It was a day of victories, and a day broken dreams. Yes, it was another Fargo Street Hill Climb, which has become one of the more quirky traditions in my laid back city, Los Angeles.
The hill, which rises in the decidedly Bohemian district of Echo Park, took the measure of many cyclists. One woman would ride into history with a record-breaking number of runs to the top of Fargo Street. Many cyclists were victorious, others were found wanting in the balance.
The day for me was like a dream, a fever-induced dream. The night before, after dinner out with my wife, I had gone to bed too late, slept badly, and arisen too early in the morning. My gut churned, my legs were achy. Clearly my body, if not my mind, was unhappy wit the prospect of what was to come.
Perhaps that's why the rituals of the day are now just a near-hallucinogenic series of linked images in my mind: the deceptive first view of the street with its 33% grade; the colorfully-clad riders, zig-zaging across the face of the hill or trying to power straight up it; the awed collection of neighbors and spectators; signing in (I was number 26); watching some cyclists crest the top of Fargo Street; hearing a few others crash heavily to the pavement.
Or maybe weighing heavily on my mind, enough to have kept me from a sound sleep, was the thought that this year I was going ignore my toys: my mountain bike, with its super-low gearing that made child's play of the climb, and my road bike with its triple crankset, that could also cut Fargo Street down to size.
This year I was going to ride my road bike, the one with 34/27 gearing.
On my old legs, a 33-inch gear was going to make for a serious struggle, pitting my muscle and my bone and my sinew and my heart, and most importantly my mind, against the force of gravity.
Before my attempt, I watched others struggle on the hill for a while. One rider broke a chain. A few riders, in honor of the 50th birthday of one of them, accomplished the difficult feat of 50 ascents each.
At least one woman set a new record for most runs up in one day for her gender. Some cyclists came close to victory, only to fail yards from the top. Other made it only a few yards. Some riders fell, only to try again; some would succeed, some kept falling.
Part of the hallucinogenic aspect of the event became, for me, conflated with a crazy-looking tower built around a tall palm tree, the top of which had been loped off sometime during the previous year, when I had last been to Fargo Street. The tower and tree belonged to Leon, one of the street's long-time residents.
Many of the regular riders know Leon, whose hospitality on the day of the ride is legendary. Leon told us he had to cut the top of the palm off because its heavy leaves, if they fell, could damage a car or kill someone standing underneath.
While Leon's tower may be a construction project, it's more than that. Given his colorful past, which includes working in a circus, his lively and creative mind, and his experience as a contractor, I'm not surprised that the tower looks like a massive piece of art. Leon, wielding his saw, not only cut down an overgrown palm tree, he was a performance artist.
Leon allowed me and my brother to ascend the tower, to take in the awesome view (which includes the Hollywood Sign and the Santa Monica Mountains, and a fair chunk of city) and make some photographs of the riders far below us. It was a unique perspective, and somewhat vertiginous when I stared straight down. The tower, sturdy though it was, pitched a little this way and that in the light wind that had sprung up.
Meanwhile, I'd had a good warm-up, with a nine-mile ride through streets without traffic on an early Sunday morning. I'd spent a little too much time talking with friends and watching other riders take on the hill. Now it was my turn to try the climb. I started my ascent slowly, tacking back and forth carefully on the narrow street. At first, the tacks were easier, my breathing under control. "I can do this!"
Each turn up through the 33% fall line, though, took a toll. It became ever-more difficult to find the strength to turn the pedals and to keep my balance on the steep slope. I had to muster all the experience I had from my many years riding Fargo Street.
How much did the ride mean to me? What would it mean to topple off my bike, like the top of the palm Leon had cut loose? In my moment of free-fall, would I lose some of the meaning, the very purpose, of my life? Could a single, age-related failure do that? Maybe.
What would success bring? Affirmation that I still have what it takes to live life in a fully physical sense? Maybe.
The outcome wasn't assured until I was 20 yards from the top. That was, for me, the point of the ride: to dance my way on my pedals up a narrow ridge of concrete, balanced between victory and defeat.
With those last yards, I turned my wheel straight uphill and tried to show off, powering my way up. Instead, it was all I could do to keep the bike moving forward. Later, after I recovered my breath, my brother posed for me in a mirror after his own ride to the top.
The hill is still mine. I am still alive. Yet there must come a day when I will fail to make the top of Fargo Street, no matter how light my bike or how low the gears. That's part of my journey, not just on Fargo Street, but through my life.
When most of the riders had enough, lots of us headed to downtown for one more tradition, lunch at Phillpe's, "home of the original French Dip sandwich!" We met some of the riders from the Veloce Santiago club, as well as many of the members of the club that sponsored the ride, the Los Angeles Wheelmen.
While I was done once more with Fargo Street, I knew I wasn't done with my last ride up Fargo Street. Now, sitting with my brother, surrounded by friends, chowing down on a tender roast beef sandwich, with my fever cooled, I never felt better.
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Originally Posted by AngryScientist
