days prior, but this was the first time I caught him. He was obviously taking it easy. He’s probably 6 inches shorter than I am and can absolutely smoke me on the route. We climbed together and chatted, passing people as we went up evil twin two. As we went by the Googler I had met on Day Two, he called out “well don’t just have a full on conversation while I’m struggling here.” Sharing a laugh we continued to push to the halfway point.

There’s a pull-off on the side of the highway at roughly half the mileage between San Francisco and Los Angeles. I was pushing hard so I could get heir early, get my pictures, and start the long descent to the coast with as little traffic as possible. We all arrived around the same time, got some great pictures, and started down.

In 2019 this descent terrified me. I had never lost so much elevation or ridden at these speeds before. Most of my training had been indoors and I just didn’t have the exposure to massive climbs like I do now. I also had rim brakes which I knew could heat up and would require lots of feathering. This time around I am a much more confident rider and actually pedalled downhill most of the way. At one point I approached a fellow who helped me out on day one. “On your left!” I shouted at full volume, as we rounded a curve I saw his head shake. I assumed he didn’t want to move over because he felt unsafe or saw some hazards up ahead. I gently braked, waited to until after the turn and then came into the lane and sped past him, returning to the shoulder after I was clear.

We caught up later and I apologized if I came up onto him too fast or made him feel unsafe. He didn’t even remember it and had no problem with my passing. “I must have hit a fly or something.” I shared with him how much that descent terrified me and how important it was to be respectful of other cyclists boundaries, he smiled, wished me a good ride and I departed Rest Stop Two with the Googler and somebody from Twitter.

The Googler offered to “pull” for a while, which basically means push at the front through the headwinds for the benefit of the others. After a couple miles it was my turn, and so I pulled in front, set the pace at about 20-21mph and we all rocketed along towards lunch. I was happy to pull and they were happy to let me! I stayed up front pulling them through the mild rollers along the highway along the coast towards San Luis Obispo. The sights were stunning; the central coast of California is definitely worth a visit.

Parking at lunch, the Googler says “when you asked if I wanted to ride together, I didn’t think you meant that you would drag my ass all the way to lunch!” No complaints were tendered however, I was happy to challenge myself, and worked up an incredible appetite in the process!

I sat around in the shade at lunch so long that most everybody I knew had left, my bike computer timed out the ride, and I had to ride out solo. The cycling was nonetheless great and as I closed in on city limits I caught a couple of folks at a stoplight.

A new group of bike friends, hooray!

After pulling all the way to lunch, I figured the karma of cycling owed me and I happily accepted a free ride towards Rest Stop Three. My post-lunch efforts I have been doing low effort segments, which seems to work out well, so I may continue that in the future.

Closing in on Rest Stop Three the bike in front of me popped and psssssssssssh went flat. They both stopped off and needed no help so I continued onward to Rest Stop Three which ended up only being about a hundred yards ahead. As I was wrapping up with my business I saw him walk up with his bike over his shoulder, the sidewall of his tubeless tire had a tear in it, but the bike techs believed that he’d still be able to ride with a tube in the tire.

I rolled out again solo.

The segment from Three to Four includes a water stop, which I skipped, and an unofficial cinnamon bun stop, which I also skipped. Unfortunately I spent all my day’s fun money supporting the lunch fundraiser, so I pressed onto Rest Stop Four.

My right knee started to nag. I could not figure out what sequence of behaviors would lead it to hurt, but it was intermittent so my pace took a hit as a precaution.

Still, I cannot pass up a good riding group. When I came across a strong wheel I met on day two, I decided to hop on and not let him go. I wanted to get to Rest Stop Four with as little energy as possible. We picked up a first timer along the way, who was also quite happy to have a group to raise his spirits and pace.

Closing in on Rest Stop Four, pop! Psssssshhhhhhhh. Our strong wheel had a flat! The two stayed back as I continued to Rest Stop Four which was roughly a mile ahead. When I arrived I just sat in the shade, stretching my knee. The stop was still being set up and my knee was the first priority. Somebody from Medical came over unprompted “you look like you could use a bag of ice.” “Yes, thank you!”

