The moment I saw the back of the Toyota Tunndra, it was too late. There was no time to do anything but instinctively tuck a shoulder and endure the force of one’s body meeting steel at a healthy rate of speed. Kaboom. Then you collapse to the ground. You can’t breathe. Literally. You are in shock. You jump up and move to the sidewalk, trying to process unfamiliar sensations.

“Did I just shatter my collarbone? Is my knee ripped apart? Am I bleeding? $%^&#! Oh #$@%&*!”

These immediate thoughts fill your head. You don’t think about your road bike (my Focus Team 2.0) that has taken you many places this year without incident. It lies torqued and damaged on the asphalt. Motorists stop and rush to your side. “Do you want me to call an ambulance? Are you OK? Are you sure?” You stay on your feet and carefully shake your limbs. You keep moving to fight off inevitable stiffness. You press now-tender areas that are filling with blood to repair trauma. You hold your ground until six hours later, the true aftermath begins. You lie down. A few hours of sleep will be a bonus. A night of strange pains increase in intensity deep within body parts that smashed a truck’s tailgate like an aluminum can at a summer barbecue. But you’re lucky. You are really lucky. Enough to walk away. You keep close watch on things while applying ice and taking inventory. Kaboom. There’s the baseball-sized knot in the right quadricep. The soreness of the inner left calf muscle. The odd burning in your trapezoid. The telltale purple and red marks where your backside and rear flank said hello to a vehicle sitting right in the middle of a bike lane. A bump behind your right ear. Your helmet cracked. Your sunglasses snapped in half. Parts of your cycling clothes tore through to the skin. Blood that ran down your left shin is gone. You couldn’t see the blood on your shoulder, but witnesses who pulled over confirmed was there. The wounds are dressed.

This is what happens when a disabled vehicle (out of fuel with its owner in search of gasoline) is blocking the bike lane, as well as part of the #2 lane closest to your left side, and there’s nowhere to go immediately after a descent and right turn through a green signal. Green means go. Red means stop. The blink of an eye, a surreal place. You can’t prepare for it. Kaboom. When you look back, you’re thankful it wasn’t a landscaper’s truck with sharp tools hanging over the top of the tailgate. You have a sense of gratitude that you are in one piece. You try to make sense of why this happened, but it’s no use. Then you slowly begin to make peace. You’re in a world where you can’t beat a 4,000 pound piece of machinery. You take a hot shower, reach for more bags of crushed ice, take two aspirin and hug your daughters. The worst, you trust, is behind you.

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It goes without saying that gratitude is an amazing gift. The “quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness” is so very human. It’s a treasure bestowed upon us. For too long, I squandered it, focusing instead on what was wrong, what could be improved, where fault could be found. Such was the nature of a journalist paid to dig out “news” — most of it bad or controversial. It’s taken years to unlearn that trained mindset. Sure, the world today continues to have problems and we’ve many things to improve. But I must remember the good instead of instinctively zero in on the bad.

I’m very fortunate as I write this. An example: I used PTO and worked a half day today in a job I love that challenges me to bring my “A” game to the office. After lunch, I threw my leg over the top tube of a road bike and started pedaling east. Just like that, I was outside, under a blue sky, heading toward beautiful open country. As I hit the first sharp climb, every ounce of energy, every brain cell, every muscle fiber worked in unison to propel me upward. With each kilometer, the farther away from the noise, traffic and bustle of Southern California I went. As I reached the summit, another rider approached. We exchanged waves. Then… I realized. I knew him! What were the odds? We’d ridden many epic routes together. Good fortune had brought us together on this day. He had just improved his time on the difficult climb, and I now hoped to show him a few secret shortcuts to get down the backside of the hill. It was a chance to play tour guide and share some of what motivates me to be on the bike. At the end of our ride, we bade goodbye and agreed to spin in the morning early. I headed back to my office to clean up and then head home. Before I did, I had a chance to reflect and give thanks. I need to keep this list close by and remind myself. I’m thankful for:

• Family
• Health
• Friends
• Bikes and the amazing experiences they produce
• Art
• Humor
• The ability to learn
• The ability to grow

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suf·fer v. suf·fered, suf·fer·ing, suf·fers v.intr. 1. To feel pain or distress; sustain loss, injury, harm, or punishment. 2. To tolerate or endure evil, injury, pain, or death.

