Archive for July, 2021
Saturday Service Project Near Santa Barbara
In addition to biking, the Fuller Center ride seeks opportunities for service projects along the ride. For the weekend in Santa Barbara we did some landscaping work for a camp in the mountains that serves at-risk foster kids. We cleared leaves at the entrance of the camp using rakes and blowers. It was a welcome break from cycling, though I have to admit, I hate yard work.
Lunch on Saturday was memorable. We went to a funky barbecue place near the camp on the side of the mountain. It was a former stagecoach stop with a tavern and looked it. The road was steep and winding. We marveled at the ability of a team of horses to make it over the mountain. Then we marveled even more with the ability of a drunken stagecoach driver to get down the hill after a stop at the tavern.
Our team leader used the occasion to say goodby to one of extraordinary support people. Her departure was particularly tragic for us beer drinkers as she was the one mentioned in an earlier post who would do periodic beer runs.
Friday, Another 70 Miler to Santa Barbara
https://www.relive.cc/view/vLqe4NQY4R6
For each day’s ride, two bikers volunteer to be “sweeps,” which means they always stay behind the last rider to make sure he or she has help if they have a problem. For me, I’ve always been a bit annoyed by the sweeps, whoever the are. I’m often that last rider and I always feel pressure when I see the sweeps in my rear view mirror. It reminds me how slow I am and discourages me from stopping to take a picture. The best sweeps try to stay out of sight, but, when you’re the last rider, you always know they are there, even if I you can’t see them.
On the other hand, and in reality, the sweeps are the most self-less riders on any given day. They have offered to give up a part of their enjoyment of the ride in support of the team. They help riders with flats and other mechanical problems. Since they are prohibited from getting in front of any rider, they will wait (mostly patiently) until a riders problem is resolved and they are on their way before they proceed. And, even then, they wait a while longer so as not to pressure the rider. Finally, and maybe most significantly, they are, by definition, the last riders into the church, so their sleeping spot is whatever is leftover after ALL the riders have chosen theirs. In a big church, that may not be a problem, but in the smaller church, they could end up sleeping the middle of the floor with no access to electricity (my nightmare scenario).
That is why, when the ride leaders calls for volunteers to be sweeps when we gather in the morning, there is ALWAYS a long silent pause. Eventually, someone will say dejectedly “Aw well, I’ll sweep.”
I have managed to avoid being the sweep for the five Fuller rides I’ve been on, generally because I always feel like a relative rookie and because I like to at least have the option to jump off the ride and ride the van, if I choose. Something you can’t do as a sweep. But my streak ended today and I was recruited to be a sweep. It was considered a modest ride, 70 miles, 3,000 feet of climb. Same mileage and only a little more climbing than yesterday, so no physical excuse to decline. Fortunately, the other sweeper, who actually volunteered, is the best conversationalist on the ride. A true wit. So, I knew I would be entertained.
The ride itself had its challenges. Chief among them was mechanical. My gear shifting mechanism was misbehaving. At the end of yesterday’s ride, I was unable to get into the lowest gear. That’s a problem because low gear is my favorite gear. I have enough trouble getting up these damned hills. Having to do so in a higher than necessary gear is not fun, to say the least. The ride’s unofficial mechanic tried to help and he did improve the situation. The gear would shift eventually. But I still had to struggle to get into low gear. It was hit or miss. Most of the time it would eventually work with a lot of fiddling and diddling with the gear shift levers. At one point while I was fiddling, I drifted over the rumble strip on a highway. Not ideal, but there was little traffic. When you’re in a car, driving over a rumble strip creates a slight jostle and a buzzing sound. When you drive over a rumble strip on a bike, it rattles your teeth and it’s all you can do to remain upright. What it also does is jangle the chain and sprocket so it can help you get to low gear. It worked once. As the ride progressed, when all else failed, I tried deliberately driving over the rumble strip to switch gears. It never worked again.
