Boulder Creek Sprint
A Story by Erich von Neff
It began in a quite ordinary way. We had assembled at Shinn’s Bike Shack* for an autumn ride to Felton near Santa Cruz. After most of us had reinflated our tires on Shinn’s air hose which he had conveniently left outside, we started riding at a leisurely pace along the Great Highway near Ocean Beach.
Aside from the usual arguments about pace the ride was uneventful until we reached Holy City in the Santa Cruz mountains where Ricky Tan lost the lock nut off his Simplex Derailleur. The parts sprang across the road. We were soon able to find all of them except for the lock nut. It was a size easily found in any gas station or in any miscellaneous assortments of nuts and bolts found in the garages of most homes.
Without waiting for a caucus or a call for a volunteer Ron Arms rode off in the direction of Holy City. We remained by the side of the road. A few of us still looked for the lock nut –in vain. No doubt it had gone over the side of the embankment.
Nearby was a vegetable and fruit stand with a sign –”All You Can Drink, for 10 cents.” This was, Kool-Aid and water, at least that was what some said. It would also give you diarrhea. Not everyone who drank it was affected, so we took our chances.
Shortly Ron was back with the lock nut which Ricky tightened on with a Crescent wrench. We now remounted our bikes and proceeded down the mountain. Zinging downhill through one curve after another until the straight stretch near Boulder Creek. We grouped for a sprint, jostled for position, then thrashed across the “finish line.”
Ricky Tan and Ron Arms raised their hands in the air. Who could call it? After all it was just a sign by the side of the road nor was there any “finish line” except in their imaginations. For awhile they argued, but began to wind down as we approached Felton.
At the Felton Store we bought butter, pork chops, rice, Van Kamp beans, Quaker Oats, Acme Beer, and of course, Sloans Linament. Our cleats clinked against the worn wood floor, carving little marks, which were soon obliterated by the boots of loggers and construction workers.
We pooled our money. Some had more than others, though those with the most always seemed short. The balding clerk who was also the owner of the store took our money. He never seemed surprised that we had ridden down from San Francisco.
We stuffed the food into our musette bags, and rode toward Rickey Tan’s family summer house near the outskirts of Felton.
Soon Rickey Tan was serving us pork chops with rice and beans. The butter ran off the pork chops and into the rice and beans and was washed down with Acme Beer. It was a meal that I savor even now, though anyone can make it.
As Joe Laucacella and I washed the dishes we heard an argument in the living room, then thumping noises. We continued washing dishes but curiosity soon got the better of us. We stepped into the living room to see…Rickey Tan with a pillow raised above his head, just then Ron Arms swung around delivering a stinging blow to the face. Rickey struck back his pillow glancing off Ron’s shoulder and smashing against the wall, cracking the plaster, for by now all the cotton was squeezed into one hardened mass in the bottom of the pillow.
At times they stopped. Sometimes for fifteen or twenty minutes. Sweat dripped from their T-shirts. They stood there glaring at each other, then suddenly they began again. Although they now said nothing it was clear that the fight was about the sprint.
Rickey now hit Ron with a solid blow to the stomach. Ron gasped for air, his knees buckling. Rickey now swung the pillow above his head holding the twisted end of the case with both hands. He brought it smashing down on the top of Ron’s head.
Foam ran down the sides of Ron’s mouth. Rickey looked down, then slowly started to walk away. Ron struggled to his feet hitting Rickey with a thud against the back, surprising him as he was about to leave the room. It was not over. It was not about to be over.
Blow after blow hit with a thud.
The fight had begun again although at a slower pace. Blows were just as hard if not harder…but less and less frequent.
In the end they stood opposite each other. Their faces covered with puffy lumps. Their hair ringing wet with sweat. Their soaked-through T-shirts clung to them as did their sweat pants.
Dawn was just beginning to break. The fight had now lasted almost eight hours. Slowly they began to back away from each other, finally they put their pillows down and left the room.
Who could call it? After all it was just a sign by the side of the road.
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*Once located on Lincoln Boulevard and La Playa in San Francisco.
Story & Images by John Vonderlin
