THE PSYCHEDELIC PELOTONS OF SUMMER
Get cranked up for some South Bay cycling or Echo Park pedal-pushing
By Cole Coonce
You have packed your bicycle in a tortoiseshell case. Now you are on the LAX tarmac, and your plane is pointed west. The belts are buckled, and the captain has instructed the cabin crew to prepare for departure, while the whinging and cringing turbines begin to spin into maximum overdrive and the thrust from the jet engine sets you back in the seat. These are perhaps the greatest G-forces you will feel in your pedestrian and prosaic life - unless you fall down an elevator shaft or something - as the laws of gravity are pushing against your chest like the hand of Thor.
As the plane ascends the heavens courtesy of the miracle of modern transportation, you look out your window, down at the amber and azure coastline. From 30,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean, your average Southland cyclist basks in an out-of-body experience. Yes, you are headed to a cycling vacation in some faraway location that clamors to be savored while on two wheels - you know: France or Italy, the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Natchez Trace - but the irony is that, while looking out of your airplane window, you are flying over some of the finest cycling on the planet: the South Bay Bike Path.
The South Bay Bike Path is a smooth yet serpentine chunk of concrete that begins on the Redondo Beach coastline, in the tall shadows of Palos Verdes, and extends as far north as Malibu. It is surrounded by sand on both sides. At the beginning, some sections go through a surfside mall that smells of today's catch (as well as yesterday's catch, natch), and also meander through an underground parking terrace. But once that section is in your mirror, the circuitous circuit is just variations of a Beach Boys album cover - albeit a record cover that goes on for 40 miles.
To wit: At sundown somewhere between the lifeguard shacks of Manhattan Beach and the reefs of El Segundo, with any luck the South Bay cyclist will encounter a toothsome pair of surfers walking out of the crashing foam of pounding waves with their surfboards under their arms, perpendicular to their sculpted bodies and pointed at the El Segundo Power Station. This entire tableau will be backlit and silhouetted by the receding luminescence of Del Sol. It's one of the most stunning and awe-inspiring examples of real-time chiaroscuro ... and it makes the voyeuristic cyclist lose a step and a breath while looking away to make sure that's what he just saw.
Meanwhile, one's gaze may be caught by the movement of numbers on the bike's cyclometer, as the mph drops from 18 to 16 to 15. This is the moment when the cyclist stands back up out of the saddle, applies more leverage to the crank, and spins the drivetrain back up to a reasonable rpm. Which happens for a while, but only until the rider is distracted by a coquetteish quartet of volleyball vixens, and he shakes his brainbucket in disbelief while asking the silent, rhetorical question: "Why the fuck would I want to live anywhere else?"
The South Bay Bike Path is, in a word, sensual.
And broad: Redondo, Hermosa, Manhattan, El Segundo, Playa del Rey, Ballona Creek, Marina del Rey, Venice, Santa Monica, and Malibu. The ride is a litany of beach towns that fill the land-locked of Flyover, U.S.A., with envy.
As diverse as the municipalities is the eclectic collection of cyclists you will encounter on the path. In your travels, you may come across a motley multitude of freewheelin' sprocketheads absorbing the warmth of the sun while puttin' in some miles: Bucks-up yuppies on come-catch-me carbon fiber frames, standing up with their backs bent forward and attempting to punch a hole in the air while not running over a homeless musician busking for change; suburban gremmies on slow-moving mountain bikes who are nothing more than moving chicanes; a smattering of last-wave punk-rock anarchists on unicycles and "fixies" with no brakes (!); and a bevy of beach bums on vintage, steel-framed Schwinn cruisers, looking for the place on Venice Beach where Jim Morrison spilled his poetry.
Yes, the South Bay bike path has all the elements. And the Southland cyclist really has to question the wisdom of getting on an airplane to go ride a bicycle somewhere else.
***
Not in the mood for seeing yuppies in Lycra and dodging beachballs? The Midnight Ridazz in Echo Park may be the rolling party that yanks your proverbial crank. Gathering at 9:30 p.m. on the second Friday of every month behind a Pioneer Chicken at Echo Park and Sunset boulevards, the Ridazz saddle up on their bikes and let their freak flags fly like Wavy Gravy's wet dream. Depending on the weather, 150 to 600 nocturnal alterno-cyclists temporarily take over the streets of Los Angeles for a couple of hours, like the True Sons and Daughters of the Merry Pranksters crashing the Tour de France.
There is minimal Lycra here, as this crowd is art-damaged, and the bicycle is just another canvas. Depending on the ride's theme, the participants may be garbed to fit the motif, be it an ambulance driver, Frances Farmer, or a stovepipe hat and paste-on beard to create a likeness to Abraham Lincoln. And, yes: the water-bottle cages are loaded down with Japanese beer as often as with H20.
Aye, on these nights, the streets and the traffic laws belong to the Ridazz, and Los Angeles is a vehicle to do the bidding of a throng pushing itself through the streets, using only people power and a sense of righteousness. Like the silhouetted surfers, this streaming psychedelic peloton is a unique vision, endemic and exclusive to Los Angeles. Again, why ride anywhere else?
Midnight Ridazz meets this Fri., May 12, at Echo Park and Sunset boulevards, Echo Park, at 9:30 p.m. Ride at 10 p.m. Subscribe to the mailing list at Mail.bicyclekitchen .com/mailman/listinfo/ridazz.
Published: 05/11/2006
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