One of the ways we stay on our route is that the front drivers and the support vehicles will stop and use chalk to write directions on the pavement in advance of turns. They will write an arrow to indicate which way you should go. After a very long 30 mile climb this morning, we reach the top of a hill and began our rapid descent. After a mile or so speeding down a winding road on the side of the mountain, I came around a curve with about a thousand foot drop on the right. I noticed a chalk mark with the Fuller Center initials pointing to the right….over the cliff. There’s a lot of joking around on this ride and occasionally funny messages chalked on the road. But I thought this was unfunny and possibly the most dangerous joke I’d ever seen. It wasn’t until I came around the bend that I saw the rest stop in a little clearing on the right side of the road. OK, so it was pointing to a rest stop, but still…
We’re staying at St. Michael’s Church in Santa Barbara, right next to the UC Santa Barbara campus. Clearly a totally “woke” church. Big rainbow flag and Black Lives Matter banner outside. Coolest pastor ever. More later.
Thursday’s Ride – 70 miles to Santa Maria
I’m starting to get my bike legs and into the long distance bike ride mindset, so 70 miles seems like a moderate length ride. And after yesterday’s ball buster, 2,600 feet of climbing sounds like a bump in the road. There a big hill at the beginning and one at the end. We started along the coast and then went inland through farmland. Here’s a video of the ride.
Two interesting sights along the way. I spied a flock of turkey vultures circling overhead and landing periodical on fence posts. Everyone I told this to, on the ride and off, commenting that they probably saw me as a tasty future meal. Such is the confidence people have in my riding stamina.
We also passed a vast cilantro field. The scent was intense. I stopped briefly for a video of the farmworker picking the cilantro with Mexican music blaring from a car.
The “church” was a reconditioned motel in Santa Maria, CA. The church provided us with a nice meal.
A rump group of beer drinkers gathered behind some bushes just off the property for some libations. Fuller Center rules prohibit alcohol on the church properties where we stay, so there are occasionally some creative efforts to celebrate the day’s accomplishments while complying with this rule. Sometimes there’s a bar walking distance from the church, which makes it easy. Sometimes not, which is where the creativity comes in. One our favorite support volunteers is willing to indulge the party animals and buy beer for us. I felt like a mischievous school kid.
Wednesday’s Ride – The Big One
Wednesday’s ride was the toughest day of the whole Seattle to San Diego ride. It was from Carmel to Cambria, 100 miles with 8,000 feet of climbing over Big Sur. Full disclosure: I didn’t ride the whole way. I rode the beginning and the end, skipping the middle part involving riding over multiple huge hills with literally no shoulder on the road. As they say in New Jersey, “fuggedaboudit!”
In the vernacular of cycling, this was a ball buster. The night before, even very experienced riders were anxious. I thought about the famous picture of Eisenhower visiting the troops on the eve of D-Day. I wondered what those troops were thinking. What did they talk about? Our crew taking in quiet tones about climbs, elevation, road grade, wind speed and the weather forecast. Knowing I was going to forgo the hard part, I felt like one of the guys who got to stay on the ship off the coast of Normandy. The guilt of not joining the poor bastards in the LVs who would hit the beaches was offset by the knowledge they would likely be alive at the end of the day.
Because of the long day, we started early, lights on at 4:30 am and on the road by 6:00 am. The first 25 miles, which I rode, had a few hills, was pretty pleasant. The weather was very foggy, which persisted until the last leg after Big Sur. So, there was not a lot of sightseeing. I did try to get some landscape shots at the second rest top, which was by the ocean (picture below).
Going over Big Sur I had no regrets about riding the van. The hills were long and steep and the riding treacherous. The downhills are especially scary with no shoulder because the rider has to “take the road.” Cars are bound by law to give way to bikers. Some crazy bikers do down at speed of up to 45 mph. I’m on the brakes all the way down. And, if a car pulls up behind you, all you can think of is road rage and what he might do to get around you. And what he might do on the way by. In a previous ride, a guy actually pulled into our rest stop to berate me for not getting far enough to the right, where there was sand and a steep cliff. Nope! Not doin’ that!
I also road the last 20 miles, which were a delight. Mostly by the beach, mostly flat and the fog had lifted. I went by San Simeon, the Hearst mansion and some elephant seals.
