I can jog 200 miles…

I decided to do something different this year and begin recording every time I jogged or went cycling.

I’ll tell you that the cycling part didn’t work out so well. As you might know, I have two bicyles: the Giant and the Tank. The Tank is a 20 year old mountain bike with road tires that weighs about 500 pounds (or so). I’ve ridden that a lot in the last few years because it has armadillo tires, that’s Kevlar baby! I never got a flat on the Tank so it was great for long rides.

With just one problem.

It weighs 500 pounds (or so).

So, this year I decided to retire the Tank and take more rides on the Giant. All I needed to do was get an armadillo tire for my back wheel and everything would be…

And that was it for cycling. (Seriously, I need to get to the bike shop!)

As it turns out, I’ve been jogging far more often than I’ve been cycling. With the middle of the year coming up, I decided to check the excel file in which I record all these things – and found that I’ve jogged over 200 miles!

Now, let me go on record here and say, “Sure. I know 200 miles is nothing for other people. But, for me, it’s really something!”

I used to love to jog long ago, before I started smoking. So, to be back in a place where I can jog six or seven or eight miles at a stretch, totaling more than 200 in just six months? Well, that makes me very happy.

I’m not saying it makes me very thin, mind you, because I’m still a big, fat pig. But, things could be worse.

I’ll keep jogging…

Cycling without a bike…

This story begins, as so many do, last week.

I was out riding my Giant TCR2, having a really good morning ride. I was doing 16-18 mph pretty consistently and feeling pretty good when I realized something was catching on the pedal. For a while, I thought it was my foot catching on the bike frame – my feet are huge – but, looking down, I saw that wasn’t it.

For some reason, my left pedal and crank assembly was catching and my experience cycling told me that wasn’t good. I don’t have a lot of experience cycling but I do have enough to know about blowing out bottom brackets… mostly because I’ve blown out a couple of bottom brackets. You blow out your bottom bracket by riding your bike long after your bottom bracket starts to go, and it felt like my bottom bracket was starting to go.

I did the sensible thing and stopped. Sure enough, my left crank was getting wobbly. This time, instead of riding on it, I would do the smart thing and head back home. I went home and got my bike in the shop, hoping everything would be fine.

They were supposed to be finished with the bike on Tuesday, so I gave them a call yesterday to follow up since they hadn’t called me, yet. (Are all cycle shops horrible about calling when something is done? This is the second shop I’ve used regularly and they’re both like that!) Turned out, my bike wasn’t done… in fact, it wasn’t begun.

I hadn’t blown the bottom bracket this time. I had blown the entire crank assembly!

And this is where I beat myself up for being a lame-ass. (Not to mention a fat ass, which is the only way I can think that I broke that assembly!)

When I told Vicky, she reminded me of something I’d forgotten. I had put a couple thousand miles on my bike last year. Of course, things were going to break! This is what’s called “up-keep”! If it wasn’t for Vicky, I would probably still be beating myself up.

So, now the bike is getting back in shape for another year of cycling. In previous years, I didn’t start until later in April. This year, I’ve already begun. I’m shooting for 3,000 miles this year. I don’t know how close I’ll get but it’ll be fun trying. (Of course, it also depends on my work schedule… once I get a work schedule…) And I’ll keep going right away… once I get my bike back…

The trouble with bottom brackets…

Time plays weird tricks. For example, when I think of my last cigarette, it feels like a long time ago. When I think of when I first started cycling, it feels like yesterday. And yet, I was still sneaking smokes when I started cycling… so that’s slightly askew.

I’ve been cycling now since 2007. That’s four years of riding. Every year, I get a little smarter, a little faster, a little better. That’s not too difficult because I started out really horribly. I mean, I sucked.

One thing has remained consistent, however, and that is my relationship with bottom brackets. Bottom Brackets are the part of your bike just between where the pedal’s cranks meet. They keep your pedals going so you can move. They’re supposed to be fairly stable. They’re not supposed to move around a whole lot.

I learned this with my first bike (as an adult). It was a converted mountain bike – basically, a mountain bike with road tires on it. I was riding for quite some time until the bottom bracket was so blown that the pedals were practically flapping like wings. No bueno! The guy at the bike shop actually lectured me.

After that, I got a little experience and got a little smarter. Riding my Giant road bike, I blew another bottom bracket but I noticed before the pedals started flapping. Still, I did plenty of damage before I brought it in to get fixed.

I don’t know what it is about me and bottom brackets. I just tear through them.

Today, for instance, as I was out on my morning ride, I realized that the pedals had a certain amount of give that they shouldn’t have had, a bit of play that told me, “Ken, you’re doing it again.” Rather than ignore it, I actually stopped and checked it out. Sure enough, the bottom bracket was going out. This time, though, I decided to do the smart thing… or, at least, the smartest thing I could do under the circumstances. I rode the bike straight home. I’ll take it into the shop this weekend and hope I caught it early enough to prevent anything too costly.

I don’t know if other cyclists have these issues. Maybe I’m just too hard on my bike. But I’m learning. I can say that. Maybe, by the time I’m 60, I’ll be smart enough to not bust the damned things in the first place…

You are the sunshine of my life…

I’d like to talk about weather today.

Yes, I understand that’s painfully boring but please bear with me.

When I first took up cycling, it was only for a few weeks in the coolest part of summer when the temperatures were just so, not too hot and not too cool. Then, as I got more interested in it and as my goals became more elaborate, I cycled for a longer period in the year, in more months and more differences in weather. But I would watch the hardcore cyclists as they cycled in the winter and think, “I don’t know how they do that but it’s too damned cold for me.”

Somehow, though, Vicky and I have figured it out and while I’m not cycling in the snow I can now cycle when it’s 48° f where once I could only cycle after the temps hit 65° or higher. Vicky has been kind enough to purchase me a couple of long-sleeved jerseys and I’ve been smart enough to wear a long-sleeved shirt beneath it. This helped a great deal. What helped the most, though, was the thin, insulating cap that we bought for me to wear beneath my helmet. It was only around $10 and, somehow, it helps hold all of my heat in.

