Writing Honorable Mention: “Riding The ‘Giant'”
Photography Honorable Mention: “Dawn Patrol” by Simmons
by Christopher Feehan
I woke up at six in the morning with the intention of experiencing the South Bay on a borrowed bicycle. My uncle had obliged me in this regard by offering his favorite bike. It was a fine bike: 26 inch alloy rims, 24 gears, and knobby tires, great for any terrain. The frame was electric blue with the word Giant emblazoned on it. It weighed an impressive 25 pounds. I instantly fell in love with it.
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait for my trek around the South Bay.
I was born in Los Angeles County where I spent the first seven years of my life in the great old city of Torrance, blessed with a child’s experience of the cities by the ocean. But after a lengthy divorce, my mother, little brother and I moved to the Coachella Valley, where I spent the better part of two decades in the dry, vast Sonoran Desert. Upon returning to the South Bay, I wanted to see, as a man, that which I saw as a child, from the seat of my uncle’s bicycle.
The night before my journey, I mapped out the route to Hermosa Beach, and from there to Redondo. Then I planned the more demanding ride out to the tip of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, where I would rest at Point Vicente Park. From there I would begin the final leg, and hardest part of the trip, straight to the top of the peninsula via “The Switchback”.
If all went well, I felt that I would see what I wanted to see (all 30 miles of it) within eight hours. A half-gallon of cool water, a dozen granola bars, a bike repair kit and a change of clothes filled my old red backpack. I also brought along a notebook.
After I had contented myself with the preparations, I went to sleep. It took me longer than usual though, because all I could think about was the next day.
The next morning I jumped out of bed before the alarm clock rang. I showered, shaved, then slipped into a worn pair of boardwalk shorts, a blue polo and my favorite Nikes. I fried up some eggs, bacon, and sausage and ate slowly, quietly. Since I don’t like coffee, I just drank a glass of water.
After breakfast, I inspected my uncle’s bike. All was in order.
I looked at the sky to see if it would give me any hint of the day to come. It being a June morning, the sky was the usual shade of gloom, so I put my faith in the weatherwoman and hopped on the Giant.
With high spirits and a healthy reserve of energy, I arrived at Twenty-Second Street, where I locked up my bike and walked around for a bit. The cloud bank screened the sun from illuminating the shops and houses, creating a haze. I didn’t mind it though, and continued on my walk unaltered.
I chuckled a bit when I saw the Green Store. I walked in and, although it was early, got myself a push pop—just like the old days.
Feeding on the old memories of this same stretch of beach, and feeding on the push pop, I decided to walk down to the water.
Each step summoned up more happy memories. I thought about the time my uncle and I played Frisbee all day (even though I was no good at it), my mother making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me and my cousins. I pictured myself, once more, boogie boarding. I love boogie boarding.
Some things never change, I concluded, not even the push pops.
Next stop: Redondo.
It was only a short cruise down the boardwalk to Redondo Beach.
I pushed myself now, pedaling fiercely. Traffic was low (because of the weather and the time of day, I figured) so I saw no harm in it. I didn’t stop either, and despite the “No Bicycles” signs, I sped onto Redondo Pier. I raced past the fishermen laughing. A couple of them yelled gruffly, and one of them flipped me off. I laughed some more.
I kept on riding straight through Redondo Beach, fresh and free. After a mile, I saw the end of the boardwalk.
Stopping to catch my breath, I looked up at the cliffs that played sentinel to Palos Verdes and thought about the next leg of my trip. The houses looked massive even from a distance, and I was vaguely intimidated.
I checked my watch: eight o’clock. I headed up a steep ramp and merged onto Catalina Avenue. It was mostly uphill. After a couple of blocks in a low gear, I began to sweat. I stopped for a bit, as a biker passed. Not a casual biker like myself, but a true cyclist all in uniform, leg muscles exploding from his shorts, and riding a bike that was probably worth more than I made in a month. He pushed up the hill hard, yet steady.
As he passed he nodded and assured me, “Don’t stop kid. Keep pushin’.”
I nodded back and smiled. I hopped on the ‘Giant’ and made my way up Catalina Avenue with renewed vigor. I pushed hard, yet steady.
Palos Verdes Drive came up and I merged. A short downhill run was a welcome sight, so I coasted contently. I passed by St. Francis Episcopal Church and said a prayer for my dog, Milo.
The downhill gave way to an incline, but still I rode up Palos Verdes Drive, steadily, passing mansions and being passed by Audis, BMWs, Mercedes and the occasional Ferrari. I thought to myself that right then that I wouldn’t trade a thousand Ferraris for my electric blue bike.
