Roll On, Roland
02-12-13 | 10:30 AM
#1
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Seat Sniffer
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 5,903
Likes: 3,037
From: SoCal
Bikes: Serotta Legend Ti; 2006 Schwinn Fastback Pro and 1996 Colnago Decor Super C96; 2003 Univega Alpina 700; 2000 Schwinn Super Sport
Roll On, Roland
OK, so this is a little story from some years ago. I know my friends have seen this before, but I thought others might enjoy it too...
Roll On, Roland
My friend and I took the morning off for a nice little ride up PCH and back. We pushed off from Topanga and PCH with long morning shadows behind us.
We rode along, chattering like monkeys about her recent bike ride in Death Valley. The ride was epic in every way. Epic scenery. Epic distances. And most of all, epic winds. 60 MPH gusts between Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells. Try that sometime on a bicycle.
150 did. And only about 45 made it.
She was one of them.
The wind intensified as we made our way westward. It was offshore and howling ... a random series of tailwinds, crosswinds, and headwinds. Eddies of wind and blowing bits of loosened vegetation and sand from all directions. The blue-green sea was dotted with whitecaps.
Still, it was warm and the Sun was shining. In my calculus, that counts for a lot. So we continued on, laughing about the strange satisfaction derived from horrors endured for no good reason.
Near Pt. Mugu, the winds became a swirling tempest. We weren't in this for the suffering, so we turned around and headed back home.
We saw it somewhere north of County Line. A rude improvisation of a rickshaw, to which was strapped all manner of objects, laid in a great, big, heaping pile at least 6 feet high. It was the kind of thing you might see in a newsreel of refugees fleeing with all they can carry.
The Rickshaw
It was captained by a gaunt man with a long salt and pepper beard. He wore a black floppy hat festooned with the same yellow flowers that bloomed in the green hills around us.
He backpedaled down the highway facing backward towards his burden. The yoke was pillowed by what looked to be garage sale discards.
He smiled a greeting as we overtook him. We offered him a Clif bar, and we stopped for a chat.
A Roadside Chat
He was very proud of his vehicle. Upon closer inspection, I saw that his pride was not without basis. It was constructed completely from throw-aways. The wheels were motorcycle wheels, to handle the enormous weight. The axle was steel rebar, and the undercarriage was fashioned from old skis.
"Very light, and very strong." He said proudly.
Sitting atop the undercarriage was a body made of bicycle wheels tied together with bicycle tubes, together forming the shape of a dome. Fabric, draped over the dome completed the structure. I was impressed.
"Pretty nice ... you've made a geodesic dome."
"Yes, I have been reading about Buckminster Fuller." He beamed.
Tying them together with bicycle tubes was nothing short of genius. Very secure, and detachable at will. A bicycle was strapped to the back. Transportation to use when he arrived at his destination.
"And where is that?" I asked.
"I really don't have one. I never do. Last week, I was walking over to Santa Barbara. The Sun was shining and it was such a beautiful day, I didn't want to get there."
" I went as slow as I could, but I got there anyway." He said, disappointed.
We chatted with Roland for a good twenty minutes out there on Highway 1. About road trips, and what it means to arrive. And we decided that we had something in common ... we all understood that it's the journey that counts ... not the destination.
Different conveyances. Same goal.
Roll on, Roland.
Roll On, Roland
My friend and I took the morning off for a nice little ride up PCH and back. We pushed off from Topanga and PCH with long morning shadows behind us.
We rode along, chattering like monkeys about her recent bike ride in Death Valley. The ride was epic in every way. Epic scenery. Epic distances. And most of all, epic winds. 60 MPH gusts between Furnace Creek and Stovepipe Wells. Try that sometime on a bicycle.
150 did. And only about 45 made it.
She was one of them.
The wind intensified as we made our way westward. It was offshore and howling ... a random series of tailwinds, crosswinds, and headwinds. Eddies of wind and blowing bits of loosened vegetation and sand from all directions. The blue-green sea was dotted with whitecaps.
Still, it was warm and the Sun was shining. In my calculus, that counts for a lot. So we continued on, laughing about the strange satisfaction derived from horrors endured for no good reason.
Near Pt. Mugu, the winds became a swirling tempest. We weren't in this for the suffering, so we turned around and headed back home.
We saw it somewhere north of County Line. A rude improvisation of a rickshaw, to which was strapped all manner of objects, laid in a great, big, heaping pile at least 6 feet high. It was the kind of thing you might see in a newsreel of refugees fleeing with all they can carry.
The Rickshaw
It was captained by a gaunt man with a long salt and pepper beard. He wore a black floppy hat festooned with the same yellow flowers that bloomed in the green hills around us.
He backpedaled down the highway facing backward towards his burden. The yoke was pillowed by what looked to be garage sale discards.
He smiled a greeting as we overtook him. We offered him a Clif bar, and we stopped for a chat.
A Roadside Chat
He was very proud of his vehicle. Upon closer inspection, I saw that his pride was not without basis. It was constructed completely from throw-aways. The wheels were motorcycle wheels, to handle the enormous weight. The axle was steel rebar, and the undercarriage was fashioned from old skis.
"Very light, and very strong." He said proudly.
Sitting atop the undercarriage was a body made of bicycle wheels tied together with bicycle tubes, together forming the shape of a dome. Fabric, draped over the dome completed the structure. I was impressed.
"Pretty nice ... you've made a geodesic dome."
"Yes, I have been reading about Buckminster Fuller." He beamed.
Tying them together with bicycle tubes was nothing short of genius. Very secure, and detachable at will. A bicycle was strapped to the back. Transportation to use when he arrived at his destination.
"And where is that?" I asked.
"I really don't have one. I never do. Last week, I was walking over to Santa Barbara. The Sun was shining and it was such a beautiful day, I didn't want to get there."
" I went as slow as I could, but I got there anyway." He said, disappointed.
We chatted with Roland for a good twenty minutes out there on Highway 1. About road trips, and what it means to arrive. And we decided that we had something in common ... we all understood that it's the journey that counts ... not the destination.
Different conveyances. Same goal.
Roll on, Roland.
__________________
Proud parent of a happy inner child ...
Proud parent of a happy inner child ...
02-12-13 | 08:52 PM
#6
Senior Member
Joined: Jan 2010
Posts: 7,037
Likes: 12
From: Eugene, Oregon
Roland reminds me of a retired schoolteacher I met along the NorCal coast in the '80s. He had been retired for the better part of a decade by then. He told us that he set off on a bike tour shortly after he retired and hadn't really stopped yet.
02-14-13 | 11:00 AM
#8
Thread Starter
Seat Sniffer
Joined: Sep 2007
Posts: 5,903
Likes: 3,037
From: SoCal
Bikes: Serotta Legend Ti; 2006 Schwinn Fastback Pro and 1996 Colnago Decor Super C96; 2003 Univega Alpina 700; 2000 Schwinn Super Sport
Yea, Saralie rocks that jersey. I wore the same one this morning, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you that I don't look nearly as good in it.
__________________
Proud parent of a happy inner child ...
Proud parent of a happy inner child ...