So, I’m cycling in the winter. This year, I’ve decided to keep a journal of all my miles (basically, it’s an Excel spreadsheet) so that I know how much I’ve covered by the end of the year. I’m guessing I hit at least 2,000… so far, I’ve ridden 20. I’ll keep you posted.

The best part of my first ride, yesterday, was that the sun finally came out. After weeks of unseasonable winter… which is to say winter… the sun shines once again on southern California. We’re not exactly baking out here but it is nice to have a bit of sunshine again.

Let’s hope that holds so I can get more cycling in.

The big 15…

The other day, Vicky made a comment about my constant cycling. “It’s just the way you are. If you do something you like, you want to do it a whole lot. Smoking. Drinking. Now, cycling.” She makes a good point. I have that addict mindset that wouldn’t understand moderation if you broke it down into five two-letter words…

That said, if you have to be addicted to something, it’s good to find something healthy. Mind you, I am using the word “addicted” and not “proficient”. There are still so many cyclists out there who just blow me away on a daily basis. I’m not talking about Lance Armstrong; I’m just talking about the guys on the Santa Ana River Trail. Even in my little corner of the world, I have a long way to go.

After riding my first century a few weeks back, I went out for my second. And it really was amazing. This time, I took fewer snack breaks and actually found myself hurting a lot less. I combined the century with a metric in the same week!

That century was on Friday. Yesterday, I was back on the road for a 75 mile ride. I wasn’t going to do another century but I wanted to get some distance in there, still. And this really has me surprised. In the years since I’ve taken up this sport, I’ve never been this aggressive. The first year, I got in some 40 milers but stuck with 10-15 mile rides normally. Two years ago, I brought my maximum ride up a metric, which is 100 kilometers (or 62 miles). I did it completely by accident, just overextending the hell out of myself. Again, my normal ride was closer to 25 miles. Last year, unemployed, I decided to really push it and set a goal for myself of two metrics. I did it, if barely, and increased my daily ride into the 30-40 mile range.

This year, I set a goal of three metrics. I also decided that to improve my distance I would ride longer distances on a daily basis. So, I set out riding 30 miles from the very beginning, when the “season” began in March. (The “season” is determined when it’s not too cold or wet for my whimpy ass.) I was able to put two metrics behind me before the beginning of July and, when the Tour de France began, I set out on my very first century.

It feels great to set goals and not only meet them but blow them out of the water. I have lost track of how many metrics I’ve done this year. As a result, I’m changing my cycling focus from single rides to weekly totals. For example, rather than planning on a single century, I set a weekly goal. This week, my goal is 200 miles. I’ve already put 75 miles in the bank.

The best thing about this 75 mile ride, though, was that it helped me decide on a different goal: speed. The distance of my rides doesn’t mean much if I’m just cruising along at 10-12 miles/hour. Recently, I’ve been testing my speed and have found that I can get pretty close to an average speed of 15 miles/hour. I’ve hit 14.8 and 14.9, but I never hit 15. As I was riding yesterday, I decided that rather than focusing on the distance I was riding, I would focus on keeping an average speed of 15 mph.

And I did it. I’ll tell you that the difference between 14.8 and 15 mph is a whole lot greater than you might think. It really killed me to maintain that speed.

And now, I’m craving another ride. I took today off to get some work done but have three back-to-back rides planned after that. Each ride will be about 45 miles in length and I’ll be going into some hills for a change. The key is to keep testing my limits and setting new goals, to keep this new addiction going…

Of course, there’s always Plan B…

Cycling is a tricky thing for me. As much as I like to do it, I always feel like an amateur. And when it comes to talking about it, I never feel as though I really know what I’m talking about. Typical for me, because I’m a guy, I am loath to ask anyone for advice about cycling: how to fix things, where to ride… heck, even “How do I ride this bike, anyway?” You’d never catch me asking that! I might end up looking foolish! (Because that comes pretty easy…)

Case in point, my hands. My darned hands. They always hurt when I ride. I always come home feeling like I’ve been riding ON my hands. What’s the deal, dammit?

Well, I tried reading up on the issue and discovered my seat might have been placed incorrectly. So, I adjusted my seat. I asked someone I know who rides who said it was my handlebars. So, I adjusted them. I heard you need to bend your arms and I did. I heard you should stretch so I have.

But my hands still hurt like a motherfucker!

Here’s the problem: When you ride, your weight gets distributed in a couple of different ways. It goes down into your seat and legs. It also rests forward on your handlebars and your hands. And this is what has caused me so much pain in the last few years. Basically, I’m a fat fuck who puts all his weight on his hands.

And I was pretty much doomed to that, too, because no advice I came across was helping. Then, a few weeks ago, I tried something that I found revolutionary. I tried using my stomach muscles to support some of my weight. IMAGINE! What happened? The weight moved off of my hands and, as an extra bonus, I found myself peddling better as well!

For the 40 seconds or so that this lasted, I was blown away! I had stumbled upon something amazing: posture! No wonder I hadn’t been able to find an answer. Nobody was going to say, “Well, you could try actually using that fat mid-section of yours.” Nobody.

With every ride, I tried it a bit more. The results were astonishing.

Today, I rode 51 miles up to Yorba Linda and down to Huntington Beach. I made it up to Yorba Linda and down to the beach, holding myself with my core muscles the whole way. I found I was using more than just my stomach muscles, but my laterals and my back and more besides. My hands were hanging in there like troopers. Things were great.

It was getting hot, though. Summer really has hit here in Southern California and I was guzzling water. By the way, you might not know this but a full bladder makes it very difficult to use any of your core muscles. Try it sometime. It just makes you want to pee. Dammit.

I headed back up the SART and was nearly at the 405 when two things happened simultaneously. First, my legs gave out due to the heat and bad planning. (I hadn’t brought something to eat.) Worse still, my core muscles sent a message to my arms that said, “You take this load from here. We’re done.” Right then, my core muscles went slack and all of my weight was put back on my hands.

I was about 12 miles from home and in pretty shitty shape.

