Hired Guns: Introduction

March 21, 2017 § 16 Comments


The city of Palos Verdes Estates, or part of it, is battling for the survival of its municipal police force. Opponents want to demolish it and replace it by contracting for law enforcement services with the monolithic Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. It sounds like pedestrian city politics, unless you happen to be a bicyclist. In that case, it isn’t pedestrian at all.

This issue affects a lot more than the pedal pushers who often run stop signs as they breeze through one of the most scenic and challenging bike routes in the United States. Class war, surfing localism, contempt of outsiders, hate speech, enraged small town racists, the California Vehicle Code, murder, Wall Street predators, regressive taxation, and the complex act of understanding and enforcing the law all turn up when this topic is spaded over, like wriggling earthworms in a cool mound of leafy compost.

I got involved in this whole thing backwards, simply by riding my steel Eddy Merckx with down-tube shifters on the way to work one day. I had been in California for a couple of months and was renting a house in Palos Verdes Estates, a place I ended up in entirely by accident. The law office I was working at was in San Pedro, and when I arrived in California I told the realtor, an avid cyclist nicknamed “the Badger,” that I wanted to rent in San Pedro because it was close to my office.

“Dude,” he said. “You don’t want to live in Pedro unless you like lung cancer or want to hang out at Godmother’s. Let me show you some places in PV Estates.”

To my unsophisticated eye it looked like a lot of other suburbs I’d seen throughout my life. Nice homes, affluent people in nice cars, white people everywhere, and, oh yeah, the most stunning scenery imaginable stuck right in the heart of Los Angeles. I traced the road on a map and saw that my commute to San Pedro would be along PV Drive South, a twenty-minute drive with three stoplights, no traffic, and postcard views of the Pacific Ocean and Catalina Island from start to finish.

Did I mention that this was in the heart of Los Angeles? Because when I told my family back in Texas that I had a twenty-minute, no traffic, sprawling ocean view commute in the middle of LA, they thought I was lying through my teeth and everywhere else.

One morning as I rode to work, because it didn’t take long to figure out that the most beautiful, car-free road in California was also the most beautiful car-free bike commute in California, I blew through a red light at the intersection of Hawthorne and Via Vicente. There was no traffic in any direction, but I hadn’t gotten through the intersection before I heard the siren of the guy I would later get to know as the dreaded Deputy Knox.

By 2007 I had been riding competitively and racing for thirty-five years. I had run tens of thousands of red lights and hundreds of thousands of stop signs, and I had done it in Texas, Japan Germany, Pennsylvania, and Colorado. I’d never been ticketed, not once, and had never been hit by a car. Deputy Knox of the LA Sheriff’s Department pulled me over and wrote me a ticket. I knew enough not to argue with a 6’4” dude carrying a gun, handcuffs, and a radio, but even so I was surprised at his glowering anger. He was prodding and pushing me to react, but I’d experienced that in plenty of other venues with cops, so the more he pushed the meeker I got. I wanted to get to work, not star in a new chapter on civil rights.

Knox wrote the citation, gave me a nasty lecture, and sped away. That encounter, between a meek, bony guy on a bike endangering no one in a victimless crime, and an angry cop trying to prod him into a confrontation, made a huge impression on me. “What if I’d been black?” I wondered, scared. Knox was lean but he was muscular, he was big, and he was ready to arrest me and haul me off to jail if I had given him any guff. My instinct, by the way, proved dead-on the following year when my friend and fellow riding partner Jeff Konsmo was pulled over and cited by Knox. However, unlike my red light violation, Jeff was pulled over because Knox didn’t understand – or chose not to understand – vehicle code section 21202a and its exceptions. When Jeff objected to the grounds of the citation, Knox slapped on the stainless steel jewelry and shoved him in the back of the patrol car.

This was my first and lasting impression of bikes and law enforcement on the peninsula. They hated your guts. You didn’t belong. Get the hell out.



