July 5, 2014 § 10 Comments
Cobley and I drove down to Encinitas for the SPY Holiday Ride. He kept me awake with keen observations about life and an endless string of funny comments about our mutual loathing of wheelsuckers.
The ride started. Guys ahead of me in the massive group of 100+ riders pointed out cracks in the road, potholes, glass, and other obstacles. When I attacked a couple of miles before the first climb with some Aussie wanker named Matthew, he kept pulling through hard, giving me plenty of rest. Thurlow bridged, caught his breath, and towed me up the climb to the first rest spot.
Phil Tinstman put everyone to the sword on the Lake Hodges climb, and Thurlow smoked the meat off our bones on the return sprunt. On a 45-mph descent in the middle of a sweeping turn, Thurlow flatted both tires simultaneously. Anyone else would be in ICU now, but Thurlow calmly brought the smoking, shuddering heap to a stop, changed his flats, and continued home.
Cobley, who had worked like a Trojan, attacked on the flats and dragged me the ten miles or so back to Encinitas. Back at the shop, Brent offered to take a look at my bike, which wasn’t shifting right. He fixed it in a jiffy and, after close inspection, noticed that the frame was fatally cracked. He photographed it and got the ball rolling for a frame replacement. Then he gave me a bottle of water and a discount on a very nice tire.
I started falling asleep on the drive home, so Cobley took over and let me half-nap while he navigated the freeway’s July 4 traffic. I got home at 2:00, put Yasuko’s bike in the back of the Prius with mine, and we drove down to Malaga Cove and parked. It was going to be impossible to drive through Redondo to Manhattan Beach, so we went by bike.
She hadn’t ridden a bike in 30 years, and this was my son’s Specialized road bike, very skinny tires and all. He’s about half a foot taller than her, and I had forgotten to lower the saddle for her. She could sit on the saddle just fine. The “only” problem was that her feet couldn’t reach the pedals.
We stopped a wanker with a massive saddlebag. “Do you have an Allen key?” I asked.
“Sure!” he said. Then he interrupted his ride and emptied the contents of his small suitcase on the pavement. He had three tubes, four CO2 cartridges, a paperback (a paperback?), a spoke wrench, a cell phone, two patch kits, a spare pair of socks, and a giant keyring. “Darn,” he said. “I guess I don’t have my Allen keys.”
But he had stopped and tried to help us and we were appreciative. “Why don’t you try Marcel’s?” Yasuko said. “He might be home.”
We walked a mile downhill to Marcel’s and knocked on the door. He ran to answer it in a frenzy. “It’s the last five minutes of the game!” he shouted, dashing back to the couch.
“Can I borrow your Allen wrenches?” I asked.
He sprinted to the garage, raced back and lobbed the 5-pound set of iron keys my direction. I lowered her seat. “Thanks, Marcel!” I said. A Dutch friend who will interrupt even five seconds of a World Cup where his team is still in contention is a friend indeed.
Yasuko rode beautifully on the densely packed bike path, threading drunks with the skill that I’ve still only seen watching kids in Japan ride their bikes to school — graceful, able to navigate the tightest spaces while bar-to-bar with fifty other kids, never braking … and she was singing, too.
In Manhattan Beach, Wehrley welcomed us warmly to his home and plied us with delicious hot dogs, Budweiser, and watermelon. Then we meandered over to Derek and Jami’s encampment on the beach where they shared drinks and stories and laughs.
Around seven we pedaled back to Redondo and collapsed on the couch of Greg and Jeanette, but not before they fed us with more food, hydrated us with copious amounts of water, regaled us with funny stories, and pressed into our hands a cold beer or two.
From their deck overlooking the water we watched the fireworks display just above our head. Well, everyone else at the party did. I slept in the chilly evening on the outdoor couch, draped with a thin blanket and warmed while propped up against the mass of my buddy Gus, the world’s best portable heater.
Home at eleven, Yasuko cooked us each a bowl of delicious instant ramen.
It was a long and wonderful Independence Day of dependence on strangers, family, and friends.
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