The Bixby Canyon Bridge

I recently bought the new Death Cab for Cutie CD; Narrow Stairs. It has not left me disappointed. The first track is titled, “The Bixby Canyon Bridge.”

The song pays respects to a dead friend while realizing that while the place is the scene of death, it is for most, a blink of the eye while travelling through every day life. At least that’s how I interpret it in 32 words.

At 16 I went on a church bike trip from San Jose to Disneyland. The trip was a stage for me as I was a social wall flower. On the bike though, I was comfortable. Cycling was my escape and bike racing was a way to vent my adolescent angst. I was good at riding a bicycle at a time when everything else in life seemed difficult.

I crossed the Bixby Bridge with Lorinda, a well matured blond who that season was my single thought while doing intervals or climbing hills as hard as I could when my mouth tasted metallic like blood and the legs burned like hot irons.

Amazed that I was totally comfortable next to her, we rode together for miles. She laughed at my jokes and shared her thoughts. My hands rested lightly on the hoods, legs spun smoothly, loosely. That moment was easy. Off the bike, in contrast, I stared at my feet, tripped over my words or avoided her all together. As we crossed the Bixby Bridge, everything was right in my world.

Unfortunately, just after the bridge, my eyes firmly set on her, we crested one of the many peaks along the coastal highway. I failed to see the giant boulder in the road and hit it straight on, collapsing my front wheel into a heart shaped pile of aluminum.

A few years later, Chris and I did an inland trip to Paso Robles and back up the coast. Riding cyclocross bikes fitted with racks and not nearly low enough gearing, we spent 3 days trying to drop each other with loaded packs while he extolled the virtues of college life.

Both of us thought the other brought a can opener. We ate canned soup and tuna opened with rocks our first night. Crossing the Bixby Bridge from the south on that trip I enjoyed the approach, the vista and the moment for what it was. The wind chilled my sun burnt skin. I thought 19 would last for much longer than it did.

So it was without forethought, after reading Henry Miller and the Beat poets and having developed a respect for the Big Sur that I would finally accept the loss of my cousin Keith, and mourn the tragedy of his brother Kevin during a 72 hour bender at Pfeiffer State Park. The power of nature on the Big Sur was the prologue to the hardest block of my life. I was powerless as even the fog engulfed me and I shivered in front of a camp fire I could barely see.

For the past 3 years the Tour of California has crossed the Bixby Bridge in rightly the harshest stage of the race. The bridge is a must-take postcard shot for the photogs. One might look at those pictures and see the race as a bridge between Euro Pro Cycling and the growing domestic Pro scene. Mostly, the Bixby Bridge reminds me of painful blisters that callus sensation-less so as to continue crossing the chasms that otherwise seem uncrossable.