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The tired radicals

May 10, 2015 § 38 Comments

On Saturday morning I rolled up to the Manhattan Beach Pier and was pleasantly surprised to find a large group of riders who had made the 6:30 AM commitment to pedal north for a couple of hours, take the full lane on Pacific Coast Highway, and then lodge an informal protest at Malibu City Hall regarding the illegal ticketing of cyclists on PCH.

By the time we arrived we had added another ten riders or so, and a handful had only ridden part of the way. The pre-ride publicity was pushed by Greg Seyranian of Big Orange, and I got a lot of help from Mario Obejas at the Beach Cities Cycling Club, as he invited me to come speak to the group about our protest and included ride information in the club’s newsletter. I also greatly appreciated the efforts of the California Association of Bicycling Organizations, who sent their president from San Diego, Jim Baross, and his henchman from San Clemente, Pete van Nuys.

Don Ward of Wolfpack Hustle also put the word out on Facebook and Twitter, and a random and incomplete list of people who showed up includes Dan Kroboth, Steven Thorpe, Robert Cisneros, David Huntsman, Mikki Ozawa, Tamar Toister, Debbie Sullivan, Michael Barraclough, Pete van Nuys, Gary Cziko, Jim Baross, Eric Richardson, Bob Kellogg, Peter Richardson, Connie Perez, Alx Bns, Mark Jacobs, Don Young, and Les Borean.

The day before the ride I got a call from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. The lieutenant and I spent close to an hour talking about cycling on PCH. Although the department understands the right of cyclists to control the lane when there are debris or other hazards that make riding as far to the right as practicable unsafe, the bone of contention continues to be what constitutes a substandard width lane, because it is this exception to the FTR law that cyclists use to get away from the fog line and out into the full lane on PCH.

Our position has always been that the statute, CVC 21202(a) is plain. It defines a substandard width lane as one in which a bike and a car cannot travel safely side by side. Some of the sheriff’s deputies believe that on PCH this is a matter of judgment and interpretation, whereas regular cyclists who simply want to follow the law insist that it’s no more subject to interpretation than the rules governing stopping at traffic lights.

Simple math shows beyond any reasonable dispute that the substandard width exception applies on PCH. Why? Because nowhere on the stretch from Santa Monica to the Ventura County Line do the lanes exceed 11 feet in width, 12 at the absolute most. The width of a cyclist, when you add in one foot for variation of the line of travel, is about 4 feet. California law now requires cars to pass bikes with a minimum 3-foot buffer. This puts the effective width of the cyclist at about 7 feet. The width of a car or truck, including its mirrors, is at least 6 feet.

6 + 7 = 13, and 13 > 12. In words, a 12-foot lane isn’t wide enough to accommodate 13 feet of bike and car. And of course along many sections of PCH, the lanes are only barely 10 feet wide.

We took the lane as soon as we exited onto PCH at Chautauqua, and the entire morning we saw only two squad cars, neither of which paid us any attention whatsoever. It’s my opinion that the upper management at the sheriff’s department agrees with our interpretation of the law, but I also think there are deputies on the line who simply don’t accept the right of cyclists to take the lane no matter what the law says. They see a group of riders who aren’t cowering in the gutter and think, “That can’t be legal.” But during our ride we got nothing but courtesy from the law, which was kind of the point: The ride was staged as a protest against a ticket issued to a Big Orange rider several months ago for failing to ride in the bike lane, and at the time there were no bike lanes on PCH.

At Temescal Canyon we took a break, waited for the West Side riders to show up, and tweeted/facebagged our protest ride info to the Lost Hills Substation, the City of Malibu, and the CHP.

The entire ride from Temescal to Cross Creek, about six miles, we got honked at exactly once and were chopped exactly once — by an asshole on a motorcycle, no less. I always find it hilarious and pathetic when the second-most vulnerable users on the road treat us with aggression and hatred.

