It's tough to get up at 4:30 a.m. to prepare for a bike ride. On March 3, I discovered that the Los Angeles Bike Marathon was such a terrific ride - 22+ miles through much of the heart of the city - that once around the block wasn't enough for me.

The L.A. Marathon runners - 23,000 strong - would take off about 9 a.m. The bike marathon, sponsored by the Acura automobile company and boasting an astounding 15,000 participants, was scheduled quite a bit earlier, at 6 a.m. This year the redesigned route, beginning between the University of Southern California and the Memorial Coliseum, would pass about a block from my house. The new route is flatter and organizers hoped the runners would have an easier and faster time of it. I hoped my wife would leave the door unlocked so I could use the bathroom and grab a cup of coffee.

I left home about 5 a.m. and biked a few miles of the route, in reverse. The streets were blocked off and I rode alone; the only people out were the cadet traffic guards warning cars off at most of the intersections. I reached Exposition Blvd, biked through USC, and found myself politely edging in on a spot behind perhaps 2,000 riders; 13,000 more were lining up behind me, fading into the distance of the long boulevard. The Coliseum, which hosted many of the track events in the 1932 and 1984 Olympics, was just a dark bulk, rising behind the Natural History Museum in Exposition Park. Ahead of me, bright lights and double archways of balloons marked the starting line. Dignitaries were up front, too, including former mayor Richard Riordan, who loves to ride his bike, and who would lead the riders at the start of the marathon.

There was a constant chatter from the announcer but from where I was, I couldn't hear what he was saying. Meanwhile, the riders around me were introducing themselves and we were marveling at the size of the crowd. The thought that so many thousands would rise so early to explore L.A. on their bikes, in a spirit of camaraderie gave me goose bumps.

It was a beautiful March morning in L.A., with clear, smog-free skies. It was a little chilly - perhaps the low 50s - but not so cool that I didn't shed my jacket that I'd worn on my warm-up ride to the start. A little before the Star Spangled Banner was sung, the eastern horizon turned pink and the stars faded from a sky that was turning slowly from black to blue. It was almost 6 a.m. There was a countdown and the sound of a starters' pistol, and then we could all hear city's anthem, Randy Newman's "I Love L.A," blasting out of the loudspeakers, and our own cheers, as we rode past the starting line.

The first five minutes of the ride were a bit nerve wracking, with 15,000 bikes and riders crammed close together. I know what it's like to be a cow in a cattle shute. I did see one rider go down, then pop up again. After that the ride opened up, and it was pretty clear sailing. The route this year led down Exposition Blvd, ordinarily two lanes each direction with a divider strip down the middle, but this morning it was one way, headed west. We were traveling through a largely residential area, with mostly neat, if unpretentious homes in what, after World War Two, was a primarily black neighborhood. As the people there improved their economic status and moved out, a largely Hispanic population, many of them recent immigrants to the U.S., have moved in, part of more than three million Hispanics in Los Angeles. In North America, only Mexico City has more Spanish speaking people than Los Angeles.

One day the residents along Exposition Blvd. will move on, too, their place taken by another group of people working on the American dream. For the moment, some neighbors had temporarily put their dreams aside, waking early enough to wave and cheer on the biker riders from their front porches and sidewalks, and we cheered and waved back at them.

The route turned north at Crenshaw Blvd., and we reached the first of only a few, easy hills, which took us over the Santa Monica Freeway. As I looked down on the rush of cars below me, I felt grateful to be on a bike - even if it was 7:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning! We were in the Crenshaw District now, home to some of the 1.25 million black Americans in Los Angeles. We passed by the spectacular West Angeles Church of God in Christ Cathedral, and a wonderful collection of Victorian mansions. Once rather rundown, most of these homes have been beautifully renovated in the past decade. We passed by Jefferson Park, composed of several square blocks of well maintained mansions. Except for one street, just off Crenshaw Blvd., the neighborhood is closed to autos, but pedestrians and bike riders can enter at will.

It was light now, and there were bike riders in front of me as far as I could see up the broad boulevard; thousands more were behind me. There were riders on fancy and not so fancy road bikes, two riders on unicycles (one with a huge wheel), and lots of dual suspension mountain bikes, their riders gently bouncing up and down, like kayakers on a river, with each pedal stroke. And there were two kinds of sounds - people talking and laughing, and the whirring and clanking noises of the bikes.

At the edge of Koreatown, home to many of the almost two million Asians in the city, the route turned west onto Venice Blvd., and we had a good run downhill into West Los Angeles, with a fine view of much of the city spread out north and west of us. The sunlight had already spilled down the distant, dark colored Santa Monica mountains, and sunlight reflected brightly off the top of the tallest building in Century City - once the 20th Century Fox back lot - the building that was used in the "Die Hard" film.

I pulled my cell phone out of my jersey and called my wife, to let her know I'd be by our street in another 15 minutes. As the road flattened out, our bikes were confined to the "wrong way" side of Venice Blvd. as we continued west, through another nondescript business district. A right turn on Robertson Blvd. took us past Hamilton High School (where UCLA and NBA basketball great, Sidney Wicks, went to school), up another short hill, and then past a group of men and women - their heads wrapped in white turbans - who were members of the Sikh Dharma religion; many Sikhs live in the Pico Robertson district. A right turn put us onto Pico Blvd. and into the Fairfax District, home to many of the city's orthodox Jewish population. It's also home to a terrific collection of ethnic restaurants. But people and restaurants were hard to see, because the early morning sun was shining in my eyes.

