Really terrible throbbing

November 26, 2016 § 21 Comments

That’s what my legs are doing right now. Big, pulsing, outward-thrusting, deep-tissue pangs of low-level pain, low-low-low-grade having-your-thumb-slammed-in-the-door achiness, radiating from my thighs downward to the soles of my feet and making brief domestic violence trips to my calves, knees, ankles, soleuses (solei?), first/second/third/fourth plantar layers, then gobstopping boluses of pain back up to the buttocks, lower back, middle back, neck, and all the way back down again.

Ahhhhh … another serving of the Dogtown Pumpkin Spice Latte Ride, served up on ice with sugary sprinkles of broken glass, bits of rusty nail, and a frothy topping of blood-laced, freshly boot-heeled scrotum. If you bought it at a juice bar it would look like this:


Where do I start, except of course the starting place of any heroic bicycling endeavor, that is, Strava? Strava tells me I was something of an amazing hero, with 49 whole trinkets.

The physical reality of the seasonal Dogtown Pumpkin Spice Latte Ride told me something else, and it went like this: YOU SUCK.

It sucked from the minute I crawled out of bed and got my miserable excuse for a worthless day started with a cup of coffee, a bowl of gruel, and Chapter 34 of Book 3 of the Practical Chinese Reader, Second Edition, where I read about General Zhang’s snuff box collection, to the final nail in my coffin. You want to talk about pain? That’s some painful shit right there.

Axel Buns was waiting for me at the coffee shop, unfortunately, which meant I couldn’t go back home to bed. Emmy G. showed up on her pimping Linus cruiser at 6:40 AM super pointy sharp, looking cute as a bed bunny, to tell me that she wouldn’t be riding across town and back to get massacred and then soaked in the torrential downpour scheduled for 1:00-ish.

“It’s not gonna rain,” I protested. “You’ll be fine. Look!” I pointed at the sunny sky.

She smiled and pointed at her cloudy smartphone, which was plastered in digital images of rain, hail, lightning, snow, sleet, and dragons.

Axel and I got to Dogtown Coffee half an hour early, confirming the hard truth that cycling in SoCal is really nothing more than an extended parade lap from one coffee house to the next. Awaiting us was Dan Chapman and his camera, where he memorialized the future corpses for identification by Dr. Foxworthy at the LA County Morgue post-ride. Below are some of Dan’s awesome photos, stolen with something similar to his permission, copyrighted and etcetera 2016.

Axel and I swilled some coffee and he spoke slow enough for me to understand bits and pieces of his Cambridge English, and unfortunately all of it sounded like, “Well I say, Wanky old chap, this appears as if it will be a bit of a beating, crumpets and tea and such.”

“It’s really hard to understand that Cambridge English of yours,” I said.

“Oxford, actually.”

“Whatever. It’s all English to me.”

The ride quickly swelled to about fifty complete idiots. Our fearless leader, Tony “Pumpkin Spice” Manzella, rolled up with the royal sceptre already drenched in blood, and lowered the ceremonial boom with a slashing movement that lopped off a couple of heads and instilled the fear of dog into those who remained.

“This,” Tony intoned, “is the seasonal Dogtown Pumpkin Spice Latte Ride. If you ever call it that I will kill you. And we only have one rule: No kooks.”

“But I’m here,” I squeaked.

“Except Wanky,” he said.

The next hour was a blur of snot, tears, and sobbing as we attacked Climb Number 1. This obstacle goes straight up for a long time and finishes atop cumulonimbus. I began at the back, planning to husband my resources and then finish strong, but instead I drifted farther and farther back as everyone turned into tiny little specks far up the wall. Even Charon beat me. By a lot.

We descended at 55 mph and someone got one of those big downhill flats that sounds like a gunshot and you have to choose between looking over your shoulder to see who’s going head over heels on asphalt in a smear of bone, skin, cartilage and brains, or keep bombing the descent so you don’t get dropped. Easy call, sucker.

There was a brief breather and then we tackled the second obstacle, Climb Number 2. This was just like Climb Number 1 except it was more steep, more long, more awful, and more stained with the shattered delusions of all the people who thought that they were going to get to the top without tipping over. Having learned my lesson from the last time, I started at the back, husbanded my resources, and planned to finish strong.