Although getting our message across to law enforcement and to the City of Malibu was the main purpose of the ride, as it turns out the real impact of this type of cycling is the message it sends to cagers. Hundreds of motorists were educated this morning about the rights of cyclists to take the lane on PCH–it was a lesson worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in radio spots or TV ads. Forcing drivers to see cyclists in the lane and accept the reality that as with a slow moving bus or cement mixer you have to slow down, put on your blinker, change lanes, and pass on the left, are the most important results of this type of activity.

Which leads to a couple of other observations: First, of the couple of hundred cyclists we saw on PCH that morning, none was in the lane, all were huddled in the gutter. Several times we even had riders catch up to us, sit on for a few minutes, and then come racing around on the left, only to dive back into the gutter. Whereas law enforcement seems to be coming around to our point of view, judging from the cyclists on PCH, most riders prefer to be entirely out of the roadway. This is where the actions of large groups like La Grange, Big Orange, and semi-organized rides such as NOW and Kettle need to continue pounding home the message that the lane is legal and it’s safe. In fact, when I did the NOW ride a few weeks ago it was amazing to see the entire 70-person peloton crammed up onto the shoulder.

The most extreme example of the cower mentality was on the BWR a few weeks ago, when riders refused to take the lane even when protected by a police-escorted, full rolling enclosure. Old habits die hard.

On the other hand, you can’t force people to do what they don’t feel comfortable doing, and the main point is that riders who understand that they’re safer in the lane now have a pretty strong reason to take it without too much fear of harassment. Even as I’m writing this the California Highway Patrol from West Valley tweeted to say that they agreed cyclists can ride in the lane as long as they’re not impeding traffic.

A final point was recognizing that despite all of the advocacy and fundraising by the numerous bicycling organizations in Southern California, the most effective thing you can do is to get a group together and take the lane. All the emails and fundraising campaigns in the world don’t speak as loudly as 25 riders legally riding in the lane.

Related to that there’s this issue: Getting riders to commit to a Saturday or Sunday of cycling advocacy is tough because the weather’s nice, the early morning roads are relatively empty, and would you rather get in your workout with your pals … or try to change the world with a little two-wheeled advocacy? Most people will choose the former, but for those who took the time to make themselves seen and heard on PCH, thank YOU!



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Your life is not your own

January 5, 2013 § 45 Comments

Come meander with me.

But before we join one another on an easy Saturday morning pedal, sharing our love for the road, our camaraderie, and our sharp memories of Steve Bowen made sharper by the memorial ride on which we’re about to embark, I’d like you to sit for just a moment in the back seat of my car.

It is an old car in dog years, a 2002 Camry with 198,000 hard miles on it. It has a big dent in the rear, a deep rusted scratch on the right side, several beauty marks on the front and rust speckling on the hood. When you sit in the back seat you’ll notice several patches of duct tape over the electronic window controls. That’s to keep me from reflexively hitting the “down” switch to the driver’s side window and having it pop out of the frame, dangling outside the car. On the freeway. At seventy-five.

I want you to sit in the back seat last night and just observe. You’ll be invisible. I won’t know you’re there, but will still try not to fart. My kimchee and pinto bean + tofu diet has, according to Dan Cobley, unfortunate consequences for those behind me.

Hold Back the Tears

That’s the name of a song by Neil Young, and you’re listening to it with me in the back seat, but the song isn’t working, because I’m crying, and crying hard. It’s the first time I’ve cried for my brother since he died. You’re a little embarrassed for me. I’m a grown man, after all.

But you and me, we’ve ridden together and you know that I may crack but I’m going to recover, pull it together, and keep slogging ahead. I learned that much from Fields. There’s no dishonor in getting shelled, just quitting. Then you watch me, sitting in the dark in the parking garage, check my phone.

“Wow,” you think. “Dude is so addicted to Facebook.”

But you notice I’m not scrolling through “likes” and timelines. I’m reading, then re-reading, a message from Raja Black.

