|  June 25, 2005 -- “Never again!” were the first words out of my pie-hole after finishing last year's Ride Around the Bear. “You'll see me back here the day Paris Hilton enters a convent.” But time heals all wounds, and I eventually signed up for the 2005 Bear ride. Rated as one of the 10 most difficult centuries in the country by “Cyclist” magazine, the Bear dishes out more than 9,000 feet of climbing on a loop route that starts in Redlands , climbs past Snow Valley to Big Bear Lake , tops out at Onyx Summit, and ends with a satisfying 40-mile downhill run. Here's what happened:
5:20 a.m. Thirty minutes after backhanding a Motel 6 alarm clock, I take stock of my belongings in Sylvan Park , where the Bear ride begins and ends: Pump, check. Shoes, check. Sunscreen, water bottles, sunglasses, heart monitor, check. Bike … BIKE? Muttering to myself, I hop into my Toyota and head back to the motel.
6:15 a.m. I head east out of Redlands on Highway 38, and at the moment I'm really flying. I mean that literally, since my front wheel has just been upended by a tiny die-cast “Hot Wheels” model of a PT Cruiser—the powerful turbo version with a nice jet black paint job, I notice as I cartwheel over my handlebars. Only three miles into the ride, and already I've become, as a Zen monk would probably say, “at one with the asphalt.”
7:11 a.m. I finally hit the hills at mile 13 and head up Highway 330 at the pace of a banana slug on quaaludes. Every rider I see offers me the same perky greeting: “ON YOUR LEFT!”
7:38 a.m. Climbing a steep grade for miles on end really hurts. I catch my reflection in the darkened window of a parked SUV, and what stares back isn't a focused, determined “game face.” One look and you'd think I'm in the middle of, say, my fourth contraction.
8:05 a.m. Ron Hata, hill climber extraordinaire and a real whiz-bang with a digital camera, passes me with a friendly word of encouragement. As usual, Ron is in his big chain ring. (Given the chance, he'd climb El Capitan in his big ring.) Standing on his pedals, Ron rides up the steep road with a smooth, even cadence, his form gliding into a morning mist that's finally starting to burn off. I'm struggling in my aerobic red zone and blink down at my size 14s as they continue to spin frantic, pitiful orbits around my granny gear. Maybe I should've stayed with stamp collecting.
9:10 a.m. I hit Rest Stop #1, at mile 24, and I'm not sure if I need a snack, a rub-down, or a paramedic. Vowing to watch my sugar intake after recently completing a sugar-detox program, I skip the rest stop's free cookies and chocolate muffins (and even pass on the bananas and oranges) in favor of the organic seeds, sprouts, and dried seaweed stored in my jersey pocket. Gotta stay lean, mean, and clean.
9:32 a.m. A Bear Ride volunteer approaches as I'm leaving the rest stop. “Do me a favor,” he says, looking at me like I just stomped his grandmother's top-of-the-line Mavics. “Next time, try using the outhouse, okay Einstein?”
9:58 a.m. Whoo baby, what a rush. Finally, I'm about to pass someone, a frail-looking codger who apparently won't give up without a fight. Okay, Chester --game on. I unclip my right foot, kick his walker out from under him, and giggle as he goes down like a sack of potatoes. Sure, I'm going to hell. But it's a dry heat.
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11:07 a.m. After 35 miles, at least 90 percent of it climbing, I pull in to Rest Stop #2, near Snow Valley . The food-detox regimen is getting on my nerves, so I quickly Hoover up a chocolate muffin. So sue me--one muffin never killed anybody.
12:30 p.m. Lunch stop at Dana Point Park , mile 46. A few miles back, on the flat section of the route that hugs the north side of Big Bear Lake , I actually passed a fellow Bear participant. Smiling, she gave me a thumbs-up and resumed fixing her puncture.
12:42 p.m. On the food front, I'm out of sunflower seeds, and the sprouts and seaweed have joined forces and morphed into what could pass as homemade penicillin. I'm reeling with low blood sugar, and the oatmeal-raisin cookies at a nearby table somehow take on a voice of their own. “Eat me,” each morsel seems to call out in a mocking tone. “We know you want us. Just get it over with.” In lieu of answering (never argue with food, at least in public), I scarf down seven of the chattering cookies and grab a dozen more for the road. I'll resume my sugar detox after the ride. Next up: the seven-mile-long Onyx Summit grade, the toughest climb of the day. Bring it on.
1:51 p.m. After playing spike-and-crash with my blood sugar and hitchhiking a ride from a one-armed machete-wielding redneck sporting a hockey goalie mask (don't ask), I'm sprawled out at Onyx Summit, at mile 63. Yee-haw. I wipe crumbs from my jersey as I finish my sixth muffin in 10 minutes, and realize that I haven't had this much fun with food since I was in diapers. (At the time, I was a college sophomore, but that's another story.) Four of the nice volunteers at Onyx stop feeding me, help me to my feet, walk me to my bike, and ask me to leave. “Just pedal, tubby,” one of them mutters. The rest of the Bear ride is mostly a downhill run. I belch up chocolate fumes, wave thanks, release my brakes, and let my good friend Mr. Gravity take over. In a scene straight out of Disney's “Fantasia,” a kaleidoscopic array of scones, Crispy Cremes, chocolate-filled eclairs, and Twinkies prance and pirouette in my mind's eye as I freewheel towards …
2:25 p.m. … Angeles Oaks, mile 80, the fifth and final rest stop. I sell my pump, brain bucket, heart monitor, brake pads, and half my spokes for a can of Red Bull, which I feel mainlining into my bloodstream with every frantic gulp. Right about now, I'd do the nasty with the Queen Mother for a bowl of raw cookie dough. Detox that, Nature Boy.
2:47 p.m. I start out of Angeles Oaks on a steep downhill run leading to the blessed end to this torture fest. Gritting my teeth and stifling a shriek of terror, I obliterate the 70 mph “idiot barrier” in less than a minute, thanks to my deft bike-handling skills and the fact that I no longer have any brake pads. I frantically pull on the brake levers and am greeted with the anguished shriek of metal biting into metal. My bloodshot eyes bugged out and my lips peeled back in a Kafkaesque mask of hell, I fly by one rider, who yells “Go get ‘em, Sparky!” Like the dozens I pass in a matter of minutes, she appears to be in hysterics.
3:43 p.m. After finishing the 2005 Ride Around the Bear--incredibly, with no broken bones or internal injuries--scores of riders in Sylvan Park swing by to stare in disbelief at my rims, which have the burned, scarred look of a post-splashdown Apollo capsule. I hear terms such as “whack job,” “Darwin Award,” and “lucky nutcase” as the stunned cyclists file by my bike like it's a museum artifact. Although I desperately need some water, not to mention a round of dialysis, I can't wait to inquire about next year's event.
4:50 a.m. I backhand a Motel 6 alarm clock. Time to ride. A piece of toast and a few sips of orange juice will remove the last neural fragments of a bizarre dream from my head, but I know what'll really hit the spot: a chocolate muffin. |
