You're Solvang

The Solvang Century Ride was November 12, 2005. How was it? It sucked, of course. It's 100 miles on a bicycle. Anything after 70 miles is pure masochism and cannot be considered "recreation," unless your idea of recreation involves numbness in the buttocks and genitals (which, to be fair, is a welcome respite from the pain of the previous 5 hours or so), nausea on bumpy poorly maintained roads (whilst hurtling downhill at 30 mph), and general fatigue.

The Santa Ynez Valley is just about the best place on earth for cycling, it must be admitted. The weather couldn't be better. The countryside filled with vineyards, fallow fields, cows, quaint as hell little towns that are pleasantly stuck somewhere in time between the allied capture of Berlin and the fall of Saigon. Solvang is not one such town, however, as it is some kind of bizarro world simulacrum Danish village with every kind of kitsch imaginable: e.g. those signs that say "Parking Reserved for _____ Only" where  "______" equals whatever Aryan ethnic identity one happens to be or imagine oneself to be. It is one of the great tourist traps of our time. Every resident has made it his or her business to grub for every last tourist dollar possible, and like in Vegas, the House always wins. It must have the most non-functional windmills of any place on earth.  Did you see Sideways? Of course you did. It's that area - the wine country in Santa Barbara County. We'd been cycling there before, but I failed to appreciate the range of meanings encompassed by the word "hilly." I mean, there's "hilly" as in the old Route 66 where it hits Glendora and San Dimas. That's kinda hilly. This area is more than kinda hilly.

So we netflixed Sideways a while ago, and apparently that movie has propelled yet another layer of bored NPR listening IFC watching yuppies into towns like Los Olivos to taste wines and make pronouncements about them in clear, confident, but moderately toned voices. Pinot Noir sales are up, Merlot down. If you saw the movie, you know why. (We tasted and bought some Pinot and Chardonnay. Yeah? well, fuck you. I don't know much but I know what I hate, and I hate getting a headache after 1 glass of Cabernet). We also ate at the Hitchin Post after the ride even though the three of us were in no condition to enjoy an expensive meal at a now-iconic and overrated restaurant. Me: left over nausea and bloating from a mild case of food poisoning before the ride and the after effects of consuming excess Cytomax and electrolyte pills. Wife: moderate case of food poisoning; still not feeling right. Boy: tired, confused, and missing his cat, his toys, and his friends at daycare, and in no mood to compromise.

The HP and several vineyards in the surrounding area have prominent "AS SEEN IN THE MOVIE SIDWEWAYS" signs. That movie, if nothing else, was a reminder that even if you stick to your shit, and do it with passion and determination, it doesn't mean that you're any good at it.  And so on to the bike ride. . .

I got a false impression of the relative difficulty in the first 60 miles: pleasant if not well-maintained roads, minimal traffic, placid scenery. The route sheet had a lot of turns that would have been easy to miss had someone not thoughtfully spraypainted arrows indicating which way to go at some key places.  A few hills of the 300-700 feet variety, but with relatively forgiving grades. Even though I was feeling lousy most of the way, what the hell, I was on the bike and there weren't many other riders around, given the laissez faire start time (anytime between 7 AM and 8:30 AM). It still beat the hell out of my desk at the office. Then after the second checkpoint, a real bastard of a long climb, about 6 miles of difficult, if not brutal switchbacks. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had done Mount Wilson (CA Hwy 2) all the way up to 5700 feet only a couple of weeks before, and although I wasn't fast, I got it done (I've never had ambitions of being a real climber . . .  climbers don't come in my size). OK, hated that, what's next. Only 10 miles of flats to another checkpoint. By now my stomach really hurting, and my legs were shot by that previous climb. Nothing to do at the next checkpoint but gobble another handful of TUMS, more advil, and get going. By the time I got into the canyon itself, climbing as fast as middle aged and spent legs would take me, which was about 3-4 mph, according to my bike computer, I was not happy. This was a 12 % or so grade, on a really crappy road. I got off and walked my bike uphill for about 100 feet or so, feeling defeated. The riders who had been following 5-10 minutes behind me the whole day caught up to me, clearly pleased with themselves saying shit like "This is what it's all about!"  Oh right, this is the fun part, isn't it? Thanks, I already get ESPN The Magazine at home. The good news, the hill summits. The bad: it's a dangerous and technical descent on a really sketchy road. But, my internal ESPN programming kicks in at that point; and even though it was hell on my stomach -- god damn, I love a fast descent. Maybe not so much at mile 90 when my body and brain are fried and my reactions are degraded, but still. Someone told me recently that I am at the age where dreams go to die (late 30s) -- I don't know. That discussion was in the context of professional aspirations. I don't really harbor "dreams" about my profession or my career - just ambitions, plans (including contingency plans) and aspirations. But dreams are the shit that ain't gonna happen just because it's not in the cards: doing Ironman, doing the Triple Crown (three double centuries in a year). It's not in the cards because I've only got the body I have, and but a precious few hours a week to ride or train. But I won't dream of doing another such ride, I'll just sign up for the Death Valley Night Ride Century next spring and hope for the best.