“That’s weird,” you think. “He and Raja have never met.”

Indeed, we haven’t. Then you watch me call Raja, who has messaged me his phone number.

“Hey, brother,” you hear Raja say. “Good to hear your voice.”

And just like that, the two strangers talk like old friends. Because they are. “How you doing?” Raja asks.

I tell him. The truth.

“Well, Seth,” you hear Raja say. “Your life, you know, is not your own. If your brother had known that, maybe he would still be with us. Your life isn’t this thing that’s yours. That’s just a fake construct. Your life is the series of things you say and do to other people. And every vibration of your life touches everyone connected to you, and all the people connected to them. We can’t take life away so casually. It’s not ours to take. We have to live, if we’re to own up to the awesome responsibility we have to those who are bound to us.”

You watched me furrow my brow as I listened as intently as I’ve ever listened to anyone in my life.

“Here’s the thing, Seth. I’m an athletic guy in great shape, but you know, a few weeks ago I had a major heart attack. One or two beats away from death, right? I’m one of those cyclists who’s not supposed to get sick, let alone have heart problems. But here I am. And everything looks more precious to me now. The people who were there for me in my hour of need, they’ve touched me, just like I’ve touched them, just like you’ve touched me, just like I’m touching you. It’s the web of life, and your poor brother, man, if only he’d known that, maybe he wouldn’t have taken what wasn’t his to take. But you know it now, and I know it now. So we will carry on no matter what.”

Then you heard me mumble something and you saw me put down the phone.

You thought this: “Strangers and near-friends, dear friends and loved ones, people reaching out to people because that’s what binds us together. Because our lives, however personal, are not our own. They are not our own.”

Better start meandering soon

You would have reflected on all this if I hadn’t let loose with a trio of kimchee farts, any one of which was strong enough to put holes in the seat fabric and blow out the rear window. You stumbled home. I ambled home. Saturday dawned clear and cold, and even before we’d thrown a leg over our bikes, Steve Bowen’s memorial ride had begun.

Susan Gans had gotten the word out to the entire La Grange club. She’d contacted Ellen Brown and Jeff Sallie at Catalina Coffee and arranged for free coffee and tea after the ride. When she told them that they could be providing for over a hundred riders, they never flinched. They and their staff were more than willing to help.

Somewhere along the grapevine, Cynergy Cycles in Santa Monica heard about the ride. Without being asked, they saddled up their shop van and provided free transportation to Westsiders who wanted to come down to the South Bay and join the ride. Then, Jim and Eric from Cynergy used the van for sag and as a broom wagon, running their flashers to keep the cycling cordon intact.

Paul Che of Sprocket Cycles was there, too, providing support to any rider who needed it. With Cynergy and Sprocket participating, it kind of makes you and me wonder…when’s the last time two competitors got together for the BENEFIT of a third competitor? Then it really makes us wonder…if hardworking men and women running small businesses can put aside their differences for a common goal, why can’t our politicians?

Cruising down the hill

I’ve picked you up at Malaga Cove. You’re freezing, as it’s in the high 30’s and you’re wrapped up in everything you own, but it’s still not working. We pedal, more chilly downhill, and pick up Marcella Piersol on the other side of PCH. You think you’re cold? She’s chattering so hard she can barely talk.

Kim West, Scott and Randy Dickson, and the other Iowans are laughing pretty hard at our wimpiness. They’re riding today, too. In six feet of snow.

But that’s why we decided not live in Iowa. We hit Catalina just as Gus, Marc, Chris, Tom, and a couple of others whiz by in the other direction. We turn around and grab their wheel as they easily tow us up to the bluff above RAT Beach. Marcella is having a hard time just being on her bike. It’s the first time she’s ridden since Steve’s death. You know, she was with him when he died on Mulholland. They were more than friends. They were people who had shared thousands and thousands of miles together on the bike. That makes you into more than a friend. That makes you family.

