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Subject: Friday Ride Report Date: Sat, 18 Sep 1999 15:26:20 -0700 From: Eric Muhler
Freak Friday - A Group Ride Report with Very Few Freaks -
September 17, 1999 7:20 am the phone rings and its Michael "Franco" Kelley announcing his intention to go solo ride roading (very similar to road riding). He politely gave his regrets and went on his way toward unknown paved destinations. Ryan Christbaum had the day off of work because of his impending marriage to his beloved Tracy Sichterman today, (Saturday) and rather than take advantage of this riding opportunity, he spent the day with family partying and preparing for the big day. Some people's priorities are a little skewed if you ask me! (I know, you didn't)
Danny pulled into Deer Park at 9:07 am and that fact alone gave me a clue that something was up (or rather down). He sadly announced yet another hockey injury but gamely persisted in going for the ride. Shred and Juan were close behind, but Barbita was at school, Jake was in Forest City, and so the intrepid four began negotiating the route. The next sign of freaky events was the lack of conviction in Randy's voice when he suggested Up Repack for the route. Sensing his weakness of resolve, I opted in with Scouts? and the readiness with which everybody agreed gave it away. This was FREAKY! I've never suggested a route before and everybody went for it without an argument or even much more than a painful whimper on Danny's part. The handywork went without notable event other than everybody seemed to be having fun.
On the Freaky side, Randy seemed to be going slowly enough that I could keep him in sight. That was very unusual, and Danny was off the back, out of sight, with Shred, talking about his bruises. This abnormal alignment of affairs lent to the increasing sense of uniqueness of the day. At the meadow, Danny came riding up, plopped down, and announced, "OK, that's it! What is the shortest, easiest, way back to Deer Park? I've had it - I'm going home." Due to the complete rarity of this kind of event, I took it to be a joke. It wasn't. Danny went home and now route was only to be considered by me! Does this bode well for next Tuesday's 10K? Will there only be one finisher this year?
Completing the handywork, Juan, Shred and I climbed White's Hill fire road up to San Geronimo at Horseshoe Junction, and then I was completely on my own. The boys went toward home and I decided to do Pine Mountain and return through Scouts. The weather had cleared, the day beckoned before me, my new chain and cogs were shifting flawlessly, I felt strong, ready, and liberated from overachieving, monster-leg, A-types. I was ready to lead the pack without challenge from the comfortable position of being solo. (Those literary types among you may have noticed the cleverly slipped in foreshadowing in the sentence before last) I slurped down some "miracle juice" (cytomax, my new best friend in the war on cramps) and headed down the ridge, unfettered. Climbing up Pine Mountain I saw the Davey Tree Trucks in the saddle between the two climbs. As I passed the pickup truck that carried the Davey ATV I went down to visit Granny and she decided to give my chain a blow job. Or should I say, she SUCKED that poor chain into a parallel universe between my chain stay and my middle ring. All bets were off for the remainder of the day. This didn't look good.
It always amazes me how things go so wrong, so quickly, while participating in our preferred sport. (I also hope you will notice that I have answered the previously noted foreshadowing) Things weren't shifting flawlessly any longer! THIS SUCKED! Luckily, I ride prepared. I broke the chain right on the Shimano pin that they give you to close the chain. I unwound my twisted and gnarled chain. It didn't look that bad once it was out. I just happened to have an extra breakable Shimano pin to reinsert, which I did. I broke off the pin stub, lubed the chain with tri-flow, and was ready to ride. All this only took about 20 minutes. I headed up Pine Mountain. Somehow the bloom was gone, sadly. I dabbed on easy parts going up the hill. I dabbed again just below the summit. I cursed my ineptitude and stopped on the summit to take a drink of anti-cramp juice. EMPTY! Betrayal! Unprepared! SHIT! I had consumed 100 ounces of cytomax in 11 miles. That, at least, explains the numerous bladder draining stops. But I wasn't about to head down to that nasty exposed climb up the furnace without any water or juice. I'll have to rethink my hydration plan. I seem to be able to drink huge amounts of liquid and to no avail - I need more, more!
Having come 12 miles so far, I determined that retracing my steps would suffice for a Friday. But fate wasn't finished. I dabbed going up Rock'nRoll High School - twice! I seemed to be losing my limited skills fast! Heading down to Scouts, though, I sensed a feeling of well-being creeping back into my soul, so I opted for a spontaneous detour up White's Hill to relive Danny's Giro Reroute from the summit. The sun was out in force, but I felt strong, so I got to the top in what felt like a good time. The views were really great as the haze seemed to cut off at around 1000 feet. Above that the peaks and views were remarkably clear. My sense of aloneness was different and OK. At least, until a swarm of greedy bees attacked my Clif Bar.
These demonic beasts reminded me of my run in with the horse flies on Mt. Tam last Spring. Relentless, aggressive, evidently hungry, and merciless in the extreme, they buzzed and buzzed my bar until I couldn't even bring it to my mouth to eat it for fear they'd fly in with the bar! I couldn't pack up quickly enough. I laid a piece of the bar forty feet away to try to lure those buzz bastards away but they weren't falling for it. With ten angry bees swarming me I packed and ran the way I had come, so that, like Danny, I could include B-17 in a White's Hill summit. Right after the first descent off the summit, there is a dip in the road with a fence to your right. As I glanced at the fence I noticed another strange encounter that only seems to happen on my solo Freak Rides. Nine turkey vultures were perched on the fence posts picking their beaks and farting into the wind. What a sight! They gave me a banal glance as though to say "What's up with the future carrion?" and beyond that, basically ignored me. I had stopped and sat there counting them and noticing their devil-may-care postures. They remained disinterested and unflappable. (Pun intended) What is up with me and vulture squads? These guys weren't there when I first went up. Had the bees summoned them to potential dead meat? Not wanting to find out, I descended carefully.
The rest of the ride went without incident. I dabbed on the fire road between B-17 and Wagon Wheel. That was pretty pathetic. My gears now seemed to be in good working order and responded to my needs for aid from Granny who seemed to have lost her sexual proclivities. At the end of the day I decided that even with a wacky route, no friends to ride with, (once everybody went home) and a spate of technical glitches both physical and mechanical, not to mention bee attacks and vultures assembling for my potential carrionization, the weirdest day riding beats the best day doing anything else except good sex and perhaps inheriting a couple of million bucks. I loved it!
STATS: 24.7 miles. 3480 feet of elevation gain. One act of perversion by Granny. Pissed off, hungry bees. A visit to the Vulture Supreme Court. Scout Trails in both directions.
Eric Muhler The Grand Vizier
ericmuhler@btceastbay.org
http://www.btceastbay.org