Oh, I made it. And I’ll keep working those core muscles. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier and the more I do it the more stamina they’ll have. And I thought I’d toss this tip out there for anyone who is looking for a solution to the hand problem… or just a minute to laugh at a fat guy…

The First Century…

So, here I am, awake at nearly four in the morning on the day after my very first century ride.

Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…

The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…

Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…

My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…

I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…

It really is insane, though…

I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…

The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.

When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.

At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…

The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…

So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”

When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.

I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.

Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.

And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…

I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.

With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.

Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.

On routes and men not straight…

So, I was thinking about something just now and thought, “I should put that on a blog somewhere… wait… I have a blog…”

So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.

First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?

Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…

Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.

The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…

Resolved… 2010…

Last year’s new year resolutions worked so well, I thought I would lay out some more for the new year…

Oh wait… last year’s didn’t work out at all. I resolved to buy more produce from local growers at farmer’s markets but I lost my job and couldn’t afford it. Oops… okay, so that one didn’t go quite as planned. BUT I did buy more locally grown produce thanks to the folks at my local Vons who bought more local produce. I’m not a big fan of the way they treat their employees but that was a step in the right direction. And we continued to shop at Henry’s, which buys locally as well. So, in as much as I could I tried to keep that one. My second resolution was to grow more produce… which also didn’t go so well. I mean, it had been a while since I gardened so I was a bit out of practice and things didn’t turn out so well. BUT I did grow a lot of tomatoes and they were very tasty and we had jalapenos and basil (my rosemary died a horrible death so let’s not get into that)!

So, they did work out… kinda…

So, let’s talk 2010!

Obviously, there are some things that go without saying. I’m going to continue to look for work, continue to write, continue to try to make a sale. I’m going to continue cycling, continue jogging, continue trying to eat healthy, and this spring I will plant another garden.

But, despite that… let’s face it. I know what I need to do. It’s looking back at me from the mirror.

I’m a fat fuck. Fat fat fat. Fatty fatty fatty. I’m a bit overweight.

Now, I’ve been doing a good job getting more serious about my health. I quit smoking. I took up cycling. Heck, I even began jogging again this year. But the fact is I could do better.

So, this year I am going to work on watching not just what I put in my body but how much. I have a terrible habit of loving food so much that I think more is better. More is not better. More is just more. But that’s my thing. I think “One burrito is good… so two or three or four would be wonderful!!” So, this year I am going to try and stop myself before I have a second helping or before I have a snack between meals. This isn’t something you can track but I think it’s a good idea to be aware of it all the same.

Here’s something I can track. Two years ago, I rode my first metric (which is 100 kilometers). Last year, I cycled two metrics. This year, I’m aiming for three. I’ve found a good, relatively safe route to take so doing more will be a bit easier.

Lastly, number three. The big one. Sugar. If there’s one thing I can do that would both help make this world a healthier place to live while also making me healthier, it is to cut back on my sugar. I love sugar. I love ice cream. I love cookies. I love pie. I love sweet drinks. I love sugar. But I know it’s not good for me and I’m only hurting myself by eating so much of it. So, I’m going to use 2010 as a time-out for sugar. I’m not going to go without, of course; I don’t know if I could. But I eat so much, I know I can cut my consumption considerably.

Those are my three things. Portions and sugar are going to be tough, so I’m asking Vicky’s help. She has expressed a desire to participate in the Disney Half-Marathon, so I’m going to be her partner in that. Together, I’m hoping we can help each other achieve our goals.

Ride of the day…

I’ll preface this by saying that Vicky and I aren’t great athletes. We’re kind of round, actually. But every activity Vicky does with me is fun for me because I can be with her.

Last night, we went jogging together. I got her started with me, letting her set the pace, and I think she enjoys it. Unfortunately, she apologizes for being slow but I try to explain to her that it’s okay that she’s not as fast as me (which isn’t that fast, anyway). Speed takes time to develop. What’s important is that we’re out there together and trying our best.

This morning, we packed the bikes into her car… well, I packed the bikes into her car… and snapped off one of her reflectors – doh!... and we drove down to Aliso Creek Trail to meet our friend, Robert, for a ride. Aliso Creek Trail is one of my favorites. I took it last year when I did my first metric and was foolish enough to try and ride Santiago Canyon. This morning, the three of us started out up towards Foothill Ranch.

We parked our cars and started unloading our bikes and as Robert and I gabbed, Vicky tried to sit side-saddle on her bike. My clutzy wife must have forgotten that she didn’t have a kick-stand on her bike because it soon began sliding down, taking her with it. She laughed the whole way down, as she so often does. (I told her she’s going to be the youngest hip transplant patient in history.) Once she was up, we realized it wasn’t all laughs and broke out the first aid kit for some bandages for the scrape on her leg.

Then, we were off! A strong wind out of the foothills had us coasting for a long, long time. You don’t think of it at the time but what that means is you’ll be pedaling against that on the way back! Still, Aliso Creek is a pretty little trail and we enjoyed it quite a bit… then we started to hit the hills… but all in all, it was a lot of fun. Then, we had to turn around and we realized that it would be uphill for most of the ride back… ugh! Still, it was very nice and a lot more interesting than the boring, old Santa Ana River Trail that we take all the time.

One of these days, I’m going to have to hit it again by way of Santiago Canyon but until the day comes when I’m crazy enough to do that, this will suffice!

A fine mess…

Updates. Downdates. Sidedates.

Theatre of the Mind

Vicky gave me a birthday surprise last night, this after I repeatedly told her we were broke and I’d rather just stay home and eat Chinese food. (Granted, for me that’s every day.) In addition to hitting Dizzyland on my birthday, we’ll be going to see The Firesign Theatre live in Hollywood!! Wow!

Talk about “Forward into the Past”!

The idea has struck me as the best way to make me feel old – you know, to go see a group of elderly comics – but what a better way to celebrate the last 44 years? After all, I can think of no single greater influence on my comedy writing because these aren’t guys from another country (like Monty Python) or another time (like the Marx Brothers). These were four or five guys from southern California who got together and recorded absurd sketches and theater of the mind. They didn’t need a film crew; it was something me and my friends could do… if we were funny enough…

Theatre of the Soul

And speaking of funny enough, I’m happy to announce that one of my plays will be having a staged reading in just a few weeks down here in Southern California! I’ve put together my dream cast, some of whom I’ve worked with before and others I haven’t yet worked with, and I’m directing. It’s a very exciting, if stressful, time.