She had not wanted to do the memorial ride, intense as it was going to be, and now, with the frigid weather, and with her already frozen to the core, you and I can tell that she’s in a bad place. Let’s put our arm around her shoulder and suggest we head back to the coffee shop in Redondo. I was going to get there early for the ride anyway, and we’ll see Gus & Co. shortly anyway.

If three’s a crowd, what’s three hundred?

We get Marcella some hot coffee, and the Cynergy van pulls up. Out hop Cheryl Parrish, Lisa Giardino, Miki Ozawa, Deborah Sullivan, and a couple of other lovely ladies from the Westside. Before long the coffee shop has over fifty people in it. Some are local South Bay riders who leave here every week with the Donut Ride, like Vickie Van Os, Renee Fenstermacher, and Craig Leeuwenburgh. John Wike’s there. Many others are from distant locales. Jim Miller has driven up from San Diego and is chatting out front. Michael Marckx got in the night before from Carlsbad, but a sudden stomach bug kept him in bed. We’re going to miss him. We’ll also miss Doug Peterson, one of the South Bay stalwarts. His major knee surgery was recent, and he is still on the mend. You can’t do a ride like this with a sliced up knee unless you’re made out of some stern stuff.

You’re looking at me now, and I know what you’re thinking. “What the hell is going on? There must be two hundred people milling around out there.”

Indeed there are. And it’s time to go.

We gather everyone together, and it’s an ocean of friends and people we love. Suze Sonye, Kelly Henderson, Alan and Simone Morrsette, Greg Popovich, Dennis McLean, countless friends of Steve’s wearing his PVBC club kit, Jennie Enriquez, and even Shon Holderbaum shows up with his broken hand, all bandaged up and unable to properly ride. Jake Sorosky has to work, but he’s gotten there in jeans with his camera and has taken a bunch of photos. Then he’s gone.

Tammy Hines is there, and the one-woman tornado behind PV Bike Chicks, Kim White, is there, too. Brad House has put the word out on his network, and numerous friends and riding buddies of his have answered the call. The Steeles are there, and so is Marcel Hoksbergen, Big Dutch. He takes a video of the start and before day’s end has edited it into a moving, gripping tribute…but we don’t know that yet.

“Enough of the names!” you say. “We’ll never finish if you mention every single person! Plus, you’re hurting the feelings of people you don’t mention. David Caren? Jonathan Frederick? Gerald Iacono, whose gesture of kindness and generosity to you–an honorary PV bike kit–is the nicest thing you can remember? Tom Best? The entire contingent of South Bay clubs: Big Orange, Bike Palace, Ironfly, SPY, South Bay Wheelmen, PV Bike Chicks, Beach Cities Cyclists, and so many more.”

Our one big fear

You watch me give a brief talk. It’s inadequate and bumbling, but you and everyone else are gracious and, more importantly, are focused on our memories of Steve. We continue to be deluged with stories of his friendship and goodness, of his decency and humanity, of his acceptance of people for who they are, how they are.

Marcella is feeling it, too. I’ve taken her under my wing, or at least under my pink socks. She’s starting to see how deeply Steve was loved. Everyone closes their eyes for a moment of silence. Then we roll out.

Michael Norris is there. His presence is comforting. With Michael around, we know that nothing can go wrong, but still, we’re worried. We’re worried because this ride had become so huge. By day’s end we’ll learn that people stopped counting at 350 riders. With so many riders on the narrow PV roads, the potential for congestion is practically guaranteed. The worst thing imaginable would be an accident; someone getting hurt while coming out on Steve’s behalf. It’s the last thing he would have wanted.

We’re afraid of the police, too. When they see this rolling peloton of 350 people, they’ll have to take action, and we fear the worst. But you and I look at each other and shrug. “What can we do?”

