Never Mind Neverland

I don't know about you but I kind of feel sorry for all the Michael Jackson mourners. Freaks, they are. My domicile is just down the road from his old Neverland Ranch, the same sprawling parcel that sits a mere mile from the start of my favorite climb, The Fig (AKA: Figueroa Mountain Road)...9.3 miles of sheer agony (not to mention sheer cliffs). For a short while this week there was talk of turning the ranch into a sort of Graceland, where fans could flock to pay tribute to the man (or whatever it was) and also pay for tee shirts, candles, ash trays and mugs with his ugly mug on them. That of course would've forever ruined my favorite bike ride, since droves of worshipers would obviously come. Figueroa Mountain Road usually sees about three or four cars a day this time of year.

It's been more than a week since Jackson moonwalked his way into The AfterLife and the entrance to Neverland is only getting worse and worse, which made my decision to leave that much easier. And beat it I did.

Angela and I piled all our belongings into a midsized rental car and drove 818 miles back to Park City, Utah, where we'll base ourselves until it gets cold. Not cold like Jackson's current rigor mortis-ified state, but cold like aspen-changing autumn. We'll then pile everything back into the car and head back to what I hope will be sleepy old Los Olivos, population 1,000 (excuse me: make that 999).

For now, I'm helping Angela get back into a training rhythm that Brett Sutton and I have ironed-out on her behalf. Her fractured leg is 100% healed but a pronounced limp still occurs every time she attempts to run. To combat this we have her ride and swim a bunch and hike in place of running. At nearly 7,500 feet all efforts are deemed hard, so the intensity of training is pretty much already taken care of. All we have to do is get out there each day and avoid the throngs of holiday travelers here now. I won't dare complain about all these people, however. At least they have a good reason to celebrate life.