Me, Levi, and 7500 of Our Closest Friends
Another turn of the planet, another October, another Levi’s Granfondo. Considered by some to be the province of clowns, by others the province of legends, the truth lies somewhere in between, but includes both the absurd and the divine. By any measure, the GF is a brute of a ride, and the 2011 edition didn’t disappoint.
After a late start from home, I arrived in Santa Rosa and picked up my rider’s packet a few minutes before registration closed at 10:00 PM Friday night. I dragged the family across town to the in-laws, then spent the next hour or so organizing my gear for the ride. Up at 6:00 the next morning, I checked the weather forecast, confirmed the balminess of the conditions outside and decided to forego my wind vest. I didn’t want to waste my energy carrying a few more, ounces over King Ridge, did I? Bad decision. In fact, I almost decided to leave arm and knee warmers at home, too, so mild were the conditions. But ultimately I knew that I’d be hanging out around the start line for an hour or more and could get cold; so I decided to wear them. Good decision.
I rode over to the start from my in-laws, hooked up with some riding partners I’ve ‘met’ on Twitter, then lined up with another 7500 of my best buddies and waited for the rollout. We parked ourselves a little too close to the PA system and were treated to ear-splitting pablum from Dave Towle. Bad decision. He introduced, or rather screamed, a litany of cycling and entertainment stars attending the event (most of whom I didn’t know let alone care about), including Patrick McDreamy Dempsey, Odessa, and finally Levi, blah, blah, blah, blah…can we just start riding already? And finally, the rollout. Since we’re toward the front, it took us only 5 or so minutes to hobble forward, clip in, and get underway. Good decision.
There’s a lot to be said about being part of the collective energy of 7500 cyclists all riding together with a common goal and purpose. What that is, I don’t know, but there’s a lot to be said. Oh, here’s one thing: “Hey douche, can you see that I’m riding here? Is it really necessary to grab my ass like we’re in the pro peloton to let me know you’re there? Can’t you see that to your right are two empty lanes of traffic?” Or maybe, “Why yes, that is a magnificent prow you’ve got there, dear. We’re all happy you’re proud of your investment, but standing in the middle of a country lane intersection with hundreds of cyclists trying to make a sharp left uphill turn is not the time or place to display said prow.” Dipshits, also known as clowns, left and right taking unnecessary risks.
The really stupid stuff mellows out for the most part after 10 or 15 miles, then it’s just the usual stupid stuff after that. You know, the run of the mill bad decisions that riders make on any ride. For example, leaving a certain item of clothing at home that might make the difference between discomfort and suffering later on should weather conditions turn inclement…stuff like that.
So, I ride with a couple of Twitter buds, Julian and Jeff, out to Occidental and then on to Monte Rio. We skip the rest stop there because there are TMFP there and cruise up to Cazadero and stop at RS 2. I down some snacks, fill the bottles, stash some gels in my pockets and am ready to hit the road. I wait a few minutes while J & J collect themselves, then it’s onward to the flanks of King Ridge and up the first part of the climb. I won’t bore you with the gory details of that climb. Suffice it to say that my eyeballs were bleeding by the time I summit. The GF organizers, in their customary impeccable organization had members of the clergy on hand to administer last rites, which 90% of the riders need.
As I leave the first summit the light sprinkle that began part way up the climb becomes a steady drizzle and the wind picks up. The road stairsteps up, gradually and sharply, and by and by the drizzle and wind increase. Not for the last time I curse my decision to leave my wind vest at home. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My pace slows so much that a show off weenie on a mountain bike who is single-tracking-it next to the road starts to pull away from me. I fantasize of ways to exact my revenge. From behind, I hear and am overtaken by a number of emergency vehicles. I decide to bide my time until the mountain biker does not have ready assistance.
As I approach RS 3 at the intersection of King Ridge and Hauser Bridge Roads I am soaked to the bone and not a happy camper. Normally situated on dry pastureland, today the RS resembles and smells a bit like a hog pen: mud and squalor rule the day. The emergency vehicles that had passed me a bit earlier are perched ominously at the brink of the descent into the Hauser Bridge Abyss. I’m in no mood to stop and eat. After all, it’s “only” 10 hilly miles to lunch and I want to get off this GD GF ridge. Bad decision. Julian and I press on while Jeff stays to chat with a friend who’s wrenching there, stretch his back, get his bearings. Can you guess the only one of us three who brought a jacket?
Under the best of conditions, entering the Hauser Bridge Abyss is a frightening experience. You start down and think to yourself, “Wow, this would be a mother of a climb.” Then you realize you’re on the gentle part of the incline. As the grade steepens you begin to ponder the little things. For example, does your life insurance policy cover acts of sheer stupidity, such as riding your bicycle off a cliff? On this day, with the roads slicker than snot, surrounded by dozens of strangers who seem intent on testing the limits of their own mortality, the descent becomes an act of pure sphincter terror. For the first time in my adult cycling life it occurs to me that maybe I should just swallow my pride, get off my bike and walk *down* this hill. Certainly I could withstand the humiliation, couldn’t I? At that moment, I encounter a cadre of course marshals shouting “Everyone off their bikes! Walk your bikes down the slope!!” Whew, so it wasn’t me just being a pussy.