I stopped periodically over the course of a couple hours, marveling at particular houses, each overlooking their own particular slice of heaven.
The clouds broke around ten o’clock, and the sun was a welcome sight. It made me perspire a little more though, so I stopped at a local café, and refreshed myself — iced tea, with lemon zest.
A little after 10 o’clock I left the café, and made for Point Vicente. My father used to take me there because it was his favorite place in the world. One time I innocently asked him why we went there so much. He winked — he always winked — and he told me that it was because “it has the best view of the ocean.”
As I rode into the park, I looked around at the trees I used to climb, the lawn I used to roll around on, and the benches I would sit on with my father. Everything was just like I remembered it. Amazing! He was right too — it did have the best view of the ocean.
The park was filled with cozy couples sitting on benches, happy families lying in the grass, and solitary people as well, standing like sentinels, looming over the Pacific.
I stood there, too, and looked out with the others. A passerby complimented me on my bike. I told him it wasn’t mine.
“Well, it’s still a nice bike,” he reiterated.
“Thank you.”
The passerby, a middle-aged man with piercing green eyes, seemed engaged by my politeness, and continued the conversation. “So where you from?” he inquired.
He must have noticed my clothes and figured that I wasn’t a local.
“I just moved here from the Coachella Valley. I live in Torrance. You?”
“Yeah, I live up P.V. Drive East. You know it?” His head cocked, waiting.
“Oh yeah, I’m actually heading up The Switchback in a little bit.”
The green-eyed man laughed from his gut. “Good luck with that one kid, you’ll need it.” He patted me on the back.
He laughed some more, this time louder. I didn’t sense anything sinister about him, though, as one might expect. And after a couple minutes of small talk, I bid farewell.
“I’ll get going now, sir. Maybe I’ll see you at the top.”
“Maybe you will.” He didn’t sound encouraging. It gave me pause.
The land I soon passed through was hilly, and known for landslides, a fact which strained me further. Caution signs warned bikers and motorists alike of the danger.
“Hard and steady,” I breathed to myself as I pushed up the inclines, “hard and steady.”
After what seemed like forever, I saw the intersection. The Switchback, which ran away from the ocean, towered over me and the blue bike. A road sign proclaimed the eight percent grade. I shuddered with the anticipation of the strain. Nevertheless, I resolved to conquer The Switchback.
At first it wasn’t so bad. The low gear helped displace the strain which was building in my legs. Yet slowly, inevitably, the grade took its toll on my legs and I had to stop and walk, disappointedly. I was breathing hard, gasping even. I walked for the better part of an hour, and still no end in sight. All I saw was passing cars. They were overshadowed by the Pacific which steadily consumed the western horizon.
But I knew that I had to keep reassuring myself with words of encouragement.
“As long as you don’t stop, you’ll be fine, Chris. Just get on the bike. Now!” With these words, I pushed on, and launched one final assault on The Switchback.
I was determined.
I thought one pedal at a time: left leg, right leg, left leg, push!
Just a little further, I told myself.
Then, after what seemed like forever, I looked ahead to see the top of the road. Level ground was within my grasp.
Shortly I arrived at the top; the end of The Switchback. I had conquered it, and it felt good.
Amidst my elation, I stopped to gather myself. I checked the time: one o’clock. Good time, all things considered. So I continued on, after a quarter-hour of relaxation. I followed Palos Verdes Drive East, down the mountain.
I picked up speed rapidly. Before long, I was riding as fast as the cars, the wind blowing in my face. The ‘Giant’ handled the speed gracefully, tires humming.
All the while smiling, I rode on deep in reverie.
I thought about all the places I had been, and all I had seen. Hermosa Beach was invigorating, and reminded me of the happiness of the beach days. Redondo Beach, with its long strand abided my youthful energy and exuberance, while the wealth and grandiose of Palos Verdes humbled and surprised me with its half-hidden treasures, and of course, “The best view of the Ocean around.” On that ride up the mountain, I pushed myself like I never had before. I rode hard and steady, and conquered the mountain, claiming my prize. Joy.
I couldn’t wait to thank my uncle for letting me borrow the blue ‘Giant’, which after that day seemed to be a part of me. I couldn’t wait to tell him about The Switchback — he’d like that story — or the pissed off fishermen — he’d get a kick out of that one, too.
I later marveled at how the South Bay came alive for me that day as it never did before, even during my youth. And it made me happy to know that I was lucky enough to live there once more, amidst happy memories, recent and remote.
I slept deep that night, my body exhausted from the ride. I woke up after 12 hours refreshed, and energized as never before. ER