Today the California Supreme Court announced its – frankly – embarrassing decision to uphold Proposition 8 and the 18,000 marriages completed during the “Rainbow Window.” Except for Justice Carlos Moreno, who dissented, it really feels like the rest of them simply tucked their tails between their legs, resulting in disappointment and confusion. They are certainly going to look foolish in the history books.

There is supposed to be some major movement across the city tonight, and while I may question the intentions and success of these marches, I do agree with the following from Stop8.org.

On Saturday I rode to my parents’ house in Moorpark, tacking on almost every bike path in Los Angeles for my eighty mile training ride. I never knew that the valley was so accommodating toward cyclists, featuring a pretty idyllic concrete Class I bike path along Chandler. It was a trip to cross from Los Angeles through the valley, up the Santa Susana Pass into Simi Valley, and then trudge up Tierra Rejada in a headwind.

My rolling time was six and a half hours, but with stops and breaks, it took me eight hours to reach my destination, and I actually ended up doing eighty-three miles total. I took the first thirty miles slowly, to warm up and conserve energy. I took three major breaks: one at thirty miles, another at fifty miles, and my final break at sixty miles. I ate one Clif Bar at each break, with lots of water and Gatorade in-between. I refueled between major breaks with Clif Gel packs. I started my ride with a beer, half a Clif Bar, some stretching, and a big pasta and beer dinner the night before. I stretched again at sixty miles and stretched again when I got to Moorpark. The most challenging part of the ride was my final ten miles on Tierra Rejada. The road gently rises and falls, but I battled a headwind the entire stretch, so even coasting on a downhill brought me little relief. Upon reaching the house, I consumed my favorite post-ride feast: a medium Hawaiian style pizza and a couple of bottles of Corona. I then slept for twelve hours.

But I made it, completely by my own human power, and without socks. The century itself should be a cinch, so long as I rest and ride, hydrate and nourish consistently up until then.

It was truly an achievement of physical and mental strength, and the spiritual experience was not unlike crossing a desert on a horse with no name. I went to places I had never seen before, and sometimes I rode with other cyclists and sometimes I was a lone wolf crossing a stretch of quiet residential streets. I had no idea that just the city of Los Angeles offers such a diverse range of environments, and I was often treated to the sweet fragrances of flowers in bloom – something I would have totally missed in a car. Once my body and my bicycle fell into a rhythm, I fell into a deep meditation. The profound simplicity of cycling brings peace to the soul and clarity to the mind…there is, after all, only one thing to do: pedal.

Photo courtesy of my dad.

I have to credit the success of my ride to my first mountain bike ride on the Thursday before! I met up with Adam the Lizard and we rode up into the Hollywood Hills. He basically pushed me over the edge of a cliff and told me to “Figure it out.” No, I’m kidding, but I was up for a challenge, so we tried a harder trail, and after successively eating it about four times, I lost my faith in my bike, and we decided to try an easier descent. Despite the massive bruises I am sporting all over my legs, I am definitely hooked. I had never done anything like that in my life, and it was awesome to be out in nature on my bicycle only a few miles from home. I came home to a Corona and found myself practicing my turns and wishing for a dirt road on my ride to work the next day.

Something unexpected happened this Memorial Day weekend, and I dare not say more should my wish come true. I can tell you it’s the kind of thing that makes a person do some writing.

Strolling along the beach, I expected no one else, so I was surprised to find him there.

The sky was blue and the water caressed the shore with a steady roar. A joint stuck out behind his ear as he sat on a beached log and attended to the front brakes of his red bicycle.

I sat down next to him.

“I thought we were over this?”

“We are. It’s different now. We can come here whenever we want to. We’re not trapped.”

“Why did you come today?”

“I just wanted to tell you that it was fun to work on my bicycle with you yesterday.”

“Yeah, I had a lot of fun too. And I’m glad we were able to fix the problem. It was like…you know, it was like you’d never left.”

“I know.”

“I’m never going to understand this. It’s never going to make any sense.”

“I’m not going to try to understand. I’m just going to be glad to have you in my life.”

He looked up at me and we exchanged a smile. He pulled the joint out from behind his ear and lit it. He handed it to me.

“I just wish we had been into bikes back when…back when, well, you know what.”

“Maybe the bicycle will save us now.”

“Can we be saved?”

“I think only the bicycle knows.”

He gestured to the bicycle. It was a steel lugged metallic-red road bike with exposed drop handlebars from the early eighties.

It glistened in the sunlight, glowing with that sense of gleeful potential that all bicycles possess.

Writing May 25 2009