I suppose I’m a little disappointed with how sore I am this morning.  While I was looking forward to it I knew riding my bike 25 miles in the Tour de Palm Springs that was held yesterday morning wasn’t going to be easy but I had ridden that far, once before.  I know, I know; plenty of people run that far – I think they call it a marathon – but given the level of my fitness a few months ago this was a worthy goal.  On my bucket list, plain as day, is the goal to Ride my Bike for 40 kilometers (I think it seems like more than 25 miles that way, and, besides, it’s so international sounding).  Smack dab in the middle of my 60^th year and perhaps 10 or 30 pounds overweight (or should I say 4 or 13 kilograms?  Sounds like a lot less, doesn’t it?). And, this Boomer of dubious physical conditioning, I thought pointing toward a 25 mile bike ride on this particular date was a worthwhile pursuit.  And, it wasn’t just 25 miles mind you; I rode my bike to my friend’s home (Syd and Joan) easily 3 miles from mine where we loaded up the bikes on the back of his SUV and headed to a parking lot that was another 1.5 miles from the start/finish line and then back again to make a grand total of 31 miles on the rock hard seat. It was more than I had anticipated (or should I say 50 kilometers – now that’s a nice round number!).  I could tell you about my recent bout of bronchitis too but then I could be accused of piling on.

The Tour de Palm Springs is an annual gathering of more than 10,000 cycling enthusiasts using every type of wheeled, self-propelled vehicle available today that participants can choose to ride along various routes ranging from 1 to 100 miles in and around the city of Palm Springs for the primary purpose of raising money for a number of charities and a getting a new T-shirt.  It’s anything but a race; in fact the organizers go way out of their way to deemphasize any competitive aspect of the ride although I heard the Public Address announcer more than once use the term “Race” only to quickly correct himself.  Event is the preferred term.  Upwards of $300,000 finds its way into the coffers of various local and national charities with the choice of designee up to the rider (I earmarked my portion of the $40 entry fee to the American Cancer Society – go figure?).

The day before the Event my wife and I decided to have lunch downtown within walking distance of the Registration Booth right under the massive statue of Marilyn Monroe at the epicenter of Palm Springs on the corner of Tahquitz Canyon Way and Palm Canyon Drive.   I figured we would mosey on over to the pick up my wrist band after lunch and check out the vendor expo that was part of the celebration.  I had told Syd and Joan I would pick up theirs as well to save them from the exercise.  What I hadn’t counted on when I signed up for the Tour was dodging rain drops in the middle of California’s desert in February.  While it can happen, it rarely does.  But here we were with mid-day temps in the high 40’s and the wind chill deducting at least another 5 degrees and the sky spitting on us. I started questioning my sanity about entering this Event until I was handed a few free samples of various Clif products which went a long way toward smoothing over my angst.  It’s hard to beat free.

Figuring I needed to do a little “carbo-loading” the evening before my wife and I decided on pizza for dinner to the tune of the raindrops plinking on the window with the wind howling through the trees for accompaniment.  Then it was off to bed for a good night’s sleep in anticipation of the next day’s fun.  I awoke at 3:18 a.m. to the sound of a fierce wind whistling through the 10 foot setback between our home and the one next door cursing my luck of signing up for a monumental outdoor pursuit on the same day a hurricane was going to strike our normally calm and warm desert.  Further attempts at sleep were impossible so I hauled my soon to be sore butt out of bed and busied myself until it was time to make the appointed arrival at Syd and Joan’s by 8:30.

Mother Nature can be quite the vixen.  By the time I buckled the chinstrap of my helmet the clouds had cleared and what awaited us was an incredibly bright sky with new fallen snow twinkling like diamonds off Mt. San Jacinto in the distance and only the slightest zephyr.  While the temperature was on the brisk side I figured that was far preferential to having a warmer than normal day – at least for us cyclists.  Upon arrival at the staging area Syd, Joan and I saddled up our hybrid bikes with more than 10,000 other event participants and migrated by foot toward the starting line to the music of the local high school band all the while inching closer to a point where we could actually ride.  20 minutes after the scheduled start of our Event we were finally balancing on our wider than normal seats and peddling north on Indian Canyon in full exhilaration. Joan bid us adieu as she didn’t want to be perceived as a “slow poke” and we agreed to wait for her at the finish.  Syd had provided a few warnings to me earlier, since he has a storied biking history that has included cross-country rides (not “cross country” like a high school track team but “cross country” as in all the states between California and Florida).  Perhaps the best advice he gave me was to understand that bikes don’t have brake lights and that it was possible that riders in front of me would stop for any number of reasons, traffic lights being chief among them, and it was important for my well-being to pay attention.  While it might make for a better story if there was some mishap, nothing of the sort occurred during our ride; I think primarily because the type of bikes we were riding allow for regular athletic shoes and didn’t require binding of our feet to the pedals in a way that only resembles ski bindings.

