Sometimes you just gotta go for it. Sunday was definitely one of those
days.
Greg and I met at his new digs, not in any hurry to get going. After a
cup of java, some map study and a little pre-ride BS, we headed up into
the San Gabriels, ready for a great day of riding.
The sky was much bluer above the prevalent marine layer/smog mix that
resides in the LA Basin. It's no wonder Drake called Santa Monica
Bay the Bay of Smokes. The temperatures from bottom to top were pretty
consistent with the usual when gaining elevation, dropping about two
degrees for every thousand feet gained. The parking area was bustling
with activity, not from the many eager outdoorsy types I expected, but
with a strange array of motorcyclists, tree-hugging hikers and a huge
gathering of neo-hippies who were engaged in some sort of new age
gathering, complete with handcrafted hippy items for sale and strange
flute music that sounded like Ian Anderson on a handful of Quaaludes.
It was all very entertaining and I'm sure the people-watching
throughout the gathering would have been as epic as our intended route
for the day.
The route was carefully hand-selected and approved by all parties in
attendance. Our initial section was intended to bypass a few miles of
very busy mountain highway. It was to be singletrack, to relatively
unused singletrack, to primitive doubletrack, to a gated/paved road.
That said, it started out on a well-used and popular singletrack route,
which was really nice as well as a perfect grade for my 2:1
singlespeed. The grade on the climb was just about as perfect for the
conditions as one could hop for. The oak-shaded sections were
especially nice, as the Sun was starting to warm things up a bit.
As the main trail took a steep turn up, our route turned into the
relatively unused singletrack. That turned out to be a bit of an
understatement, but still seemed a lot better than the prospect of an
acne-addled 20-something on an overpowered rice rocket careening into
us on the road. There was a little walking to be done and riding
in-between, but the initial part was not too bad. Things slowly but
surely worsened as we got deeper into the primitive and unkempt trail.
The almost impassable rockfalls became more frequent as did the young
yucca plants, the latter spiking us in the legs from time to time while
riding or portaging by them. Eventually, the dastardly spikes at the
end of the yucca leaves took their toll on our tires as well, rendering
our hike/ride into just a hike.
With both bikes double-flatted, we pressed on, agreeing to fix the
tires as soon as we broke free of the spiky confines riddled throughout
the chosen route. The brush was so thick in some places it pushed us
out to the edge of the sidecut, giving us only inches to make our way.
Some of the rockfalls were somewhat perilous as well, leaving us to
boulder-hop with sidehill exposure. I was glad to have the 23 pound
singlespeed and was a bit concerned for Greg because he was lugging his
5 Spot through the same stuff. We both made it out ok in due time,
especially when we recognized the flat that the primitive doubletrack
we were headed for ran across.
Once on the doubletack, it was time to find some shade and get to fixin
flats. I had one spare tube and Greg had two, so we had a good start.
Greg had a total of twelve Rema patches and I had five no-glue type
patches, so we knew we would be riding out. I suggested that we assess
the tubes to see which had the fewest holes so we didn't waste
patches on the tubes that had the most punctures. So, we began to pull
wheels off and see if we could count the spikes in our tires before and
after pulling the tubes out. The multi-pliers got a workout, being the
best tool available for pulling the dreaded spikes out. My front tire
had about six and back had about eight that were the most readily
apparent. Greg counted about eight per tire, but after running my
do-rag through the inside of the tubes, I found a few more spikes in
his tires as well as in my tires. It was the worst pincuhsioning of
bicycle tires that I have ever witnessed in my 38 years of cycling,
which that includes a few goathead patch incidents. My front tube had
only four readily apparent holes, two of which were close enough
together to use the one super-sized Rema patch, so I dropped that one
in the front wheel and put the new spare in the rear wheel. Greg
attempted to patch one of his pincushions, but was not successful, even
after using eight patches on it, so he finally conceded to dropping
both of his new spare tubes into his wheels.
Finally back on the trail, it was time to ride a little. The first bit
was on the dirt and it was really nice to be rolling again. The route
took us through what appeared to be an old CCC camp that was being used
by the forest circus for something or another. We hit a gate and
started dropping down a worn pavement road that had a strange alligator
skin pattern to it from lack of a fresh macadam cap for about the last
ten years or so. It was very cool looking...for pavement. It wasn't
long before we found ourselves back on the highway, using it to jog
over to the much anticipated singletrack drop that was the highlight of
the route. We luckily had enough shoulder to ride on and little
traffic to contend with on the road, which was a pleasant surprise.
The singletrack drop started out very steep and loose, which wasn't
much of a problem because we both run big tires (when they're not
flat). The switchbacks were very tight and we both would have had to
been completely on top of our game to clean them, so the dabs happened.
After the trail hit a fire road, it commenced with the steepness,
though not as much, but still with some very tight switchbacks. The
switchbacks weren't huge technical as much as they were tight
technical, requiring complete precision and a definite "A-Game" to
clean them. As the trail flattened out a little, the exposure
increased, though the switchbacks now opened up a bit. I stopped to
snap one photo of Greg turning a rocky and exposed corner, jumping back
on the bike and pedaling on to catch up. It didn't take long because
when I turned the corner, Greg was issuing an expletive to his rear
tire as it was flatting from another spiking, obviously caused by an
increase in yuccas this particular section.
There was no debate. It was time to wave the white flag because all we
had left was five no-glue patches and we were both now running low on
water as well. Greg walked the trip back up to the highway and I rode
here and there, gauging lines on a few of the switchbacks and even
giving a couple of them a second whirl. That was until I noticed my
front tire going a little flat, apparently from a very slow leak I
missed on the initial patch-o-rama. All that took was a quick pump-up
and hope for it to really be a very slow leak. It turned out that Greg
got spiked two more times and the no-glues were applied within a few
minutes and it was time to hit the highway for a few miles.
The highway ride was more uneventful than we could have hoped, only
getting buzzed by one car that was of course a mid-life crisis driving
a Corvette. Back at the parking lot, the Ian Anderson wannabe was
still at it, sounding like a second fistful of 'ludes had been
dropped and chased with a gallon of Ripple. Needless to say, we
skedaddled rather quickly and headed down into the haze.
Looking back, I would not have changed a thing about that ride. Sure,
it was sketchy at times, as well as a bummer that we didn't get to
ride the whole route. The fact of the matter is that we were out
there, took the chance to have an adventure, and made it out in one
piece, thanks to a combination of skill, experience and common sense.
It sure beats a typical American male Sunday of sitting n the couch,
gorging oneself and watching a bunch of overpaid athletes try to kill
each other in vain because there is too much plastic armor on any of
them to really do the job.
JD