The worst part, though, is that I can’t really tell you when or where or what… I can’t tell you much at all, really.

You see, this blog attracts so much inexplicable hatred from people that I’m afraid of what might happen should one of my least friendly followers decide to go. I’ve had threats on my other blog because I had the audacity to suggest that torture might not be Christian and this has just moved over to this blog as well. Even when I took my more political writing over to the other blog, it seems that people are going to hate me no matter what. Just a couple of weeks ago, when I suggested that my wife and I could not afford a new TV, some anonymous crackpot decided to call me a hypocrite. I couldn’t begin to tell you why.

But those of you who are my friends are more than welcome to come to the show. I extend a laurel and hardy invitation. Just shoot me an email and I’ll give you the details. It is my hope that those who find it so important to spew their hatred at me will eventually grow tired of it and move over to read Glenn Beck’s tirades, where I’m sure they’ll be far more comfortable.

Theatre of the Body

So, I rode my second metric (100 kilometers) of the year this past weekend. I was very pleased because not only was that twice as many metrics as last year but I’m also getting more accustomed to it.

I left here around 8:30am, setting out down the Santa Ana River Trail. I knew it would be cold at the beach but – YIKES – it was freezing! But I kept going up the coast to Long Beach, where I turned around and headed back. It was a beautiful day for all the cold and, though I hurt when I returned, I never once wished I was dead… and that’s new for me!

Cycling season is pretty much wrapped up for me. The weather had taken on an autumnal feel and mornings are just too cold. (I’m a wuss, of course.) So, I’m packing up the bike and putting it in the garage for a few months. The upside to this is that now that I’m jogging, I’ll remain active anyway. I went out for a five mile jog today, bundled up in sweats, and it felt good to be out running again. My body still hates me occasionally but it’s getting better.

I surely prefer this to smoking!

Theatre of the Paycheck

I didn’t know how else to put this but it applies… I guess…

I had a pretty good interview a couple of weeks back and this week will be round two. Round two consists of… well.. how to put this? You see, I went in for a Marketing Communications Writer position – you know, typical Ken-job kinda stuff. Then, they saw my managerial experience and the position changed to Marketing Communications Manager. Then, they saw my experience as a marketing manager and the position changed again. Now, I’m interviewing for an E-Commerce Specialist role, setting goals and creating strategies for online sales.

I’m going in this week with a ten minute presentation on how I believe the company can do just that.

The thing is, of course, that I feel like a fraud because this position is now one I’m normally considered for. You know, there’s a part of me that believes – hey – I’m just a writer. But then, this isn’t that much of a stretch. After all, I did this back at Allied. Somewhere between the two, stress is created… and I’ll just be glad to get this over with. And I hope they like it. Because it would be nice to see a regular paycheck again… it’s been a while…

You know, when I get all that down on paper things look pretty busy around here. They are. And I forgot to mention how great Vicky has been through it all. She has. I can’t wait until she sees my show. Of course, I’ll need to get her to listen to a little Firesign Theatre so she knows what she’s in for up in Hollywood. My guess is she wonders what’s so funny – but that’s just me.

Anyway… lots to look forward to…

My life in five minutes…

I thought I’d give you a brief update – because as good as Facebook is it certainly does eschew details. That said…

Metric

I’ve been waiting for the right weather to ramp up and get ready to cycle my second metric of the year. (A metric is 100 kilometers.) Every time I think I’m ready we get crazy heat or stupid winds or something like that. This week, it’s cool and while it is breezy it is rather nice. So, I’m getting ready.

The thing about riding a metric, for me, is that it’s basically sado-masochism on wheels. Yesterday, I rode 25 miles (about 40k). I thought, “That hurt,” and went to a 36 mile ride (about 58k) today. That hurt more, so I’ll ride further tomorrow – until I get to 100k this weekend. This I call fun…

Job

I had a rather interesting job interview recently where the employer changed her mind and decided that rather than consider me for a writing position she would consider me for an E-commerce Specialist position. Now, let’s ignore how very under qualified I am… ignoring that, yet? Next week, I’m supposed to give a volley of managers a PowerPoint presentation showing how I change their online strategy and improve their online presence… sure… no problem.

So, I’ve begun working on a strategy I think will work. This job would be mostly strategizing with management possibilities (or so I’m told), so I guess I’ll be ready for a career of improvising should I get the job…

Writing

Can you believe I’ve written six plays in the last eight months? Neither can I! Of course, it would be nice to find a theater that would buy one of them… which, of course, if why nobody should ever be encouraged to pursue writing. Seriously.

And lastly…

Yes, I’ve been negligent in keeping this site up. But when you’re unemployed there’s just not much to talk about. You want to hear about how Vicky and I talked about how we couldn’t afford a new TV? I didn’t think so. Just bear with me. Okay?

In the meantime, I’ve got a birthday coming up. So you’re bound to hear all about a trip to Dizzyland really soon!

I like Corona but I’m not crazy… or am I…

Did I tell you about the Santa Ana River Trail website? It shows you, step by step, how to make your way all the way up the river trail. When I first saw this, I thought, “What a swell idea! I should try this!” And immediately, I started riding my way east.

This week, I did a twenty mile ride up to La Palma. Then, I did a thirty mile ride up to Coal Canyon. Then, I was ready to make it to Corona, just like the website showed, and here’s how that went.

You should know that the river trail heads east from Featherly Park beneath branches heavy with shade. There’s a water fountain. It’s deceptively serene – because it gets fuck-all tough shortly after. Okay! Point of fact! It gets fuck-all tough FOR ME. I rode out of there in the lovely shade up and down little hills and only my previous experience kept me from thinking it was going to be easy. I knew that shortly before Coal Canyon there’s this hill… it’s not really steep or scary… but it keeps going up… and up… the fucker doesn’t stop… it says “if you were in shape, you’d be able to do this”… and you pant and wheeze… or, at least, I do… and then I got to Coal Canyon feeling like I was going to die but knowing that the hurting was far from over.