The people who road the whole way all said it wasn’t as bad as they expected. Yeah, right. But they all made it to the church. And I didn’t feel guilty at all.
Tomorrow, 70 miles to Santa Maria.
Second Day – Much Better
Day 2 was a much better day. It was 55 miles from Santa Cruz to Carmel-by-the-Sea.
Very few of the villains of day one appeared. A big chunk of the ride was through a commercial agriculture area. Vast expanses of various crops, including strawberries, avocados, lettuce and other vegetables I couldn’t recognize. The best thing about this stretch is that it was totally flat, a biker’s dream.
That said, seeing the agricultural workers in the fields bent over picking strawberries put my complaints about my aches and pains from the ride in perspective.
I’ve equipped my bike with a Bluetooth speaker that connects to my IPhone. Allows me to listen to music, as well as podcasts and audiobooks. In practice, I mostly listen to music, for motivation. One thing I learned on this ride is if you want to boost your speed, listen to Hollywood Nights by Bob Segel. When that song came on my Spotify playlist, my legs started pumping uncontrollably. Probably hit 30 mph.
Sadly, things changed for the last 2 miles. The hills returned and got even steeper than SF. I use an IPhone app that gives me turn by turn directions and, if you go off course, it emits an annoying discordant sound that causes anxiety in the rider. I was stopped at an intersection with ambiguous directions. To my left, was a very, very steep hill. Straight ahead was flat road. I said a little prayer, “Please God, don’t let it be left. Let me go straight.” I went straight, after about 50 feet, the sound came and I slumped on the bike. God does not hear the prayers of bikers, even bikers riding to provide housing for the poor. Sigh.
That was only the beginning. Twice, I had to get off the bike and walk it about 30 yards to the top of the hill. I’ve only had to do that once before on my first of five Fuller rides. It was a tough ending to a really great day. And the thing about hills is that there’s no better feeling when you clear it.
Church accommodations were nice. We had to fee ourselves and got some great local pizza.
Leaving San Francisco, First Ride Day, Brutal
If this was my first ride with the Fuller Center, it would also have been my last. It was the most raggedy start to a ride I’ve had in the five rides I’ve done. The thing about the Fuller Ride is that when it’s good (which is the vast majority of the time), it’s the best thing you’ve ever done. But when it’s bad, it’s really bad. And today was really, really bad. But having ridden before, I know tomorrow will be better and there will be many magical moments in the week ahead.
So, either settle in or bail out now. This is a long story.
Everything started OK. I’m on the breakfast team who’s job it is to make sure food is out for the riders by 6 am. ‘Lights on” is at 5;30 am and by 6 am all the riders are expected to have packed up their mattresses, sleeping bags and luggage and deposit them at the trailer by 6 am. First day is always a scramble for me. Fortunately, with my wife Rita’s help, my luggage is pretty organized, at least at the beginning of the ride. So, I was able to pack and fulfill my breakfast duties. We circled up at 7 am, discussed the days ride, a short “devotional,” and off we went. That’s when things began to go south. It would be a seventy mile ride from San Francisco to Santa Cruz. We were told there would be some hills at the beginning but would flatten out after we left San Francisco. Which was sorta true.
Within 100 feet of the church, I realized that I had forgotten to adjust my seat. Not a big deal to fix, but in the five minutes it took, I’d dropped to the back of the pack. That usually takes a few miles riding, because I try to leave early and hang with the cool kids for a little while before they get tired of my pokey pace and ride on. Less then one minute from the church and they had all ridden on.
Then things got worse.
The church we were at was on a hill. So, I imagined that the first part of the ride would be going down hill. NOT! First there was one big steep hill, followed by a turn to another big steep hill. Then there was a slight leveling followed by another big hill. There was a brief, glorious down hill stretch, followed by another big steep hill.
And then it got worse.
i was riding down another brief, glorious down hill stretch when I felt something brush past my legs. Something had clearly dropped off the bike, but a quick scan suggested it was nothing important. In fact, it was. It was the Velcro strap I was using to keep the case holding my supplemental battery pack closed. I bought the best battery pack I could find because I’m a gadget freak and the batteries in my gadget don’t last the day, Even my IPhone can’t last a long ride playing music and using GPS the whole way. This battery would be a game changer. I’d be able to suck all the power I wanted on all my gadgets.
