|
|
Tuesday, February 27th, 2007
|
1:43a - Tour of California stage 6
Stage 6: Santa Barbara to Santa Clarita
My hostel room is packed to the ceiling with 17 year old girls. Sounds great in theory, except that the giggle-bomb didn't let up until 3am. I'm up early anyway, so I might as well take the beach walk down to the starting area. The sun is out, and there are real healthy palm trees in abundance, and I actually heard someone say "Gnarly, dude!" in regular conversation.
 My spot today is just before the starting line. The cyclists sign in for the morning and are randomly interviewed, the entire process taking well over an hour. It's nice to see the guys taking their own photos of the scenery, fencing with thundersticks, and eating the free Jelly Belly packets: another day, another 100+ miles.
I hear a squeal of delight next to me. "It's FLOYD!" she points.
So, the ropes are coming out and the big names are called to the front of the pack. The spiffy jerseys, the champions, the leaders. Everyone else wanders into a spot in the corral. I am right up against the rail, and they come right up against the rail, so I quickly find myself face-to-face with a cyclist somewhere inside my personal space bubble. We look at one another. I have no idea who he is. I decide that it would be uncool to be that obvious and sneak a look at the roster in my back pocket, so we both hang out in awkward limbo while I take pictures sort of around him.
 "Hey."
"Sup?"
....
"So, uh, how's the race?"
Anthem. Countdown. Gone! I'm getting the hang of this.
I stop for gas in Ventura and am told that it is pointless to hit any of the KOMs for the day: the peloton is moving very, very fast. I ignore the advice, try to make an appearance for hill #3, but the off-ramp closed 20 minutes before my arrival. No way around it. Ah well, a beeline to Santa Clarita it is.
I am, at this point, sick of my maps and sick of roads being closed. It's difficult enough to make my way around strange cities with only myself as navigator and pilot, but when the usual exits are closed, I have to get creative. And after several wrong guesses trying to get into Santa Clarita, I find myself at the entrance to Six Flags dumbfounded by the sight of rollercoasters. Dammit! No time! says my brain to the instinct of squeezing in a ride or two.
Pointed vaguely in the right direction, I find parking at a local park several miles from the finish line, but it's what I got. I bike in, and it's still early enough to get a railspot close to the finish line. One of the staff recognizes me and offers me a safe spot for my bike on the truck behind the stage and please help myself to waters. Membership is starting to have its benefits.
One of my spectator neighbors is here from Texas. On the other side is a couple from a nearby town, and they don't know a thing about cycling. It's okay, as usual, I am a font of information. For instance, useful tip that the bikers will lap around three times before they actually finish. I tell them not to walk away too early.
 We hear about Hincapie busting his wrist within the first 5 miles of the stage. Ow ow ow. He crosses the finish line, but he's obviously not happy.
As I'm typing this several days after the fact, I have forgotten the outcome. Was this a Graeme Brown day?
 The cyclists do a quick victory lap, slowly crossing back in front of us in smiles.
I watch the awards and get lost again getting back to my car. I should leave breadcrumbs. At least today I'm not the only one, as folks are asking me for directions. I'm no help, and I'm really starting to dislike Santa Clarita.
There's some sort of post-race festival going on, which I sneak my way into. It's mostly vendors showing off equipment, but it also features a FREE Food Log from Chipotle. This is heaven in a piece of tin foil. Oh yeah, and there's a leg-shaving station. And some skydivers parachute in. It's all good, but the sun is setting and I'm getting itchy to head south.
There is painful amounts of traffic heading into Long Beach. It's late evening by the time I find my hostel and oops! no vacancy. It was sketchy-looking anyway, I resolve. I splurge and get a real hotel room, which ends up costing more for two nights than my entire trip expenses thus far. Eh, I'm on vacation! I can hear a festival nearby, so my evening is spent avoiding the hip clubs and enjoying delightful conversation with a local couple at a nearby brewery.
One more day!
(comment on this)
|
3:11a - Tour of California stage 7
Stage 7: Long Beach
I break out my tank top, because I'm in SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA! One step outside my hotel room tells a different story. It's grey and sprinkling and cold. Dammit. One last day in my hoodie and leather jacket armor.
Pancakes at a nearby diner. I meet a group from Wisconsin who are following the tour around, and there is much talk about winter and canceled flights and the disappointing Solvang bakery experiences. I am seated next to a group of motorcyclists who are a little weirded out by all the spandex.
My water-sense is all-turned around, and it takes me a few tries to get down to the shoreline. Freshly fed, caffeinated, and having already peed 98374 times, I am ready for a good long sit: I snag a patch of concrete wall 125m from the finish line and stand my ground for the two hours until race start.
