Regretting Nothing

(Note: I once avowed never to make this a personal blog and would reserve this space for commenting on general interest items in the hopes of offering a slightly alternative perspective about the world we live in that may not be offered everywhere-elsewhere. I am pointedly violating this vow, the subtext being that… well, shouldn’t be hard to figure out and wouldn’t really be subtext if I overtly spelled it out.)

“Get a bicycle. You will not regret it, if you live.”
- Mark Twain, Taming the Bycycle

Of all the reasons I gave up driving my car in favor of cycling, saving money on gas was not one of them, although that seems to be the one that everyone thinks of and mentions if my means of transportation ever manages to shoehorn its way into conversation. “I bet you save a ton of money on gas!” Yes, but the money I spend on extra calories offsets the savings.

I’d like to say bike maintenance eats up the rest of the savings, but the truth is that I am an “if it rolls then it goes” riders, much as I can acclimate myself to whatever glitches and malfunctions so long as the computer boots. Getting around on two wheels and a crank is easy, just get a bike rack with some panniers that can accommodate things like work clothes or groceries. The trick with making anything work is to imagine that you don’t have a choice in the matter, effectively cutting away the safety net, and then dealing with whatever contingencies arise. How would I get to work without a car? Groceries? You find a way.

There is some insignificant pleasure in diverting money from the sisters’ descendants to bike and food barons, but like almost all epic victories and defeats in life, the significance only exists in my mind. That bitch, reality, notices not one whit. One reason I came around on cycling is because distance running seemed like the surest way to make me a 50 year old cripple; 6’4 220 pound guys should not run 7-13 mile routes 5 times a week if they value their knees.

I have, to my surprise, found that LA is bike-friendlier than Atlanta. It actually has a few bike lanes that begin to make sense, rather than starting and ending abruptly. I count only one unpleasant incident with a driver here who thought it was his job to get me on the sidewalk - where I fucking belong. I had one of these a week in Atlanta. (There was a van that overtook me from behind, and then made an abrupt right-hook turn on me while I was only a few feet behind him doing about 20 mph. I cut the wheel and bounced off the van's side to avoid getting squirreled and shot out in front of him, more shocked at the sheer stupidity of his maneuver than scared or angry at my near demise. I don’t think it was intentional so I don’t count that as an unpleasant incident, just as I don’t count the gentlemen in Atlanta, who incidentally teaches some community college course in Chattahoochee, that doored me while I was doing about 17 m.p.h. near little five points, thereby flipping me heels over head and back over to heels onto the pavement and crushing his truck door like an accordion.) I have a couple of 70-80 mile rides under my belt out here. They usually take about 5 hours to complete on a weekend, and with the right route, can be very fun.

The first route is a party-ride down the flatline coastline that hugs the beach, until I begin climbing the cliffs at Palos Verdes before turning around at Long Beach.

The second route is a flirt with the Santa Monica Mountain, up and down a few times until leg fatigue sets in. One climb is particularly grand; up the appropriately named lookout road with some great vistas of the city. The first time I came down that road I wore out the breaks. But after the first few passes, I began to memorize the turns, where the pavement was always inexplicably wet and where loose bits of dirt and gravel could imperil my health. I started coming down with sometimes frightening speed. On a good descent you are clear-headed, the chatter that usually bubbles and froths in your head gone, and constantly, instinctively, making small adjustments to avoid catastrophe. Always a swerve and a veer away from ruining your year. Conversely, a good ascent is fairly boring and you have a strong voice in your head, questioning the futility and stupidity of what you are putting your body through, and reminding you of the fun that could be had by turning around and coasting back down.

After my conditioning began catching up to my desire, I began combining routes 1 and 2.

The third kind of route is any ill-fated learning experience, such as the time I cavalierly rode into the Topanga state park on a one-speed commuter sans water or supplies. I suffered a minor crash, an unfixable flat, and minor heat exhaustion. I eventually made it out and scarfed down $15 worth of ice cream sandwiches, drinks and candy bars over the course of an hour to recover in a gas station parking lot. But I vividly recall pushing my bike for 2 of the most grueling miles over dirt and gravel, every muscle cramping, and fighting a creeping desire to lay down in some sparse shade and sleep. What should have been a 4 hour ride turned into a 6.5 hour desert ordeal, culminating in me gingerly riding a flat tire for the last couple of miles to the bike shop.

Or the time I knocked out of work at 3 PM, with a planned excursion up to Mullholland Drive that should have been about 20 miles. One wrong turn later found a 50+ mile clusterfuck that included a descent into the Valley, swallowing my pride and asking some valley-trog walking their dog for directions (the valley sits between two mountains and I was so turned around and frustrated that I couldn’t figure out which one I needed to go back over), and an epic battle between man vs. nature, appearing in the form of sundown, to get my ass home before dark.

I stopped riding, aside from my commute, when the daylight hours shortened and my work hours lengthened. But the weather has turned and 60+ hour weeks look to have come to an end. So it’s back on the carbon-fiber horse.

I’ve likened riding a bike to a psychedelic experience, lactic acid and calcium leaks instead of strict 9, because your senses sharpen and you take in so much more of your surroundings. The most mundane route by car becomes a hyper-sensory experience on a bike. You have cars to negotiate, sewer drains to watch for (if the grates run parallel to your route, watch out!), gravel and glass, not to mention pedestrians or unleashed dogs. The most gratifying part of the experience is how the most frustrating and stressful part of the day becomes a release. One of my finest memories out here came one day after riding Sunset Ave for several miles, just climb after climb, with blind turns, cars whizzing by, culminating all at once to a beautiful drop to the Pacific Ocean. Suddenly the ocean stretched out and the by chance my iPod picked a great song to complete the mood. (Things soured quickly; at the bottom of the hill I discovered that I had two broken spokes, necessitating a quick abort of the remaining 40 miles I had planned to ride.)

I mentioned above that I switched from running to cycling; not entirely true. I can’t resist the pull of running and have occasionally used cycling to get somewhere that I can run. A few weekends ago I combined a 20 mile round trip ride to Runyon Canyon with a run up and down the park and have done the same with Temescal. If you can manage to fit in both types of exertion, do so. After exhausting yourself with one type of activity, it is amazing to see how refreshed you are when trying the other. You feel exhausted and fresh all at once.

All of these experiences, I submit, are superior to whatever effects you may get from drug use.