Morgan loves adventure. Just that down and gritty, ego-free, love of searching the unknown within himself and in the world. Here's a story he wrote about riding Wilson today, that I am posting cause he'd never post it himself. Enjoy.
Riding to the top of Mount Wilson overlooking Pasadena is always an
adventure. How can a 19 mile climb fail to be? Particularly
considering the fact that after the first half there's little sign of
humanity beyond the road you're riding on, and the final five miles
have spectacular views of the higher, eastern San Gabriel mountains
with sometimes snow-capped Mount Baldy in the center. When I rode it
towards the end of April this year, I had a little more adventure than
I'd planned on.
Towards the end of April I agreed with a friend to ride Wilson one
morning. Due to some poor planning, I awoke from five hours of sleep,
with a hangover. Nevertheless, I'd been wanting to do this ride for a
while so got ready to go. This revolved around eating a pile of
English muffins thickly covered in margarine and vegemite with a cup
of strong black coffee. As I was leaving, I called my friend. "Sorry -
I'm sick. Next week.". Should I just go back to bed, I wondered? I
decided that epic-ness outweighed beds, so set off, feeling a little
out-of-sorts, but determined to ride the mountain, and determined to
enjoy it.
The first section was hard. I had to ride up into Glendale. I got
lost. I got overtaken by some hipster kid while I was track-standing
at a light. I felt queasy. Chevy Chase, up into La Canada, was brutal.
I was really tired, despite going slower than usual. When I got to the
foot of the San Gabriels at the intersection of Angeles Crest Highway
and Foothill in La Canada I sat and ate another muffin and watched
piles of sporty looking roadies crushing up the first section of the
hill. The thing about sporty looking roadies is that they're often not
as fast as they look, but today I was wary of psychological breakdown
if I were overtaken time and again by blank-faced roadie androids. I
decided I'd try to latch onto the back of the next crew who went by.
But, no-one else seemed to be coming, so I set off. Actually, it
wasn't that hard, once I'd gotten going. And in fact, it turned out
that there was a bunch of roadies up ahead who'd presumably come in
from a side-road. I tried to catch them but they were maintaining a
pretty good pace. The first ten miles of uphill wound up into the dry,
rocky San Gabriel mountains with panoramic views of the surrounding
peaks and, behind me, back to the LA basin. Really cool. I finally
picked off one of the riders but the others were unattainable. I
dripped sweat.
Halfway to the top of Wilson, Angeles Forest Highway diverges north,
eventually descending into Palmdale after a brutal, but not visibly
steep, ascent. At that divergence there's a small ranger station, an
outhouse and a water fountain. It's located at a brief respite in the
ascent so I pulled in to stock up on water and rest. There were
probably 15 other riders there, chatting about upcoming races. They
looked thoroughly hardcore so I talked to a hiker instead and
recommended he hiked up to the top of Mt. Josephine (see bikepLAgue
#2!), as he couldn't find the hike he'd intended to do. Then when a
contingent of the roadies set off up to the top, I set off in
(moderately) hot pursuit.
No dice though, again they were marginally faster than I was. I was
doomed to deal with this mid-section alone, a remote-feeling stretch
of road winding up the base of a canyon and the site of many a Dark
Moment in my cycling past. At least I wasn't flailing as I used to on
this section. At the top of the canyon is a second branch in Angeles
Crest Highway at an intersection named Red Box; this time, however,
you veer south-east onto Mt. Wilson road, leaving the highway to
meander towards the higher eastern San Gabriels. I didn't stop, but
waved hello to a couple of roadies who were resting up there. One of
them broke off and caught up with me: "Mind if I just sit on your
tail?". "Damn, I was hoping you were going to pull ME up", I replied.
We rode together and chatted. Nice guy. He'd never ridden Wilson
before and must have been impressed by the eastern vista towards
snow-capped Mt. Baldy. It's so strange to think we were less than 20
miles by road (or probably five, as the crow flies) from the sprawl of
Los Angeles. We made good speed to the top but it wasn't easy.
He joined his riding buddies while I went for a good sit-down, water
and some plain tortillas (55 calories each; my new energy bar of
choice). The panorama can be stunning from Wilson down to Long Beach
and beyond but today, LA was draped in low clowds. Pasadena was clear
nonetheless and the abrupt escarpement of the San Gabriels as they
drop off down into Pasadena is spectacular.
