CLOSE CALLS & GOOD FRIENDS

Adam Lasky is one of the good ones, a nice guy. Big heart to go along with his big shadow… all Long Island and shit... funny. So when he texts, "You want to do a nice long ride on Father's Day, like last year?" you say, “Absolutely.”.

For readers of our regular exploits on bikes, you may recall the "Pepper Spray Incident" from last year’s Father’s Day ride, when Dr. Dan took a glancing blow of capsaicin for the team. Thinking that the rough start to that outing may have been due to a serious lack of estrogen, we decided to make this year's trip coed.

The texts flew. We discussed routes, the capacity of the Helen's Sprinter Van, and programs at this summer's Hollywood Bowl Concert Series (Hey, it wasn't all about the trip).

At the end of the back and forth, there was a solid lineup of strong cyclists, 7 guys and 3 girls, darned good folks, all.

Joe Lang, Joel Russak, Kristen Cisneros, Ann McCamey, Adam Lasky, Robert Simon, Kelly Maxwell Haer and her brother Tyler Maxwell, Scott Foster and me.

The meet up was at Chez Dillman at 7:30am, rolling at 8. Adam Eramo, a skinny child-friend of Adam’s, would pilot the Helen’s Van ahead to our destination, Balboa Island, 70 miles away. His copilot, introduced as “Nick, from D.C.” completed the driving duo that could easily be cast in “Dude where’s my car? 2”.

We rolled a few minutes late on a coastal course headed south. Little did we know, as we settled into a sweet rhythm, that this would be a day of close calls and some bad luck.

The shit started when we entered the outskirts of San Pedro, flying down a steep roller just short of 30 miles per hour. Some future Darwin Award winning skateboarder came down a perpendicular street, off to our left, matching our speed and not planning on stopping for the red light. We all grabbed up as much brakes as we could and the guy managed to alert his teeny brain and get off the board without being flattened by Lasky, who was on the front.

Next, as we left a light about 5 miles later, a fuzzy little terrier crossed the street in front of us. We avoided him and there were screams all around as he headed straight for an Escalade, bounced off the front tire, rolled past the rear tire, righted himself, and scooted around the back through traffic, to the other side of the road.

Then Adam had a front tire puncture. 

No sooner had we locked back into a good pace, moving through the Port of Los Angeles area, when we encountered a series of railroad tracks just north of the Vincent Thomas Bridge. I think I was riding next to Kelly and said something to her like, “Oh, this isn’t good”. The pavement around the tracks was shitty, there was a ton of sand and gravel, and the rails cut across the road at a hard diagonal. Scott got it wrong and went down. A bloody knee, a nasty road-rashed hip, and a good dose of embarrassment. Good news: it was on the left side, so no drivetrain damage. 

We all hung out for a few and talked about our own crashes, to try to make Scott feel better while he took stock and hammered his brake levers back into place. 

We were up and on our way along the beach path in Long Beach, when another canine decided to try its luck at spoke roulette. Brakes squealed, tires skidded, handlebars flicked left and right, and again, the mutt in question lived to tell the tale. And nary a steed was scratched. 

Joe “Freight Train” Lang had been crushing it on the front for most of the day, when he wasn’t trying to talk me into buying a boat for him to live on. But as we closed in on the last 15 miles, he cranked it up a notch or two. I think the boy was hungry… we did pass an “In and Out”, his favorite restaurant, which was even more impetus.

By the time we reached Balboa Island, the miles, headwind, and near disasters had taken their toll on our salivary glands and the only remedy came in the form of 24 ounce IPAs. Lunch was unremarkable, simply fuel to fill the void. After, we stopped for a pee in the parking lot of a liquor store and, as if we needed it, a six pack and a few Jameson miniatures for the trip home in the Sprinter.

Yeah, it may have had something to do with the alcohol, but we had such a great time laughing, telling stories, and showing pictures in the van while the music blared. Watching Kristen, a sweetheart of a human being with an infectious, phosphorescent smile, dancing in the middle seat (while sitting down), was worth the whole trip. 

So much of the joy we were experiencing comes from our shared exploits on two wheels; adventures that are unique to our chosen way of hurtling through spaces while demanding so much of our bodies and minds. 

Thank you, Adam, for putting it all together and adding new names to my list of cycling friends. And Kristen for adding to the pictures.

I can’t wait for the next one.