The route crossed La Cienega ("The Swamp" in Spanish) Blvd., and I could almost smell the garlic chicken from my favorite nearby restaurant, Versailles (which, despite the French sounding name is a Cuban eatery). My wife and our dog, both enjoying the non-stop passing parade of thousands of bike riders, had walked to the end of the block and were waiting for me. They stood at the corner of Pico and Alvira, on the edge of the historic South Carthay district, named, like the adjacent Carthay Circle and Carthay Square, for the builder, J. Harvey McCarthy, apparently a descendant of Daniel McCarthy, a California Gold Rush pioneer. South Carthay is famous for an array of mostly one story homes that feature the architectural style known as Spanish Colonial Revival. By coincidence, a nearby monument to Juan Bautista de Anza commemorates the Spanish explorer's travels through the area in 1774.

For a few moments I took in the scene on Pico Blvd. (named for the last Mexican governor of California, Pio Pico) as an observer, rather than a participant. I saw what I was - a droplet in a flooded river of riders pedaling past me. The people on their bikes were like the people of Los Angeles - a diverse mix who had come together to peacefully enjoy a Sunday morning outing. I love L.A!

I traded my wife a kiss for a sip of her Starbucks, and pushed off. A slight grade - funny how I had never noticed it before - led up a several blocks past Alvira Street to Fairfax Blvd., where the route turned north. Soon I rode past the Petersen Automotive Museum, the side of the building decorated with an attached and full-size race car. The Streamline Moderne architecture of the May Company building sits on the corner of Wilshire and Fairfax Blvds. The May Company was once a department store and is now part of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. The May Company's signature cylindrical gold tower glowed in the morning light and, with the Automotive Museum, served to mark the western edge of the historic Miracle Mile district of Los Angeles, which features a number of Art Deco buildings.

We turned east on 6th Street and rode past Park La Brea Towers, with 10,000 residents who live on 176 acres, in the largest apartment building complex in the U.S. Soon we crossed La Brea Blvd. and entered Hancock Park - on the southern edge of Hollywood - with its closely packed mansions and wide, tree-shaded avenues. There are many architectural styles on display in Hancock Park, but the predominant one is, like South Carthay, Spanish Colonial Revival, but on a massive scale. The French chateau look probably comes in a close second. The mayor's official residence is here, although our last two mayors have left the homes vacant. Muhammad Ali doesn't mind having a home there, nor do Melanie Griffith and Antonio Banderas.

We reached Western Avenue, on the northern edge of Koreatown. The famous Hollywood sign and the Griffith Park Observatory - perhaps the most visited Observatory in the world, but closed for renovations until 2006 - were just north in the Santa Monica Mountains. To anyone looking down from the heights of the Observatory, we must have looked like a wide line of ants. (I felt like calling out "Klaatu barada nikto" - we come in peace!) We headed south for a few blocks, before turning right onto Olympic Blvd, named in anticipation of the arrival of the 1928 Olympics in Los Angeles (they didn't show up that year, but they would in 1932, when the city hosted the first profitable Games in modern Olympic history).

The towers of downtown L.A. were ahead of us, but the route turned again, this time south, onto Union Street, in an area populated by El Salvadoreans and well larded with "pupuserias" - restaurants that serve the national dish of El Salvador, the pupusa, a thick corn tortilla stuffed with cheese and beans and well seasoned beef, pork or chicken. Then we were on Hoover Blvd., riding past a number of spectacular Victorian mansions, as USC hove into view. The ride was ending and I slowed my pace a bit, to savor the final moments. I rode right through campus and out the other side, back onto Exposition Blvd., this time heading east before turning into the campus to finish the ride.

The cheers of spectators rang in our ears. As each bike rider dismounted we were handed a commemorative medal that hung on a red, white and blue ribbon.

As I caught my breath, I marveled at just how picturesque USC is - its collection of red brick buildings is stunning, and the campus rivals any I've seen for beauty. There was a bit of a bike expo going on, and free bottles of water, and all the Gatorade we could drink, and there were bands and speakers and I shook the hand of Mayor Riordan (who was running for Governor). I picked up two pairs of designer knock off sunglasses - "$10 for one pair, $15 for two!" - and then turned for home. Since it was going in the direction of home, I decided to follow the bike route again. I bypassed the finish line - now completely clogged with riders who had to dismount and walk many yards shy of the finish line - and started down Exposition again. Only this time, instead of being one among 15,000 riders, I had the course almost completely to myself!

I did pass three riders a mile or so down Exposition, but after that, I was alone. There were people - crowds assembling on the sidewalks, traffic cadets, and an army of volunteers who were setting up the various rest stations for the runners - but no one else on a bike. Lots of people cheered me on. Some of them must have assumed I was bringing up the rear of the bike ride, others undoubtedly saw my medal hanging from my neck - either way, I received many, many cheers from people as I triumphantly made my way home.

When I turned onto my block I realized that, with my predawn ride, I'd done the marathon one and three quarters times. I was sorry the ride was over. Next year, if the course stays the same, I'll make sure to pedal the last half of the course from my house to the starting line, and ride home again along the first part of the route after the "official" bike marathon is over. That way I'll do a double marathon, surrounded by 15,000 bike riders for the first one, and I'll ride the second alone. Unless, of course, you want to join me!