The trail drops sharply downhill and the riding is fairly easy again until the trail dumps me out at Green River. This is as far as I’d gone before but I could see the ugly hill the road leading up and steel my nerve and my legs for the climb. Up and up and up I ride until I pass the cars parked on the north side of the 91 freeway. When I reach the summit, it is with stomach-dropping exasperation that I watch the road descend. Downhill is bad because I know it means uphill again and, sure enough, I can see the road ascend once again at the bottom of this hill. It goes up and up and up and appears to level off but that’s a trick. It doesn’t level off. It just turns. And I ride up and up and up and I ride into the turn that goes around and around and around. It looks like it’s never going to stop and, with disgust and dying legs, I dismount and begin to walk my bike. There’s no disgrace in walking, just in quitting.

I walk my bike up and up, around and around, and finally see the hill rise over the 91 freeway. Ain’t that a bucket full of suck. It takes a while but I walk my bike to the top of the overpass and climb back on again for the downhill ride. I should mention that I’m riding my old Mt. Shasta mountain bike/road hybrid. With its Kevlar tires, it’s not getting any flats or any votes for world’s lightest bike. The thing is a tank. I ride it because I think it’ll help condition me. Sure, condition me for walking!

Down the overpass I ride. My legs are rubber. The hills have taken everything out of me. Finally, I reach the Welcome to Corona sign and I’m more disgusted than relieved as I snap a picture for Vicky to let her know I made it and to tell her I’d never make that mistake again… I hope…

Returning now, I can’t even make it up the overpass. My legs have given up the ghost, destroyed by the hills. I’m in such rotten shape! But at the top, I ride again and make it back through the hills without dismounting. I’m thinking I should stop, though, and refuel with one of my Kashi Rolls – but there’s a cyclist coming towards me. Vicky and I make the distinction about cyclists being the hardcore – so this guy really isn’t a cyclist. (For the record, neither am I. I’m just saying…) He’s just a rider out for a ride. He’s cycling on the wrong side of the road. No helmet. No clue. He’s not getting out of my way, even as I flag him down. He’s a moron, so I give him a wide berth lest I catch what he’s got. Back on the trail now, I’m thinking about how tired I am and how much I need to eat. I figure I’ll eat at Coal Canyon but what I forget is that the downhill slope that made the trail such a relief in the other direction is going to make it hell this way… damn!

Up and up I go, seriously questioning my activity of choice at this point – but I make it to the top and ride wearily to the “rest stop”. I lean in the shade and pull out my snack and realize that I’m almost out of water. What to do? Well, I know Featherly has a water fountain and – fuck it – I’m thirsty AND I’m going to be eating Kashi, which requires generous lubrication! So, I much and gulp my water and think, “Shit, I’m tired. I’m taking tomorrow off.” And that’s good because it’s 1am and I can’t sleep so it’s not like I’d have the energy for cycling anyway.

It’s going to take someone in better shape than me to make that ride again… I hope I get to be that person. We’ll see…

Riding and Writing…

Have courage.

I know I haven’t been writing much but this is what I have for you today.

Yesterday, I went on a 40 mile ride down the Santa Ana River Trail and up the beach to the Huntington Beach Pier and back again. The pier and the beach were lovely but, on returning, I headed into what I can only call a “light Santa Ana Wind condition”. And it sucks to say “light” because it was blowing my ass nearly backwards! I struggled for every yard on the way home and considered pooping out and calling Vicky (“Honey, please pick me up!”) many times.

This morning, Vicky and I hit the trail but the winds were starting early and we finally did poop out, turned around and rode the winds home.

We didn’t let it stop us and we’ll be back again for another ride.

And so, I say, have courage.

I came very close to finding representation for my book, Climbing Maya, this week. Sadly, though the agent loved the book, she felt that there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book for the average reader. Let me repeat that. She felt there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book. And, you know what, she may be right. Maybe popular philosophy is a misnomer.

But I didn’t let that stop me. Even though Vicky is still proofing it – and I’m beginning to think that Vicky’s lack of enthusiasm may be telling – I sent her a letter about another book, Daughter of a One-Armed Man. I did it because this is important to me. I believe I’m telling valuable stories that should be shared. That I and my books are worthwhile.

Sometimes things suck and you get the wind in your face and you have to fight for every inch. But have courage. I’m not saying you’ll win every time. I know I haven’t. But maybe it’s not about winning so much as fighting the fight. You never know what might happen.

Getting’ ready to ride…

I took a 21 ½ mile ride today, from home to the Pond (I know it’s not called that anymore), up to Savi Ranch, and back. It was great.

And now, I’m sore.

Used to be, 60 or so miles was a treat. Now, I’m so out of shape, 20 or so hurts.

Ugh. Time to get back in shape, Ken.

It was nice, though, to be back out there again. The sun was warm. I got a bit of a tan. The air was so clear, you could even catch just the hint of salt coming up from the sea. The mountains looked great with a little snow and everything felt right.

But, here’s the thing. There’s a chance my friend, and the hardest working actor in the OC, Bob, and I may begin riding together next month. This guy has done centuries… I’ve done a few weeks… I have this terrible feeling, he’ll start out with, “So, what do you say to 90 miles… as a warm-up?”

Yikes.

March is coming quick… I better get ready.

Bike big ouchie...

Saturday afternoon in southern California was warm and sunny and serene. It was ideal weather for a bike ride. Vicky was out so I thought, "What better time than now to get back on the trail?"

And, off I went fortified, I thought, by plenty of stationary bike riding at the gym. My tires were flat. My iPod's needed charging. I forgot how to reset my odometer. But, before too long, I was out there in the sunshine with a cool breeze, just pedaling like it was nothing up the Santa Ana River Trail. I passed joggers and other cyclists - ah, it felt great. But then, after a couple of blocks, that all ended. I was towing a fat, fat ass that hadn't ridden in three months but I told myself I would just take the short ride I used to take every morning. That wouldn't be too bad. After all, I used to take it every morning... right?

