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The last day of the ride falls right in the middle, length-wise: 59 miles, give or take. It’s not a big hill day either. The defining feature of Day 7 is traffic. Once you round Point Mugu it starts to pick up, and by the time you hit Point Dumé it’s wall-to-wall cars the rest of the way to the finish in Santa Monica. The trick on Day 7 is to keep calm and keep a weather eye out for danger.

Route: ridewithgps.com/routes/46875305
Miles ridden: 59
Feet climbed: 1,588
Total time: 7 hours
[NB: some photos courtesy Chris Eisenberg]

Ventura to Zuma Beach

The day started out pretty cold and very wet. So wet, Kathy and I argued over whether it was raining (her) or was just super heavy marine layer (me). Coulda gone either way.

The line to the ride start was particularly long. In addition to standing in line as usual, we had a quarter-mile or so of narrow bike path to negotiate before we were released onto the street. Kathy waited at the street to save her back from a lot of unnecessary walking. So I rode part way. And as always happens when people see a tandem with only one rider, I had to field the usual comments, variations on: “Hey, you forgot somebody!”

The ride through Ventura was flat, easy riding, but for having to wipe my glasses every thirty seconds or so. At some points my visibility in one eye or the other was cloudy, a fact I neglected to mention to Kathy. The first rest stop was over twenty miles out, so we made a couple of unofficial stops along the way. The first was at a bank of restrooms I’d noted on my route scouting expedition: The formerly-named Oxnard Beach Park, now known as ‘olołkoy Beach Park (“‘olołkoy” is Chumash for “dolphin”). From there we made good time past Channel Islands Harbor and through Port Hueneme.

Just before turning left and heading for Highway 1 and Point Mugu, we stopped at a coffee house I’d found—Anacapuccino. It was cold and wet enough outside that we decided to take a longer break here. Kathy got her usual hot chocolate and something baked while I went further down the shopping area to use the restroom in a laundrymat. But the restroom cost, and I had no change. Luckily, a woman washing clothes gave me a quarter and waved me off when I said I’d pay her back. I rejoined Kathy and had an Americano while we enjoyed a long conversation with a local who said he’s had breakfast every day there for fifteen years.

Back on the bike we picked up a little tailwind and made good time for a while across a barren light-industrial area of south Oxnard. Visibility was still bad at times. At one point, I swung too far left trying to avoid loose gravel on our right, and I strayed onto a rumble strip. This was a real rumble strip, with deep cuts in the road. As soon as we hit them we were bouncing so much I couldn’t see straight. I’d like to say this is the only time I’d ever made that mistake . . . then again, having made it before, I know what to do. Specifically, don’t panic! I rolled us off the the right and started my apologies to Kathy who was still wondering what was happening. The entertainment lasted all of two seconds, but it was definitely a wake-up call.

There’s really not much to report for the next twenty miles or so. We rounded Point Mugu and rode along the edge of the sea, just above the breakers. We noticed a lot of cyclists were pulling over to take pictures and wondered why; all you could really see was a little ocean and a lot of fog. But Kathy noticed there was a pod of dolphins just offshore (“‘olołkoy,” you might say) grabbing so many riders’ attention. But we’re from California (he said smugly). We see dolphins all the time! So we kept on.

We stopped at Rest Stop 1, did our rest stop thing, then got back on the bike. Just past County Line (surf break by Neptune’s Net) we stopped in at Leo Carrillo Beach and Rest Stop 2. Same deal: usual rest stop shenanigans (wait in line to get food and water for me and Kathy, use porta-potty, visit a little), and we were off to Rest Stop 3 (no Lunch on Day 7).

None of which is to discount the beauty of the scenery here. Wide, wide views, when the skies are clear anyway. You can follow the curve of the coastline with your eye all the way to where the land turns away at Point Fermin down in Palos Verdes, and can sometimes leap over the channel to Santa Catalina Island. All the ocean and sky you’d ever want to see. Beautiful riding. But, well . . . Kathy and I have seen it. We grew up down here, even if on the wrong side of the hills (she in the San Gabriel Valley and me in the San Fernando). We share memories of this entire stretch of PCH (Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway) from back in the early-80s when we both hated living in LA so much we used to get in a car, blast the stereo, and just drive like maniacs up and down this goddamned road to clear our heads. I would like to say those are happy memories, but as I recall, they really were unhappy times. So yes, our ride in north LA County on PCH was outwardly beautiful. But really, after six and half days on the bike, it was time for this ride to be done.