The first timer rolled into camp looking for a car to pick up the strong wheel; his sidewall was shredded and he had two flat tires.

I am not good luck today.

With some much needed ice and rest, I departed Rest Stop Four with two older guys who kept making jokes about being slow. I left them behind at some point and found myself alone.

“Damnit, I cannot believe I made a wrong turn again!”

I must get real stupid after Rest Stop Four, two missed turns after Rest Stop Four on this ride.

I backtracked and only lost a couple blocks. Eventually I caught up to the older timers, shared a laugh at my missing a turn. They had hollered at me but I clearly didn’t hear them. Oops.

Rolling into camp, the very nice Roadie who has been there every day at the finish line called out “30!”

Despite all my goofing off, I am proud to have arrived 30th to camp.

It’s not a race, it’s a ride. But cycling is all about competing with myself and am enjoying the challenges of each day of the ride.

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures

Last night I was considering a tweet I had posted a week ago. My fundraising had stalled at 11k and I wanted to raise a little more in the last week before ride out. With my training this year, I figured I could do Quadbuster multiple times, I suggested that I would do it up to five times.

I did not expect my friend Harley to come through with rallying a lot of last-minute fundraising on my behalf, which bumped me up to over 17k.

I pondered whether Harley’s fundraising meant that I should or should not keep to my original solicitation.

I remember Quadbuster being brutal during my first year, and the subsequent heat of the day making the day just awful. I decided to try it at least two times and see how it would feel.

I ended up doing Quadbuster five times, adding 13 miles and a bit over a thousand feet of elevation gain.

The climbs weren’t that bad, but the last climb I started to feel just like I did in 2019, it was tough. Yes I committed myself to it, but I realy ended up doing the climbing for me. Quadbuster was so intimidating to me, I was genuinely concerned about the climb. I wanted to conquer Quadbuster for me.

With the climbing complete, I screamed down the other side and cranked along to Rest Stop Two where I ran into my team mates Jens and Ulf. They laughed at my self-inflicted challenge and told me I shouldn’t be such a cheap prostitute and next time require $1k per trip up Quadbuster. We rode out of Rest Stop Two together and after a while together I pushed on ahead. The cool breeze was getting warm and the heat of the day swiftly approached.

Rest Stop Three was uneventful, I lathered up in sunscreen and rolled out into the heat.

The special thing about Day Three is that we stop in Bradley where the local school works with ALC to do a fundraiser for the students. They offer a veggie burger option which pairs nicely with shady spot against a wall. I chatted with some folks from Team Colorado, where I inquired as to how well fundraising out of state goes. Eventually my lunch had all disappeared and I had to lumber back to a standing position before trundling off into the ever rising temperatures.

The stretch between Bradley and Rest Stop Four traverses a military base which is interesting but the US Army has definitely not optimized their roads for bicycle use. The bouncing around and gravel made me concerned about getting a flat, so I spent much of the stretch thinking about whether you can actually stop to change your tire on the base. My question was answered when I saw a guy changing a tire underneath a tree, with a small white base security car and a man in camouflage looking on.

I never skip a Rest Stop so I rolled into Rest Stop FOur for some ice, fluids, and pictures with the Spice Girls. The first time around I sat at Rest Stop Four for what felt like a half hour feeling like a shit sandwich cooking in the sun. This time around I still felt like I was cooking in the sun, but had a bit more confidence that I was going to swiftly make it back into camp. From Rest Stop Four there are pleasant rollers, light tailwinds, and some nice scenery.

Much of the scenery went unnoticed in 2019, this time around however I can really enjoy the sights much more as I hammer down the road.

Closing in on Paso Robles I ran into my tent mate Kohsuke and we were able to finish together. Despite the extra climbing, heat, and general leg stiffness, I proudly arrived into camp as the 168th cyclist.

I also posted a thread to Twitter for today with more pictures.