In this case “strong” meant the very fastest of the last seven or eight cadavers. We looked kind of like this:

What followed was a kind of choreographed insanity: Dropping down Palisades Boulevard bar-to-bar with a churning mass of idiots who barely knew how to pedal their bikes, much less descend on them. What could possibly go right, especially with racing Ferraris blowing by in the left lane honking and flipping us off and throwing big chunks of rebar out of the jump seat and firing live rounds at us as if we were Dakota Access Pipeline protesters.

Fortunately, only five or six people died, and none of them was me, so I hunkered down on Pumpkin Spice’s wheel and waited for the PCH Massacre to begin. This is a short 5-mile jaunt along the coast in a roaring paceline.

“What is a paceline?” you are wondering.

Glad you asked!!!!!

A paceline is where Pumpkin Spice ramps it up to 35 going into a bitterly stiff headwind, and everyone else sits on his wheel and whimpers. Then Cutty, Holland, Charon, Chucky Cheese, Steve K., and one or two other suckers take turns at the front while the remaining 37.3 wankers sit at the back in a big glob of pain and, shirking work like a union employee on a cigarette break, cower and hide while the Titans of the Road Do the Real Work.

One of the last pieces of Real Work occurred when Strava Jr. took a dandy little pull that caused several anal sphincters to rupture, including perhaps mine as I cowered at the back for all I was worth.

The next item on the agenda was the neutral section, where everyone casually rides up Pepperdine Hill then up Malibu Canyon Road then up the first part of Piuma.

“What?” you may be wondering “is even halffuckingway neutral about that stretch of road?”

The answer is of course that when Hamburger Hegeler dashed up Pepperdine and I followed him, acquiring all sorts of Strava trinkets as he manfully towed me around like a limp dishrag, me wondering all the while what a stiff dishrag was, when we finally got to Piuma and paused to polish our trinkets, the main group came roaring by at twice our speed and informed us that “that section didn’t count because it’s neutral.”

I observed numerous neutral strings of gooey snot and blood dangling from the ears and rectums of the passing riders and was glad that it was indeed neutral because had they really been trying someone certainly would have died.

What happened next is a terrible blur, and nothing ever really focused for long except the brief views I had of Wikstrom, Strava Jr., Pumpkin Spice, Head Down James, and various other actual cyclists sprinting away up 14-percent grades, not to be seen until the top of 7-Minute Canyon which, when done at my pace ended up being 15-Minute Canyon even with Oron Oronsky hauling me up and over like a stinky bag of fish garbage that he couldn’t get to the dumpster quick enough.

Pumpkin Spice had promised us that after shattering our spines he would treat us to free coffee at the top, and no one was smart enough to wonder how there could possibly be coffee at an armed guard shack miles from civilization on a rambling mountain road. Fortunately, there are apparently dozens of suckers born every minute, and all of them were on this ride, so after leaving our hearts and souls on the tarmac we stood around and chanted the “Masters Cyclist Lament”:


By now everyone was tired, so Holland, Cutty, and I sneaked away and got a head start on the final climb. Instead of starting at the back and finishing not-so-strong, this time I started at the front and finished not-so-strong, which meant passing lots of people on the uphill only to have them pass me again on the screaming, balls-in-your-teeth descent.

Back in Santa Monica, Rahsaan had invited everyone to the Raleigh bike shop on Main, where we would have free coffee and bagel, and everyone was quite famished and thirsty and hoping that THIS coffee would be a touch more substantial than the evanescent, theoretical, ethereal coffee that Pumpkin Spice had served atop 7-Minute Enervation Canyon.

Axel Buns, Holland, and I had some coffee and bagel and headed home. By the time I got to the bottom of the climb in PV where Eric A. had on Thursday tossed my shit into the back of his pickup and driven me home, I was pondering whether or not to go by his house and beg another ride.

The sky was lowering and the perfect no-rain day had transformed into the beginning of an ugly squall. Should I be driven home in disgrace or race up the 2,000-foot hill and beat the rain?

