I WORE NO HELMET

Riding a bike along Pacific Coast Highway.  There are many cities you pass through.  There are many people you see.  Some cities slant upward the entire way.  Others are split tirelessly by stoplights and liquor stores.  In Wilmington, with the sun effortlessly slapping the top of my, for once in my life, blonde head I was forced to pull over and buy a sunhat.  The hat merchant was affable and nitwitted but only in the book sense.  As I continued on into Lomita, the women's sunglasses and sunhat began to draw, noticeably, more attention....that, and the beautiful townie bicycle I was riding - straight from Costco, no less.  The light was red, I was stopped, two men, two rather large men, approached.  One flaunted his lone gold tooth like it was a prize - it probably was.  The other made a point to lift his shirt and show me his boxer briefs...and, of course, the spot where his pistol should have been.   "Nice bike over there," the gold-toothed phenom hissed, nodding his head like a schizophrenic bobble head.  They inched closer. My gaze cemented straight ahead.  As they ventured into arm's reach, the light miraculously changed to green.  Click...click...click....not to worry. It was only the sound of me switching gears. Seven gears to be exact and I used every one of them....except the first one....and the second....I used 3,4,5,6,7, though.  Mainly, the seventh gear was where I took my lashes.  
 
I crossed over too many freeway entrances, and narrowly out-pedaled looming big rigs merging onto the 1 from their respective off ramps.  The smoke stacks and the train tracks and bums on crack were all beautiful. The river, when I got the chance, was toxically serene - I regret not tossing a line when I had the chance.  The many fleets of aggressive cyclists were inspiring, but, concurrently embarrassing - I came to despise them and their expensive gear.   The last leg was the most excruciating, for I was, as they say, running on empty.  Cramps and merciless, dehydrated thoughts slowed me down, but I never strayed from the path.   The worst part of the journey was the endless amount of time - time spent alone with my thoughts.  There was no music, there was no conversation. Just the voice in my head and road.   In every new city, I thought about turning around - even in Marina Del Rey I thought about turning around. Not so much in a realistic way, but in a kind of sick, tormenting way.  60 miles and 5 1/2  hours later I arrived at my destination in Santa Monica, California.  I do regret a thing.  On a whim, with nothing more than the clothes I wore to a sushi lunch with my mother, I rode my bicycle, actually, my father's bicycle, to Santa Monica.  I felt good.  Almost great.  Depleted - a tad, but not for long.   Next, San Francisco...I will need a gang for this one.  


There are other things I wanted to say, but I fear I've made the mistake of waiting too long.