Had quite a Saturday last weekend. I had volunteered to spend the day with Ms. Muse, doing SAG duty. No we weren't reading lines for my Shakespearian debut at the Pasadena Playhouse.
"I am Spartacus!"
SAG means something completely different in the world of cycling -- Support and Gear. It was the umpteenth riding of the Summer of Love, a Century ride that took riders 104 miles from Glendale to Santa Barbara. And we were manning the station just before the Finish Line, about 15 miles south of SB.
Some of you may be asking why I was not riding. I can count the number of reasons on my left foot. There is no doubt I have the aerobic capacity for an endurance ride. Back in March, I rode 68 miles. Ms. Muse, who is not competitive in the least, did 71. The problem used to be my back, more specifically the searing pain between L5 and S1. But now it's my fat feet, which barely squeeze into EEE sneaker and have to be lubed up to get into a cement-like cycling shoe, which is about a 7 on the Mohs Hardness Scale.
So off to Rincon Beach, north of Ventura, we went. Parked the car and set along a beautiful bluff overlooking the channel. Minutes after lugging out the coolers, the folding table, the 100 lbs. of ice, fresh cut frozen fruit, and enough water to fill a Junior Olympic pool, we sat in our folding chairs awaiting the first cyclist.
Instead we were met by a petite man in khakis named Josh. He walked up to us while running his fingers over the shiny badge he had affixed to his buckle (see photo above). Since the Gestapo-like manhandling of ICE agents and the willingness of law enforcement officers to throw their weight around, I have become quite averse to these power hungry mutts. They're like Assistant Managers at Dennys who deny stragglers the right to use the restroom.
Josh gave us a warning about being too close to a Quinceanara celebration scheduled for the pavilion and wished us a good day. That is until he came back 10 minutes later with Brian, a much bigger and burlier man who was impervious to the verbal sparring provided by Ms. Muse. In no uncertain terms Brian let us know that we had to relocate to a different spot.
I played the senior card and let them assist the move 25 yards away. They dutifully schlepped all the support gear over to the US Forest Service-approved site. Nevertheless, the Trumpian/Napoleonic attitudes left a bad taste in my mouth.
But the day was early. And there were other more pleasant twists to come.
As the riders started coming in, we started handing out the sliced oranges, pre-cut bananas, iced water and protein bars. As you might expect after biking close 90 miles along California's Communist Coast, the cyclists needed a break. In other words they were in no rush to get back out there and rest their entire body weight on a narrow seat that was 2 inches wide.
And so we talked. And talked. And talked some more. No screens, no distractions, no posing or posturing, just cycling folk, many of whom we had never met before, shooting the shit, sharing shop talk about bikes and enjoying each other's company. It was as if we had rediscovered the art of conversation.
As more and more cyclists piled in, we were scampering about to keep up with the melting ice, the voracious appetites, the stories of tires going flat, being fixed and then going flat again. And sadly, there was one cyclist who went down. He had a run in with a pick up truck and had to be rushed to the hospital. As one of the two SAG people on duty, yours truly got elected to walk 1/2 mile to the site of the accident, chat with the Chippies, and fill out an incident report.
I even had a clipboard!
But the best part of the day was just about to happen. You'll be happy you stuck around for this. While walking back up the bluff, clipboard in hand, I was approached by an older man, shaped like a Weeble.
"Weebles wobble but they don't fall down."
Truth be told he was probably younger than me. I still don't have an accurate recognition nor acceptance of my own advanced years.
"Excuse me sir, do you have a minute?"
"Sure buddy what's up?"
At this point I thought he might have a question about the festive kids running around and the large families awaiting the freshly grilled tacos or maybe even a queery about the biking operation we were involved in. But he had something completely different on his mind.
"Do you know where the Nude Beach is?"
"What?"
"The Nude Beach, do you know its location?"
Those words have never been spoken to me in my entire 68 years. I still wasn't completely positive that's what he stopped me for.
"Are you pulling my leg?" I asked.
Then he shot me his puzzled-look face. And held for uncomfortably long time.
"Can't help you, pal. Good luck."
I walked away laughing to myself. Shared the encounter with Sheryl (Ms. Muse) and said, "Do I look like a nudist?"
"I don't know. What do nudists look like?"
"Not me, I hope."
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