In Part I the author introduces his subject, details a comical event, and laments a loss...
An Epic Begins...Unepicly
The alarm sounded at 0530, waking me from a decent sleep. It was to be a big day in the saddle, so I wanted a solid breakfast. And I needed to have time to digest prior to my planned 0630 departure.
Adventure! I had a long day ahead of me in NorCal .
I stumbled out of bed and made myself an instant oatmeal breakfast with dried cranberries, nuts, and chocolate. I cleverly had forgotten a bowl or spoon, so I broke my fast using a plastic fork, eating out of a paper coffee cup.
Inelegant, but workable.
I spent the next hour eating, drinking a liter of water, and studying the Marin County map. I burned the route into my mind, knowing that once I was on the road I would need the ready reference to inform decisions. Like all great plans, a long ride (such as this one) can change at any time for any number of reasons. As I scanned the map, I filed away several route combinatons, paying special attention to altitude references.
I am comfortable with distances, but when I looked at several miles-long climbs, I knew that I was out of my ken. I needed to know where I could bail on the routes!
I stuffed my backpack with an apple, a few Clif Bars, Hoot and Mousie, a camera, the map, and a few other necessities. In truth, I really did not want a backpack, but there was too much about this ride that was unknown, and I needed something to carry the layers I would shed when it got warmer (and the route turned upward).
Knee and arm warmers, merino base layer, sportwool jersey, softshell gilet, and a lightweight shell shielded me from the cold (it was 45 degrees at the start) as I hit Market and the Embarcadero on my way to the Golden Gate Bridge. I was without gloves, however, as I lost them the previous day (most likely at Trader Joe's in North Beach). My bare hands felt odd on the bars, something between uncomfortable and unnatural. It was an unwelcome distraction, considering the descents that I would face on the day.
What goes up...and all that...wheeeeee!
Hitting the Road
No one was on the road as San Francisco slumbered. Sunday dawned cold and misty, a typical San Francisco day. The false dawn lightened the sky as the cool, wet morning air flowed past me. The filtered morning twilight cast everything in its bluish glow, making a dreamscape of the bridge approach.
The Golden Gate stands sentry in the false dawn light.
This is the view of the road as I approached the bridge.
Everything was a little blurry!
A Policeman shocked me into awareness, just as I was about to turn onto the final approach to the bridge's western path.
Half-asleep, I fell over.
It was one of those slow-motion falls, where you make eye contact with the other person and proceed to shrug as gravity claims another victim. So surprised by the officer's arrival into my reverie, I simply forgot to unclip from my pedals.
Falling over in front of a policeman...bad form.
I was mortified.
Hastily, I got up, scraping my fingers across the glass-strewn gravel as I tried to recover my composure.
The policeman explained that the western path was closed, due to a 12k run that was scheduled to start within the hour. He asked if I was ok. I told him I was fine, thanks, I just bruised my pride.
"You sure you're ok?" he asked earnestly.
"I'm fine, thanks, good to go," I declared over my shoulder as I headed for the parking lot near the entry to the eastern path.
Brave Warrior Needs...Band Aid?
I reached the lot and saw a number of cyclists. The locals were gathering for their Sunday morning group rides. Good sign.
I smiled and said "hi!" as I rode by. One called after me, "Are you ok?"
I kept riding and noticed that my right hand was sweating profusely, and that my grip was...odd. Looking down, I was shocked at the sight. My hand was covered—and I mean covered in blood. Gobsmacked, I stared at my hand like it was an alien...thing. What happened?
I pulled over just as I crossed onto the bridge and examined the damage. Apparently I had cut off a chunk of my index fingertip. I also had a tick-sized blood blister on my thumb. Charming.
And I was bleeding...really bleeding. I learned something: when you're well-hydrated and have a steady heart rate over 130 bpm, you don't stop bleeding. It gets ugly, quickly. Not threatening, just ugly.
Wonderful.
Meanwhile, somewhere in North Beach there's a homeless guy wearing my well-loved, black, fifteen-year-old bike gloves.
...on to Part II, "Sunday, Bloody Sunday"...
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