I chose the latter only to find out that whatever “race” I’d had in my legs was back on PCH in a gutter with the used condoms and that pink dildo that Knoll had found on a ride one time. The rain hit and it hit hard, hard and cold. I set a new PW (personal worst) getting up the hill, and arrived miserable, soaked to the bone, frozen, shaking, hungry, and thirsty from only having had one bottle of water in the last hundred miles.

I staggered across the threshold and flopped into the peanut butter jar, pulling out a fist and smearing the magic unguent across my face, lips, tongue, and eyelids.

Ummmm. Nirvana. Until next year.

Thank you, Tony.



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Pumpkin spice latte

November 25, 2016 § 10 Comments

This is the time of year when seasonal specials abound. There’s the ol’ favorite of pumpkin spice latte (what is it, actually?), and of course Black Friday that is now Cyber Monday that is really just Business As Usual.

But the best seasonal special out there really is limited edition. It happens four, maybe five times a year beginning in November.

It’s free.

You have to pick it up in person.

It really hurts.

And it tastes like vomit.

This of course is the world-renowned Dogtown Ride, a pleasant little 60-mile jaunt beginning in Santa Monica, doing a few nasty upchuck-inducing rides, then hammering on PCH, then climbing some more, then climbing a bit more, then finishing it all with climbing a bit more and some hammering on the flats until you get back to your car or your home or the intensive care unit.

The ride goes off on Saturday at 8:00 AM at Dogtown Coffee, and I make it a point to always be busy that time of year. There are some seasonal specials that you really can have too much of.

The idea of a seasonal ride is actually an amazingly great one. Too often people start up a ride which is perfect for a particular time of year, but then the ride fizzles out because what works in November doesn’t always work in March. Then the ride is buried in a graveside service that no one attends, and years later people fondly reminisce about “Ol’ Leggs Ripperoffer that did 10,000-feet of climbing in the first hundred yards.”

Since doing a ride week in and week out, or month in and month out, is impossibly hard on real work-life schedules, doing it for a few weekends in the Fall is perfect.

The Dogtown Ride, although impossibly, miserably hard, features re-groups, a welcoming vibe despite the tag line of #nokooks, and awesomely delicious coffee at one of Santa Monica’s best roasters. Just make sure you don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day that requires you to use your legs.



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The cowardly lions have spoken

November 23, 2016 § 142 Comments

A quick glance at the 2017 SoCal road race calendar confirms what anyone who has bothered to race in the last decade knows: Bike racers here don’t like to race.

In addition to the loss of Vlees Huis Road Race, the promoters of Boulevard RR have also folded. There go two of the very best races on the calendar, if by “best” you mean “challenging courses that take everything you have just to finish.” Forget winning. These races are nails-and-broken-glass tests of your physical and mental fiber.

These departures leave UCLA Devil’s Punchbowl race, Tuttle Creek RR, and maybe, if we’re really lucky, the Castaic beatdown as the only three events left on the calendar that are anything more than a parade followed by a sprint. Because the fact is that there’s no comparison to winning a 45-minute crit and finishing–yes, finishing–a grueling 60-mile road race with over 6,000 feet of climbing.

The one requires timing, intelligence, teamwork, speed, and fearlessness. The other requires that you go so deeply into the world of pain and tenacity that you come out the other end a different person. One is fun. The other is transformational. One is thrilling. The other is the essence of sport, distilled to performance and desire.

Why has the SoCal calendar become a series of crits and boring circuit races that anyone can finish? Why have the toughest, most challenging races in an already grueling sport fallen by the wayside?

Well, I hate to break the news to you, but it’s because most bike racers, otherwise known as customers, are too emotionally fragile to stand the shattering reality of getting crushed on a hilly course. It’s not that they can’t complete, it’s that they can’t compete. They equate last place with failure, getting shelled with failure, being ground up and spit out with failure. No one bothered to teach them that doing your best in a tough situation is what matters in life.

And of course, failure is the one thing that Americans are uniquely unequipped to handle. Everyone’s a winner, and if they can’t be a winner, they’re going to stay home.

