Monday weekend roundup: My first century

I know I am about a week late in writing about this, so I will do my best!

My first century was an exercise in patience, not endurance, and staying on course proved the most challenging aspect of the ride to one as apparently directionally challenged as myself. I hesitate to blame the LA River Ride itself for my shortcomings, but I would also like to show you what I had to work with, and let you decide.




"I am so going to get lost, aren't I?"

I arrived bright and early, moderately well-rested (My excitement impeded my sleep), and buzzing from a morning beer. On Friday I had done a twenty mile ride up to the Griffith Park Observatory to warm up and on Saturday I loaded up on carbohydrates. My oringally designed and screenprinted DiSCO VAMPS jersey was loaded up with essentials such as cash, ID, credit cards, health insurance cards, cell phone, asthma inhaler, roll on sunscreen, Clif Bars, and "map." My saddle bag contained two spare tubes (Which I've yet to use! Knock on wood!), two patch kits, tire levers, Park Tool, wrench, CO pump, energy gels, and electrolyte packets. I started out with one bottle of water and one bottle of Gatorade, and carried also my hand pump.





The ride began with two climbing loops around Griffith Park, which I think I took much too slowly because I wasn't warmed up enough and I was concerned with conservation. I really should have fought for a better position toward the front and thrown myself into the hills because that's where my strength lies, but I only had a vague target time in mind and was mostly concerned with simply finishing.

The route then took us onto the LA River bike path, cramming it full of cyclists, which was mildly despairing, but ultimately prevented me from burning myself out. I was able to follow a pack of cyclists through the city streets which could have been marked better. I think I lost a lot of my thrust on the bike path to Long Beach, battling a head wind to the forty-fifth mile pit stop. I also lost a bit of steam there waiting to carouse with a group of Midnight Ridazz...but like I said, I wasn't in it for a time, I was in it for the simple triumph of one hundred miles. After all, drowned in a sea of grimacing Spandex, I felt I was representing the underground bicycle culture of Los Angeles, so it would only be fitting to ride along the beach accompanied by a music trailer.

At some point they split off and I continued on. I was elated to find one of the route markers accompanied by a "Go HappyLand!" sign, further demonstrating the infiltration presence of the Midnight Ridazz.

It was once I completed the Long Beach loop and returned to the original forty-fifth mile pit stop that I encountered some confusion, somehow unable to recognize the path I had taken earlier to the same exact spot. Next time I should remember to look back every now for landmarks for the return journey. Anxiety and frustration rose in my throat, tempting tears of despair to my eyes. I, however, reminded myself to keep calm, keep my wits about me, and relax...life is a journey, not a destination...it was daylight and my father could come get me in his car should I decide to bail. But I was already at sixty miles and hardly tired (I had been steadily consuming and hydrating about every couple of hours). I wasn't about to give up.

Fortunately, the "caboose" arrived, sweeping up any straggling riders, dashing my dreams for anything under six hours, but renewing my enthusiasm. I rode with them and two other riders until I recognized our location, and took off.

At the next pit stop I joined a group of young men who had started late. We became fast friends and rode off, and they were impressed with my steady clip on my flat pedals (They were, of course, thoroughly outfitted in the latest gear). I was reminded of the fact that for most people, cycling is a hobby, not a way of life, but my daily riding paid off in my endurance.

Reveling in a breezy tail wind and our chattering companionship, we missed a turn on the river and it wasn't until another group of cyclists on the opposite bank yelled at us, "Wrong river!" that we realized it. We consulted the "map," but it was ultimately an iPhone that saved us as we cut across the city to find the "right river." We set out more cautiously, a little less gregariously, and grateful that we had untangled ourselves without much trouble, apart from our mildly bruised egos (But no one would say it out loud).

We rode the city streets between the bike paths without further incident, with me leading the group most of the way on my wonderful, strong legs. Between all of the group's complimentary comments regarding my speed and endurance, I felt a growing appreciation for my legs, my chubby, shapely, and yes, cellulite-stricken legs. All my life I have struggled with these legs, finding them a source of self-loathing and embarrassment. I starved myself to make them thinner, I cut them with razors to punish them, I cried and I languished in the throes of devastating self-consciousness. I covered them up and denied them the sunshine. And once in elementary school a girl called them "thunder thighs."

But you know what? Yes, they are thunder thighs. Their power is like thunder in the sky, rolling through the clouds and shaking windowpanes. They are mighty, they are big, and they have traveled far and wide, and they have never once failed me. They've carried me one thousand miles on my pink bicycle alone. They are beautiful and they are sexy and I love them so much I show them off in short shorts, for everyone to see, for everyone to fear, for everyone to worship. Once again, without my bicycle, I would have never come to this sort of acceptance.

I sprinted the final four or five miles to the finish, "breaking away" from my companions, anxious to finish at last. I was, however, met with one more wrong turn before finally finishing, picking up my goody bag, and climbing into the car with my dad to go find a pizza to greedily devour.

I think my final time was seven and a half hours, but I haven't reset my odometer since and it's polluted with the numbers from my daily riding, so who knows? And really, who cares? I rode a hundred miles, I rode all of them and then some, without once questioning my ability to do so. I got lost without losing myself and I made friends - there has never been a truer metaphor for life (When life gives you bad directions, make friends with someone with an iPhone!). This is not to rag on my fellow Spandex warriors - for I would like to improve my time with my next century (And trust me, already that endorphin fix calls to me) - but when cycling is your life, you realize that though the journey may take longer, it is infinitely more satisfying by two wheels.

And yes, I did it all, and will continue to do it all, with flat pedals and no socks with knock off Converse low-tops from Target.

All of the wonderful photos courtesy of my wonderful father, who is so wonderful that he won't freak out over my first tattoo.

Ah yes, I can hear him cursing in thick Cuban Spanish right now....

I love you, Dad!!!