Levi gives his Trek Madone one last check

Six thousand friends and I rode in Levi Leipheimer's King Ridge Gran Fondo in early October, and it was the best-smelling event I've ever done.  You see, Levi's Gran Fondo is a full-sensory experience: the colorful swirl of thousands of cyclists at the start; the bellow of event announcer Dave Towle bringing you ecstatically across the finish line; the howl of wind as you slice through serpentine downhills.  But one of the most sublime experiences is the intoxicating range of smells awaiting you on the course.

You cruise through the rich, earthy scent of the grapevines lining the course and the manure that comes from the dots of cows watching you pensively as you whip past.  The green waft of redwood forests and the alluvial hummus of the Russian River.  The briny, bracing mist of the Pacific Ocean and the spicy notes of eucalyptus, coyote brush and anise.   The sweet waft of apple orchards and the shimmering sizzle of brown-grass meadows baked in the Fall California sun.

It's all very distracting, which is a good thing, because it allows the rider to distance himself from the punishing, the suffering, that also makes this ride the best in the nation.

Levi's Gran Fondo, so generously supported by Road ID and a host of other top-brand sponsors, has in only its second year become one of the nation's biggest cycling attractions, and on this day, it completely took over large portions of rural Sonoma County in Northern California.

Austin Murphy (left) & I in the chilly pre-ride moments

I was joined in the 2010 Gran Fondo by my best friend Austin Murphy, who covers cycling for Sports Illustrated and is one of the emergency contacts etched on the Wrist ID Sport I wore on the ride (a coincidence that led to some black merriment when we realized that if we were ever both wiped off the road by a truck, emergency responders would call our cells phones, only to hear two ringtones chirping from our inert forms).  We've been through an uncountable number of adventures together over the past 17 years, but have never ridden in a road “race” together. 

For good reason: Austin is a powerful, habitual road cyclist with a zooty Felt carbon ride and a taste for the lead pack.  Me?  I'm a runner and occasional triathlete more at home riding my mountain bike, and on this day, I resorted to my circa-1999 Fuji Finest, which packs 28 pounds onto its lugged and warped frame.

"Your rear tire seems to be ... shedding," remarked Austin shortly after the start, carefully failing to mention that my rear wheel was also wobbling like a poorly-thrown clay pot.  It's true: my factory-direct rear tire was so old that it was a living, organic thing, shedding some sort of thready material that, to me, lent it a whimsical appeal and a faint, but distinct, high-pitched hum.

The rear wheel became the only downside to a wonderful start to the ride.  We were happily lodged in the middle of the middle-class at the start: the Gran Fondo has three distinct lengths: the Gran -- a 103-mile sufferfest; the Piccolo, a 30-mile tour for those cyclist who boast more platform pedals than carbon; and our baby, the Medio, which confers a whiff of the Gran's epic nature, but which would not leave me in traction for days afterward.

 Levi & Odessa are set to lead out their 5,998 friends

Placed as we were mid-pack (helped by large staging signs indicating that we expected a 4:30 finishing time for the 65 miles), it was impossible to see the head of the pack, or the rear; the field stretched for hundreds of yards in both directions near Santa Rosa's Finley Center as a helicopter buzzed us, the howling downdraft lending a Tour de France edge to our nerves.  As celebrity riders like Taylor Phinney, Patrick Dempsey and Alison Starnes (and, of course, the King himself, Double L) blasted off the start line precisely at 8:00am, we took eight minutes to inch our way under the inflatable portico and officially launch our tour.

Alison Starnes with Patrick Dempsey & Friends

Given the unwieldy size of the field of riders, it was surprising how smoothly the initial miles passed.  While the course is open to vehicle traffic for much of its length, the dialed-in ride organization and the sheer size of the field made us, for one day, the kings of the roads, and the riders were appealingly adept at passing with safety and working together to insure safe riding.  Austin and I had fun leapfrogging other riders and blasting along at a too-fast pace, only to circle back at one inopportune moment to recover the store-bought Arrowhead Spring Water bottle that had bumped loose of my cage because, after a 4:30 wakeup call, I was too mush-brained to remember a proper one.

After ten miles of flatlands and nearing the town of Occidental, we left behind the farmlands and orchards and began an ascent of the Bohemian Highway, where my Fuji decided that the whole idea was a poor one.  The much-maligned rear wheel sagged suddenly out of its dropouts and wedged itself against my chainstay.  After wrestling with it a few times, I jumped back on the bike to look for Austin. 

Too late; the next time I would see him, it would be three hours later, at the car.