There was road construction at Trancas Canyon. A lot of cyclists stop at the Starbucks here (and even cross the highway—say it ain’t so!—because it’s on the left side of the road). But we kept on. Fortunately we found a car pocket and squeezed through the closed-lane gauntlet with very little stress. A little further we pulled over to use a restroom at Zuma Beach (near Lifeguard Station 6, an old high school hangout spot). Locked, so Kathy had to use a less than ALC-maintained sorta-potty. One of the reasons she packed hand wipes in our bike trunk.

Zuma Beach to the Finish

We passed Point Dumé, the north end of Santa Monica Bay, then Paradise Beach (Rockford Files!) just beyond. From there we were getting into the thick of Malibu traffic. The weather was still gloomy, which may have kept beachgoer traffic down. But like everyday, everywhere in LA, the road was jammed with people who had THINGS TO DO and PLACES TO BE and were in a hurry to get there and no matter who or what you were you were IN. THEIR. WAY! We stopped again at little league fields on the bluffs at the end of Malibu Canyon Road, across from Pepperdine University. (Feeling sorry for the poor kids who had to play there.) Restroom break, water refill, snack . . . most of it an excuse for an extended butt break from the bike saddle.

From the little league fields it was something of a white-knuckle ride through a shotgun alley of parked cars on our right, three-southbound lanes of traffic on our left, and very often little enough space between the two. Sometimes we rode in the car lane for lack of anywhere else to go. Perfectly legal, but try telling that to the Tesla crawling up your ass even though you’re both slowed for a red light and are crawling along at 5 mph or less. We made it to Rest Stop 3, Will Rogers State Beach, on the southern edge of the Pacific Palisades and again took a leisurely break.

Well, mostly leisurely. On moving the bike I noticed a chunk of rubber had been carved out of the back tire, maybe by something metal. The casing underneath looked solid and we only had five miles to go, so I was reasonably sure we’d make it without having to change the tire. For her part, Kathy was worried about a tricky maneuver ahead. The ALC course crosses under PCH. There was no sidewalk, no crosswalk, no safe way across at street level. The only way across PCH was through an undercrossing, which meant taking the tandem down one flight of stairs and up another on the other side of the highway. Kathy couldn’t help me, not with her back the way it was. I told her no problem. She thought I was pulling my machismo thing again. So rather than rely on my hubris, she went about asking rest stop workers for some way around the undercrossing. Nothin’ doin’. We, meaning I, just had to muscle the tandem through.

Which, as it turned out, wasn’t an issue at all. I rolled it gently down the stairs and swung the back end around the tight corner at the bottom. Once on the other side, the stairs had a metal strip, about three inches wide, running along one wall. I rolled the tires onto the strip and pushed the bike to the top easily enough. Or at least, I did my best to make it look easy. After all, I couldn’t let Kathy know how hard it really was.

Back on the bike, we had one more hill from beach level up to Ocean Avenue, which runs along the top of the palisades that overlook Santa Monica Beach. By now ALC riders were one continuous stream of bikes working their way easily the last few blocks to the finish. Crowds were everywhere, cheering, jostling, trying to cross . . . it was pandemonium. And it only got worse as we neared the finish line. We rolled across the finish through a fenced-off lane passing well wishers and photographers. It was really quite the scene.

I parked the bike. Kathy went to look for Roger while I went to retrieve my gear. When I came out I saw Roger and Lisa, who’d found each other in the crowd, with Kathy sitting at their feet. All sorts of craziness later (luggage; bike; distant parking lot), the four of us sat for lunch on the beach on a gorgeous Southern California afternoon. By then the skies had cleared and you couldn’t have prayed for better weather. An hour later the ride was a memory, done and dusted, as they say.

Kathy and I had ridden every mile. She suffered through most of it in so much pain that if it were me I’d likely have quit. For the past week we’d had nothing to do but to focus on our ride. For me a ride like this, an experience so immersive, is a welcome break from everyday life. Though I don’t think I’ll be riding the ALC next year, I can see why Kathy does it over and over again. Apart from the good the fundraising accomplishes, the depth of the experience—the companionship of the months-long training, the joyous moments of ride itself—is its own kind of nourishing. Maybe even worth every bit of physical strain..