Catch a cold, and you’ll catch some hell on the bike. Trust me. After nursing — for a week — a low-grade something-I-can’t-describe-except-as-what-sounds-like-a-smoker’s-hack, I rolled out today into the crosswinds. No snow, rain or mountains. Just the crosswinds and few rollers between home and the ocean. Sub-60F temps provided reason enough to break out the embrocation, turn the music up loud and go solo. Funny how quickly you can be humbled by an invisible foe after lounging on your duff for consecutive days. Today the wind kicked arse. I suffered like a mutt. You know, one of those ugly junkyard dogs roaming an alley for shelter.

Roadies enjoy tales of suffering, of epic rides that take them into painful — and often wild episodes — along the razor’s edge of their physical limits. After settling in and finding my legs [they sprang to life after 2 hours], I nailed down a rhythm in time to say hello to a glorious sunset. The art of suffering is mysterious, almost akin to black magic. Voodoo. Lightning in a bottle. You can’t really master it. But you can accept it. And once you do, that wind in your face is calmer, your thoughts become simpler and you surrender. Which makes you free. Ask any cyclist. Suffering on a bike transcends the mental and the physical. At some point, you go to a different place. You feel peace.

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It’s often said that the one constant thing in life is change. Each day is a reminder of this — a 24-hour door through which the new enters and the old exits. It’s where we embrace things for the first time, encounter the unexpected and bid goodbye in so many ways. People. Places. Possessions. Big and small. What mattered then and quite possibly now. There’s that thrill of what’s ahead competing for our attention with the finality of what’s over and disappearing behind us. But one thing is certain: Nothing stays the same. That even goes for the mountains upon which we suffer, eyes fixed on the next switchback, heart pumping strongly and legs aching. Each long climb presents a way forward with perspective. Another lesson about ourselves. In that very moment. The one where you realize how fortunate you are to be alive. Alive to change.

Stelvio Pass

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Two weeks ago, we were broiled in the desert and seared on the climb to Ranchita. Why not bring in a freak snow storm to welcome the first week of November? That’s what happened Friday afternoon and night. So we hit Mount Laguna first thing Saturday morning. Call us crazy — Todd Gunther, and myself. He’s also known as @gman92069 on Twitter. I was game for a good time on the 11.9-mile Kitchen Creek Road climb. We also planned to attack Sunrise Highway. Things were clicking along well in the Kitchen until I hit patches of slick stuff above 4,500-foot elevation that frightened my 23cc road tires. A few power slides forced me to wind it down. I turned off Strava. Decided to enjoy the view. You know, snap a few photos. It wasn’t worth risking a spill. Here’s some of what I saw. Temps at the start were in the high 30s. I could hardly tell. But the descent? A different story. It was wind in face, numb fingers and a body begging for the car heater. Let it snow.

Looking South from 4,600 Feet

Laying Down Tracks With Conti 4000S Tires

Mount Laguna Meadow near 6,000 Feet Elevation

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Now that daylight savings time is ready to roll back the sunlight an hour, we can officially dig into mashed potatoes, gravy and pumpkin pie without guilt, right? Yes and no. My plan is this: semi-hibernate, read some Carver, Cheever, DFW — and catalog stream-of-consciousness thoughts captured during winter rides. Nothing edited. Raw material. As it happened. The ultimate goal is to publish a long-form blog post on BC that encapsulates the thoughts, experiences and occasional neurosis of a cyclist during the winter months when riding time [outdoors, for many of you] plummets. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. It’s a new challenge on the writing front. And it’s fun. I’ll continue to write short posts that have become common here, plus post images on Instagram via Twitter. Thank your for your recent response to the BC custom Walz cycling caps. The L/XL stock flew off the shelf. I’ve got some S/M left. They fit up to a 7.5 hat size. DM or contact me directly through the blog [contact link top right] on how to get one. As always, thanks for reading.