Freed from the hypoxia of trying to keep up with Austin, I was able to really groove the ascent, settling into a pod of other riders and occasionally chatting about the sublime course.  At the town of Monte Rio, where the stout riders of the Gran turned north to prepare themselves for their beating, I headed southwest, passing another local buddy of mine, Matt Walsh, who authors the amusing and comprehensive bike blog, Twisted Spoke, as he was waiting in line for the port-a-potty.

By this time, the field had thinned to a trickle.  I passed a few struggling riders, and got passed by stronger athletes who had dallied at the superbly-stocked aid stations.  The scenery wasn't always enough to distract myself from the increasing pain in my legs, so I tried counting Road IDs on the riders around me.  There were a ton, and with a few of those enlightened riders, I did a little "Road ID/Jersey Shores Power Fist Pump," but that bled away a lot of energy.  And I lost count of how many I saw anyway.

Lemonade? Don't mind if I do.

Did I mention I woke up at 4:30 that morning?

The rolling stretch beside the placid banks of the Russian River allowed the trickle to spread out even more, giving me some private time to chew the scenery from low-arched bridges and smooth tarmac before reaching the river's outflow in the funky town of Jenner.  Just for laughs, my rear wheel again sagged out of the drops like a sad soufflé, but this time, it only took a minute or two to beat it back into submission. 

A short, sharp climb led to a sublime pinnacle at Goat Rock State Park and the stunning blue expanse of the ocean, as well as a welcome blast of cool air. A sweet breeze at my back made the coastal leg pass far too quickly, as I was so busy scoping out surf breaks that I had to jam on the brakes and swerve hard left into the Medio's proving grounds, the Coleman Valley ascent. 

I did not walk the ascent, though a few around me did.  I did not resort to "The Paperboy" and weave back and forth across the narrow road.  Instead, I put my head down and muttered commiseration with others, alternating between in-the-seat grindings and, when the pitch approached 10 percent, hauling my ass out of the saddle and rocking the Fuji up the grade.  Before I knew it, it was over, and I found myself atop a ridge that opened up vistas for miles.  Peering over my right shoulder, I could see the coastal lump of Mount Tamalpais, a full county away.  Over my left shoulder was the volcanic prow of Mount Saint Helena, looming over the Napa Valley. 

 The Challenging Coleman Valley Ascent

 The sustained high-speed downhill that followed was interesting, as I'd had to loosen my rear brake to such an extent that I deigned not to use it at all -- but it brought me to the last real climbing of the day, which after the grind of Coleman Valley felt like a token.  At the bottom of that descent, we rocked through the town of Occidental, where Clif sponsored what looked to be a full-blown party masquerading as a rest stop.  I blew through it, sensing that I was getting close to the finish.

I was, though I had over a dozen miles of flatlands to get through before I could dig into the ice-cold bottles of New Belgium that I knew awaited me.

Luckily, I saw an appealing sight looming a hundred yards up the road: a giant form riding in a two-man paceline, and I bridged with the knowledge that if I didn't hook up with some help, I'd be limping home.

Gasping, I pulled into the draft of the massive rider and let him know I was prepared to suck wheel for the next forty minutes.  Turning around to grin at me was none other than Matt Walsh, who was riding with his pal Paul Andronico.  Working together, we made short work of the remaining miles, passing Piccolo riders as politely as we could along the perfectly tree-lined bike path that brought us home.

Hitting the final stretch, we blurred past hundreds of spectators, my Road ID jersey inspiring Dave Towle into a high-decibel and perfectly extemporaneous pitch for the one product every cyclist needs. With wobbly legs, I gasped a bit of ride chatter with Matt and Paul before rolling back to my car, where Austin, who finished far ahead of me, was perfectly composed and already wearing his civvies. 

My sense of accomplishment was diminished only by the slightly cheated sense I had at not tackling the Gran.  This ride was so sublime, so gorgeous, so well-organized, that it felt like cheating not to experience every inch of it.

A little Sauvignon to wash away the pain

Austin and I strolled through the vast finishing expo, leering at every one of the food offerings: gigantic tin flats of paella, steaming trays of wood-fired pizza and enough wine and beer to sink a college frat party.  We finally settled down on a shady lawn with Spanish-style panini sandwich-looking things, heaped with stewed pork and peppers and washed down with a little chilled Sauvignon Blanc from St. Francis Winery.

When we headed home, it was reluctantly.  The Medio had taken me only three hours and forty-eight minutes, but the memories are going to last a lot, lot longer.

Gordon Wright is the owner of OutsidePR in San Francisco and a contributing editor to Competitor Magazine.