For some of us, life is hard, then it gets harder. Encouraging or optimistic acquaintances remind us that Things could get worse, as if that was a bona fide cheer-up thought. Sometimes the onslaught of negative news just gets overwhelming. It’s then that I listen to the late Sonny Chillingworth, one of the greatest Hawaiian slack key guitarists, sing an old paniolo (Hawaiian for cowboy) standard about a cowboy who is hurt when his pony stumbles on crusty lava and throws him while he’s tending herd on Parker Ranch on the Big Island:

"Oh, never mind, ke hina pu (if we fall), ua hiki no

It’s okay. You get up and ride again."

My pony is a beat-up old Diamondback bicycle I’ve ridden for nine years, scratched frame, rusted spokes, tattered handgrips—not a high-class mount to be sure. The hills she can’t conquer are not her fault. She has two tires, standard issue fat or balloon tires from the factory, and a seat like a Barca- Lounger’s. A fanny pack is jury-rigged to her scuffed up handlebars, sagging under the weight of my cable lock and map of the Conejo Valley. What no one really can see are her wings.

They’re not wings of speed, or angel’s wings. They’re wings nonetheless—when I say Go she lets me fly, fly away from those pesky piles of life’s burdens: stress, worry, aches, pains, obligations, aggravations, loneliness, brooding moods and the list goes on.

I hadn’t touched my bicycle in several months when the amount of distress I was able to process and cope with in my life reached breaking point. I’d been to a doctor and each test result ratcheted up the worry factor. Being kind of a loner without a lot of shoulders available to bawl my eyes out on made bearing discouraging news just that much tougher. Mostly there was a lot I did not understand about what I was being told, so I booked a return visit with the doctor just to hash things out. He’s in Calabasas, on Las Virgenes Road just off the 101 Freeway. I live on Mulholland Highway in rural Agoura. I was fatigued plus felt like hell, was all panicky and uptight, so naturally decided to ride my bike there. My hypochondriac’s philosophy has always been: if you’re gonna die, at least die doing something you love, in the midst of being active—of being as alive as you can possibly feel.

This ride required facing a number of considerable road climbs on Mulholland then Cornell and Agoura roads, but I made it to Calabasas, flushed and sweaty. "Don’t worry. You’re doing pretty good for your age," the doctor said reassuringly. "Try some Ben-Gay for those aches." Funny thing is, the bicycling doesn’t generate any physical repercussions despite my long absence from the saddle. So, like a crazy person I decided to ride home through Liberty Canyon to reach Mulholland Highway. I don’t normally ride dirt trails so am not terribly confident and heck, there were all these jutting rocks and big potholes on the skinny sinuous paths. Vigilant, I peered over the handlebars anticipating some tricky obstacle like a hidden lava tube to be thrown in for good measure.

Most of the pain I’d been suffering centers around a bone spur in my aching neck, and as I bumped through Liberty Canyon on the way home from the doctor I thought, This’ll either cure ya or kill ya. My neck ache registered keenly every jolt. But no particular activity had triggered the trouble in the first place, so at least now I had a good excuse why it bothered me. How’s that for logic?

Liberty Canyon was at the height of spring lushness as I passed through, riding my old winged warrior who made me feel suddenly strong and free as she carried me into the wind like a sailboat eagerly skimming the waves. Meadows were thick with green turf, valley oaks had their complement of bright new foliage, there was a cricket chorus going and streaks and ripples of clouds flowed across the blue sky.

Once through Liberty Canyon the initial battle up Mulholland taunted me, but the reward for collecting agonies anew (so, what about those knees?) was an amazing view below the road of pale china blue lilac smothering slopes dotted in coast live oaks. The lilac resembled fluffy blue cotton candy. Rising above this, Malibu Creek State Park’s craggy pink-hued peaks were covered in a 5 o’clock shadowlike growth of moss, lichen, grass and fading buckbrush blossoms. I’ve lived in the Santa Monica Mountains for many years, yet cannot recall having seen a display quite like this one.

I was only halfway through the ride home as I stopped to write this, still facing several nasty uphill climbs along Mulholland, so reckoned the heady sense of optimism and joie de vivre I was experiencing may have been premature. But even for a fleeting time I decided to grab that good-to-be-alive vibe as if I could hold fast to it forever.