Shortly after I felt the brush against my leg, I heard a clunk below me on the road. I looked down and saw the case had opened and the battery had fallen out. I pulled the bike over and ran back to get the battery. Cars were coming down the road at about 40 miles an hour, heading towards the battery. All I could think was, “Am I going to be luck today?” I wasn’t. Two cars rode right over the batteries, tires mashing them into the road. I still had hope. A battery is a solid block. Maybe it will survive. It didn’t. Now I have to go back into strict power management on my gadgets.
From there, the ride was a brutal slog through thick fog. I could barely see thirty yards in front of me and nothing side to side. A few more hills making my way out of San Francisco. I was exhausted and the ride was only about 2 hours into a likely 7 hour day.
Then it got better, a brief magical moment when I made a turn heading down a hill. The fog had begun to lift and there was the Pacific Ocean in all its glory. I literally yelped out loud and started pumping my fist. What followed was the best part of the ride, flat roads along the beach and the sun began peaking through the clouds.
That went on for a while and a new villain appeared on the scene. Wind. For a good part of the next few hours, I was riding into strong head winds. Sometimes it was so strong that I had to pedal in lower gears on the downhills just to keep moving. So, that sucked. Couldn’t even enjoy the downhills.
This was not the way to start a cross country ride for which your training was three or four 20 milers the previous two weeks. That’ll teach me.
Tomorrow’s ride is only 55 miles with fewer hills, destination Carmel-by-the-sea. Wednesday is 100 miles with 8,000 feet of climbing.
Sunday in San Francisco – Free Day, Armenian Mass, Lunch with Dan, Visit to the Wharf
Typically, the riders attend the service for the church that hosts us on Sundays. So, I got to attend an Armenian Orthodox service. It was something. Like going to a pre-Vatican II Catholic Mass only more inscrutable.
The pastor of the church visited the riders before the service. He was a gregarious young man, probably in this thirties. We thanked him for the hospitality and he thanked us for our social action. Turns out that Fuller Center has built some houses for the poor in Armenia.
The next time I saw him on the altar decked in full religious regalia, baby blue vestments with a tall cylindrical hat.
Short version:
The service took 2 hours, all but about 10 minutes in Armenian. The altar is old school Catholic in which the priest has his back to the congregation. And to reinforce the secondary role of the congregation as compared to the clergy, there’s a big curtain that goes across the front of the altar hiding the priest and deacons. it was done three times during the service. Who knows what was going on behind the curtain?
After Mass, I had lunch with my old pal, Dan Baxter, from FleishmanHillard. He’s the same as he always was, urbane, smart, funny and very opinionated.
I walked about 2 miles from our lunch spot to San Francisco and it was packed, really packed. Either the pandemic is over, or it’s gonna start up again….big time.
Fuller Bike Adventure – Departure
I got up at 4 am after a very restless sleep. Constantly going through checklists in my mind trying think of the thing I will inevitably forget and have an “oh shit!” Moment when I’ve discovered what‘s missing. There is a good chance that won’t happen due to Rita. She is the quintessential packer. She anticipates every need and organizes the suitcase like an Amazon where house, a place for everything and everything in it’s place. On my last ride, I (she) forgot nothing. And it took at least three days before I was able to disorganize everything she’d organized.
Another source of anxiety is the fact that there would be about five different scenarios possible on the flight to San Francisco. My current booked fight has me in economy, seat 44C, and arriving in SF at 9;30 am PDT. The earliest i can be picked up is about 1 pm.
When i booked the flight, I thought it was an off day for the ride and the van would be available when I arrived. Turns out, they will be cycling 40 miles in the morning to get to the SF Church, St. John’s Armenian Church. And, because the church where they stayed Thursday night was serving breakfast to the riders, they would not get to SF until well after noon.
