Rolling down my driveway under dark, gray skies with a 40-degree breeze blowing right down my neck and watering my eyes even behind my fogging sunglasses, I wonder how in the hell this came to be.
I hate starting a ride cold, which any cyclist will offer as sound advice. I bundled up massively, to no avail.
Somehow the cycling gods smile upon me and reward my dedication with a sliver of sunshine slicing through for a moment of warmth. Just moments before the hail begins.
I must be a masochist, because a devious smile slices across my face.
Another day, another ride.
Looking back, I’m not convinced that I would have gotten bit so deeply by the cycling bug had I not been living in Southern California.
In fact, the trusty ’83 Trek that I rode for my first seven-mile adventure on the Pacific Coast Highway that christened a lifetime of cycling was purchased when I lived in Dubuque, Iowa.
I got inspired when I wrote a story for the newspaper about this crazy event called TOMRV, and the folks on bikes mentioned an even nuttier event called RAGBRAI.
Seriously?
TOMRV was the Tour of the Mississippi River Valley, a ride from Bettendorf to Dubuque one day, then back the next.
I caught up with some riders that year. I remember the photo that ran with the story. Some kid lying exhausted in the grass. No helmet, no cycling cleats, no shirt, and just some basketball shorts and tennies.
So I went out and forked over what was big cash back then for a bike. I took it out a few times, but just as that wasted kid learned that day, Dubuque and the Mississippi River Valley has nary a flat section of turf anywhere.
It just didn’t click then.
But in SoCal, whoa, baby, we were in.
The beauty for cyclists along the coast is Camp Pendleton. The Marine base that stretches between Oceanside and San Clemente is a key element in making great coastal rides.
You not only get to ride through parts of the base, you get to see amazing things. Like the LCAC (is this column going to be littered with acronyms? IDK?). That stands for Landing Craft Air Cushion, or the Marines hovercrafts.
You can be riding along and spot these things offshore, and then they roar onto the beach and you see that they are about the size of a small town with handfuls of Jeeps and tanks aboard.
This was way back in the day when Outside magazine ran ads on late, late night TV. I remember catching one as I was dozing off one night. Something about things you should know about the outdoors.
Living out there, well, this one particularly caught my attention. Did you know that a rattlesnake can bite you more than an hour after it dies?
Wow. That one struck fear in me. So much that I often wonder if it was an actual commercial or a nightmare.
Once again, as has happened far too often in my lifetime (and I’ve chronicled before), I find these strange connections that freak me out.
I hit the road the very next day for my Carlsbad to San Clemente ride. As I swept beneath I-5 at the north end of Camp Pendleton, I came upon — wait for it — a dead rattlesnake, about 6 feet long.
It wasn’t rotting or getting picked apart by Turkey Vultures and Ravens just yet. All I could think of was: I have no idea how long it has been dead! Could be 55 minutes, so I’ll keep my distance.
Enough of this. Now on to my best Camp Pendleton story.
There’s one stretch where you ride on an abandoned road, with Junipers and other brush surrounding you. I’ve ridden it countless times.
On this particular occasion, I turned onto the road. About 50 yards in, the bushes came to life, freaking the hell out of me.
Suddenly one of the bushes stood directly in front of me, with a huge assault rifle in one hand and the other hand holding firm to motion me to stop.
I stopped. The bush just stared at me. It didn’t say a word. Me either. A couple other bushes stood behind it. Then, I heard a roar.
Just another 50 yards ahead of me, a jet, an F-35B Lightning or AV-8B Harrier or maybe a V-22 Osprey (my best guess), made a vertical landing right about where I would be had I not be ambushed, excuse the pun.
The wash from the jet engines pelted us with sand and small gravel. The jet touched down, only momentarily, just to prove it could do it, then rose about 200 feet above and then zipped off into the heavens.
The main bush dropped its hand and motioned me to go. The other bushes disappeared into the brush. And I was on my way.
Time to ride.
