On the day after the L.A. bike marathon, I replaced my street wheels with my moutain bike wheels. I headed up into the Santa Monica Mountains to continue training for Fargo Street Hill Climb. I pedaled up Doheny Drive, more than 1000 feet above my home in the flatlands of Los Angeles. On the way down, my rear tire tube suddenly blew with a huge bang and a high-pitched whistling sound.

Looking at the tire, I saw that one of the brake pads had rubbed against the rubber, worn through, and then worn through the tube. I put the spare tube into the tire and pumped it all up, but there was a very noticeable bulge of the tube out the sidewall of the tire. So I elected to call my daughter, Nora, who happened to be home; fifteen minutes later my bike and I were in the car. I was annoyed, because as difficult as Doheny is to climb on a bike, I had wanted to ride at least another 500 to 1000 feet.