Michael and I sit on the point, Marcella and Tammy and you behind us. The goal is simple: Ride slowly, ride safely. Keep any idiots who want to turn it into a bike race in check. Try not to fart excessively. Or even once. These things are noxious.

Up against the wall, lycra-clad-mother

As soon as we cross the border from Torrance into PV, we see the dreaded police motorcycle. The cop takes one look at us and flips on his flashers. We look at each other. Even Norris won’t be able to get us out of this jam. And given the run-ins we’ve all had with the Palos Verdes police, the ride’s going to end before it even starts. The cop has his Bub This is Serious face on.

The officer nods his head, whips his bike around, and pulls 100 yards ahead of us. At the first intersection, a PV squad car dashes up and blocks all turning and cross traffic.

“What the hell?” you and I say to Norris.

He grins. “Looks like Steve just got himself a police escort.”

For the entire length of PV Drive, the police create a rolling enclosure, blocking off intersections and preventing Saturday traffic from mowing us down. “Who told them?” I ask Michael.

“No one. Steve worked with a lot of the PV cops, many of whom ride bikes. He was a liked and respected friend. And the cops take care of their own.”

Marcella had been with LAPD for twenty-two years. “It’s family,” she says. “Family.”

Can’t keep a tough man down

As we push up from Malaga Cove, a dude in a red Cynergy jersey taps our shoulder. It’s Doug. “Dude!” I say. “Your knee! How are you even out here?”

Doug grins. “There are more important things in life than a knee,” he says. “This is one of them.”

We crest the first climb and someone else taps our shoulder. It’s MMX. “Hey,” he says. “Just wanted you to know I made it.”

“Dude!” I say. “You were on death’s door with a stomach bug last night! You were too sick to go get beer, even.”

MMX smiles. Then he takes a breath, as if he’s rehearsed the whole thing. But you and I know him, and know that he’s composing as he talks, the way musicians do. “The greatest truths are the simplest, you know? Steve had a real gift to be simple, yet he himself was very complex. His gift of simplicity was in breaking down things to their essence; to reaching and helping others reach the simple truth in things, in us. In the most meaningful sense he had a way of letting go of all expectations. His love came with full acceptance, even celebration of your personhood, your love of riding a bike or maybe your fear of getting on a bike, your trepidation and your bravado—he not only accepted who you were, but found enjoyment in you. We’re celebrating his life today, simply—riding our bikes and remembering the simple yet memorable.”

It came out smoothly, like music, MMX never needing to catch his breath as his legs rolled the big gear over the climb. He drops back. We don’t see him again.

Sick or well, fit or not, Steve’s friends are making the extra mile, then an extra one on top of that. The longest yard, indeed.

Dave Jaeger and Harold Martinez roll up to the front. These two guys can put anyone at ease, and they shoot the breeze with Norris. I should be more talkative, but I’m not. Words haven’t come so easily of late.

Kenny Lam shoots ahead of us with what is easily twenty pounds of camera gear. He’s not just doing the ride, he’s shooting it. Greg Leibert has shown up with a helmet cam. He dashes off through Portuguese Bend and sets up on a rock to chronicle the endless stream of friends.

Paul Che wheels up behind us. “Guys,” he says. “I stopped at Calle Mayor to help a guy with his bike. When I finished, I got on the end of the group and worked my way up to the front. I didn’t get to the front until we reached Lunada Bay.”

We look back. The end of the line is invisible. The riders go on forever.

The Honor Climb

We turn onto the Switchbacks, where Steve staged so many hillclimbs. Jon Davy shoots ahead, picks a spot, and peels off some video. Miles Irish blocks the oncoming traffic at the entrance with his Chevy Avalanche. He’d be riding if he hadn’t shattered his scapula and torn his rotator cuff the week before. Instead he runs interference, keeping us safe. We’ve lost our police escort, but LA County Sheriff’s Department has been keeping a helpful eye on our progress.