It was then that my roadie ride transitioned into an adventure of
meeting people, and having to think on my feet.
First, a couple of guys, probably in their early 60's, drove up and
strolled over. We chatted. They turned out to be genuine, great
people. And incredibly knowledgeable of California. One was British,
on a regular visit to his American in-laws, of whom the other was one.
They knew the Californian mountain ranges intimately: the San
Bernardinos, San Gabriels, San Jacintos, Sierra Nevada. We talked of
Lassen and Mt. Shasta. They knew Death Valley and the geography of the
LA basin. They'd climbed Mt. Whitney and were familiar with the John
Muir Trail in the high Sierras and had driven hitch-hiking Pacific
Crest Trail hikers into towns. Inspiring. In hindsight though, it was
ironic that we talked about hitch-hiking.
They resolved to move on to look around the Wilson observatory site
and I resolved to go home for a shower and more thick black coffee so
we bid each other a happy farewell and set off in our separate
directions. I was happy to find the bicycle easy beneath my feet and
braced myself for the cold first section of the descent. I'd spotted
patches of snow on the edge of the road towards the top. However,
after a mile of brisk descent, a sharp POP! rang out, and my bike
became difficult to control. I hit the brakes; a corner lay ahead and
I wondered if I'd had a flat. If so, the corner might be hard to
negotiate at 30 miles an hour.
But I managed to pull the bike to a stop without falling. Check both
tyres. Front: fine. Back: fine. Hmmm. Spokes, then? I got off my bike
and checked my spokes. Ah. My fancy borrowed rear Ksyrium wheel with
it's flattened spokes and deep rim had lost a spoke and, with only 20
or so spokes, had gone pear shaped. Literally. So, what now? I tried
loosening my brakes; the wheel was probably wobbly by over a
centimeter, so that wouldn't work. How about remove the brakes
entirely? Unfortunatley I didn't have an allen wrench with me and
anyway, the wheel was so out of alignment that it was rubbing against
the chain stay. Re-true? Well, it needed a proprietary tool which I
didn't have, and the remaining spokes were too tight to adjust by
hand. Break another spoke so as to even up the alignment? If you like
the idea of sawing off your arm when it gets trapped under a boulder
then that's cool, but that option seemed hard, unclear as to whether
it'd even work, potentially expensive, and it worried me that that'd
set off a chain-reaction of broken spokes, leaving me with a hub
unconnected to a rim. I realised that there was no way I'd be able to
ride the bike - it'd either be a hitch-hike down to town, or walk. As
walking was assured, I decided to start off with that option. It was
probably around midday and I figured I could walk the ~18 miles down
to La Canada in six or seven hours. Good job I was wearing running
shoes instead of "proper" cycling shoes.
However, after I'd covered a few steps, a pick-up truck came around
the corner from the observatory and promptly stopped when I stuck my
thumb out. Yes! I threw my bike in the back and jumped in the cab, a
little self-conscious about wearing spandex, but relieved to have a
ride. The driver was a jovial construction worker who'd had a job up
at the observatory in the morning. For the second time in the day I
was inspired, not only by the ease with which I'd got a ride, but by
the story he told me about getting up to the observatory for 5am this
morning, hours before his job started, to walk along some trails and
see the sun rise. Amazing. We drove down the road chatting. I joked
that I'd been cheated of the fun downhill after all the effort
involved in getting to the top. It would have been difficult to
describe that I enjoy the uphill, not the downhill, to a non-cyclist.
As we got closer to La Canada, my ride asked me where I was going. I
replied "Downtown LA". He offered to drop me at a Gold line station
which I happily accepted. He dropped me at the Mission station where I
got a train into LA.
Now all that remained was to walk half a mile to a bus-stop and catch
a bus home. I walked over and sat at the stop. A guy on a mountain
bike rode by and asked if I needed anything. As I figured he wouldn't
have any replacement Ksyrium spokes on his person, shouted, "fine,
thanks!". Then a woman came out of the restaurant next to the bus
stop. It turned out that she raced at the velodrome and knew some
friends, including the owner of my fancy, self-destructing wheel. It's
a small world.
And then, the bus came.
