By the time they reached Twenty-sixth Street, traffic on the bikeway had slowed to a sluggish crawl—and east of the avenue, there were so many cyclists ahead of them riding was impossible. People had to dismount and walk their bikes. A few groaned in annoyance, a couple others shouted angrily, some muttered to themselves, but most just kept pushing along. Hu and James dismounted and walked their loaded bikes side-by-side.
More frustrated riders piled up behind them, but no fights had broken out. There was still plenty of time. Most people were helping each other. One woman was holding another’s bike while the first one changed her baby’s diaper. Elsewhere, a professional-looking rider had stopped to patch a flat tire for a crying teenage girl. Another was helping an uncertain middle-aged man put a loose chain back on his bicycle’s gears.
It wasn’t a panic, not yet. It was still an exodus. Not disorderly, but it wasn’t moving fast enough. At this pace… James looked to Hu, shook his head, leaned over and whispered, “Time for an alternate route.”
It took them nearly ten minutes to work their way to the next opportunity to exit the bikeway, Cloverfield Avenue. They weren’t the only ones abandoning the narrow route. Some of the cyclists were turning south, most were turning north.
James and Hu went north. Just on the other side of Colorado Boulevard, there was a good-sized parking lot. The lot was already emptying of cars, the last few people driving away frantically. James pointed, and Hu followed.
They pulled themselves out of the steady stream of people remounting their bikes. Hu pulled out the first water bottle, took two swallows and passed it to James, who did the same, then passed it back. A familiar ritual. Having done that, they both pulled out their phones. Hu checked the Weather Channel—the temperature was already above eighty and still rising. Okay, not unexpected.
James went to Google Maps, then he tapped for Waze. Both were bad news. Red lines showing heavy traffic everywhere, some routes already painted with stretches of black. Absolute gridlock was beginning. But at least the bikes were moving here—in the bike lanes and on the sidewalks, and even between the long rows of cars. The automobile lanes were barely inching forward.
“It’s crowding up faster than I expected. Apparently people are taking this thing seriously. All right, we’ll head north here—” James started to push his bike forward again.
Hu said, “Wait.”
“What?”
“I’ve got a text.”
“Forget it—”
“It’s from Karen—” A series of messages rolled up the screen. Hu looked to James. “She’s at work. She needs someone to pick up Pearl.”
“Can’t she do it?”
“She’s doing triage in the E.R. She couldn’t get out, even if she wanted to. The streets there are gridlocked.”
“Pearl can’t get a ride?”
“The neighbor who promised left without her.” Hu read the next text. “What an asshole. Apparently, her cats were more important.”
“There’s no one else?”
Hu kept scrolling through Karen’s frantic notes, his expression darkening. “Doesn’t look like it. Karen says it’s desperate. Pearl is trapped. She can’t get an Uber or a Lyft, Ride-Share is down, Access isn’t picking up. The Fire Department is moving all their equipment eastward. She tried calling for an ambulance, but—” Hu lowered his phone. “James, we can’t leave her there. We gotta get her.”
James made a raspberry of disgust. “Fuck. The problem is… that damn wheelchair.”
“Can we pull her—?”
“I’m thinking—” A heartbeat. “The wheelchair is light enough—it’s Pearl. She’s not exactly a spring potato. Fuck.”
“James—”
“I know, I know—” He puffed his cheeks, blew out his breath, exasperated. “Yeah, we have to try. Uh… all right, lemme think.” He went to scratch his head, fingers fumbling across his helmet instead. “Fastest way there—”
James made a decision. “Okay. Forget Sunset. Forget the mountains. We’ll go up to Santa Monica, it’s the next one after Broadway. Then…” His voice tailed off as he plotted a route. He turned to Hu. “It’s a long slog. If Pearl can get herself down to the street, we’ll figure something out. We might have to lose one of the trailers, I dunno, I’ll do the math in my head while we ride.”
“Can we make it in time?”
James looked at his watch. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Can we get her to high ground? Can we get us to high ground—?”
“Straight north up Fairfax would take us to Laurel Canyon. Might be high enough. I don’t know. That’s not a great route, but… fuck, I don’t know.” James shook his head. “Worst comes to worst, I don’t know, we might be far enough inland. Even a ten-story building might be tall enough. Maybe. I don’t know. This is fucked. Let’s just do it. Come on, we’ve been through worse—”
“No we haven’t,” said Hu. “This is the worst.” But he was already tapping a message into his phone. “We’re on our way.” He sent it to both Karen and Pearl, shoved his phone back into his pocket and grabbed his handlebars. “Okay, let’s go.”
James and Hu pedaled east on Santa Monica Boulevard, weaving their way through a slow-moving mass of cars and people. But at least it was moving. Both sides of the avenue were headed inland. There was no westbound traffic. It helped—a little.
It was a business district here, but none of the stores were open. There were a few broken windows, but not many. People were determinedly walking east, most of them turning north at suitable intersections. Some of the cyclists were walking their bikes because there wasn’t enough room to ride. James and Hu had dismounted as well and were now walking their bikes side-by-side.
The exodus was serious now. Even the motorcyclists were having trouble maneuvering through the impatient lines of automobiles. It was turning into a crush. The inevitable speed-skaters darted everywhere, sometimes nearly colliding with unwary pedestrians. Occasionally, they saw an ambulatory bundle of rags doggedly pushing an overloaded shopping cart. Even the homeless were leaving. And once a pair of hipsters rode by on hoverboards.
A woman behind them started complaining loudly—making pointed remarks about their overloaded bikes and bike trailers. James muttered a curse under his breath, but shook his head and kept pushing forward. Hu looked over to him. “Are you okay?”
“I will be. Are you?”
“I’m… not complaining,” said Hu. He had a thought. “I’m wondering. Do you think maybe Pearl’s building might be tall enough? If we could get her to the roof—”
James went silent, thinking about it. Finally, “I wouldn’t want to risk it, would you? It’s an old building, wood frame, it might not survive the impact. It’s not just the water, it’s all the crap being pushed by the water. It’ll hit like a horizontal avalanche. And even if the building survives the impact, she could be stuck up there for days before anyone could get to her. And the damn wheelchair is another problem. So, no.”
“It was just a thought. I was worried about the time.”
James looked at his watch. “We’re okay.” He pointed. “We’re almost to the freeway. Once we get to the other side, it should be easier going. Well, could be. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.” James pushed his bike ahead, effectively ending the conversation.
The 405 freeway divides the L.A. Basin. It separates the western and southern communities from the rest of the megalopolis, as it winds south, vaguely paralleling the coast. Parts are elevated highway, parts are sunken, but all of it is a ten-laned barrier to traffic trying to move to and from the coast. The inadequate and infrequent underpasses and bridges that cross the 405, its on- and off-ramps, are bottlenecks that can back up traffic for blocks even on a good day.