I am joined by some folks I met on the Big Sur KOM, and we tell jokes and stories since we last talked. (And the punchline is that across the course I eventually see another family that was at Big Sur, recognizable by the adorable redheaded daughter who was just as excited to gather leaves as to ring her bell at the bikers.) It's a big ol' reunion. One fellow and I are interviewed by some of the race staff, as they ask us what we thought of the entire course and the overall impressions. He wanted a mountaintop finish, I wanted more GC movement. Off-camera, they inform us that they're looking into expanding the race to a 10- or 14-day tour. I say "Yay!" but my cold stiff ass has a different opinion.
It's alternating between sprinkling and warm sun on our backs. I zip and unzip my jacket to the point of sounding like a DJ scratch.
 The race starts where we can't really see it. My friend has a race radio and is giving us breakaway updates before the stage announcers do. Slipstream attacked right out of the gate! he laughs. We can at least see the fun on a giant screen until the wheels comes back around on the other side of the street. We ring our bells and then they're gone again for a few minutes. They return on our side of the street, and it's a complete din of bells and screams and waving and thundersticks. This crowd is good!
Every lap, of which there are 10, the crowd gets denser and louder. It's now impossible to see across the street divider.
The breakaway of 6 (7?) guys is showing impressive form and teamwork. Their lead grows to 3ish minutes. Nobody can utilize the intermediate sprint points, so there are no attacks.
 They're caught, of course, by the 2nd to last or last lap. Fun while it lasted!
The stage announcers have been talking for hours and appear to be running out of things to say. Their discussion wanders into a treatise about whether we still need to say "Double-you double-you double-you" when we give a web address or if it was universally understood now.
 Before the last lap, we're told to get our feet off the edge of the concrete. To be honest, it feels really nice to stand.
The noise is ridiculous. I don't even know what happened with the race, because I was just so happy to be there in that moment and alive and done and holy crap this is it!
I run to the awards stage. I can't see anything worthwhile, so I give up on the camera work and just applaud and woop and cheer.
Your winner: Levi Leipheimer! Duh!
 Champagne is sprayed (and drunk), flowers are flung, giant novelty checks are presented. It's all done!
I get photos of the finish line, a trademark at this point. I bump into another follower. "Gnat! Nice to see you again!" he says, giving me a big hug. "Hey, cover me!" he giggles, running off with a pair of wire cutters and removing the giant canvas signs from the rails. "This will look great in my office!"
I see him 15 minutes later. He has Tony Cruz's bike number placard and several team car stickers plastered to his person. I wave and then politely run away for fear of being tagged as an accomplice.
What to do now? There are a million things going on and it's only 5ish. There's a talk by Floyd Landis about the whole steroid thing: that wins.
It's a powerpoint describing the unusual discrepancies in the infamous test results. There's an army of men in suits, from his doctor to his PR guy, giving the information that will be presented for the hearing in May. Floyd then comes out to applause. There is a long honest question and answer session. The best was hearing him talk about his mental thought processes from stages 16 and 17, from breaking point to resurrection. You could see who in the audience was a cyclist from the nods of empathy... not that we'd won the Tour de France, but surely we've all at least attacked the guy ahead of us on a routine commute.
Afterwards, Floyd is signing autographs. I find myself being interviewed by Bicycling magazine about some of the technical details of the report (I may not know anything about doping or testosterone or what, but I do understand sample management and good laboratory documentation practices, by $deity).
I think at some point I was offered a job by the Floyd Fairness Fund. You know, tag along with the Floyd giving this thing during the Tour of Georgia. They promised transportation and rooms and better food than my oft-complained diet of peanut butter & jelly.
Did I mention this trip has been surreal?
It's getting on in the night, and it's time to find a friendly bar to warm up in. There's a sports bar that looks hopping, so going inside I find... everybody.
You know that scene at the end of Big Fish when Dad is being carried through the woods and you see every single character that you met earlier in the movie? It's kind of like that.
Levi is the first one I see. I shake his hand and congratulate him and try not to sound retarded. There's Phil Liggett. And Rabobank, puffing on cigars. I am introduced to the camera guys who are on the motorcycles. They introduce me to the guy who runs the race. Team T-Mobile was towards the back (making it difficult to get to the bathroom, as they were a little drunk and flirtatious). And Bob Roll (who stole my chair). Every corner involves a conversation with a promoter and director and staff member and rider...
 I am, at this point, completely overstimulated and drained of energy. Don't get me wrong, it was awesomely awesome, but I am kaput. I finally say my goodbyes and crash upon a million pillows for a sleeping spell that I wish would last another week.
It doesn't. I'm up early, packed, checked out, and promptly spend the rest of my morning stuck on I-5N.
Final thoughts tomorrow, I think, when I'm a little more awake.
(3 comments |comment on this)
|
|
|
|