Palm Desert To Hemet

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There are better ways to start your day. I was maybe a mile in to today’s stage when this flashed across the bottom half of the Hammerhead Karoo head unit, “Climb 1, 24 miles, 5,000′.” Mother sucker. Or something of that sort.

Beautiful desert/mountain scenery that I was working way too hard to fully enjoy. Working hard doesn’t mean going fast. I was more conservative than your MAGA uncle who ruined last Thanksgiving. At one point, Matt, one of the Bay Area Boys, passed me like I was standing still.

No real shoulder to speak of. Cars flying by. Death grip on the bars. And you may not know this because you’re way faster than me, but it’s hard to hold a line when you’re doing 7-8 mph.

Three hours to get to the top where several guardian angels appeared in succession. First, Skip, today’s van driver, materialized out of thin air about 4 miles from the top with water right as I emptied my second bottle. Then, he drove ahead to the small/rural restaurant that doubles as a mail station for Pacific Coast Trail through hikers. There, Linda split her amazing breakfast with me. Then Skip split his with me too. Then some bikepacker who couldn’t finish his breakfast burrito at a nearby table, offered it up. Then Chucky Chuck gave me one-fourth of his tuna melt. I just sat there and vacuumed everyone’s sloppy seconds for an hour! It cost me the stage victory, but was SO worth it.

Griffin loved the descent. My bod is too broken down for me to have fully enjoyed it. Wrists hurt from all the braking, bony ass screaming for relief, lower back uber tight. Plus, I was thinking of Jeanette who told me, before I left, it’s “different having one parent”.

Following the 12 mile descent, the flat, hot run in to town was pretty uneventful except for Linda’s flat which was difficult to fix. No doubt Griffin’s fault. Once he flatted yesterday, others thought they’d join in. Since I smelled the barn, or in this case a gritty hotel, I did all the work. And no, to answer your question, neither Marky Mark or Chucky Chuck thanked me.

Couldn’t have completed today’s stage without last night’s desert. Hayden’s for the win.
Griffin’s desert game similarly strong.

From whence I came. Halfway to the top.
How do you spell guardian angel? L-i-n-d-a.
Packages awaiting PCT-ers
Pic across from the packages. WHO is this woman? I only ask because of the red hair.

Postscript. So disappointed in all of you. Walter and Jesse weren’t making cocaine in the desert in their RV, they were making meth. Let’s all commit to reading a little closer.

Borrego Springs to Palm Desert

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Hot damn kids, real internet today. Now, the only problem is your intrepid reporter is completely shelled. Not enough strength in my fingers to type much.

Ride report could be titled “Teamwork Makes the Dreamwork”. The first half of today’s ride felt like a ride through the set of Breaking Bad. I was half expecting to see Walter’s and Jesse’s RV around every bend. And I coulda used some cocaine!

Once we hit the highway, the Bay Area Boyz drilled it. All. The. Way. In. They make them tough in NorCal. When Griffin was repairing a flat, Blair told me he once did 300 miles in 20 hours. LOL. If it wasn’t for the BABs, I would’ve ended up as half-melted roadkill. Massive pull after pull that Griffin and I took full advantage of all morning.

It was in the mid-90s at the finish.

Dunno if I can recover in 18 hours. Probs need more like 18 days.

And so it goes.

The Michiganders check out a desert dragon.
Frickin’ Griffin. The King of Flats.
Drug of choice. Shoot that potassium straight into my veins.

Pine Valley To Borrego Springs

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Not sure how I bounced back, but yah boy rode well today. I couldn’t decide if today’s ride was a Top 10, Top 7, or Top 5 all timer.

The first nine miles rose 2,000′ topping out above 5,800′ above sea level. Moderate morning temps, lots of trees so hella shade, and buttery tarmac. What more could one ask for . . . oh, good company.

Half way up, Skip rode up on me. We talked. About real shit. For 700′. Instead of staring at my head unit, I was engrossed in the convo. All of sudden, the bulk of the climb was done. Thanks Skip.

Cycling is like life. It’s easier, or less difficult, or more enjoyable, take your pick, with others’ help. If we were seeding the 11 crazies, I’d be the 5 seed. That means it’s very easy to get stuck in no man’s land between the top 4 and bottom 6. Three of the top four are from Michigan, so I refer to them as either Team Michigan or the Michiganders. Since they stopped at the top of the opening 9 miler to take pics and chill, they were happy to have me join them for the run in to lunch at mile 31. I had to work, but not so hard that I’d blow up later.

