2003 Hill Climber View looks down Fargo Street in Echo Park, and up Fargo after it crosses Glendale Blvd. and climbs up into the Silverlake district.

Sisyphus Revisited The Fargo Street Hill Climb - Fat Tires Take on Steep Pavement Click here for the 2005 Update/Story This is a story that could have started at dawn with a lone, out of breath, aging man on a mountain bike. Or it might have begun with a snarling German sheppard and the strange crowing of cocks in the middle of urban Los Angles. But the assault on the Fargo Street Hill Climb record really began on a mid afternoon one year earlier, in the silence of crashed dreams. Fargo Street is nestled in the L.A.s Echo Park/Silverlake districts; both are offbeat residential neighborhoods. Echo Park in particular features an eclectic mix of architectural styles and ethnic groups, an unknown number of chickens and roosters, and a spaghetti-like network of steeply inclined avenues. Fargo, on the Echo Park side of hill, is the steepest street in the district and the city, rises just a narrow tenth of a mile to its summit, and each year it plays host to one of the oldest, goofiest, premier bike rides in Los Angeles. Sponsored by the Los Angeles Wheelmen bike club, the event draws hundreds of spectators, reporters, photographers, and the occasional t.v. crew. The rules are simple. Participants receive a number, wait for their name to be announced over a portable loud speaker, and then try to ride to the top of Fargo without stopping. Sometimes riders don't wait to be called. The reward for success, two to five anaerobic minutes later, is the faint sound of cheering from the spectators far below, pats on the back from a half dozen or so people at the top, and a Wheelmen patch that reads "Whew! I made it up Fargo Street - 33% Grade." The Wheelmen don't charge an entry fee, but then again maybe it's the riders who should charge. "It doesn't seem that steep," is a comment often heard from first timers and the young. That's because looking up from the bottom of Fargo creates a foreshortening effect. But the perspective is different from even a short way up the hill. Viewed against the street's extreme gradient, for example, houses appear to tilt backwards on their foundations, as if they were hit by one of California's legendary earthquakes, or dropped, Oz-like, out of L.A.'s smoggy skies. The street is steep enough that a successful hill climb, even with low gears, has never been assured. No woman was gnarly enough, for example, to make it to the top until the mid 1980's. And failure can mean more than a feeling of chagrin or frustration; it can also produce a long, quick slide to the bottom of the hill and a good dose of "road rash." Thus volunteer catchers, some of whom are enthusiastic Fargo street residents, line the route. Tactics also play a big part. A rider who blazes straight up Fargo in too high a gear quickly learns how radical a ride Fargo can be, and that rider risks burning out well before the top. Spin in a gear too low for too long and a rider will still burn out; and those who tack wildly across the fall line will fall over, a victim of Fargo's confining curbsides and extreme gravity.

When I was a kid living in Los Angeles, I loved, for whatever perverse reasons, to ride hills on my bike. I grew up, and kept riding hills, including my first Fargo Street Hill Climb in 1978. Back then, most Fargo attempts were made on road bikes. There were always a few recumbents and trick bikes on hand, featuring low gears, tiny front wheels, or unusual frame geometry. These bikes, frequently adorned with lights, bells and fully loaded panniers, were often ridden by men with long, shaggy beards, who worked for companies like TRW and Northrop, and who had the vacant, inward stare of people who like to compute the far flung decimal places of pi in their heads. Just making one ascent on any sort of bike pushed most people to the limit. In 1981, however, I rode the Fargo Hill Climb four times on my on my road bike. There were expressions of awe from the people on top of Fargo, and I looked forward to seeing my name next month in the club newsletter, the "Gooseneck." O.K., so it wasn't "Sports Illustrated."

Only it wasn't my name prominently mentioned in the newsletter. It seems another bike rider, David Reese, made it to the top of Fargo for his fifth time, about 20 minutes after I did.

I don't think anyone had ever kept track of the record before that year, and I'm not sure anybody but me cared after that. But I used to dream about chasing David's record. Unfortunately, events like the birth of two daughters, increased job duties, an ever expanding layer of fat around my waist, and the inexorable march of time all conspired to keep me from riding and training regularly, putting the kebosh on my plans for a return to glory. In fact, I barely trained for the 1990 ride and came close to giving up near the top of Fargo. I was almost 42 years old. My riding became more infrequent, I started feeling my age, and wondered for most of the year how to get out of the doldrums.

It took until November to come up with a plan. I decided to spend some bucks on a new mountain bike, figuring I'd feel guilty if I didn't ride it. Mountain bikes, with their low gearing, had become the choice of many Fargo riders. My new bike wasn't top of the line, but with a chrome moly frame, Onza bar extenders, and full DX components, it was hardly a clunker. By the 1991 Fargo ride, I had worked myself back into prime cardiovascular condition. My only disappointment was the slight spare tire around my waist that wouldn't go away.

David Reese showed up at Fargo in '91, too. He wasn't there to try to beat his own record; a recent bike accident and a not insignificant spare tire around his own waist would keep him grounded. But he was there to announce a $50 cash prize to the first person who could break his record. "It's been ten years and it's time!" he told the crowd.