As other cyclists passed me, I thought, "Well, you know Ken, it has been a while. You're out of practice. Don't judge yourself too harshly." As casual bikers passed me, I thought, "Don't worry. You'll soon be back to that place where nobody passes you and you're just zipping along and -" Then, children passed me... but, fortunately, I was almost at the turning back point, a rest stop in Yorba Linda. Getting there required going uphilll a bit, embarrassingly small hills... not even hills, really, just inclines... but I put my nose to the handlebars (cause I was too tired to pick my head up) and kept pushing until I got to the rest stop.

Whew! Tired! Out of breath! Exhausted! And only halfway there, I still had to go back! But I took a break and tried to relax - that didn't last long because that cool breeze was turning ice cold and making my sweat feel like ice packs, which I had to lug around on top of my immensity. Dammit.

Back, I went. Sweating, freezing, wheezing, panting, and pedaling. It was a beautiful day... too bad I was too beat to pay any attention...

When I got home, I realized I had only covered 15 miles. 15 miles.

My last ride, back on Thanksgiving weekend, had been 65 miles.

Son of a bitch. Winter can really fuck with you.

And the worst part is winter isn't over. It'll get cold again and I'll still have to wait before I can start riding regularly... and I'm hoping I keep this in mind...

Getting off the bike...

I was afraid this might happen.

Looks like I'm hanging up my bike for the winter. I hate to do it. I was just getting to a point where half a century was like nothing and a century was getting closer to a reality. But the other reality is that it's getting harder and harder to find ideal riding conditions.

Chalk it up to weather. I mean, it's cold and wet - no fun for riding. I'm waiting until nearly noon to get out there and, by that time, it's just too late for me. I know, people in Seattle still ride! People in Chicago still ride! And they have actual weather! Sure, but look at them! Out there in the freezing rain, freezing. They're fucking crazy! Hey, I'm not going to do anything that turns me into a popsicle, you know?

So, that's it for a few months, until February at least. Until then, I'll be hitting the gym. It's either that or start smoking again!

I can't wait for the return of spring and sunshine. I didn't start riding seriously until about June this year. In 2009, I'll start in February or March, and get an additional 3-4 months of riding in.

Until then, try not to call me a wimp.

You ride 65 miles and what do you get? Sore...

I called Vicky from a park about seven miles away from home. My hands were so sore, I could barely make a fist. I was almost out of water. My whole body hurt. "You want me to come pick you up?" she asked. But I declined. After all, I was nearly back and it had been a very long day.

It started at 7:30am. Friday morning had started pretty cold, so I decided to leave a little later than normal. A couple days of rain had left everything nice and wet and I figured there'd be some mud along the way, but I could handle it. I packed up some beef jerky, a power bar, a double helping of energy beans (my Jelly Bellies!), and two bottles of water because I knew I was in for a long, long ride, and headed out.

Up Lincoln and over to Katella and I was back in my old neighborhood before very long. Traffic was moderately light so that didn't bother me. What bothered me was the sight of the hills coming up. I'd told Vicky all about the ride - we'd even driven it to see what I had to look forward to - and it was these big hills that had me worried. And rightly so, I was riding into the backside of Orange County and knew I could expect one hill after another. I'd need all the stamina I could dredge up.

So, how sad was it that I pooped out on the first one? My speed dropped from 10 to 8 to 6 and, before I knew it, I was dying out. The thought occurred to me that I still had quite a distance to travel; what would I do if I couldn't ride? Exactly what I did do. I got off my bike and walked it. Up the hill we went. Once my breathing was back under control and I wasn't feeling like I was about to have a heart attack, I got back up on the bike. I might not be in the best shape, but I wasn't going to let that stop me.

When I reached the top, down by Santiago Canyon College, at Chapman and Jamboree, I decided to take my first break. I needed it, too. Just travelling this far - only about 10 miles - and I was already winded. The idea had started simple: If I was ever going to ride a century, I'd have to include some hills. This ride would give me a crash course, hopefully without too much crashing, in hills, and I was going to stick it out no matter what.

Back up, I headed south-east on Chapman and it turned into Santiago Canyon Road. This was it. The cycling equivalent of the Monster. If I could do this... I was crazy. But beside that, if I could do it, I could certainly make a century on flat ground. The thing is, Santiago Canyon starts out by going up. It keeps going up, too. Long after my poor little legs had given up and I was walking, it kept going up. This is when other cyclists started passing me, too. There are dozens of them out there! Each one was very courteous, too. "You okay?" they'd ask. "Need anything?" But all I heard was, "Loser!" and "Wimp!" Oh well. I just got back on my bike and kept going... and walked... and got back on my bike again. As I said, it starts out with a huge hill. But then, you're going down. Down down down - I hit 28 miles an hour and was certain I'd also hit a bump, followed by a tree and a boulder and a ditch. But then, it curves and the ride really begins.

It's basically one hill right after another and here's what no one tells you. One hill is a conquest. You take it and you think, "Yeah, I'm tough." But this ride, with one hill followed by another and then another, basically just breaks you down and turns you into lump of pudding... if you didn't start out as one. Because you finish the first hill and think, "Boy, I'm glad that's over!" And then, you have to take the second - and you're not ready - and if that doesn't kill you, the third one will, and then the fourth, and the fifth. But I kept riding. I wasn't giving up - especially with all these other cyclists passing me! Anyway, the scenery was wonderful and the air was cool. It was beautiful, if deadly.

I knew I'd have problems on the final hill, which is mockingly just as big as the first, but was shocked by the speed in which my legs gave up. I had just started when my legs said, "Oh no. No way. We're not falling for this again!" And then, I was off my bike, walking. Halfway up, a guy rode by on his bike, slowed down a little, looked back at me, and asked, "You okay, buddy?" I took my bike and swung it at his head, tearing off his face is a greasy, bloody mess... by which I mean, I said, "Yeah, just fine." Okay, I thought, so I'm a wuss. Inspired by my lameness, I got back up and finished the rest of the hill... barely...

