JOSE MACIEL: 62 miles for 62 years ... on my bike!
MACIEL: Ride turns into social occasion
| Friday, Nov 13 2009 01:57 PM
Last Updated Friday, Nov 13 2009 01:57 PM
It's 7 in the morning on Saturday, and it's cold. I'm about to ride 62 miles for my 62nd birthday. On my bicycle.
Another adventure. God help me.
The plan is simple. Start at Hart Park, go to Enos Lane, turn around and head to Lake Ming. Turn around and finish at Hart Park. Simple, but not so easy.
My son was supposed to be here from beginning to end. He got delayed coming over the Grapevine from Long Beach. We'll hook up at Yokuts Park. He's on a single speed bike -- yeah, single speed. Single speeds were what we grew up learn-
ing to ride, what we rode to deliver papers, jump curbs and pop wheelies. But as heavy and unwieldy as those were, today's single-speed bikes are what big city messengers use. Quick and light. But 62 miles? Yikes.
I take off solo. It's quickly apparent that it's just not in me today. Feeling heavy. Maybe I should just home and back to bed. Nope. Gotta forge ahead. There are people to meet along the way, friends coming out in support.
Mile three. Hit the big hill. Or it hits me, square on. I call it Jackass hill because you have to be one to schedule it so early in a ride. I make it to the top with three gears to spare. Legs a little tight. Push on. What was I thinking?
Then I get into my groove. I come around the corner at Yokuts, and David is waiting along with the wife. A quick hug and we're off, with him behind me. With a burst, he's ahead of me. I'm impressed. It's his plan to let me draft him to make it easier. He's got a big heart when it comes to these things. And younger legs.
Sixteen miles. We run into three ladies from yoga class and stop for hellos and intros. Then we're off, with me in tow. We navigate the crowds at River Walk with only one close call. We move past Allen Road, and now we're really rolling, son running interference for Dad. Making it easier. Helping. Used to be the other way around.
Twenty-two miles. We see my neighbor Barbara "Dotty" Mouser. Another quick stop. She's heading back. We forge ahead. Tons of miles to ride. No time to waste.
David is riding with hands up, stretching. I've never been able to do that. He has a backpack. I'm down to the absolute essentials, keeping it as light as possible. Now he pulls out his digital camera, holds it over his shoulder and takes a picture. Of me. Jeez, I hate a show-off, but I try a smile for the camera anyway.
Twenty-seven miles. Enos Lane. Turnaround point. Another neighbor, Paul Hanna. Ready for the trip back.
A few minutes later the yoga ladies show up, then my neighbor Rob Ellery appears with his bike in the back of a pickup. We take some pictures, eat some energy bars and off we go. Four guys on a mission. To ride like the wind. To conquer the bike path. To not embarrass ourselves.
Thirty-seven miles. We stop for what we think will be a pit stop at Finish Line Sports. But owners Alan and Gema have other thoughts: Big "Happy Birthday" banner with surprise gifts and a birthday cake. Wow. That's all I can say. And thank you. We have some snacks and drinks and I realize that my legs are starting to cool down. Been off the bike too long. Sorry to say goodbye, even sorrier to leave my cake behind. We're back at it, riding like a gentle breeze now. Legs like concrete.
We ride single file, taking turns in the front position, drafting like the pro teams. I'm wondering if we could qualify for a big race. Or even a small race. Then quickly realize the answer. But how can it get any better? Guys out on their bikes, on a perfect day. Then our first casualty.
Fifty miles. We've lost sight of Paul. Finally we see him coming around the curve. Walking. We head back and discover his bike has a rear flat. He tells us to go ahead. His wife will come for him.
Now it's down to the three of us. We jump onto Alfred Harrell Highway heading to Hart Park, up the backside of Jackass Hill. Not as steep, but longer. The downhill is exhilarating and scary. Another small hill and we're in the park.
We reach Rob's car and that's it for him. He wishes us well. It's down to two. We ride off, fingers crossed.
Father and son. A couple of crazy dudes on another adventure. We make it to the other end of the bike path, just past Lake Ming.
Turning around, we head back to my truck, where it all began that morning, past the lake, past CALM. The soccer park. Into Hart Park. We're at my truck, but four-tenths short of the magic 62. We ride in the park and finish at 62.09. High fives. Feeling smug.
Next year it'll be 63@63. But let's talk about that later. Much later. Like maybe next year. I've got a birthday cake to go back for -- in my pickup.
