CRASH THE MARATHON
I’m pretty sure what time it is, but not certain as to which day we’re currently enjoying, and this has everything to do with having participated in the Crash the Marathon ride Saturday nigh… wait, early Sunday.
For those not familiar, back in 2010 bicycle activist Don Ward, also known as Roadblock, organized a renegade bike ride along the L.A. Marathon route, in the wee hours before the race started. Called the Wolfpack Hustle Marathon Crash Race, the ride was illegal, though no one ever was arrested. The city eventually become more tolerant of it over the years, and now condones and supports it.
When invited to join in on the fun, you must first realize that it will be early. And not film set call time or fishing early, this shit is so early that staying up to participate just might be the best strategy, especially if you’re a west sider.
Spending half a day riding up in the local Santa Monica mountains for Helen’s Cycles probably wasn’t the best warmup for a ride that starts at 4am, but paying attention to calendars is not one of my strengths.The feeder ride, from the west side, would meet at DK’s Donuts & Bakery (their spelling, not mine) for a 2:30 am leave. I left Chez Dillman around 2:10 in order to get there early enough to hook up with fellow big fucks and partners in crime, Joe Lang and Chase Wightman, and to down a couple mini fritters.
It was cold. Straight up.
Now, folks like John Breakey and Laurie Grimmelsman, my friends who routinely wear 7 or 8 layers in the bleak Delaware winters, would laugh at how pussified we are, but contextual cold is cold.
We rolled precisely at 2:30 headed for downtown along Santa Monica Boulevard. The ride brings out a variety of souls, and our feeder ride peloton was no exception. There were all kinds of riders from serious roadies to folks wired up, like a suburban Christmas, with lights on their bikes and bodies.
Chase discovered that he had a puncture before we left the parking lot, so that left me, Joe, and Cara and Andy on their tandem, to represent Helen's as we rolled out. Coursing through the black morning the big topic was how warm Joe’s booties were. Which didn’t help much to keep my mind off how cold my toes were (gotta take advantage of that end of season Capo sale). The group was a bit rough around the edges, so the slow roll took the better part of an hour to get to the starting meet up at Tang’s Donuts (their spelling, not mine) in Silverlake.
That gave us half an hour to get colder while all the really crazy people turned up. Fixies, mountain bikes, low-riders, beach cruisers, recumbents, boom boxes blasting latin tunes, lights spinning on spokes and flashing on bodies… it’s quite something to see. My personal hero was a young man rolling in with a group while casually standing with one foot on the saddle and one on the bars of a hybrid. And not like he was on a surfboard trying to keep his balance, he may as well have been waiting on a bus.
The start was a bit hectic, as you might imagine, there’s no real universal method to the lines with so many levels of cyclists flung together in a relatively small space. Once the group is basically sorted, the best strategy is to make your way to a spot just off the front, ahead of the wheeliers and fixies braking by flicking sideways, and far enough back of the police motorcycles that you don’t get blinded by the flashing lights.
Rolling through the heart of tourist Hollywood was fun. The pace was around 16-18 and everyone was in a festive mood. A couple of cars were somehow inside the barriers and they were swallowed up like a rented Vauxhall surrounded by sheep in a Scottish moor. The passengers, giggling and wide-eyed, shot vertical video (please don’t do this) of the crazy parade.
Joe and I noticed that Chase was moving up as the shouting, ragged, jangly train made its way through West Hollywood. Knowing that the turn at Chateau Marmont begins the drop toward Santa Monica Boulevard, we pushed up to join him. By now the revelers were starting to separate from the Lycra-clad riders. The rollers heading west on Santa Monica started to claim victim after victim as the pace headed well north of 25 miles per hour. I was really starting feel the pain just before we peaked at Century Park East. I remembered from last year that this point started the hardest part of the ride, but was manageable because the rollers are nicely paced.
Even possessing that knowledge, the next section, the short leg of Sepulveda and onto Wilshire hurt like a bitch. Once over the peak at Bonsall, the speed really picked up as we swung into the easy turn onto San Vicente and the run home. To those in the know, the last significant hill is the stretch from Wilshire to 26th Street. Somewhere around this point, the police decided to fall off and let the race begin. It’s also where the speed cranked up to around 30 and the lead group splintered, paring down from 25 to 15.
The downhill at 26th street started the best part of the action. The two-wide, bumping, sawing pace line started to sort itself into a single. Guys were shouting orders and warnings as a couple of riders tried short breakaways. Just east of 14th Street Colton Miller pushed ahead but was pulled back by Cristian Martinez and Chase Wightman by 11th Street. Right about here was when Joe made a move and I got on his wheel. Goddamn, it’s nice being behind a big bastard who is a brute force, and fast, 35.3, according to Strava.
Chase took a breakaway at 7th and held until 4th street. Knowing we were close to the last leg, I made my move. Chase, Cristian, Colton and I went into the final turn, flying. Remembering a YouTube video of Rahsaan Bahati’s, I stayed on the pedals instead of coasting through the turn. The run to the finish felt more like a friendly competition than a true push to the line. Colton and Chase (much stronger than me) clearly let up around Palisades, because I went by them as we rolled into the turn onto Montana. Cristian jokingly punched the air as he went across first, it was 4:57 am.
The slow roll down Montana to 7th felt amazing and weird. This was the apocalypse and we were its survivors. It wasn’t until we all started gathering at the Starbucks that I discovered who else had been in the fray. Reese Sylvestor and Brian Perkins had been right there among the leaders. Those two guys could take me on Pee Wee Herman’s bike, but it still felt awesome to be a part of such silly outing and its thrilling finish.
I learned later that I somehow got the Strava KOM (King of the Mountain) all time record for the last two sprints. So, I get to hold on to that sucker for a whole year.