We arrive in the mountains east of San Diego and unload our beasts. It is our usual threesome: Larry White, king of the flats and the downhills; 70-year-old Jack Wilson, king of the mountains; and yours truly, the king of lunch and hanging on for dear life.

In the back of my mobile toy box (aka my Mitsubishi), we have three road bikes, lots of running and cycling shoes, fins, goggles, a wetsuit or two, a very dusty battery-controlled rat for scaring anyone and everyone, and my 12-wheeled downhill grass sled (not my best use of $80). Along the floor are assorted spilled bits and pieces of energy gels, bars, stuck-together salt tabs and, of course, Pop Tarts, the world's most perfect food.

Yes, I know, Pop Tarts are the Velveeta of pastries with the same nutritional value and the shelf life of forever. But during a long ride when you can put a Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tart in the back pocket of your jersey and wait for it to heat up to exactly the right temperature, there is no bigger treat on the planet. One question, though: If we can invent the digital camera, e-mail and Guitar Hero, why can't we figure out a way to build a toaster mechanism into the back pocket of our jersey so we can place said Pop Tart back there and simply wait for it to pop up, toasty, crispy and... perfect?

Once during a ride, a buddy and I discussed for a full three-mile climb the things we would like to change about the world's most perfect food. Why can't they frost both sides of the Pop Tart? Why not frost the little pastry outcropping that surrounds the meat of the Pop Tart?

But I digress...

The plan is to ride 50 or so miles starting at 4,000 feet, head west to Highway 79 and then take Sunrise Highway up the 11-mile climb that takes you over the top of Mt. Laguna at 6,000 feet before the free-fall back through the spectacular pine trees to where it all began.

I pull my bike out of the car and my tire is as flat as defizzed cola. Since I own just one set of wheels and they happen to be for sew-up tires, I pull the spare tire out of its cobweb-encrusted bag and start to unroll it. This doesn't look good. I'm thinking this sew-up dates back to the first Bush administration. I do my best strong-man imitation and try to stretch the old warhorse onto the rim. Since it's already 90-plus degrees and I'm coated with sunscreen, the sweat is pouring down into my eyes making it tough to get a grip. Finally, the tire is on and secure.

But suddenly, we all stop in our tracks. There it is, just like when you're 17 years old and set to go to the prom. A zit. But not just any zit. The king of all zits. Zitzilla always shows up on the tip of your nose, at the end of your chin or smack dab in the middle of your forehead right before the big dance. Forget Clearasil. This thing is bigger than Guatemala. There is not enough of the pink stuff to cover this big of a surface. The comb-down to cover the forehead zit works for a while, but eventually it will unveil itself at the worst possible time.

I am 17 once again. But Zitzilla is not on my face. It's sticking out of the side of my tire. Remember, this is my spare so there is no net here. If I flat during this ride, there is no one who can help me; no bike shops here. And who the heck else is carrying a spare 26-inch sew-up? Yep, I'm hosed.

"I've ridden lots worse-looking tires than that," Jack growls.

"Are you sure?" says Larry. "It looks pretty bad."

"Get on your bikes and let's go," insists Jack. "It's not getting any cooler out here."

So I mount up. On the flats when Larry takes off, I stay with Jack. When the road points skyward, I stick with Larry. But here's my dilemma: If they both get away and I flat, the next thing you know a coyote or mountain lion would be flossing with my bones. Not good.

I decide that to be on the safe side, I need to stay in front of them both so that if I do flat they will see me. Then they'll be obligated to at least hang with me for a little bit before laughing and pointing and disappearing over the horizon.

I'm getting the sense that my zit is reaching its popping point as we turn south and start up Mt. Laguna. The heat is intense, my heart rate is pegged, the vultures are circling and the tire pressure is building. Suddenly, my zit explodes and the boys hear it from 400 yards behind me.

"Man, that sounded like a shotgun blast," laughs Jack. "I'm amazed that tire lasted so long. I bet you got 20 miles out of it!"

Great. I'm only 30 miles from the car. Now what?

We discuss it for a while. They'll take my car keys and ride ahead. I'll try to flag down a car. They'll get back to the car and come looking for me. Sweet! Only one problem: I haven't seen a car in 40 minutes.

I'm walking uphill in my socks, the thermometer is heading north of triple digits, and I'm hoping to find some stranger to give me a ride to safety.

After about 20 minutes of hoofing, a mirage approaches from behind. It's a California Highway Patrol cruiser. I wave him down and he stops. He tells me that as much as he'd like to help me out, their policy is to never pick up people. He will call it in and send for help though. He starts to pull away and then stops and backs up.

"Hop in," he says. "I'll take you to your car."

We load my bike in the trunk and start to chat. Turns out that the officer is a long-time cyclist and has done the Rosarito to Ensenada Bike Ride a number of times. This is nice. The cruiser is air conditioned and this beats the heck out of walking with my bike on black pavement in socks.

Then the call comes in. A car T-boned a motorcyclist back on Highway 79 and he has to respond. But he's in a quandary. He can't just dump me on the side of the road, can he? Nope. He agrees to take me to the Laguna Mountain Store before responding, but he has to step on it. The sirens and flashers are going full-bore as we hit 90 and fly by Jack and Larry. They never see me. The officer pulls onto the gravel at the store going about 50, leaving a huge dust cloud that envelopes everyone sunning on the front porch. I jump out and grab my bike and shoes as he U-turns and disappears.

"How is everyone?" I say with a big smile as I walk up to the store. "Man, that was some experience!"

Silence. Mouths open, but too scared to talk. Families huddle together for safety. The people on the porch just witnessed a police cruiser with lights and sirens dump off a guy they now think is public enemy number one (me).

"Yeah, I had this flat tire and the officer was kind enough to give me a ride and then he got an emergency call..." I start to explain. I can tell from the looks on their faces that whatever I'm selling, they aren't buying. I walk into the store and get the same cold-shoulder treatment.

Just then a truck pulls up. It's a couple with two small kids. I wander over and explain my situation. They're heading down the hill and are kind enough to offer me a ride. Of course, they weren't witness to the commotion and the fact that everyone else thinks I'm on a wanted poster. Nope. They're just stopping for a treat before heading home after a weekend of camping.

I walk into the store with my new family and guess where they're headed? Yep, straight to the Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tarts.

We load my bike into their huge truck. I'm in the passenger seat nibbling on the world's most perfect food, knowing that I have had a day for the memory bank: A flat tire led to Zitzilla, which then led to an E-ticket ride with the CHP and then an air-conditioned ride back down the mountain to my SUV.

My new family drops me off and we exchange phone numbers. They're from Orlando and end up coming to our Muddy Buddy event at Disney World the next year. We're now buddies for life.
When Jack and Larry arrive back to the car, they find me stretched out on a wide slab of rock catching some rays with a big smile on my face while my Pop Tart sits next to me as it assumes the perfect temperature.

It's funny. The great thing about cycling is that sometimes not knowing where your ride will take you makes the experience that much tastier