LA Wheelmen II

As we speed back over familiar streets, I can see we're bound for the canyons - the only question is which one? If it's Benedict, I'll be in luck. But it's not. It's the Cahuenga Pass. Initially (I remember this as a driver) it parallels the 101 Freeway, then it branches off Southwest to Mulholland, which is long and hilly. But I'm not worried because I know every curve is bringing us closer to that comforting stop sign that signals we're at the top - after which it will all be downhill.

And when will that be exactly?

As I grind my way up towards that ever vanishing mirage, self-doubt coupled with physical strain cause me to ask myself more than once if I can even do this. And why did I even start with this cycling business anyway? Was I nuts? THIS wasn't what I had in mind.

By now I have enough experience to recognize this self doubt for what it is: my knee jerk reaction when facing the unknown. My imagination turns on itself. They will find me lost and desiccated years later, having never reached the top, stick me in the ground and mark the spot with a sign that reads, "Failed Cyclist."

Which brings me to an even bigger fear: humiliation. And that's what keeps me going. Because what I've learned about these rides is that endless as the hills seem to be? Regrets last much longer. Oh, and there's one more thing: there are no other options.

There is no stop sign of course. And even if there were, the problem is that Mulholland, even though it traces the spine of the mountains, is often just as hilly as the canyons. And the downhills offer no respite, because the pavement is in such rotten shape, you can't just coast. There are cars, there are potholes and cracks - you have to hang on for dear life, ride the brakes and navigate very carefully.

Which begs the question: just what are the property taxes doing in those hills? And does anybody pay them? Because if so, they sure don't go for public transportation - or for roads.

Meanwhile, it seems another rider, G and I have pulled ahead of the group. From time to time, I see him taking out a handkerchief. I remark to him that I am the only cyclist I know in NY who uses Kleenex. "What do the rest do?" He asks.

I hate to tell him.

We take a couple of breaks at scenic turnouts, waiting for the others to catch up.

But they're a no show. When they fail to turn up, we assume there was a flat somewhere along the line. As long as they're together, they will be OK - Wheelmen don't leave their members behind. We move on, pushing through more hills, West to Franklin Canyon.

Where the descent begins in earnest. This is truly beautiful, and largely downhill. By now I feel I have nothing to prove (and I can find my way home if I have to), so I stop for the occasional photo.

The closer we get to Beverly Hills, the better the pavement becomes. You can practically smell the money. Finally, we coast into the original meeting point - me on my last good nerve. This was my hardest ride by far. I consider it a minor miracle that I finished.

Relieved, I turn to G and say "Wow, that was amazing. Next time though, I'm going to see if I can find a ride with Seniors"

He pauses and looks at me wryly. "We are Seniors," he says.

And so they are. As I say, comparing cycling in NY vs LA? Fuhgeddaboudit.