I ate a lot of pasta when I got home, and was grateful. An adventure
of scenery, sweat, people, generosity, and luck.
Riding to the top of Mount Wilson overlooking Pasadena is always an
adventure. How can a 19 mile climb fail to be? Particularly
considering the fact that after the first half there's little sign of
humanity beyond the road you're riding on, and the final five miles
have spectacular views of the higher, eastern San Gabriel mountains
with sometimes snow-capped Mount Baldy in the center. When I rode it
towards the end of April this year, I had a little more adventure than
I'd planned on.
Towards the end of April I agreed with a friend to ride Wilson one
morning. Due to some poor planning, I awoke from five hours of sleep,
with a hangover. Nevertheless, I'd been wanting to do this ride for a
while so got ready to go. This revolved around eating a pile of
English muffins thickly covered in margarine and vegemite with a cup
of strong black coffee. As I was leaving, I called my friend. "Sorry -
I'm sick. Next week.". Should I just go back to bed, I wondered? I
decided that epic-ness outweighed beds, so set off, feeling a little
out-of-sorts, but determined to ride the mountain, and determined to
enjoy it.
The first section was hard. I had to ride up into Glendale. I got
lost. I got overtaken by some hipster kid while I was track-standing
at a light. I felt queasy. Chevy Chase, up into La Canada, was brutal.
I was really tired, despite going slower than usual. When I got to the
foot of the San Gabriels at the intersection of Angeles Crest Highway
and Foothill in La Canada I sat and ate another muffin and watched
piles of sporty looking roadies crushing up the first section of the
hill. The thing about sporty looking roadies is that they're often not
as fast as they look, but today I was wary of psychological breakdown
if I were overtaken time and again by blank-faced roadie androids. I
decided I'd try to latch onto the back of the next crew who went by.
But, no-one else seemed to be coming, so I set off. Actually, it
wasn't that hard, once I'd gotten going. And in fact, it turned out
that there was a bunch of roadies up ahead who'd presumably come in
from a side-road. I tried to catch them but they were maintaining a
pretty good pace. The first ten miles of uphill wound up into the dry,
rocky San Gabriel mountains with panoramic views of the surrounding
peaks and, behind me, back to the LA basin. Really cool. I finally
picked off one of the riders but the others were unattainable. I
dripped sweat.
Halfway to the top of Wilson, Angeles Forest Highway diverges north,
eventually descending into Palmdale after a brutal, but not visibly
steep, ascent. At that divergence there's a small ranger station, an
outhouse and a water fountain. It's located at a brief respite in the
ascent so I pulled in to stock up on water and rest. There were
probably 15 other riders there, chatting about upcoming races. They
looked thoroughly hardcore so I talked to a hiker instead and
recommended he hiked up to the top of Mt. Josephine (see bikepLAgue
#2!), as he couldn't find the hike he'd intended to do. Then when a
contingent of the roadies set off up to the top, I set off in
(moderately) hot pursuit.
No dice though, again they were marginally faster than I was. I was
doomed to deal with this mid-section alone, a remote-feeling stretch
of road winding up the base of a canyon and the site of many a Dark
Moment in my cycling past. At least I wasn't flailing as I used to on
this section. At the top of the canyon is a second branch in Angeles
Crest Highway at an intersection named Red Box; this time, however,
you veer south-east onto Mt. Wilson road, leaving the highway to
meander towards the higher eastern San Gabriels. I didn't stop, but
waved hello to a couple of roadies who were resting up there. One of
them broke off and caught up with me: "Mind if I just sit on your
tail?". "Damn, I was hoping you were going to pull ME up", I replied.
We rode together and chatted. Nice guy. He'd never ridden Wilson
before and must have been impressed by the eastern vista towards
snow-capped Mt. Baldy. It's so strange to think we were less than 20
miles by road (or probably five, as the crow flies) from the sprawl of
Los Angeles. We made good speed to the top but it wasn't easy.
He joined his riding buddies while I went for a good sit-down, water
and some plain tortillas (55 calories each; my new energy bar of
choice). The panorama can be stunning from Wilson down to Long Beach
and beyond but today, LA was draped in low clowds. Pasadena was clear
nonetheless and the abrupt escarpement of the San Gabriels as they
drop off down into Pasadena is spectacular.