Rick Stark took the challenge and road up Fargo Street an inhuman eleven times. My dream of regaining king of the mountain status faded a little more each time Rick crested the top, paving over my ego with psychic road rash.

And that's where this story really begins. I felt so inspired by Rick's gargantuan effort that I rode the hill twice that day. I felt as good, and as tired , after the second run as I had after the first. So that evening, after staring inwardly for a time over a piece of pie, I called my brother, Dan, who had taken over the announcing job at Fargo Street a few years back.

"This may sound a little crazy, but I might try for the record next year," I told him.

"What you do think?"

"Forget it," my brother advised. "Your about 12 years too late. You're going to be almost 44." My older daughter had a similar warning for me when I'd first broached the topic at the dinner table. "Dad, you're too old, you could die!" she wailed. "You're too old," my younger daughter echoed. My wife, at least, was noncommittal. In my mind, then, it was settled. I was going after the record. My dream was still alive. As it turned out, I would be in good company, for it was the Year of the Old Geezer, with Mark Spitz, the Olympic swimmer, Lyle Alazedo, the football player, and boxer George Foreman trying to make comeback attempts of their own. Unfortunately, their efforts all fell short as the year unfolded. I spent most of 1991 staying in good physical condition, working out at least a few times a week. My wake-up pulse went down to 48 beats per minute. However, my weight was now up to historic levels; I was seventeen pounds heavier than I had been in 1981. Five weeks before the hill climb I drove the dozen miles from my home to Fargo Street, pulled my mountain bike out of my mini-van, and spent about 15 minutes warming up on nearby practice hills. When I started up Fargo I thought, what the heck, it didn't look so steep. I made it. Just made it. It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon and I kept riding the hill, until I was exhausted. "Four times?" my brother said that night over the phone. "Yeah, but I'll never make the record."

Jazz muscian Art Pepper, probably on the adjacent Baxter Street, which some local residents think is as steep or steeper than Fargo.

"Come on, you've got more than a month to train. Believe in yourself! "

"I don't think so."

"Stop eating all those sweets and keep riding."

The following Sunday, now sweet free but still not a believer, I drove out to Fargo Street again. This time I tried more extreme zig-zags across the hill. With the mountain bike I found I could go very slowly in a 30 inch gear and still keep my balance. It took about three and a half minutes to tack up to the top, about a minute longer than usual for me, but I wasn't nearly as winded, and I managed eight runs.

Worried about the effect of all that exercise on my 43.95 year old body, I started to monitor myself on a more scientific basis. According to conventional wisdom, my target heart beat should have been 142 beats per minute. But I was maxing out at about 180 beats for at least the last half of the ride up Fargo. Could I, with my ancient cardiovascular system, kill myself?

A friend who's a psychiatrist didn't offer any opinions about my mental state, but she did opine that I wasn't in any physical danger. "If you haven't suffered a stroke or a heart attack by now don't worry about it," she said.

For the final two weeks I cut out breakfast and had so many salads for lunch that I wanted to sleep in a hutch. I did binge on cookies at least twice, but otherwise kept off the sweet stuff, and I dropped nine pounds.

I tuned up on Fargo a week and a half before the official day with ten ascents, which took me just 90 minutes. My pulse at wake-up had dropped to 42 beats per minute. I was a believer.

The year before, Rick Stark finished his last ride long after the crowds went home, but I wanted a bit more glory. So I talked Dan Avila, a Los Angeles photographer, into coming out to Fargo with me early Sunday morning for the 1992 ride. I needed Dan as a witness to vouch for the veracity of my hill climbing claims, because I wanted to finish my 10th run up Fargo well before the first riders showed up for the "official" 9 a.m. start time, and my 11th and 12th in front of the crowd.

I picked Dan up at 6:00 a.m. The sun was just lighting the sky over the hill when we arrived at the base of Fargo; the incongruous sound of roosters crowing to greet dawn in the middle of Los Angeles could be heard from someone's home up on the hill.

On my first run, in semi-darkness at 6:45 a.m., a young German Sheppard ran loose on Fargo and ran at me. Dan made a rather ineffectual attempt to distract the brute's attention, but a moving bike is obviously more fun for a dog to chase than a mere pedestrian. The dog was bluffing, I told myself, but his snarling set off the rest of the dogs up and down the street, and he followed me half way up the hill.

Mild Santa Ana winds had swept in from the desert the night before, blowing the smog far out to sea. I saw the rising sun reflected in the mirrored windows of the city's downtown skyscrapers, as dawn illuminated Los Angeles from its mountains to the sea.

The rest of the early rides became a blur; luckily Dan kept count. By the time the sign-up table and loud speakers were in place, I had finished my 10 ascents.

My wife and kids showed up, and, believers all now, trudged to the top of the hill. When it was my turn to ride my 12th ascent, my brother made the announcement about my record breaking attempt. The crowd gave a cheer and I was off. When I reached the top and had the record, there was a kiss from my wife, pats on the back, and a new Wheelmen patch to add to my collection.

