HumanPoweredTransport: Why Run?

Today was the eleventh running of the LA Bike Tour, a ‘fun ride’ event preceding the LA Marathon. Since the streets are closed anyway, they open up the course to cyclists three hours before the runners’ gun goes off. You get to pedal through neighborhoods that wouldn’t usually be on your training route, like Compton. If the event is entered the straight way, you register in advance, pay a chunk of change, get assigned a number and show up at 4:30 to stand around with a bunch of other sleepy bikers, waiting for the mass start. Mass in this case means a reported fifteen thousand people, so start is a misnomer until a few miles in when the pack thins out enough to actually pedal yer rig. Now, if you wanna do the event in a slightly less ‘official’ capacity, that’s possible but frowned upon. Frown on; I didn’t want to stand around all morning so at 5, under a beautiful crescent moon, I rode over to the Bicycle Kitchen, where Chef and a bunch of other Kitchenheads were assembling a commando mission to infiltrate the event. About ten of us mustered at the padlocked gates of the new improved Kitchen. At least two had yet to sleep, choosing instead to continue their Saturday night with a hearty Sunday morning roll along the closed off streets of our fair city. I was not much further off, having pulled around three and a half hours of z’s. Of course there was a funny smell in the air as part of the group engaged in ritual, and it wasn’t just the stank of Chef’s smelly gloves. With those who choose that path of enlightenment suitably christened, we sped off on what I expected to be a course that would converge with the third or fourth mile of LA Tour. As we flew into downtown and towards USC, it became quickly apparent that the head of our snake had decided to roll right on into the mass start area. So much for infiltration tactics. Splitting into small bunches, those of us at the back of the pack hesitated before entering the fray. Vontz and I especially needed to shed what were now obviously too many layers of warm gear. We also needed to get the helmet-cam working for some video surveillance of our fellow rolleurs. Finally wired up and weather-adjusted in our attire, we picked our way through the crowd. It was apparent that no officials were checking numbers – they were busy with flats, falls and frozen cramps. Unopposed, we worked up to a decent clip and cruised it, though Chef and friends were long out of range. The sun was boiling up into the haze and another delicious California day was unfolding. By 8 we were at the finish, with bad music blaring and thousands of exhausted looking newbie’s chattering on as if they had just finished a Grande Tour. Folks wuz stoked! And that’s how it should be. We were stoked to not have been taken down by greenhorns in any of the sketchy turns along the course. By nine I was home, not really having planned to put in forty miles of riding while most of the world was still asleep, but feeling all the better for having done it. Anyone who drives to the start of a big ride in his or her hometown is a wuss, even if it is LA. Mass rides – hoo-hah.