Team Michigan, Aimee, Dean, and Lucas, are so strong. Lucas is a twenty-something fourth year Electrical Engineering PhD candidate at Berkeley who I have really enjoyed getting to know. Yes, you’re right, the ulterior motive is that his big brain might somehow have positive effects on my peabrain. Aimee is his mom and she’s a phenom. Dean is Aimee’s bf and he couldn’t be stronger, nicer, and fun to hang with.

After an early lunch with Team Michigan, I started the second half with Marky Mark and Chucky Chuck. Right after lunch, one of the most fun descents of all time. Again, buttery tarmac, no traffic, sweeping turns, six-seven miles of goodness. Had a great time with them all the way to mile 50 where I lost them on the ninth and final climb of the day. You won’t find better dudes, so I wanted to wait. I said to myself, “Self, stop at the next shade.” Desert plus midday sun meant ZERO shade, so I time-trialed in the last 45 minutes or so.

Unbelievably beautiful route. Great company. Fo sho ride of the week I presume. Blessed.

Tomorrow, flat, hot run in to Palm Springs. Pray I don’t ignite.

My greatest accomplishment today might be getting this to upload on really janky internet.

Baptism By Fire

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Yah boy went deep. Thought the 18 mile XL climb would never end. Just baked. No shade. That climb alone was 3,500′. Took a record number of salt tablets. Still cramped bigly.

Quote of the day, “I’d have to feel better to die.”

This could get ugly.

Apologies. My nonexistent photog game needs work.

Tomorrow, Pine Valley to Borrego Springs. Hellish 9 mile climb out of the gate, then maybe the longest descent of my life.

Speaking of which. Had another heartfelt kitchen convo with JJ Thursnight before leaving. She told me it’s different having one parent. Nutty trips like this make her even more nervous now. I told her I wouldn’t descend too fast. Then she said she was also afraid of my long drive, but I reminded her I’m an elite driver.

I sent her this text after the baptism.

JJ, thought about you a lot today. Descended fast when I told you I wouldn’t, but it was the only way to cool off. Hope you can forgive me. 🙏🏼

Topped out at 43.5 mph. Shit photog. Shit cyclist. Shit dad. At least I’m consistent.

Prologue

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Sunday not fun day. Shot down the I-5 for 8+ hours. Had my first fast food since forever and somehow managed to keep it down. Rallied and had the best chicken carbonara of all time for dinner at Giovanni’s. With half the crazies. Turns out some peeps looked at the weather forecast and bailed, so we’re 12.

Which increases my odds of finishing on the podium.

Today, starting in a few hours, we ride east for 50 miles. The second half all uphill. Let’s effin’ go!

When are the midterms again?

Hotel California

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Friday morning, I woke up in Washington State’s capital, per usual. Then I leapfrogged from Tumwater Costco to Medford Costco to California’s state capital and M and C Griffins Sacto crib*, hemorrhaging large swaths of my lifetime savings at the pump as I migrated south.

I was asked to deliver a message. Which I did.

Gav,

Eat the rich.

Bobby

Saturday’s tuneup ride was a flat, fun affair alongside the Sacto and American rivers. Well, except for trying to stay on MGriffins wheel when he got frustrated by my pedestrian pacing.

Today’s drive begins shortly. Destination San Diego where a week-long circumnavigation of the County awaits. 16 other crazies. Different California Hotel every night. Mark scaring me a bit by saying the group is “interesting” then just smiling evilly as if words don’t do them justice.

Your humble blogger will do his best to match their crazy. It will be fun to meet new people, ride new roads, and to dry out under blazing, cloudless sunshine. If only I wasn’t so undertrained. Don’t tell the crazies I’m a lil’ nervous.

Raise your hand if you’d like me to blog San Diego County bike week. Okay, thank you, you can put your hands down.

Raise your hand if you’re a numbers person and will (somehow) be content to just follow me on Strava. Okay, thank you, you can put your hands down.

Raise your hand if you’re of the same mind as my sissy who often reminds me, “Ron it’s not all about you.” Meaning, not only do you not want to know anything about how next week unfolds on the roads of San Diego County, but you’re deeply regretting even reading this intro.

The “please, please, please blog SDC cycling tour” contingent carries the day. Congratulations to them and everyone whose lives are about to be changed by my reporting.

Remember, when it comes to the humble blog, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

*If you ever get the chance to stay at Chez Griffin, take it. Bespoke hospitality marked by amazing food and conversation.

Postscript. If UCLA wins today, I’ll pick up the Crazies dinner tab. Oh wait, I forgot how much the drive is going to cost. Nevermind.

Miss Kaninna You Are Very Loud, Very Very Loud

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You have problems, I have problems. But my greatest problem right now is way worser than yours. I’m seriously undertrained for next week’s circumnavigation of San Diego County.*

So today I did what most anyone would do when unprepared for a big exam, I crammed. In the form of a hard session on an indoor bike at the Plum Street Y. With a coach.

