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"Going to California ...
with an aching in my [quads]."

On Saturday a few buddies (we'll call them Ron and Rob) and I drove to San Buenaventura (a.k.a. Ventura) to embark on a 70-mile ride through the Santa Clara River Valley (a.k.a. Heritage Valley), up into Ojai Valley, and back into Ventura.

This is probably my favorite region in Southern California. It’s relatively remote, dense with citrus groves (remember Chinatown?) and other agriculture, decorated on all sides with beautiful mountains and, on this particular day, graced with the blue skies, unobstructed sun, and warm, December air that typify Southern California.

Rob fights the wind on Foothill, between Ventura and Santa Paula. Notice the miles of citrus groves on either side of us.

But first, a little personal history. In my early, early riding days I headed up there for a solo ride. I was inexperienced, and had never been there before in my life. Though I finished a 62-mile route on virtually the same roads as Saturday's route, it was grueling. I didn't know enough to eat, or to properly hydrate. By the last 15 miles I was cramping in all my leg muscles, my neck was unbearably stiff, my hands were numb, and I could barely sit on my arse it was so sore. It was so bad I associated the bike with severe pain and basically stopped riding shortly thereafter.

After I'd gotten back into riding (3 years later or so), I tried the ride again. But I got there and it was 95+. Again, I was riding solo, so halfway up the climb into Ojai Valley I decided to play it safe and turn back.

Feeling that I'm now a much better rider than I was at the time of those previous attempts,

Behind Ron and Rob, still looking for Santa Paula and a reprieve from the wind. California. Somewhere soon is Santa Paula.

I was determined to conquer this ride once and for all. I've gone on much longer rides, I've climbed steeper and longer hills. If I can't do it now ...

Those previous two times, I started in Fillmore (the eastern-most part of the route), went along South Mountain Rd. into Santa Paula, then took Hwy 150 into Ojai. (The Tour of California traveled this stretch of the 150 earlier this year.) Well, we happen to be in the middle of our Wind Season, and lucky for us Ron (who's a master route-planner) checked the weather forecast to discover we'd be riding for at least 20 miles directly into a 25-30 mph wind. So we altered the route to start in Ventura and tackle the headwind to start the ride, rather than start in Fillmore (the easternmost edge of the route) and face the wind to finish.

This turned out to be the best decision in the history of mankind since the 49ers traded up for Jerry Rice in the '85 draft.

For the first 25½ miles, the wind was indeed brutal, and so out-of-control that drafting didn’t even do any good. The saving grace: I was definitely enjoying the scenery.

After we arrived in Santa Paula, we had a choice: continue on the route to Fillmore, which would add 7 more miles of vengeful wind and about 15 miles altogether, or cut left and head for Ojai.

We finally made it to the crossroads: Santa Paula, California. The exposed Hwy 126, a.k.a. Telegraph Rd. The last shot before the fun started. Hey look, more citrus groves!

I was opposed to the latter but let the others decide. Thankfully, maybe, they wanted to forge on. This took us onto Hwy 126, which was far more exposed than Foothill. And we thought the wind was bad before ...

It was so bad, in fact, I barely shot any pics, as I needed to concentrate more on my bearing and had a hard enough time controlling the bike with two hands, much less one.

Parched, panting and pissed, we stumbled into Fillmore. God gave us an extra slap in the face with two gnarly gusts before we turned right onto Route 23 and headed due south. We had a crosswind for about two miles until we passed through a dust storm and hit Pasadena Rd., which took us into a network of roads that cut through more citrus groves. We followed Pasadena to Sespe Rd. and then South Mountain Rd., which took us along the foothills of, well, South Mountain. By this time we were heading due west with the wind completely at our backs. We were flying. Eight miles over rolling terrain in 20 minutes flat. As Ron said: “Boy, with a 25 mph wind at your back you feel like you’re ready for the tour!” Needless to say, I was having too much fun to take pictures.

South Mountain Rd. landed us back in Santa Paula and, after a well-earned rest stop, we started up the 150 into Ojai.

Two-thirds up the climb to Ojai, Ron and Rob stopped to check the pressure in Rob’s rear tire, which had suffered a flat earlier.

As you can tell from the elevation profile, the climb up Sulphur Mountain toward Upper Ojai is not a killer. 8.91 miles from Santa Paula to the summit, 1,314 ft of elevation gain for a whopping 2.79% avg grade. (To be fair, the last three miles are closer to 4%.) But after fighting that wind for so long, even at a mild grade 9 miles was a long distance to climb. And yes, the stench of sulphur pervades over a certain stretch of road. The only thing that smelled worse on the day was a dead skunk in the middle of Hwy 150.

“Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.” (That’s my Orbea on the far left.) Whose house? Ron’s house.

After another rest stop at Ojai Summit, Captain Ron led us through the valley and into Ojai proper. Along the way, while Rob and I were at the front, Rob yelled out to me that we were passing through the spot from where we watched Stage 6 of the Tour of California. At first I thought he was wrong, because I thought we'd gotten to that point too quickly after the summit. But he was right. We were just hauling a$$, aided by the gentle push of a 25 mph tailwind.

The last time we were here, we parked in Ojai and rode our bikes east to the top of the 2-mile-long pass, then settled back down about 1/3 of the way down for a better vantage point. When the race passed, it was a little hairy descending down the pass with all the traffic. But today was different. We encountered little traffic for the entire ride, and at this particular time the 150 was deserted. I raced down the climb, taking the entire lane, cutting through the axis of each curve. If only it were longer than 2 miles.

At the bottom of the descent I waited for Rob and Ron, then the three of us cruised into Ojai. At this point, Ron was going to take us to the Ojai Valley Trail, a MUT that runs parallel to Hwy 33.

Downtown Ojai, taken a few years ago during a day trip. (Sorry, no pics of Ojai from the ride.) Ron and Rob in the distance. I kept falling back to take pictures, as the narrow confines left me inclined to use caution. The view off the side of the trail. Not too shabby.

I'd started on this trail during my first venture out here several years ago. But I didn't know where I was, and I got nervous when the trail veered away from the 33, so I cut over to the highway and cruised down with traffic. But Captain Ron knew the route, and we followed him all the way down. Little did I know, the trail ran the entire 15 miles from Ojai to Ventura.

It was actually one of the most visually interesting stretches of the route. What started with more Californian scenery up near Ojai, turned to urban/rural/agricultural decay as the path wound through backyards, trailer parks, oil fields and abandoned factories and warehouses. Sadly, I didn't want to keep losing my two co-riders, which meant I couldn't continue the game of slowing down to take pics, then racing to catch up.

The trail spit us out about three blocks from our finish at the San Buenaventura Mission. And not a moment too soon. We were all muttering stuff along the lines of "That's the hardest 70 I've ever done."

Despite my initial idea to have lunch in Ojai, Captain Ron, the master route-planner, suggested a lunch spot on the way home. We heeded his advice.

Anyone who’s spent quality time in California knows where these cups are from.

“Dopeman please can I have another hit?”

It was the best decision in the history of mankind since the Brothers Chess recorded an electric-guitar playing, southern-country mannish-boy named McKinley Morganfield.

End.