Ninety riders had a shot at the top, and 68 of them made it at least once, including a male-female couple on a tandem, and a single woman rider. A 68 year old man making his first trip to Fargo Street also succeeded. "That's a radical dude," someone 50 years younger commented.

Eventually most of the crowd of participants and spectators rode away, someone stashed the P.A. and the table away, and my wife, my kids and even Dan, my witness, left. The day wasn't over for everyone, however. Nenad Bosin, age 29, was already on ascent number 12, playing hare to my tortoise. At least my brother promised me my name and ride total would be in the "Gooseneck," no matter who had the most rides.

"He likes to ride a lot," Nenad's friend, seated at the bottom of Fargo, told me a few minutes later. "He does a lot of hills on dirt steeper than this. I think he wants to do the hill 25 times," he added. So much for my record, I thought. Yet I didn't want to quit.

"It looks like Nenad's got the idea that he can ride the hill too," my brother said. He had a two hour drive home, and now he had to leave. I had just made my 17th ascent, and Nenad was on his 16th. My brother shook his head. "I can't believe you're still riding."

Neither could I. I had wanted to be Peter Pan, defying time, turning back the clock on my own years. Instead, I felt like Sisyphus, the mythological king of Corinth, condemned for eternity to roll a heavy stone up a steep hill in Hades, only to have it roll down again. Then again, maybe I felt a bit like the stone, too. David Reese had shown up for Fargo this year, too, and now he, a couple of friends, and a few neighbors were staying to cheer Nenad and me on to the bitter end. Nenad completed his 20th ascent before I did, so the record was no longer mine. I took a break. I knew Nenad was the better rider, that I would run out of energy long before he did. My 20th ascent was looking like my last. Then, while I rested, stuck on number 20, I watched him make his 23rd and 24th ascents. Now he was taking a little breather while straddling his top tube. He looked down at his back wheel. "I've still got a lower gear to drop down to," Nenad announced. He spoke the truth, but there was a subtle, probably unintended bit of braggadocio to it.

Fargo in the 1920s

"So do I," I answered, looking down at my back wheel. "You're not making this easy on me, are you?" Nenad smiled and started down the hill. Now I knew I wasn't finished with Fargo Street. I didn't believe I could get the record back, but I was going to ride until I couldn't ride anymore, no matter how many times Nenad topped Fargo.

On his 25th ascent Nenad stopped tacking about half way and powered straight up the rest of the climb.

"I've got to leave now," he said, looking at his watch.

O.K., Nenad probably could have made 20 or 30 more ascents before tea time. But he had stopped at 25. He bombed straight down Fargo, stowed his bike in his car, and drove off. Hey, he was just a kid. He probably had to finish his homework or clean up his room.

"Just six more times and you've got the record."

David Reese's comment was ironic. Six climbs up Fargo would have been the record if I hadn't waited 11 years.

Near the end I had gulped the last of my fluid replacement drink, and I started cramping. One of the neighbors brought me some watermelon that I gratefully gobbled down. Nenad, thank goodness, wasn't around to see it, but I was now in my lowest gear.

At the end of the 26th climb I could hear the blood pound through my head, but my pulse was only 168 beats per minute, so I was either getting stronger or approaching death.

Everyone else went home. I stayed a bit longer. I could believe I had regained the record, for the second time in one day, but I couldn't believe I was finished with Fargo. Yet it was just as difficult to think I'd ever want to ride it again. Astride my bike, I savored the view and the quiet. The sun had begun to drop in the western sky. There were no snarling dogs, no crowing cocks. There was just an out of breath, aging man on a mountain bike.

Sean Bartilet, a mere 30 year old whippersnapper, reached the top of Fargo Street 30 (thirty) times on the 2004 Fargo Street Hill Climb! He powered straight up the hill on almost every ride (although he did admit he felt like throwing up after his 26th run). I'd like to think I'll give the record one more shot (and I'd better not wait another ten years to do it), but Sean's record might stand quite a test of time. I will return in 2005 to make my now traditional one ride up the hill.

Dave Wyman, Sean Bartilet and Sam Chin
(Photo by Dan Wyman)

~ Links ~

- Map (Fargo is between Ewing and Baxter, just east of Allesandro) - L.A. Wheelmen - Fargo Page - Dan Wyman's Photos of Fargo Street, 2005 - Vance Macdonald's 2005 Fargo Street Hill Climb page - Jorge Vismara and Fargo Street, 2005 - Daniel Danrich's 2005 Fargo Photographs - 2003 Finishers and Statistics - San Fernando Valley Bike Club Photo Page - Baldwin Street in New Zealand - Steep! - Baldwin Street Article - But is it THAT steep - Danny Chew's Web Page - Two time Race Across America winner, and extraordinary hill climber (click on the Dirty Dozen History link) - KOM Discussion Site - Yahoo Newsgroup for aficionados of the steepest roads in the world. - King of the Mountain - Website devoted to steep, paved bicycling, with links, and message center - Cycling in the Mountains - Luddo Oh has put together an impressive website - photographs of his travels and many beautiful pictures

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