Much like the fog in which it takes place, a quiet nervousness floats amongst the crowd as they pump tires, lube chains, and tighten screws. As the caffeine flows and social lubrication works its charm, stories of doping, tales of excruciating training, and comparisons of power figures are overheard. Riders make their way onto Jamboree in a slow rolling procession of colorful lycra. By the time the group reaches Irvine Boulevard, riders have ranked themselves according to skill and the pace quickly hastens.
From the perspective of a novice, the ride can be somewhat nerve racking. You're constantly rotating amongst the peloton to avoid the many sketchy cyclists new to pack riding. There are riders who brake too frequently, can't ride in a straight line, can't maintain a consistent pace, or those who have annoying jerseys. A sense of security is tough to catch and maintain, as is your breath as flat lands turn into rolling hills. After numerous adjustments you realize that in an attempt to gain a sense of security, you have taken on all of the traits of a sketchy cyclist, most notably in your jersey selection.
As the group turns left onto El Toro, the pack has already thinned considerably. At this point, simple glances, street limit signs, and yellow lights have the potential to invoke a 30 second sprint that causes a ripple effect throughout the group. As the road turns upwards, the strong emerge and the suffering begins. Anyone can maintain 25 mph in a group of 100 riders, but very few can go 17 mph up hill, where your mind becomes your only competitor.
Cycling uphill is a curious pleasure. You experience an intense suffering that melts away all other concerns. Any activity that you enjoy may put you in the zone, bring happiness, and melt away your worries. Still, there is something so fundamentally beautiful in climbing up a hill, reaching the summit and receiving a rush of endorphins that put a smile on your face every time
Finally, the group of lycra clad obsessives cross paths with a group of leather clad obsessives at Cook's Corner. Suburbia is put on temporary hiatus as the route winds through the lush canyon back country, past farm houses and lakes that are reminiscent of Orange County's better days.
I can't say that I attack the suffering every time. On a bike, one only needs to look courageous on the outside. Sometimes I count to 50, other times I tell myself positive thoughts, sometimes I think of loved ones, and other times I listen to terrible raggeaton music. Eventually, I reach the top and am damn glad I tried.
The miles tick off as my mind undulates like the road under my tires. Eventually, we emerge from the canyon back into the land of tract housing and shopping centers. Just like in Disneyland's Splash Mountain, upon reaching Jamboree the mood is instantly joyous and congratulatory. The pace slows to a warm-down and riders that were moments ago stoic and unresponsive become chatterboxes filled with excitement.
I'll keep showing up to Como Street. Sure, some of the crowd is intense, runs red lights, and has seemingly lost sight of the simple joys of riding a bike. But in the end, it's a hard damn ride and that's what keeps me coming back.