That’s weird because the most epic physical and mental feats I’ve ever witnessed happened in road races and were the product of people who had zero chance of winning. I still remember Harold Martinez burning up the first two laps of Vlees Huis in service of his teammates, only to fade and stagger across the line by himself almost three hours later. Harold, the sprinter.

I’ll never forget watching Charon Smith toe the line at Boulevard and give it 100% helping his teammates fight for a podium, even though he was done after two laps.

And of course I’ll never forget the countless times I’ve been dropped, beaten at the line for 20th place, punctured while off the front in a potentially winning, last-minute move, the humiliation of throwing in the towel, or the grim satisfaction of having punched it through to the very end of a freezing day at Boulevard, one of the very last riders to make it in before the sun completely set. Frozen to the bone. Wet. Drained. Destroyed. Happy.

There were never very many people willing to sign up for the guaranteed defeat of tough road racing, and nowadays there isn’t even the tiny number that there once was. The old riders are tired of hard racing that ends miserably, and the young riders are afraid of it. Better to sprint for 15th in a crit and preen before and after than to straggle in, your face covered in sheet snot, legs cramping, bottles empty, twenty minutes down on the winner.

But the sad thing is that people who’ve made the investment in all that fancy equipment, who’ve bought all those pretty kits, who have logged all those miles, who have amassed all those trinkets, who’ve subsidized all that coaching, and who are uniquely positioned to go out and enjoy the real beauty of bike racing, are afraid to go exploring in the wilderness of pain and human limits.

They’ve gone to the brink of paradise and pulled back because their only conception of winning is being first. No one ever taught them that if you want to win, you have to fail.

Adios, bike racing. It was nice knowing you.



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Some rules

November 21, 2016 § 11 Comments



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Some high points and good-bye

November 20, 2016 § 6 Comments

Yesterday I took out the ol’ mama-chari for one last pedal down memory lane and etcetera. I followed the route I used to ride taking my kids in a front-handlebar carrier to Matsugamine pre-school.

1. Ye olde ramen shop. It’s shuttered now but for ten years it served up the best ramen and gyoza I had before or since. My kids were raised on ramen, gyoza, and giant dollops of fiery-red Rayu. That’s why they grew up to have strong bones and stronger stomachs and etcetera.

2. Ye olde falling down shit-hole. My whole family of six lived in one of these 200-sf shacks for almost a year while Honorable-in-Laws were building the new house. It was the happiest of times in between long periods of wanting to kill each other.

3. Ye olde Japanese homes. The whole city was filled with these once upon a time. Now they are hidden nooks.

4. Ye olde sword school. Yelling and crashing into each other with bamboo swords and practicing stuff that looked like it hurt more than bicycles and etcetera.

5. Ye olde terrible barber shop. Truly the worst haircuts ever. But I patronized them because superlatives are rare in this world and deserving of honor and etcetera.

6. Ye olde cobwebs after rain. These were always worth stopping and looking at and etcetera, nature’s lacework and silver silken sheen.

7. Ye olde guitar shop. I bought a Gibson Byrdland here for $3,ooo that I never could play and re-sold it for $2,000, setting up my life’s pattern of investments and etcetera.

8. Ye olde Italian Tomato. It used to be in the Ueno Department Store building next to Futaara Shrine before they tore the building down. One of my first dates with Yasuko where we ate tuna sandwiches and cornflake parfaits and etcetera.

9. Ye olde tea shoppe. Being pretentiously me used to include extolling the virtues and gradations of green tea. My go-to pretentious place was Sekiguchi-en, where real tea lovers and pretentious wankers coexisted peacefully and etcetera. They tore down the lovely old wooden building, scented with decades of tea leaves, and replaced it with hard glass and steel.

10. Ye olde pretentious coffee shop. This place didn’t exist then nor did coffee shops, much, in the pre-Skubrats days, which made it hard for pretentiously me to hang out in public flaunting books I only dimly understood. Now I can display my fakery in full view and etcetera. I do need a beret, however.

11. Ye olde murderous bike lane. Res ipsa loquitur.

12. Ye olde Kobori puff-cake. Needs no introduction except to say that if you are in a bike race and you have to choose between being a hardman-hardwoman or a Kobori puff cake, you should always choose the puff cake and etcetera.

