This wonderfully flat race (with one small exception) is on a simple six mile loop that encircles Ronald Reagan's ranch. I've never heard of old Ronnie watching the race, though rumor has said that he has witnessed the race that used to take place in Solvang on the same weekend. The 1980 edition of the race saw beautiful weather, and many of the best riders from the USA and Canada.
I took a nap on the way down to the race the night before its 8 a.m. start time, only to wake up and find my driver going 80 M.P.H. with the gas gauge reading totally empty. The only gas station on that part of Highway One was closed for the night (it was after midnight), so we decided to park the car and sleep behind it. Just as we were dozing off, some local yahoos drove up and attempted to break into the gas station, setting off the very audible alarm, causing them to flee. After a half hour, the alarm shut itself off, and a short time later, some law enforcement personnel arrived and searched the area for clues. They must have been related to the Keystone cops as they did not check out our car, or notice that we were watching them from an easy stone's throw away. We got two hours of sleep that night.
It was a relief that the race got off to an easy start as it was taking me a while to wake up. About two-thirds of the way through the very uneventful race, I ate the three fig newtons that were in my jersey pocket and remarked to teammate Noel Canfield how slow the pace had been given the calibre of the riders in attendance. Just as I finished opening my big mouth there was an explosion of activity at the front. I excused myself from Noel's company and joined the fray. There were seven of us.
I was clearly outclassed by the breakaway as it included five pros, two of whom were from the AMF/Voit (soon to be 7-Eleven) team. The only other local boy in the break was another amateur, Jim Rogers, Northern California's time trial champion. It was evident that these other guys rode for a living, and they got down to some serious business. I went into a time warp, just wishing that this thing would finish.
With about three miles to go, there was some sort of disagreement amongst the guys causing them to sprint every which way. Jim and I could hang on no longer, and were left in "no man's land." Being stuck with the state time trial champion was no guarranty of success as the talent in the pack was setting a desperate pace with the hope of ending up in the money. Jim and I worked closely together to preserve our tenuous lead, but Jim had more in his legs, and with one mile to go I simply had to wish him the best of luck. We exchanged "thank yous," and he pressed on.
I was beginning to bonk (I had not received a feed), and looking back, I thought I saw a storm on the horizon. Oh my gosh, it was the pack, and they were out for blood. Knowing that I had to continue to give one-hundred percent in order to hold off a hard-charging pack, I gave my full focus to the task at hand, but was having difficulty riding a straight line. I dug deep, and I could hear the noise of impending doom as I swaggered along at barely 25 M.P.H. with a tailwind. To my surprise and delight, my front wheel crossed the finish line an instant before any others entered my peripheral vision.
Spectators with very concerned looks on their faces were shouting at me, "Hold your line! Hold your line!" Dave Gryls and Bruce Donaghy passed me one on each side so closely on each side that I am sure that the wind off of their bodies must have caused me some acceleration. The hundred man pack engulfed me with riders yelling "Hold your line!" and "Don't sit up!" I was on the verge of losing consciousness, so I kept pedaling lightly for another twenty seconds or so. Gryls and Donaghy turned around and as they rode past, I heard one of them say to the other, "Darn it, we didn't catch that guy!" Whew, I had made it!