Being with the first group leaving camp was absolutely delightful, I highly recommend it if you want to avoid traffic with all the stop signs scattered throughout Santa Cruz. As the sun rose it shined through the fog adding an eerie feel to the morning. Coming to the south side of Santa Cruz there’s this little kick up, it’s probably no more than a hundred feet but it happens in a quarter mile or so. The first year I struggled with everybody else around me up the hill, my legs are different this time around, and I jaunted up to the top and kept plugging away on the route towards Rest Stop One. Fogged in and barely set up, I quickly followed the routine of:

1. Bathroom
2. Cleanse
3. Snacks
4. Refill bottles
5. Ride out

Back on the road we started to leave the foggy urban and suburban parts of Santa Cruz and headed out into the country where the road quality turns to utter shit. In 2019 I ended up breaking my bike, and I believe it was due to a stress fracture caused on day two. Today I focused on keeping my butt from getting too beat up as I rolled across the landscape.

Day Two is also notable for the unofficial “artichoke stop” which I planned on attending since I was so early, lo and behold there wasn’t a line! I sat and enjoyed my fried artichoke breakfast with a fellow from the Air Force who had been trying to catch me.

It feels really good to be chased, rather than just surviving. After the artichokes I found myself with a group stuck at an intersection. The air force guy was chatting with somebody behind me and said “I’ve been trying to catch this guy, but he’s going crazy fast.” That also felt pretty damn good. All the hard work I did training, over 2,500 miles has really paid off!

Rest Stop Two was more of the same, but for the first time I took my sleeves off and applied sunscreen. Sunshine!

Rest Stop Two to Lunch was quite short, so I spent some a little bit of extra time eating and relaxing before departing once again. Leaving the little town of Gonzales the winds really picked up, which from any other direction would be miserable, but these were tailwinds and they were strong. I powered over the atrocious roads at speeds of over 30mph.

Alone.

In 2019 this stretch of road I made a friend with a woman who was a spin instructor in San Francisco. Our paces were about the same and we hammered down the road to King City together which was one of my highlights from the year, and one of the more memorable experiences I have had on a bike. While we continued to ride together the remainder of that ALC, I lost touch with her after the event.

I ran into her by chance at Orientation this year. She recognized me before I recognized her, and we started chatting. She hated her job and left, before finding a job working on ALC full time as a staffer. Before wishing each other well as we returned to our respective Staffer and Cyclist duties, she shared that day two in 2019 was one of the best days of cycling she’s ever had.

That’s the power of a great tailwind.

I skipped water stops between Rest Stop Two and Three, no need, I was cruising. Leaving Rest Stop Three, the cruising continued as the road meandered through the valley. I continued alone with nobody in front or behind me. The downside of being alone is that there’s nobody to follow, but at least there’s also nobody to lead astray.

Rest Stop Four was mostly set up when I got there, some rural community park through which the wind gusts. Anything not weighted down will soon fly away. I follow the routine again and on my departure I confidently line up to turn left, wish the Roadies a good day and continue on through the small town. Crossing the highway I wonder why Traffic didn’t put up yellow arrows. There have been a couple spots along today’s route where I feel like an arrow would be helpful, so I figure “straight” is a safe default. On the east side of town, the road travels off into the countryside and I cannot see any cyclist in sight.

This cannot be right. Fortunately I also grab a route sheet every morning! I study it for a bit but decide that I cannot make heads or tails of where I went wrong. In lieu of better information, I head back to Rest Stop Four, a couple miles back through town. At the intersection where I turned left, I asked a different Roadie where the exit is, turns out it was a right I needed to make. I was surprised the Roadie I saw previously didn’t shout out to me, but I suppose being one of the faster in the group, if you move with confidence they’re going to just assume you know what you’re doing. They could not be more wrong!

Once back on the route, I found some more tailwinds and hammered hard to make up for lost time, passing other cyclists at an extremely high rate of speed. During this section my top speed was 42mph, which I still cannot believe.

Arriving into camp, only a few racks had even been set up yet. I was 34th, despite my silly detour.

112 miles, some amazing tailwinds, and a dose of humility. Day Two of riding completed.