The Switchbacks are the weekly scene of drama and untold suffering…except today, I realize for the first time, that they aren’t. Billy Stone has said something earlier in the day that resonates with truth: Cyclists love to talk about how much they suffer, but it’s all bullshit. Their suffering stops the minute they decide to stop pedaling. Suffering is what happens when no matter how hard you want the pain to stop, it doesn’t stop. Cycling is a hobby. An avocation. A pastime. When you choose to hurt, you aren’t suffering. You’re choosing to hurt.

Death, disease, grinding poverty, mental illness…loss…these things are suffering. As we move through the turns I feel the truth of Billy’s observation. We’re fortunate to be here. Pedaling our bikes, no matter how hard, is a gift. It may hurt, but it’s not suffering.

You and i glance back at Marcella this moment. She’s one of many today who is suffering. She’s suffering the loss of a friend and loved one. No matter how easily she pedals, the pain remains.

Michael raises his hand. We’re a quarter mile from the top. The sky is glorious. The brilliant sun has turned the ocean into a deep hue of the richest blue. The curvature of the coast spreads out beneath us, a viewscape so grand that it takes our breath away, and you and I, we think about Steve. This is a day for Steve. The line of riders stretches back all the way down the Switchbacks, and beyond. “Ease up,” Michael commands.

Then you and I watch him push Marcella forward. “This is the honor climb, Marcella. Just you. Now go.”

He gently pushes her forward. She bites down on the pedals and moves away from us. We see her sides heaving and her shoulders shaking, and we know that it’s not from pedaling. You and I, we’re crying with her. She crests the hill alone, with three hundred and fifty riders in check.

That was for Marcella. That was for all of us.

That was for Steve.

Norris brings the group up over the hill, and you and I pull over. You politely turn your head as I sidle up to the wall and take the world’s longest piss. Finishing a long climb feels good. Emptying a near-to-busting-bladder feels better.

Once I’m done, everyone’s passed by. I feel empty inside, and not just from the roadside stop.

Catalina Coffee Rendezvous

We get back to Redondo Beach and Catalina Coffee. Robert Min is there, and a throng of others. Marcella’s ex, Frank, has shown up with Irving, Steve’s shop dog. Irving is swaddled in love and attention, just as he was in the shop. Steve’s girlfriend Vickie, and Steve’s cousin Scott have flown in from the East Coast to be with us this morning. Susan Gans has arranged to have a large card placed next to the coffee. Countless riders come up and sign the card, many leaving incredibly poignant messages.

We sit at the table with Pablo Maida, who’s driven down from the Westside to show solidarity. Like many of the riders, he didn’t know Steve, but he had friends who did know him, and, well, family’s family.

You look at me, and we’re both thinking about Raja. We say it at the same time. “Your life is not your own.” Pablo looks at us in a bemused way, but he understands without explanation.

You and I speak briefly with Vickie and Scott. “For every one of the people who showed up today, there were another hundred who couldn’t come because they had other obligations, or they were too far away, or they didn’t find out about it in time. For every one of the people who showed up today, there were another thousand who Steve knew and touched but who don’t cycle, or who don’t cycle enough to keep up with the pace, or who aren’t in good enough health to do the ride. Steve’s web of life connected with countless people. This is one tiny strand of his web.”

We hug Vickie and give Irving another pat.

Marcella comes up to us. “So glad I came,” she says.

We are, too. We’re also drained, you and I. We’ve been thinking about this since we got the news, and we’ve been mentally preparing for the ride since last night. Time to go.

We hop on the back of Dan, Marcel, Marc, and Pablo as they roll out for a final climb up VdM, which conveniently takes me home.

You drop me off. I undress and shower, wondering what happened to Norris. He’d accompanied us to the coffee shop, then vanished.

I take a nap and check my email. Bing. There’s one from Michael. He left so that he could buy a big sack of pastries and drop them off at the PV Police Department.

Michael’s life, you know, is not his own. And he knows it. So did Steve. May he rest in peace.

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