13. Ye olde kotatsu. Low table with heating element and recess inside that keeps your parts warm. Makes it difficult when you have toasty parts to do things like get up and go to work, catch flights home and etcetera.

14. Ye olde hotoke-sama. It’s important to pray to the family spirits even if all you’re really doing is silently complaining about the pain in your knees from having to sit on them and etcetera.



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Day tripper

November 19, 2016 § 14 Comments

We left home at 10:10 AM for a day trip to Tokyo. I’m not nostalgic but I noticed some things that had changed and others that hadn’t.

Utsunomiya Station has the same escalator that it had in 1987 when I first went down the moving sidewalk to the cold and overcast skies of the city I would come to know better than any other. But the man in the little wicket holding the ticket punch, boredly punching each ticket, had long ago been replaced by machines.

I’m not nostalgic about machines replacing people especially when standing there punching tickets endlessly for hours at a time must have been hell, but with the machines there’s not much excitement like when you give the guy the wrong ticket or an expired one and your heart is in your mouth for a second as you wait to see whether he nails you for the fare or lets you slide.

The machine never lets you slide.

I stood correctly on the spot on the platform where I was upposed to stand. The bullet train swooped by, picked us up, and swooped us some more to Ueno Station. 

I’m not nostalgic about the trains but the old bullet trains were more clunky and always looked like they were in need of a facelift, the nose cones covered with bug splat and such. They looked and felt like working people. The new trains were gorgeous, immaculate, perfect.

At Ueno Station we went up to the main exit, bought some souvenirs and got turned around for a few minutes so we could argue about directions.

Aside from a few dabs of lipstick, some rouge, and a bit of henna to take out the gray, Ueno is the same old girl she used to be, replete with the sign warning you not to bang your head on the low overhang.

I’m not nostalgic about train stations, but the old station used to have a faint smell of sewage when you exited and went left down to the subway lines. I’m not saying I like sewage but I guess I don’t like antiseptic, either. I looked up at the steel girders that were the same frame from the post-war and felt better.

We had lunch at Afternoon Tea in Ueno Station, where we were joined by two of Yasuko’s friends who she had met several years ago through Facebook, and also by a friend whose kids went to pre-school with our kids.

If you are still fantasizing that you haven’t really gotten older, just repeat the phrase “their kids went to pre-school with our kids” and do the math.  I’m not nostalgic about food but we used to get excited by lunch at the cafe Chat Noir which featured tuna fish sandwiches with the crust trimmed off and parfaits with corn flakes as the luxury topping.

Never in a million years could I have imagined something called “Green Cream Pasta.” I still can’t …

After that we had a big subway adventure and ended up at Tokyu Hands in Shinjuku. I’m not nostalgic about shopping but in those days no one spoke English and it was always an adventure to practice my Texo-Japanese on the terrified clerks.

Now, what with Chinese tourists pouring bilions into the economy, clerks had little badges showing which languages they were proficient in. It was awesome to watch a clerk with a Chinese badge confuse the shit out of a Chinese shopper with her bad Chinese, just as a few decades earlier the English speaking clerks had confused me.

I stopped into the toilet and appreciated the sign telling me not to climb onto the rim and do my business as if I were hanging my butt off a ledge.

As we finished our three-hour sojourn to purchase fifty cents’ worth of bubble bath, we passed the bakery in the basement of Takashimaya Shinjuku.

I’m not nostalgic about the perfectly aligned and beautifully displayed food, but, well, I guesss that actually I am.


Big day

November 18, 2016 § 15 Comments

My elbows hurt. I reinjured my faschium buttassicus. My neck no longer turns properly. Shoulders ache, hips sore, knees burn when I walk, and a whole new suite of stabbing pains now live up and down my spine.

Yeah, best bike ride ever.

The day before I had gotten lost and failed in my assault on Mt. Kogashi, the epic climb on the Japan Cup race course. So this time I started early and checked out the mama-chari to make sure all of the steel parts were in working order.

Basket, check.

Kickstand, check.

Big yellow bell, check.


