Biking Pasadena - San Diego

"What the fuck? It's light outside." That was my first thought on Wednesday morning. Inauspicious, maybe, but it's certainly better than "where am I? And what is this vomit doing here?

After doing a couple two-hour rides with Ian as preparation (both of which, though pedestrian by a bicyclist's standards, took a serious toll on my lower back), I rode 100 miles from Pasadena to Gustavo's place in Oceanside on Wednesday.

I thought there was a nice sort of symbolism to riding out of town on my own power. In my two extra years at Tech I lived on my own (sometimes), financially supported myself, and in general began operating independently. But despite this seeming increased control over my life, I had a persistent perception of being pulled along in directions I never really wanted to go. On a plane or a train, or even driving a car, I continue to feel directed by the technology, which is bigger and more willful than I am. But the bicycle is intimate. In my imagination before the trip,riding my bike off into the sunrise became a metaphor for the proper role of the individual in society. I'm obviously dependent, in that the machine I operate, the gear I carry, the food I eat, and the infrastructure I use are all gifts of the great mass of people around me, but nonetheless I am personally and directly involved in the direction I am moving to the fullest possible extent. It is not the fastest or the easiest mode of transportation, but that's okay. Taking a trip by bicycle isn't just about getting where you want to be, since that is absurd when compared with how much easier other options are. Instead, the bicyclist, whether it is his original goal or not, is forced to view the trip as itself a worthwhile endeavor. This might be because it is enjoyable, or because it feeds back on the traveler, changing him as well as transporting him, or for some other reason. But whatever the reason to take a trip by bike, the fact that such a trip is selected demands that a reason exists.

I was planning on leaving at 5 AM so I could get to Gustavo's in the early afternoon. Instead, I managed to set my alarm for 4:45 PM, and woke up late at 6:20. The first stretches of the trip through Pasadena were easy, though, so I wasn't worried about getting a late start. Following Katherine's directions, I wound my way over to the River Trail, and made excellent progress through the early morning.

The GPS I carried was a mixed blessing. It made navigation much easier, saving me time and frustration that would have been spent on getting lost. But it also told me just how far (or how not-far) I had gone. At 9 AM it told me I'd gone only 25 miles in two and a half hours - a disheartening statistic. It might have been wrong, of course. Or I might have wasted more time than I thought pursuing a wrong turn once or twice. But because I could quantitatively compare my progress to my expectation, and because that progress didn't stack up, I felt daunted by the prospect of the remaining 75 miles when I got back on the bike after a ten-minute pee-and-stretch break. My back was already a bit sore, and now it looked like I'd be out all day, and maybe not even make it into Oceanside before Gustavo had to leave for the night shift at 5 PM.

Poor progress early on didn't alter the fact that the river trail was easy, quick riding, or that when I got to the PCH the wind was mostly to my back. Over the rest of the day, I repeatedly made better progress than I expected. And magically, my mood improved. It amused me how fickle my own emotions are, and how context-dependent. If I could just head into everything with the expectation it would suck, I'd probably be in constant bliss due to an unending stream of pleasant surprises. (I think this is why, when a blogger links me to a YouTube video of their favorite musical performance along with a glowing review, I never quite "get it". But when I stumble around aimlessly, it's once-in-a-while captivating. Alternatively, this is why a beautiful woman you see on the subway can leave a stronger impression than any number of models in the Victoria's Secret Fashion show.)

By the time I reached San Clemente, I was feeling so confident I didn't even consider taking the metrolink the rest of the way in. The last 40 miles were tougher riding - mild but consistent undulating hills - but I felt engaged, purposeful. My back was sore, but it was more a situation I was managing than a nuisance I was trying to deal with.

Only the last few miles through Oceanside really got to me. It was trying to navigate my way to Gustavo's place, climbing steep hills, and getting progressively more tired after not eating enough (I had food with me, but I just didn't eat enough of it). The six miles inside Oceanside itself seemed absolutely interminable, but at last Gustavo was there shaking my hand, and mercifully, talking about the food he had ready.

I came in just about 3 in the afternoon, making for an 8.5 hour, 100 mile ride. Though exhausting, it was also invigorating just to know "I can do this if I want." It does, however, also send the message, "I can do this if I want, and I can get away without training beforehand," which is not the best thing to tell myself. But I think I was sufficiently humbled by the difficulty of the last hour that it'll be a while before I leap into something so rashly again.

Goose and I got to see just a little of each other, since he had to leave for work a couple hours later, but just the respite of a comfortable place to stay was huge relief.

The next morning I finished the 35 miles or so to the hotel where I met up with my parents. This was a much tougher ride, since I gained and lost the same hundred feet of elevation many times leading up to and going through La Jolla. But I was an old pro now, at least in my mind. I also didn't mind at all when people blew past me, since I got an early start, and there was no rush.