In all of the 15,000-plus miles my bikes and I have logged this last 33-ish months, most of it has been inside Los Angeles. In fact, the furthest urban environment I’ve pedaled from home is Newport Beach last December (for a work-related event). Other than that Long Beach, during a recreational roundtripper done for the helluvit a couple thousand miles ago back in July. Oh yeah, on the subject of fun rides there was that awesome 17-mile downhiller in Death Valley on my 42nd birthday (the day after hiking to the top of 11,049-foot Telescope Peak):
I’ll be further broadening my biking horizons either today or tomorrow and/or Friday and/or Saturday as my presence is required those days for a tradeshow within the industry I purport to cover for the magazine I attempt to edit. And it’s in the not-too far-off lands of a mythical place known by the natives as San Diego (sahn dee-ay-goh). Apparently it’s conveniently accessible by a freeway coincidentally of the same name… the things you learn.
Since the distance is readily drivable, besides a piece of luggage with some clothes less casual than what I usually wear, another thing I’m going to load up my truck with today is 8-Ball and at some point during the coming days — probably in the early mornings — she and I are going to go for a little meandering cruise (or hopefully cruises) around what I can only hope are interesting and relatively bike-friendly thoroughfares.
Seriously, with all the places Susan and I have been these last three/four years — a 4,50o-mile western-states road trip, Italy, France (a month before its public bike rental program began, dammit!), Mexico, South Carolina, Big Sur — as well as cities such as Savannah and Dallas and Orlando and Charlotte that I’ve visited for previous tradeshows, it’s somewhat anticlimactic that San Diego will be the furthest burg I’ve pedaled in, but better there than nowhere.
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