Any Way You Slice It

Any Way You Slice It
By Audrey Adler

How I yearn to go back to the pared down basics of real cycling, to cleanse my soul of worldly titanium temptations. Averting my eyes from the evils of accessories while innocently cruising through aisles of the devilishly chic local bike retailer, I sing the psalm of cycling over and over: “cycle strong and be free.”

My old tires have worn themselves to a pulp. I must seek out a sensible solution. Upon completion of his 15 minute dissertation on the 'classification and function of racing tires,' the young, erudite, tattooed, and pierced salesperson all but leaves me no choice to replace them with an enormously upgraded version of my old tires (which were clearly not suited for the type of riding I do.) Funny, they seemed to work pretty well. Once again, I succumb. K-CHING! goes the register as I produce that little magic golden card, the key to my success in hopes that this upgrade will secretly reflect a nuance of improvement in my cycling skills if not openly my latent air of component snobbery.

Two weeks later. I'm cycling on the road with my best friend. As we begin our ascent up a larger than life-threatening mountain I remind myself that it's all a mind game. "Stay calm, relaxed, even out the pedal stroke, go somewhere else, and just ride", I mutter. Surely this climb will be smooth as Kevlar on my spanking new pro tires.

Two hours later. Fatigue level equal to that of previous rides on the inferior set of tires. The Gospel preached to me month after month, year after year by my riding mentor, “It's not about what you have, it's how you use what you've got,” finally rings out loud and clear.

A light comes on: I'm reborn! Free at last of the binds of high-tech gizmos and gadgets. Lustlessly confident and content to merely admire others' colossal carbon concoctions glinting in the sun as they glide by me on my perfect fitting retro beauty.

Later. Here I am once again back again at the local cycling depot innocently weaving among the potpourri of parts simply for a refill on chain lube, a couple of spare tubes, a few tire levers. Dazzling displays of the coolest threads abound, the must-haves in trend-setting women’s technical wear, the hottest new shocks that put a charge through your wallet, that pair of shades with the perfect lens tint, an all new super duper aerodynamic helmet putting its Jurassic predecessor of six months ago to shame, oh, and let's not forget the latest and greatest reinvention of the bicycle weighing in at eleven pounds claiming to be the next best thing to sliced bread. Tempted no more by glitz and glamour, I near the exit triumphantly unswayed by temptation. Free at last.

OOOHHHHH, those shoes...did they just come in?

Above: Audrey crusing past Malibou Lake,
a well kept secret of the Santa Monica Mountains.Above" How "The Rock Store" got its name: on Mulholland Hwy.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

Forty Days and Forty Nights
By Audrey Adler

It was the winter of 1998. Los Angeles.

I had just completed my first series of triathlons the previous summer and eagerly anticipated an off season filled with outdoor training opportunities, sowing the seeds of fitness for the spring season’s new and improved personal best. Winter in LA, you must visualize, meant that a light wind jacket and arm warmers may be necessary for the first hour of an early morning ride! To every outdoor athlete’s chagrin (by the way, in Los Angeles, anyone with two legs and a pair of Air Max is an "athlete") predictions of the terroristic storm El NINO' promised to keep all at bay out of the thrashing angry open waters, off the flooded and avalanched coastal stretches of breathtaking infinite Highway 1, out of the sinuous bowels of the Santa Monica Mountains' single track. Reduced to pumping iron in the acrid arena we call a gym, and lounging around the fireplace darning those not-yet-ready-to-trash cycling socks, I relented to the omnipotent forces of Mother Nature.

As the rains continued mercilessly to inundate our thatched-roofed metropolis, I visited the gym daily to teach my regimen of indoor cycling classes to loud, yet meaningful and inspiring music. At least, I rationalized, I was spinning my legs, virtually recreating and sharing the climbs of the real world roads I knew so intimately. Sitting at the helm of the class on my spinning bike rhetorically repeating the mantra of my mentor and friend CK, "the music is the road," I would stare out of the huge plate glass window at the gray sky, wondering where all of that rain had been stored for five long, dry years. Turning my legs over laboriously against a self imposed mountain, sweating profusely, wondering where I was really going in an existential way, Tina Turner suddenly belted out, "I can't stand the rain".

It was at that moment I believe that it happened.

I experienced my first attack of cardio-pulmonary claustrophobia. I HAD to get out. I needed to feel the dirt in my bronchioles, the tingle of blood pumping through my enlarged veins as I bolt down the side of a mountain, my heart pounding with the rush of fear and fortitude.

I rang up my buddy CK, a seasoned off-roader quite undaunted by less than optimal road conditions. "Let's do an off road ride this weekend." I could not spend another minute indoors. "Meet me at Malibu Creek State Park", he said.

"What if it rains?" I panicked. "Don't worry, Eagle," he reassured me.

Sunday. 7:30 a.m. Malibu Creek State Park. No rain. Naturally. Huge open sun drenched skies filled with trees, streams, bridges, stone pathways, rolling green hills and an occasional house tucked way into the side of a mountain.

Trails abound. The temperature is moderate outside. I am in heaven for sure. We mount our bicycles and begin our epic adventure. A dirt trail leads us through the woods out to a clearing. We stop in our tracks. Ahead, the “trail” was nothing but a water-filled ravine. We continue. Wading blindly through obliterated trails of freezing, frenzied, waist deep murky waters, treacherously weaving each step through the unknown depths of the boulder-strewn river bed, our bikes in tow dangling precariously on our backs hung at the mercy of our stiffening phalanges and searing deltoids, we revert to our origins.

Earth, Dust, Water.

As we emerge up onto the slip and rock of the hillside, legs numb with cold, we mount our bikes and climb through a never-ending potpourri of ankle deep black mud, newly arranged rock beds, wild brush and virgin weeds. The air, scented heavily of that unique musk ensuing a heavy rain seems a comfort. Hours have passed.

My strong, steady legs reassure my body that the still long and difficult journey ahead will be a rewarding one. As we climb endless miles up the mountainside I struggle to relax and gracefully balance my bicycle over the enormous random rock piles which pattern the trail. Momentum. My heart beats thriftily inside my chest, patterning a strong syncopated rhythm to the cadence of my pedals. My lungs generously cycle the flow of oxygen and carbon dioxide renewing each muscle with the promise of redemption.

And so it goes. On and on,,,,

I am redeemed.


Photos of the author and CK taken on a much warmer and drier day a few years later, on or near the Whoopdedoo Trail and the Nike Tower above Brentwood in the Santa Monica Mountains