When I ride indoors I just can’t replicate the intensity of trying to keep up with ADub when he attacks at the bottom of one of his fave south Thurston County climbs. Or when BBuck does his patented two mile pulls. Or when MGriffin dials up his diesel on the flats and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose his wheel. Or when TMAT hits SkateCreek, turns, and says, “Get lost loser.”

But today, thanks to my coach, Miss Kaninna, I was able to dial it up. Puddles of sweat thanks to Miss Kaninna, a rising Australian First Nations singer-songwriter and rapper known for blending hip-hop, soul, and punk.

Over the ear headphones were on full Miss Kaninna blast. As a result, I was producing Tadej Pogačar-like watts. I listened to enough tracks to develop a theory on why she continues to fly way under the radar.

There are three recurring themes in her lyrics. The first is aboriginal history and institutional racism which she hits way harder/better than egghead academics. The second is sexually explicit stuff that is just part and parcel of a young rapper’s art. The third is where the problem lies. In terms of Miss Kaninna crossing over to the (dis)USA in particular. There is a strong ACAB element to her lyrics. More to the point, my cycling coach raps about killing police. Do I need to say I don’t condone that?

For American concert producers that has to be a non-starter. My guess is Miss Kaninna is fine playing to and for her own people.

Personally, I dig half of Kaninna’s lyrics and ALL the beats. Introducing my cycling coach, Miss Kaninna.

  • You’re right, I will ride into shape right around the penultimate day. :)

Grizzly President

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I found the 2005 documentary, Grizzly Man, the story of a dude intent on befriending bears in Alaska, riveting. Spoiler alert: It ends with him getting eaten.

I still remember walking out of the Capital Theater thinking, “That was the most intimate portrayal of mental illness I’ve ever seen.” Up close and personal with someone in serious need of help.

Fast forward to this morning. Hit Masters swimming hard. Then recovery in the form of coffee and oatmeal. With apples, raisins, avocados, eggs, and pumpkin seed goodness mixed in. Grabbed the coffee and Mount Oatmeal and headed upstairs to eat in front of the t.v. Oh, the market’s up. Oh, the Lakers are winning. Oh, damn, the President is riffing on “having predicted everything”.

It’s no coincidence that a few days ago the Paper of Record wrote that the President was caught completely off guard by the closing of the Strait of Hormuz. He said he not only predicted that the Strait of Hormuz would be closed, but also that Osama bin Laden was going to knock down the World Trade Center a year before it happened. And not just that, but he predicted “everything”.

Several assassinations, schoolchildren are killed in mass along with many other civilians, US servicemen and women are injured and killed, energy prices tank European economies, longstanding allies are further alienated. And the President’s primary concern is to bolster himself.

It’s impossible to exaggerate the level of insecurity. Something that, I suspect, we’d have to trace back 75 years to understand even a little.

This is Grizzly Man level mental illness. But this dude isn’t sleeping in a tent surrounded by bears in the Alaskan wilderness. He’s the Commander-in-Chief. This story will not end well either.

Numeracy Is Hard

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The ICE versus electric car debate is driving me crazy. The debate is intensifying with gas prices soaring and Rivian just announcing it’s new, smaller, “more affordable” R2. The Model Y killer.

The mistake seemingly everyone is making is a tree-forest error. More specifically, all anyone can see is one tree, gas prices versus the price of electricity. The oft stated factoid is that if you drive 12,000 miles a year you can save about $1,200 annually switching to an electric car. To which I say, big whoop.

The electric car I recently sold depreciated close to $1,200 a month! Meanwhile, you’d have to use a magnifying glass to properly assess my new Honda Passport’s rate of depreciation.

Plus, states aren’t stupid, they’ve jacked up registration costs for electric cars since their owners completely sidestep gas taxes.

Repairing electric cars is way more expensive; as a result, insurance rates are considerably higher.

If you use a wide-angle lens and take the whole forest in, electric car ownership prob doesn’t even come close to penciling out. Put differently, what I spend at the pump in the Passport is inconsequential in the larger equation of car ownership.

The forest formula is as follows. Electric car depreciation + registration + repairs + insurance rates > Electric car gas savings + electric car reduced maintenance costs.

Or to borrow one of my favorite phrases from a friend, the cost of gas doesn’t move the needle. And yet, it’s all anyone talks about.

There’s still one good reason to go electric. To bolster your environmental bonafides, and thereby, get DanDantheTransportationMan off your back.

And so, as if you didn’t know it already, further evidence I am a knucklehead.