The buzz, the energy — the force, if you want — that flows through one’s brain fascinates the hell out of me.
Some say your brain creates its own reality and, given many, many experiences in my life, I’m not about to challenge that.
One afternoon many, many years ago, I rode my trusty Trek down along the Pacific Coast Highway on a sun-splashed Friday afternoon, heading from Carlsbad into San Diego for a night of fun.
Well into many years as a newspaper sports reporter, I spent most of my rides working through the latest feature I was writing, or combing my noggin for the next interesting twist to follow up on to turn into another story.
Seemingly out of the blue, the history of my writing career ran through my mind like an old movie as I rode, starting with my high school newspaper days.
Suddenly I found a lost scene on the cutting floor: The very first story I wrote on someone other than an athlete at Brookfield Central High.
I was just finishing my senior year of high school when wrote a story on an athlete from New Berlin who was preparing for the 1976 Olympic Summer Games in Montreal. His name was Jim Ochowicz. He was an ice skater turned cyclist.
I remember the interview as if it were yesterday. I paced about my bedroom for an eternity. My hands trembling so much I could barely read my notes. A shaky quiver in my voice as I read the list of questions before me, rehearsing quietly, so no one would hear me. I eventually took a deep breath, and dialed the phone.
On the other end of the line, one of those great people who make the fringe sports the paradise they are, greeted me with open arms. His patience exceeded my wildest expectations.
He took his time to explain his sport, his specialty — the team pursuit in track racing — to the finest detail. I soaked it all up, the experience and information, like an alcoholic, desperate for more and more and more.
Eventually the interview ended. I hung up the phone on a high I’ll never, ever forget. How high? I finally had the courage to call a Tasha Morris and ask her out on a date. That high.
With that memory fresh in mind, I got to my buddy Pop’s house and, as usual, checked my voicemail. I had a message to call the sports editor. I called him back.
The Orange County Register had just signed on to sponsor a bicycle race in September. It would be the final race of a three-race series that would be headlined by Greg LeMond, who would seek his third Tour de France title later that summer.
The sports editor needed someone to become an expert on bicycle racing in a hurry. Since I had done a couple of stories on cycling for Venture, the outdoors section, and a few others for the community section, I was volunteered.
I instantly pitched the idea of a weekly cycling column. He said to start one as soon as possible. The details, he said, were totally up to me.
I hung up the phone and went nuts. Alone in Pop’s house, I cranked the tunes and partied like a maniac. Never mind the fact that I knew, instinctively, that I wasn’t the first person the sports editor called.
I knew from my years of jumping on the off-beat assignments — surfing, triathlons, beach volleyball, etc. — that these were beats and stories no one else wanted. That just made me want it more.
I called Debbie with the news. I was flying by the time Pop came home. I told him the news. “What does it mean?” he asked me.
I don’t know, I told him, I just know it’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for my entire life. A beat of my own.
Over the course of the next few years I became immersed in the world of cycling. A great gang of masters racers in Orange County took me under their wings and gave me insight into the sport.
When I asked these professionals by day, racers by every other hour, why they spent so many hours on their bikes, their answer was simple: We get to eat as much as we want of whatever we want!
I learned they shave their legs because when you crash hairs work like thousands of little grappling hooks ripping your skin off.
It didn’t take long for me to start riding more, eating more and shaving my legs.
Eventually my Friday afternoon ride would be to Coronado Island to meet up with Debbie after work. Then we’d ride together on The Silver Strand, south toward Chula Vista, then back to Coronado for dinner.
For the most part The Silver Strand is a narrow piece of land that straddles San Diego Bay and the Pacific Ocean. The bike path is elevated, with ice plant smothering its steep edges.
As I learned more and more about the nuances of cycling, I couldn’t wait to share. One December I headed to Austin to meet with Ochowicz’s Motorola boys. Tom Schuler also brought his Volvo-Cannondale team.
One morning I watched the combined group ride, with the likes of Missy Giove trying to keep up with the Motorola boys. Seeing two World Champions — Giove and Lance Armstrong — riding side-by-side is etched in my memory.
When the group began a stiff climb, Giove began to slide off the back. Then a few Motorola boys slipped back, put their hands on her back, and pulled her to the front.
We rode down The Silver Strand one glorious Friday evening when I got back, and I explained to my wife the beauty and elegance of the helping hand.
As the ride wore on, Debbie began to slow a bit. I said, hey, watch this!
I put my hand on her back and pedaled at her side.
What are you doing? she asked.
Here, I’ll give you a boost!
And with that, I gave her a shove with my hand, the pride washing over me until …
Her front wheel took a quick turn to the right, instantly blasting her off the path, where her front wheel dug deep into the ice plant sending her flying over her handlebars and tumbling to a stop.
I frantically raced down to find her laughing her ass off, the spongy, soft ice plant working like pole vault pit cushion.
Don’t ever do that again, she laughed.
I never have.
Time to ride