And then, it was time to go DOWN! Faster faster faster - and then I was going up again... damn. One more hill. I remembered telling Vicky about how my momentum was bound to carry me back up the next, and final (really) hill, even as I pedaled angrily to get over it. But then, I was going down again - 27mph - 29mph - 33mph - 35mph... I began to think I should probably slow down. There's a light down at the bottom, I recalled. Not a nice way to die. It also didn't help that my brain was playing a slide show of every possible accident I might have along the way. Believe me, 35 on a bicycle is FAST!

I stopped just after Cook's Corner, at the beginning of Aliso Creek Trail. This, I figured, would take me through all the coastal cities in a nice, scenic manner. I'd avoid all of the traffic and hit PCH down in Laguna. But I was shocked to find that, after all that riding, I'd only hit 20 miles.

Aliso Creek Trail is absolutely lovely - STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM IT! IT'S MINE!

(cough) Oh, excuse me.

The rain had left some muddy patches but it was, overall, in good repair and very pretty. The nicest thing about it, though, was that the first half of it runs at a slight angle, just enough so you can move along at a nice speed - I was doing 15mph - without hardly every pedaling. Very much appreciated after Santiago Canyon! But then, due to mud and confusion and my own idiocy... I lost it. I lost the trail. I ended up on a street, Paseo De Valencia, wondering where it went and where I should go. Thankfully, I had my phone on me, so I called Vicky and asked her to check a map. Oh thank heaven for online maps! She gave me great instructions... which I promptly ignored, because I thought I saw the trail, after all! Sure enough, there it was! It had briefly taken to the streets, something I had not expected, but then, I was in a park and riding through a wildlife preserve and moving toward the coast. It was all very lovely - if long. I was getting tired. I figured I'd take a long rest at PCH, eat lunch, and then ride up to the Santa Ana River Trail for the last leg home. But then, six miles short of the coast, I got some news that changed everything.

A couple of guys were helping their kids get ready for a ride, getting them in their helmets. One of them had tried riding to the coast himself and told me about what lay in the last two miles: a private golf course. The trail ends and private property begins, private property the owner of the course won't let anyone pass through. In other words, CHANGE IN PLANS! I thanked the guy, after all he'd saved me six miles, and contemplated what to do next. My first thought was: Call Vicky! After all, she'd come with the car and we could do lunch and... no, I wasn't going to do that. I couldn't call her whenever there was a problem. I had to get back on my own! But how? Since the trail was all I knew, I decided to head back up. I remembered seeing a map at a park so I figured I would ride back to it and use that to find my way.

So, back I rode, dejected, tired, far from home, and with no earthly idea where I was - it was fun! Then, as I reached the park, I noticed that the street it was on was Moulton Parkway. I had lunch at the park and confirmed with Vicky that Moulton turns into Irvine Center Drive, which then turns into Edinger Avenue, which crosses the Santa Ana River. I had my way home! But it wouldn't be easy. I was hoping to avoid traffic and here I was getting back into it. For the longest time, I didn't recognize a thing. I just kept riding, sucking down car exhaust. But then, landmarks grew more familiar: I passed Allied, the 5 freeway, the Irvine Spectrum, the old Reserve base, the 55 freeway, and as I entered Tustin and Santa Ana, I began to think of ways of wussing out. Basically, I needed a break and started thinking of ways to take one - but I was also getting closer to home and the nearness created its own kind of gravity, pulling me faster and faster on my way. The end result was extreme disappointment every time I passed a place where I could rest and building excitement at the prospect of getting home.

Seeing the Santa Ana River was like doing the impossible. Really? I'd come all this way? And I still had a long way to go!

So, when I reached the park where Vicky's last ride had taken her, seven miles from home, I finally decided to give myself a break. My hands were so sore, I could barely grip the handlebars and my crotch, quite frankly, was not my friend. I pulled out the last of my snacks and drank the last of my water and called Vicky and told her how far away and how near I was. When she asked if I'd like her to pick me up, I thought, "Not after going this far."

The last seven miles were a little slice of hell. The trail had become covered in tourists - not cyclists - who didn't know the rules of the road, who seemed to delight in slowing me down. I moved between them, silently and intently, a man on a mission, and reached Lincoln around 2:30pm. Seven hours. I thought of Spalding Gray's words: I've never done anything for seven hours in my life, except sleep. Seven hours of hills and thrills and bad directions, all of them mine. But if one thing was clear, after 65 miles and unknown elevation gain, I knew I could do a century.

The smell of stupid...

So, the plan was to go on this massive ride last weekend. I'm talking huge: up Katella, through Santiago Canyon, down to PCH, up to the Santa Ana River, and home! And I'm still planning on doing it, too...

But when I left home Sunday, I had no idea that day would be filled with more stupid than anything else.

I get to my first stop light and, once it turns gree, I set off... and my chain falls off...

Crap. I'd done this before and I knew how it ended. I wouldn't be able to do the ride so I went back home. Thankfully, my bike took me back.

I decided to take the bike into the shop that morning but, before I did, I checked the tire pressure and gave the front tire a little air.

I get the bike in and the guy, Al, puts it up to have a look. "It seems to be fine," he said, shifting through gears the way some people shuffle cards.

"Really? Because it definitely fell off."

"No. It's fine."

I started to get a bit uncomfortable... like I'd just farted. "Well," I said, "last time this happened, something had broke so I figured it was a good idea to bring it in."

"Nope. Nothing's broke." He looked at me like the pathetic kind of can't-do-shit-for-himself kind of guy I am and added, "But it's good you brought it in." He was about to take it down, when he looked at the front tire. "You notice anything about your front tire?"

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound knowledgeable. "It's losing a little air."

"It's completely flat," he told me. "Think you need a new tube?"

An image of me putting air in the tire flashed through my head. "Um, you might want to check the valve. I think I might have left it open."

He checked. "Yes, you did." His words betrayed what we were both thinking... a suspicion that I might be too stupid to get on a bike in the first place. He didn't say it and neither did I... thankfully...

You go 54 miles and what do you get...

... another day older and fucked up.