I did put in for an upgrade with United but I’m number 10 on the list, so that isn’t happening. I also bid $300 to be bumped to a later flight that would get me in at 1 pm. Wouldn’t that be sweet, getting paid by United to be booked on a more convenient flight? Another plan is to hire an Uber to take me to St. John’s. Uber does offer larger vehicles, though whether it is large enough for a bike box is uncertain. I will only know when the Uber arrives.
Suffice to say, there’s a lot of different ways this could play out.
Fourth of July, 1981, A Reminiscence
When everything changed
Forty years ago, I had my first Fourth of July in Washington, DC. It was a transcendent day and marked one of the most significant turning points in my life.
I had come to Washington in January with newly elected Congressman Barney Frank. After 12 years working as a grocery clerk in the Stop & Shop Supermarket in my Boston neighborhood of Roslindale, after 8 years of bumbling my way through undergraduate college finally eking out a BA in Politics from UMass/Boston, after countless foggy nights drinking with the boys in the Roslindale Pub, I found myself sitting on the Washington Mall in the shadow of the Washington Monument in the bleachers within feet of where The Beach Boys were about to take the stage for their Fourth of July concert. I looked out over the 100,000 unfortunate souls who did not know Jim Dolan, meaning they had to watch the concert in the mud from the rain earlier in the day.
Dolan was Barney’s chief of staff and was like Milo Minderbinder from Catch-22, always scheming to get into the most exclusive events in Washington and elsewhere. Somehow, he had gotten Barney’s entire staff, including interns, backstage passes to the hottest event of the year.
I was not a fan of The Beach Boys. As a sixties rocker, I considered The Beach Boys lame and outdated. But when they began to sing “Well, east coast girls are hip I really dig those styles they wear…” I felt chills. I looked to my left and their sat Rita, my then future wife, and it was at that moment I think I fell in love. I remember it like it was yesterday. And it comes back to me whenever I hear California Girls (which is a lot). Here is an audio recording of the whole concert. I just discovered it while writing this post and it brings me to tears.
Back to Dolan who had stage-managed the day to the max. After The Beach Boys concert, we made our way to the Capitol lawn where he had secured prime real estate to watch the second big concert of the day, the National Symphony Orchestra annual Fourth of July Celebration, followed by the fireworks behind the Washington Monument.
On that day forty years ago, I was still buzzing with disbelief, not really understanding how I’d made it from Rozzie to DC. I didn’t know what lay ahead. Looking back forty years on, as amazed as I was to have gotten from Boston to Washington, I’m even more amazed today with how my life has unfolded. Still beside Rita, with two amazing kids, Danny and Bridget. Danny had the good sense to marry Kaitlyn, a life partner who has made him a better man. And Rozzie is not only my childhood neighborhood, she’s also my dog.
But, most of all this is the year of Kieran, Danny and Kaitlyn’s son and my grandson. Sitting on those bleachers 40 year ago, I could not have conceived of myself as a grandfather. I might even have been horrified at the thought. But here I am and it’s awesome in the true meaning of that overused word. I’m filled with awe to have this perfect child in my life.
As I write this, I’ve reached out to the people with whom I’m still in touch who were there that day. Mary Beth Cahill, younger than me, but was my first and best mentor. She also convinced Barney to take me to Washington with him. Patty Hamel, Barney’s first office manager, from Southie, with whom Rita and I have lived parallel lives. We were both Irish Catholics from Boston’s lower middle class neighborhoods. We were destined to be lifelong friends. Rich Gilgallon (AKA da Coach), was my drinking buddy and we’re both lucky to have survived. By the grace of God, we did. Whether we deserved to is another question. Fortunately, He is a forgiving God.
I honestly don’t know how to end this reminiscence. But in the writing, I’ve come to appreciate what really matters in life. It’s the people around you. A good life is defined by the people you love, friends and family. The fact that I can call up these friends of 40 years and we can share this memory is a true blessing for which I am enormously grateful.
And grateful doesn’t begin to capture the feeling I have about Danny, Bridget, Kaitlyn and Kieran. Each is a gift beyond measure.
So, for anyone who has read this far, forgive the schmaltz. It’s just where I’m at today. Feeling blessed.
Happy Fourth!
