April 6, 2010
A long time ago, I read a book featuring a character who lived in La Jolla, California. You know how you read stuff but never say it out loud, so you never know that you don’t know how to pronounce it? I mean, I WAS from Minneapolis. It’s not like I was exposed to a lot of Latin languages. Just Swedish, really.
Anyway, a few years after that, during the summer of my freshman year of college, I remember sitting around the pool, while a couple of fat guys played catch with a softball. You know. To get loose for their big softball game. One of the fat guys was telling the other fat guy a hilarious story about some idiot who kept pronouncing La Jolla as if it were an English word.
As in, Lah Jahla. Instead of how it really IS pronounced–La Hoya.
Sitting there, I felt pretty stupid, even though I had never said the word out loud in my life. I don’t think I even knew where La Jolla was.
But. Here we are again. I dragged the family to La Jolla again (well, Pacific Beach, but close enough), third year in a row, thanks to the Leblanc’s hospitality (I’ve ALWAYS known how to pronounce Leblanc). I dragged the family here to distract me from the fact that my bike will be done this weekend, but I won’t have it until at least Monday. Jon left me voicemail this morning, telling me it was done and he was sending it get a nice coat of RAL 2000 (orange).
Can’t wait. So, to pass the time here in the La Jolla area, me n Rick n Erol went and rode Palomar again. This time there was no snow, no fog, no rain. Remember last time?
Couldn’t even see the cafe at the top from 20 feet away. This time?
That’s better, isn’t it?
What’s that in our hands?
Views were good:
Palomar is a nice road. I like how they have a rumble strip in the middle, so that you feel like you actually get your lane on the downhill. Up AF Canyon, I feel like I get maybe a third of my lane on the down, because of big trailers crossing the center line or yahoos just cutting corners. On Palomar, nobody did that. Just 13 miles and 4500 feet of smooth goodness.
Erol topping out.
You know what I didn’t like about the road? These stupid decimal point mile posts. Last year it took me about 4 miles to figure it out. This year I just had this nagging feeling that the signs were weird and it only took me about 2 miles remember the decimal point.
That sign doesn’t say mile post 478. It says mile post forty seven POINT eight. There IS a difference.
I would say something here about not being so dumb, but I’ve already told the La Jolla story.
Okay, I’m going to wrap up with something a bit ewy here. Stop reading and finish strong with the La Jolla joke if you don’t want the ewy thing.
So, at least five times on the hour and half climb, I was absolutely sure that I’d crapped my shorts. As in, from Saturday Night Live, “Oops, I crapped my pants.”
Each time I considered pulling over and checking (which can be a hassle in bib shorts). But each time I decided “well, what are you gonna do? Take off your shorts and ride naked? Nope. So just suffer and check at the top.”
So, at the top, I checked. Whew. False alarm.
It’s the little things.