The only real issue I had was making sure I got back in time for the excursion with the Honorable-in-Laws to Nikko. That was going to be no problem because I had two whole hours to make the entire twenty-mile jaunt.

I set off on a glorious fall morning, cold air erecting my nipples through the thick wool sweater. After a while I was tired from the 140 rpm and uphill grade, but no matter. Those aches would go away after I was dead.

It took longer than I had expected but time was still a-ok. I spied the sign for the turn-off to Shinrin Park, made the right hand turn I’ve made a million times before and immediately hit a massive hill I didn’t remember at all. It’s funny how hills you never noticed on a ten-speed become Cowan-esque Everest climbs on a mama-chari.

I got up off the seat and realized that there is no good climbing position for a mama-chari except perhaps the “don’t climb” one. My weight lurched forward and mama-chari wobbled, if a battleship can be said to wobble.

Without drop bars or hoods to pull up on it was hard to stay aloft, but sitting back down would have meant full stoppage. Just before the crest of the giant 200-yard mountain, a pair of old women selling apples looked at me, gasping and blowing snot on the swaying mama-chari. Me, not them.

I passed so slowly they had time to ask, “Daijobu?” and I had time to feeebly nod. Atop the climb I rested and took a quick snapshot.

After a couple of miles that were indescribably hard, harder than politics, I reached the start-finish area. There were many cyclists and athletic-looking people milling about and they looked at me funny, as if there was something weird about an American miles from town in a cycling park on a country road looking somewhere between dead and autopsy while riding a mama-chari.

So of course I did the only intelligent thing, which was to turn on Strava. in those few moments, however, a group of about thirty school kids on bikes shot past and I’d missed the peloton.

Hurrying back onto MC, I swung my leg too low over the steel rack and almost shattered my kneecap. Everything went white as the universe concentrated in my knee, a Big Bang of pain that flung forth a billion little white stars of agony.

As soon as I stopped sobbing I began pedaling, determined to catch and drop the healthy young students who were now out of sight up the road. However I made a wrong turn and was soon off on a logging road up above the park. I saw my quarry below, cursed, and descended to the road. Soon I began picking off stragglers.


By the first switchback the students had all dismounted and were pushing their bikes which had gears. Gears! Pffffft! Mama-chari ain’t got time for gears!

Around the second switchback I was pedaling down and yanking up so hard I thought my knees would merge into my shoulders. I tried to paperboy but the ship merely listed rather than turned.

For only the second or third time in my life, I got off my bike and pushed. Each time the pitch lessened I remounted and pedaled a little more. I crested the top pedaling, having only pushed about half of the one-mile climb. A pair of walkers at the top gaped.

Strava of course is here:

If the climb-walk was hard, the descent was terrifying because the road was covered in a thick carpet of leaves and mama-chari had been engineered not so hot for taking switchbacks at 40. I regained the main road with 45 minutes to make the one hour pedal back.

Mama-chari could do 18-ish if you could maintain 160+ rpm, which I could except that it caused my knees to melt. Hot pain from the rack whack, legs 3/4 bent, hips groaning, back screaming, and all the while flying through six-inch gutter gaps, bars-to-doorhandles with passing trucks, and mama-chari devouring divots, potholes, giant cracks, and cement curb lips with her massive fat tires, 90-spoke wheels, and the downhill, tailwind momentum of a falling leaden sky.

Somewhere between “I’m ready to die right fucking now” and death itself in the form of oncoming traffic through an orange light, mama-chari’s brakes gave up the ghost, her kickstand dragged in the turn, and I put 75 pounds of Japanese steel into a hot slide whose outcomes were binary: awesomeness or splat.

Physics voted for high-side and the oncoming windshield but you gotta let the steel beast run because mama-chari wanted to live too and she flipped the skitter into a controlled skid about the time the 150 mm cranks went from pedaling through the turn into hallelujah and I scooted through so close to the windshield that I counted the truck driver’s nose hairs and inspected a gold tooth crown.

“How was your ride?” they asked as I wheeled up at 11:59, pointy fuggin’ sharp.

I shrugged. “It was okay.”

But the rest of the day I floated like a genie on a cloud. The best day of your life will do that.



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