As the herd plowed its way through the streets of Palm Springs and other nearby cities, past emerald colored country club golf courses and tennis resorts, obstructing traffic all the way, we found comfortable gaps in which to exist so as not to be hassled by the other riders; that is until we were periodically forced to stop en-masse at a number of controlled intersections in order to allow the motor vehicles to pass.  A certain amount of physical coordination was required at these infrequent stops so as to stay upright but I can proudly say that both of my knees are in pristine condition today – at least on the surface.  We were peddling along so well that we decided to bypass the first SAG stop at the Desert Princess Resort, some 6 miles out from the starting line (SAG stands for Support And Gear, but mostly snacks).  We agreed we would avail ourselves of the next (and final) SAG stop at Cathedral City High School, another 12 miles out since we were skipping this first one.  While speed was never a requirement or recommendation I was self-impressed when Syd announced (he had an odometer on his bike) we hit 21 miles-per-hour on the downhill portion of Ramon Road near the Agua Caliente Casino, that is until he told me he once averaged 21 MPH for an entire ride of something like 50 or 500 miles.  The details were lost in the grim dose of reality that was clouding my brain.  We were going along really well, even on the uphill climb on Bob Hope Drive from Ramon Road to Gerald Ford until I started to feel my quadriceps in a way that reminded me of two-a-day football practices in which I participated the last time in 1970.   I did my best to suck it up and started to anxiously anticipate the looming SAG stop at Cathedral City High School now probably only a couple of miles away.

As I started to recognize the terrain that would lead us to the school parking lot the cruelest of ironies presented itself.  Syd had the audacity to mention that a “pretty good hill” was right in front of us on DuVall Road and of course my inability to stop thinking about Pink Elephants manifested itself in the use of at least 21 of the 24 gears available with various configurations of the derailleur on my bike to help complete this leg of the ride without any embarrassing delays just before we pulled into the school parking lot.  As I parked my bike with wobbly thighs helping to engage the kick stand we made our way toward tables lined with teenagers thrusting various 3 ounce Dixie Cups into the hands of those before us.  Contained in these cups, no-doubt, was some high-tech energy supplement that looked and tasted suspiciously like Peanut M&Ms.  Directly adjacent were large jugs of colored liquids that are normally used for dumping on victorious football coaches and another table of sample sized portions of Clif Bars and something called “Gel Shots” that I was suspicious might contain alcohol but learned later were really 100 calories of liquefied sugar.  We loaded up our pockets, gulped the high-tech energy supplements and colored liquids as we listened to live Jazz Music along with a couple hundred of our fellow Event participants.  The musical entertainment made me long for a beer or a glass of wine which if that could have been part of the respite would have required the dispatching of a taxi to get me back to the finish line. After no more than 5 or 6 minutes of “rest” we remounted our bikes and continued along our path to the finish line that was now about 6 miles in the distance, somewhat refreshed.

Not more than a few minutes later as we were making a swinging right-hand turn I thought I recognized a rider a few bikes in front of us.  As I kicked my mechanical stead into a higher gear and caught up to the familiar figure I immediately recognized that it was Joan whom we hadn’t seen since our goodbye at the starting line.  Wondering aloud how she could be in front of us when she was worried that we would be waiting on her I quickly learned that she had neither stopped at the first or second SAG depot; I quickly changed the subject as we rode briskly along toward the conclusion of our ride.

It was somewhat thrilling to approach the finish in downtown Palm Springs in the shadow of that much larger than life statue of Marilyn along with the thousands of other riders, all of whom had their routes converge into the common finish line, whether 1 or 100 mile riders, complete with clocks marking time and T-shirts being thrust into the hands of the finishers.  With the glow of self-satisfaction at least internally illuminating my psyche we quickly made our way back to the parking lot and mounted our bikes on the SUV rack for the ride back home.

I’m headed for the Jacuzzi this afternoon.  I think next year I’ll do the 50 mile ride.