It was then that my roadie ride transitioned into an adventure of
meeting people, and having to think on my feet.
First, a couple of guys, probably in their early 60's, drove up and
strolled over. We chatted. They turned out to be genuine, great
people. And incredibly knowledgeable of California. One was British,
on a regular visit to his American in-laws, of whom the other was one.
They knew the Californian mountain ranges intimately: the San
Bernardinos, San Gabriels, San Jacintos, Sierra Nevada. We talked of
Lassen and Mt. Shasta. They knew Death Valley and the geography of the
LA basin. They'd climbed Mt. Whitney and were familiar with the John
Muir Trail in the high Sierras and had driven hitch-hiking Pacific
Crest Trail hikers into towns. Inspiring. In hindsight though, it was
ironic that we talked about hitch-hiking.
They resolved to move on to look around the Wilson observatory site
and I resolved to go home for a shower and more thick black coffee so
we bid each other a happy farewell and set off in our separate
directions. I was happy to find the bicycle easy beneath my feet and
braced myself for the cold first section of the descent. I'd spotted
patches of snow on the edge of the road towards the top. However,
after a mile of brisk descent, a sharp POP! rang out, and my bike
became difficult to control. I hit the brakes; a corner lay ahead and
I wondered if I'd had a flat. If so, the corner might be hard to
negotiate at 30 miles an hour.
But I managed to pull the bike to a stop without falling. Check both
tyres. Front: fine. Back: fine. Hmmm. Spokes, then? I got off my bike
and checked my spokes. Ah. My fancy borrowed rear Ksyrium wheel with
it's flattened spokes and deep rim had lost a spoke and, with only 20
or so spokes, had gone pear shaped. Literally. So, what now? I tried
loosening my brakes; the wheel was probably wobbly by over a
centimeter, so that wouldn't work. How about remove the brakes
entirely? Unfortunatley I didn't have an allen wrench with me and
anyway, the wheel was so out of alignment that it was rubbing against
the chain stay. Re-true? Well, it needed a proprietary tool which I
didn't have, and the remaining spokes were too tight to adjust by
hand. Break another spoke so as to even up the alignment? If you like
the idea of sawing off your arm when it gets trapped under a boulder
then that's cool, but that option seemed hard, unclear as to whether
it'd even work, potentially expensive, and it worried me that that'd
set off a chain-reaction of broken spokes, leaving me with a hub
unconnected to a rim. I realised that there was no way I'd be able to
ride the bike - it'd either be a hitch-hike down to town, or walk. As
walking was assured, I decided to start off with that option. It was
probably around midday and I figured I could walk the ~18 miles down
to La Canada in six or seven hours. Good job I was wearing running
shoes instead of "proper" cycling shoes.
However, after I'd covered a few steps, a pick-up truck came around
the corner from the observatory and promptly stopped when I stuck my
thumb out. Yes! I threw my bike in the back and jumped in the cab, a
little self-conscious about wearing spandex, but relieved to have a
ride. The driver was a jovial construction worker who'd had a job up
at the observatory in the morning. For the second time in the day I
was inspired, not only by the ease with which I'd got a ride, but by
the story he told me about getting up to the observatory for 5am this
morning, hours before his job started, to walk along some trails and
see the sun rise. Amazing. We drove down the road chatting. I joked
that I'd been cheated of the fun downhill after all the effort
involved in getting to the top. It would have been difficult to
describe that I enjoy the uphill, not the downhill, to a non-cyclist.
As we got closer to La Canada, my ride asked me where I was going. I
replied "Downtown LA". He offered to drop me at a Gold line station
which I happily accepted. He dropped me at the Mission station where I
got a train into LA.
Now all that remained was to walk half a mile to a bus-stop and catch
a bus home. I walked over and sat at the stop. A guy on a mountain
bike rode by and asked if I needed anything. As I figured he wouldn't
have any replacement Ksyrium spokes on his person, shouted, "fine,
thanks!". Then a woman came out of the restaurant next to the bus
stop. It turned out that she raced at the velodrome and knew some
friends, including the owner of my fancy, self-destructing wheel. It's
a small world.
And then, the bus came.
I ate a lot of pasta when I got home, and was grateful. An adventure
of scenery, sweat, people, generosity, and luck.
