The word "bonk" has a popular meaning among US cyclists: To experience a sudden loss of energy, usually caused by glycogen depletion in the muscles and a drop in blood sugar. If you ride too long or far without consuming calories, you "bonk." In England, "bonk" is slang for something decidedly different, so I just want to be clear from the get-go what my meaning is. A few days ago, unexpected schedule changes had me cycling to the Oakland Airport to fly with one student, then to the Hayward Airport to teach a second student, then back to Oakland for my last student of the day. With about 35 miles (56 km) of cycling already under my belt, I decided (somewhat impulsively) to cycle another 16 miles (26 km) home. What the heck!
Spinning steadily into a brisk headwind, I made my way through Alameda when it happened: Somewhere around Embarcadero and Dennison (the road that leads to Coast Guard Island) I bonked. Running out of steam this way is awful. Your legs feel like lead, your courage is sapped, uncontrollable thoughts of strawberry milkshakes and pizza begin dancing through your head, and you quickly realize you gotta get something in your stomach. I pulled to the side of the road and began riffling through my bag for a Cliff Bar. Oh no! It couldn't be! I'd consumed my last Cliff Bar on the earlier ride from Hayward to Oakland. My inner toddler was about to start caterwauling when my inner adult jumped in: "Get yourself together, man! There's a Starbucks about a mile away. You can get something to eat there. Quit belly-aching and get moving!" Then my inner adult whispered, so my inner toddler couldn't hear, "It's late, the sun is almost gone, and Starbucks may already be closed ..."
The lights were on, but my first disappointing clue was chairs stacked on the tables. The woman mopping the floor saw my flashing headlight, and smiled, shook her head, and mouthed the words "sorry." She was certainly more sociable than the young man at Quiznos who wouldn't even look up and acknowledge my presence. With scones and potato chips out of the frame, it was time to consider the options.
I could complete the remaining twelve miles home, but it would be slow going. There were numerous liquor stores in West Oakland, but it was hard to imagine how I could manage that transaction. I didn't have a bike lock and the spectacle of a sweating, 50-something white guy staggering through the aisles with bike was just too weird. Wait, there's that coffee place at Broadway and 4th. A mile and a half later, I lean my bike against the large glass window and stagger through the doors of the Urban Blend Cafe. The primitive segments of my brain are in high gear: I'm a hummingbird and I smell sugar. I see a glass jar filled with Cliff Bars and soon I'm chewing on a chocolate chip morsel and drinking cool water.
A mere four or five minutes later and I'm back in the saddle, rumbling northwest on the broken and uneven pavement of 4th Street. Now I recall why I usually avoid this route. A few blocks later, my head is clearer and my energy seems to be returning. I marvel at the human digestive system, but I keep the riding pace slow. Soon I'm whistling down San Pablo Avenue, seven miles 'til I reach home, the disappointment and fatigue a faded memory. So much so that when a young black man on a fixie blasts past me near Ashby Avenue, I shift up and briefly come out of the saddle until I'm right on his back wheel. Rejuvenated, my inner demon exclaims "Let's show him how the old farts ride!"
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