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I’d been thinking about it all summer: Trying to do a personal best on Palomar Mountain. Last weekend was a furnace-like sufferfest on Montezuma Grade that was supposed to build confidence. It didn’t. But an easy week to recover (most off the Strava radar) and a nice coastal ride yesterday brought me to the side door of the mountain this morning knocking loudly. East Grade Road is different from the more famous South Grade Road, but you can hurt yourself just the same over the 11 miles. On the way up riding at threshold, thoughts can bounce low to high. Confidence can surge then fall. Eyes can see 8% gradient where it’s really 5%. When going as hard as you can against a mountain, the world is minefield ready at any moment to blow up mind, body or soul.

The only way to go your fastest up an HC climb is to block out every negative thought, every memory of every hard day, every kernel of doubt. Then drill it. Keep shifting. Spin. Mash. In the saddle. Or out. Whatever works. Drill it. Go until the veins in your temples are pulsing so hard your helmet moves. Fill your legs with blood and bring them to fullest effort without turning to stone. Breathe as deeply as you ever have. In and out. It’s where you want to be. Don’t stop. Don’t hesitate. Don’t worry. Pick your line. Point the wheel. Turn the cranks. Drill it.

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Do you read the BikeCrave blog? Love to ride? Or just hang out and exude a bike vibe? Well, you’re in luck. I’ve had a limited quantity of custom embroidered BikeCrave caps made for purchase. They are $25, which includes shipping. The skinny: Made in USA (individually sewn) by the great folks at Walz Caps in San Diego, my hometown and the place from which I blog, tweet and post bike (and a few other) images through Instagram (and Inkstagram app for laptop). The details on the caps:

• Classic three-panel construction
• 65% poly and 35% cotton
• Timeless black with white stripe
• Custom white embroidered BikeCrave logo on the right side
• S/M = 21.25″ to 23.5″
• L/XL = 23.5″ to 25″

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Hot temperatures make for interesting rides. Throw in an Hors Catégorie climb in said heat with no trees and a swirling wind from the North and you’ve got a recipe for anything can happen. Today was that kind of day over 75 miles. Here’s the synopsis:

• Start with arm warmers from Santa Ysabel, which was a brisk 40F at 7 a.m.
• Finish in Santa Ysabel sans arm warmers, base layer, a clear thought in my head or a clue as to what happened over the previous 5+ hours
• Eat a phenomenal turkey sandwich at Dudley’s Bakery

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There comes a time during the year when your legs, mind and soul want to ride forever. For most of us, the magic happens sometime in July — right around Le Tour, when long days and sunshine for miles (or kilometers) invite you to savor all that is well and right about road cycling. Others of us might peak earlier in the spring, craving big days in April just as the one-day Classics show themselves — from Ronde van Vlaanderen to Gent-Wevelgem to the amazing Queen of the Classics, Paris–Roubaix.

For yours truly, I’ve saved my best form in 2011 for October — long after the European racing season has concluded, after teams folded, riders have announced transfers and the rainbow jersey has been placed on the shoulders of Mark Cavendish. Most riders in the Northern Hemisphere are beginning to ease into the “off season” and preparing for winter, while still others, are dialing it in hard for cyclo-cross season. Hup. Hup. Hup. Pass the beer, please.

Whatever your favorite time of year or cycling discipline, you know the sensations when you are riding well. They appear like a Lycra-clad fairy in a dream, only to vanish upon waking, but leaving you refreshed and hungry for more. You want to hold onto the sensations and repeat every day. You’re lighter and stronger. You recover faster. You can’t help but smile when turning the pedals at threshold and fighting off a nasty surge of lactic acid. You go as hard as possible just about whenever possible. Then you go even harder. You have to tell yourself to ease up. You can barely breathe at times, but you are weightless, free of the shackles of too few hours in the saddle that once held you down. You summon power at will in the big ring. You spin at 100-plus RPMs in the small ring. You laugh at any notion of an epic bonk, let alone fatigue.

Yes, the time when all this happens is fleeting. A week or two at most. You can taste it. It’s better than anything else on two wheels. You can ride like the wind. You can ride far and often. You can forever.

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