We all dismount and clomp, clomp, clomp down the slope and across the metal deck bridge. On the far side of the bridge we pass battered and bandaged riders who watch disconsolately as the carcasses of their carbon and titanium steeds are loaded into the back of waiting pickup trucks. Later, as I climb out of the abyss, the funereal procession of trucks passes me and vanishes into the mist. I don’t know if that act was symbolic of my ride, but it sounded cool when I wrote it.
More climbing, more rain, more wind. The lunch stop is situated on another ridge. On a clear day there would be breathtaking vistas of the ocean, but today the vistas are replaced by low grey clouds scraping their fat wet bellies over huddled cyclists. I try to find shelter in the lee of a tent and am struck by the irony of being surrounded by ice chests full of cold sodas. I nosh on some munchies and talk to a couple of local riders about the gravel option for this year’s route, a cutoff that follows Willow Creek Road, avoiding Coleman Valley Road and its accompanying exposed ridge line. They tell me that the road is doable on skinny tires, with just a few steep spots; nothing as long or as steep as the CV climb. Plus, the road is treelined and wind protected. Julian assures me that we’ll drop out of the fog layer and all will be right, but I want to have a backup plan.
We ride out into the mist once more up a shallow incline and immediately my legs begin to cramp. Wet, cold, and cramping, the perfect combination. This is not a good sign, as I still have 40 miles to get to the finish. I fart around with my shifting, and after a few minutes find a granny-like cadence that my legs can tolerate. Eventually we hit Myers Grade and roller coaster our way down to Highway 1 toward Jenner. True to Julian’s prediction, it is warm and dry, but we’re riding into a pretty fierce headwind and my legs are letting me know that they aren’t enjoying the abuse. I catch a wheel on the end of a pace line up to the Russian River, contemplating my options. Do I ride the devil I know in Coleman Valley, or the devil I don’t know? Ultimately, the promised gentler, wind-protected slopes win out and I convince Julian to take the gravel route.
The first few miles of Willow Creek Road are patched pavement roadway that winds along the valley floor. Riding over the uneven surface feels like sitting on a jackhammer, only not as comfortable. We pass through a construction zone where they surfaced the road in loose two-inch crushed aggregate; our wheels sink into it like it’s beach sand. Julian, who weighs over 17 stone, almost comes to a complete halt in the loose aggregate. I shout to him “Keep spinning, keep spinning!” and after a few sketchy moments we make it through. My bike and bones are rattling and I begin to wonder if I’ve once again made a bad decision. Should I turn back and take my chances in the wind? Eventually, the so-called pavement peters out and we ride onto a packed-gravel surface: much smoother, much better.
The truly special part of this route begins a few miles later where the road is closed to motor vehicles. I portage my bike around the locked gate and begin a gradual ascent along a forested fire road, little traveled judging by the thickness of the duff. It’s calm and quiet, no wind. I meet a large group of hikers traveling in the opposite direction who smile and offer words of encouragement. One boy holds out his hand and gives me a high five as I ride by. Perhaps I’ve reached the divine part of the course, the balance to all the craziness from before.
Mind you, it’s not all peaches and cream. There are some seriously steep pitches, the switchback corners have loose gravel causing my rear wheel to lose traction and spin out, and every slight change in the slope of the road fires off another round
of cramps in my legs, but I keep grinding it out sure and steady. Finally, as I near the top I encounter a particularly wicked pitch and I think to myself, “Well, old boy, you had a good run. Looks like you’re gonna have to walk this one. No tears, now. Stiff upper lip, all that rot.”
But I also ask myself, “WWJD (what would Jens do)?” Jens wouldn’t give up, would he?
So, I reach deep down into my suitcase of courage and dust off some of my old long-forgotten mountain biking skills: sit back in the saddle, hunker down over the handlebars, now push, push, push! And amazingly I scamper up the slope. No spin-outs, no cramps, no tears.
As I crest I happen to glance down and notice an iPhone lying on the ground. Hmmmm, someone’s gonna be upset when they get back to the finish and realize that somewhere back along their 100 mile journey they’ve misplaced that! I pick it up and slide it into my pocket. Maybe there’s a chance for me to do someone a favor…but first maybe I’ll access their bank account and transfer all their cash to my offshore holdings… muahahahahaha!
A few more minutes of climbing and I’m at the top of the closed road, another bike portage, a little more climbing and then over the top. Still 20 miles to go, but I can hear the fat lady singing. I catch up with Julian at the next rest stop in Occidental, then it’s hammer time back to the finish in Santa Rosa. I reunite the wayward iPhone with its grateful owner by exchanging text messages, then settle down to a dinner of IPA and paella…emphasis on the ahhh!
Despite all the pain and suffering, all the clowns and weenies, I think I’ll come back next year and do this ride again. Normally, I don’t like huge events like this, but there’s something different about this event that attracts me. Maybe it the extremeness of it all: the extreme number of riders, the extreme organization, the extreme course. Maybe I shouldn’t think too much and just go with it. Good decision.
Photos: http://www.flickr.com/photos/budzilla/sets/72157627697873679/