You're probably wondering how adding just four miles to my ride turned me into a whiny little bit... more of a whiny little bitch than I was before. Well, let me tell you, it wasn't easy.

It wasn't easy.

First, okay, my bad, I probably could have checked the weather forecast. Had I checked, I would have learned that the day was going to be cold and windy... right...

But just the day before, on Saturday, Vicky and I had taken a 14 mile ride that left her a spongy mass of jelly... yes, spongy jelly - she was hurting! But it had been a nice, little ride through a warn, sunny day. We'd taken the Santa Ana River southwards on some newly paved stretches, all the way down to the golf course, nearly into Santa Ana. I was proud of her, as I always am. I can't wait until she's ready for some longer rides! On the way out, she was making some great time, too! With a bit more motivation, I'm sure she'd enjoy longer rides... just not yet.

So, on Sunday, it was my turn to complain. I awoke at 6am, ready for some serious riding and stepped out into some serious cold. It had rained a bit and I was happy to go back inside and wait to see what 7am would bring.

An hour later, it wasn't much warmer but it was an hour later. I knew I couldn't keep waiting and figured it would get warmer, by and by. So, eschewing my cold weather gear, I went out in my cycling shorts, a thin, short-sleeved shirt, and fingerless gloves... Smart, huh? The Santa Ana River Trail has recently benefited from some repaving so that passed under my tires very quickly and, before I knew it, I turned off onto Chapman. I'm not a big fan of riding on surface streets - I've been hit by enough cars - but that's why I do out early, so I can avoid traffic. Sadly, though, I didn't avoid traffic lights! Every one I came to turned red, and it was laborious to be starting and stopping and starting and stopping. My back started to hurt, too, and I wondered what that could have been about.

To explain that, I'll need to back up to the previous night. Vicky had brought me to Burke Williams for a kind of late birthday gift. It started with a birthday bath. Now, I'm not fan of baths and I'm even less a fan of public baths. Vicky painted me a picture of a private room with attendants (hopefully hot and blonde and female) feeding grapes... um, no. The room was semi-private at best - no attendants - no grapes. Just this guy who asked me, when preparing the bath, "Do you want anything in it? We got, uh, milk and, uh, seaweed..." I really hoped it was his first day. But once I was in the bath, my mind was changed. I realized the last time I had a bath was when I was a kid! (All through my adult life, bathtubs have just represented another way to get women naked.) I'd never really enjoyed a bath as an adult, but here I was with hot water and jets and suds, with my head back on a rolled-up towel... it was pretty damned good. Next up came a 50 minute Swedish massage with Rosanne. I have to say this. If you go to Burke Williams at The Block, go to Rosanne. I can afford to say this without worrying about her being too busy for me to get in and see her because nobody reads this blog - she is the best. She has the perfect touch. And the best thing about her, as strange as this might sound, is that she will massage my shattered arm. Most people are so put off by the scars, they won't touch it. But having her touch my scars and massage my broken limb... I don't know if I should propose or offer her a few hundred for carnal services!

... sorry, where was I? Anyway, she told me later that I shouldn't do "anything crazy" the next day. I thought she meant jumping off of skyscrapers, thinking I was Spiderman. While she might have meant that, it turned out that probably included long bike rides, too.

Somewhere around Beach Boulevard or Knoff, I was getting pretty damned tired of all the stop lights. Little did I know that would be the last of them. From that point on, I got nothing but greens! Down Chapman, up Valley View, down Katella - all the way to the 605 freeway and the San Gabriel Valley River... non-stop. When it rains, it pours.

I'd forgotten how shitty the San Gabriel Valley River Trail is... it's pretty shitty. But far worse was the wind that had been beating against me the whole way there. All the way from Valley View and Chapman, the wind just wouldn't let up. It wasn't just difficult to navigate in; it was COLD! And the river trail, raised up as it is got more wind that I could ever care for! It blew my bike over, over, over, until I was riding at a tilt. Stranger still, though, was how riders around me were stopping, one by one, congesting the trail even more to watch the river fill with birds. The birds were taking to the land, far smarter than I, keeping out of the wind. Dicks.

By the time I hit PCH, I was beat. I took a short break to stretch and try and warm up but the wind just wouldn't allow any comfort. I kept going, this time it was south on PCH, through Seal Beach. After Seal Beach, there's a break between the cities for a wildlife refuge and Naval Weapons Center - I kid you not! As strangely justaposed as that may see, the wind had cleared out a wonderful view all the way up to the moutains. Heading down a bridge at 23-24mph, the experience was sublime. Dangerous, beautiful, everything I cycle for.

But the ride wasn't over. At Warner, I left the road and took to the beach's byways. The speed limit the whole way down to the Santa Ana River is 10mph for cycles and I found that I could keep that speed without hardly peddling. All around me, though, the wind was whipping everything into a frenzy, beating the few beachgoers I could see. After a while, it dawned on me: I was being pushed! The wind was helping me out - at least, for that stretch - but then, I passed the Santa Ana River, continued down PCH, and hit Superior.

Vicky had suggested I go a little farther on this trip by heading down to Superior. This would also be an opportunity to take a hill, something I haven't been able to do too much of thanks to my incredibly poor choices of hill. But ahead of me, Superior loomed and I thought, "Vicky sucks." Still, there I was. The light turned green and I started up, dropping down through my gears and pumping the pedals for all I was worth. Up, up, up, I climbed, until I realized... I was doing it! I was going up that hill at 7mph. That might sound slow but, believe me, I've done far worse! I got to the top, approached the light at the top, and it turned red. "Fuck you," I panted. I didn't stop. I coasted, hoping the light would turn green for me, and it did. On Placentia, I turned into the wind and, when I finally returned to the Santa Ana River, I knew the wind would be beating against me the rest of the way home.

By the time I reached my exit, I decided to go a bit further still. I traveled up one exit after the one I normally take and looped back around, thinking that I'd really added to my total. I pulled up, cold, winded, and beaten, in front of my house at 11:30... and I'd only done 54 miles - four miles more! The joke was on me.

But every little bit helps, right? Next stop: 60!