This week, I’m doing what may be my last rides and runs along the Pacific Ocean from the Santa Monica/Brentwood area. For 35 years, every since Cheryl and I got together in a beach place down the road in Venice (see the Venice Stories), I have been trekking up the hill north of Sunset (Blvd.) to her parents’ home on Tigertail Road.
The house was built in 1949 – just as old as we are! They’ve lived here for almost 50 years; Cheryl was here full time from age 12-18, and of course back as a frequent visitor ever since.
In the mid 70s, the concrete bike path along the beach from Santa Monica to Redondo Beach was just being built. Skateboards and in-line skates using urethane wheels had just been invented. And European style 10 speed bikes were slowly seeping into the consciousness of Americans. All could ride on that path, and thus avoid the pedestrians along the asphalt “boardwalk” marking the edge of the strand.
But now that bike path has become just as crowded. The full panoply of humanity infiltrates the beach, bringing joggers, baby strollers, beach cruisers, walkers, dogs on leashes, as well as constant cross traffic across the concrete to the surf. My bike speeds have risen to dangerous levels in the past few years; going 21-25 mph into this horde would be anti-social, at best.
So instead of doing my Sunday morning steady 3 hours ride along the bike path, I head the opposite direction, along Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). My training plan dictates a 20-30 minute warmup at an easy pace to start. Well, that’s a snap, as I have to head down hill on Tigertail, cross Sunset, Bundy to San Vicente, a tree-lined urban runner’s heaven, going downhill all the way to the bluffs overlooking the ocean. At 7th, I turn right, make in to Entrada Canyon still feeling the morning’s chill, and wait for the light so I can head north, to Malibu.
PCH, at least the 10 miles from the edge of Santa Monica to Pepperdine, is almost razor flat. Over the years, the bluffs above the road have sometimes caved in, necessitating a narrowing of the shoulder in places. At times, I’m riding along a 20 foot high pier barrier, holding the sandstone cliffs back. The ocean on one side, the rugged cliffs on the other, mean very little cross traffic, and thus few stop lights.
Malibu exists at an odd geographic angle to the LA basin. normal winds flow out to sea at night until the sun heats up the land, about 10-11 AM, and then the wind shifts from the sea inland. Because Malibu sits at right angles to this natural air flow, often the ride out is with a tail wind, since off shore winds from Santa Monica to Redondo would be east winds, and PCH goes east/west along the ocean thru Malibu. Then, if you time your ride well, you can grab the incoming breezes on the way back, garnering a cyclists dream – tail winds the whole way!
This, in an environment where the sun shines most every day, the ocean keeps the air temp moderate – 60s and 70s most every day, and the scenery is iconically epic. On the one hand, may I present the Pacific ocean, with winds flowing unimpeded half way around the world, setting up idyllic surf conditions most mornings. The soft salty smell, the cushiony feel of the salt-tinged air. Surrounding you are multi-million dollar sea- and cliff-side homes, one of the priciest and most desired locations on earth. And on the other hand, the Santa Monica Mountains, rugged, lightly settled, kept dark green year round by the late night and early morning low clouds and fog. Rising abruptly 2-3000 feet above the shore, they remain mysterious and strangely powerful, so close to so many people, and so abandoned.
My ride today is to be at 80-85% of my threshold power, a comfortable zone, one i feel I can hold all day (or at least half of it. I move amid a sea of bikers. Early one, a pack of roadies – too big to be called a paceline, and a bit to small to be a true peloton – maybe 40 strong, comes chattering and clacking behind a strong lead cyclist. The ones towards the rear are almost coasting. I’m going at least 22 mph, and they just float by me, gone in 60 seconds.
Pairs or triplets appear before more, and come up from behind. In these first ten miles, it’s hard to catch me, down on my aerobars, hitting 22-24 on the flats. But further out, the road leaves the sea’s edge, and climbs just a little bit across the bluffs tumbling down out of the mountains. Rolling hills, just enough to make me fall behind. Most of the roadies out today are working the hills and coasting down them. To them, I appear to be doing the opposite; actually, I’m just trying to hold a steady power level irregardless of the slope or wind.
Just before I reach Zuma Beach, I climb by the condo development where Paul and Ida, Brooklyn bred, sought the city in the country. Flying down the hill to the Zuma flats, I pass by all those who’d climbed ahead of me, and keep cruising all the way to Mulholland’s terminus, about 32 miles from home, near Leo Carrillo beach state beach. The sun is gone now, as I’ve ridden east into the fog bank, so I know the winds will at least be calm as I cross the highway, and head for home.
It’s odd, but I don’t feel any sense of loss, feeling like this might be my last ride down this little section of coast, which I’ve known off and on for 40 years. So many parts remind me of riding North County San Diego PCH, and I now I’ll get back there, to visit my sister, any time I need a California coastal fix. So I don‘t really admire the scenery, just get to work.
The Mercedes, BMWs, Saabs, Priuses, SUVs, and occasional motor home all roll by, making that sticky sound of rubber on asphalt. Periodically, Cal Trans has placed those “Your Speed Is …” flashing signs along the route. It’s nice to see me hitting 24 on the flat; I even got up to 35 on a downhill stretch. Decker Road, Encinal Canyon, Kanan Dume, Latigo Canyon, Malibu Canyon, Topanga Canyon – all the familiar gouges appear, until I hit Temescal, where the traffic becomes too much to handle, and I turn into the sea-side parking lot, a mile or so to the pedestrian underpass.
Back up Entrada to San Vicente, and I’ve finished my 56 miles in 3 hours. at almost exactly 80%, just as prescribed. Not tired, not teary eyed, but feeling just a little sad.
(To be Cont’d)