Boozy P. is lethal on the bike, but not most of the time. Most of the time, he’s lucky to be on the bike at all. However, as I noted a long time ago, for six months once every three years, BP gets bike religion and it is game on.
I noticed three months ago the stirrings of BP fitness. He was saying weird things like, “I rode around the Hill,” and “Yeah, me and Smasher went out for a pedal.” One time he swung by during a ride, doused with what looked like fifteen gallons of sweat, which is about how much it takes to flush 180,000 gallons of beer.
Pretty soon BP started showing signs of serious pre-fitness such as bike leotards that were starting to fit right. Then, when I’d talk about a ride, he started listening. Really listening.
Finally, he did That Which Only Those Seeking Fitness Dare Do: The Thursday morning Flog Ride. “Man,” he said afterwards. “This ride sucks as bad as I remember it.”
Hating on the Flog is a sign of fitness. People who claim to love it or who say, “Wow, this ride is great! See you next week!” are the ones whose autographs you should get immediately, because you won’t see them again.
One day I knew he was ready and told him that we were riding up Deer Creek and back. “I’m in,” he said.
“5:30 launch,” I said, testing him further.
The next day we did a four-person rotation all the way out there and then climbed the mountain from hell. Baby Seal flew up it, I mostly crawled, and Boozy P. caught me pretty handily at the top of the first peak. Thing is, BP isn’t even a climber.
Back on PCH we began pedaling hard and suddenly we had gone forty miles quick. Boozy was doing more than his share of FaceTime into the FaceWind, tearing everyone’s legs in half. Back in Redondo, he peeled off to go home. My legs were crying.
“Only three more months,” I said. “Thank dog.”