In the old days — that is, from the 1980s until late 2007 — the classic Haleakala downhill route was 38 miles, not 27, and it began where those sunbeams struck us at the volcano's lip. The first 11 miles were inside park boundaries, and they were fairly nasty, descending about 3,500 feet through a series of tight turns, with jagged rocks at the edge of the blacktop.
On Sept. 26, 2007, a 65-year-old woman on a bike tour lost control on a curve near the summit, crossed the center line, collided with another company's tour van, and died. By the park service's tally, her death was the second within a year involving guided commercial downhill bicycle tours. Soon after, Marilyn H. Parris, then the park superintendent, temporarily banned commercial bike tours within the park.
In the months that followed, a compromise emerged: The volcano-bike tour buses would be allowed to carry their customers to the top of Haleakala for sunrise, but they would ferry their customers back down to 6,500 feet — just outside the park entrance — before beginning their rides. Below the park, the road isn't as steep, the turns aren't as sharp, and the roadside isn't as rocky.
Three years later, while park officials continue to work on a long-term commercial-services plan, those rules still hold for all bike-tour companies. (Individuals can still ride from the top, but few do.) The result, locals say, is less bike-tour traffic and fewer accidents.
"It was crazy before," said Ben Hokoana, a veteran guide with Maui Mountain Cruisers. "Much safer now."
The Maui Police Department, which counted about two cycling injury accidents a month in the area in the mid-2000s, reported 10 in all of 2008, 19 in 2009, and five injury accidents — plus the one fatality — in the first nine months of 2010. Moreover, a police spokesman said, most of those accidents involved independent cyclists, not tours. Among tens of thousands of tour-group riders, police figures showed just nine injury accidents — and the one fatality — since January 2008.
By the time we reached Kula, 3,200 feet above sea level, I was running low on things to worry about. The grade was about 5%, and it felt gentle, perhaps because of the good visibility and the surrounding beauty, perhaps because the road was so smooth. In all of the city of Los Angeles, I doubt I could find 27 miles of blacktop in such great shape.
Traffic was thin. Though the route was on public roads and though some upcountry locals complain about cyclists snarling traffic, I saw mostly open road and probably more bikes than automobiles. When cars turned up behind us, we pulled over and let them pass.
Besides me (a once-a-month rider in the last days of his 40s), our group included a couple of young newlyweds, a 40ish man from England and a middle-aged couple from San Bernardino County — everyone between the ages of 15 and 65, all less than 270 pounds, and nobody pregnant, as Cruise Phil's paperwork stipulates. Everyone looked comfortable on two wheels — and because I rode last in the single-file line, I got a good look.
"Very smooth ride," said Rick Bell of Rancho Cucamonga, a few spots ahead of me. This might be what prompted me to ask Sisson the record for the fastest top-to-bottom ride.
"Fifty-eight minutes," he said immediately. "And you've got to weigh more than 320 pounds to beat that record." (The record-setting ride, Sisson explained later, was achieved several years ago at a "banzai race" staged by local riders on a night when the moon was full. I'm guessing no park rangers or police were invited.)
Many companies stop for breakfast in Kula. On the right side of the road sits the Sunrise Market and Protea Farm, which in the old days specialized in bikers' lunches. These days, the bikes arrive sooner, and the main meal is breakfast, with chickens meandering underfoot as riders carry coffee and snacks between the cash register and a set of shaded picnic tables.
Just a few hundred yards farther along on the left, other groups stop at the Kula Lodge, a proper indoor restaurant with a fireplace, panoramic views, a gift shop, an art gallery, a fancy patio in back and several comfortable guest rooms. (If you have dinner and spend the night here, you can sleep until 5 and still make a 6:15 sunrise up top.)
We blew right past these places. The Cruiser Phil philosophy is to get down the hill before eating a full breakfast. By 9 a.m., we'd dropped down to about 1,600 feet above sea level, and the artsy outskirts of Makawao, where our guides waved us over and loaded our bikes into the trailer.
This wasn't the end. Rather than annoy his neighbors by further clogging the main drag, Cruiser Phil has taken to busing his customers through the town, whose commercial strip of several blocks is full of galleries, boutiques, restaurants and cars pulling in and out. (Locals call Makawao a cowboy town, because it's neighbored by a cattle ranch and it hosts a Fourth of July rodeo.)
As we saddled up again below Makawao for the last seven miles or so, Sisson told us to keep our mouths shut. Bugs, he said, are attracted to the neighboring cane and pineapple fields, and it's never fun to swallow one at 20 mph. Sure enough, zipping past the open fields and the stone walls of an old church, I felt little winged creatures bouncing off my cheeks.
And then, in what seemed like no time at all, it was 9:45 a.m., and we were pulling into the parking lot of the Holy Rosary Church in Paia, about a mile from the beach. We were done. Subtracting standing-around time, we had averaged 24 mph.
"Normally, I do a hard cycle to work, commuting through London traffic," said fellow rider Tim Clark. "Not pedaling, you just feel like a kid again, grinning side to side for 28 miles."
As the crew loaded the bikes into the trailer and sorted helmets, we were free to check out the church shrine to Father Damien (who tended the lepers on Molokai in the late 19th century). Then we went on to choose breakfast places in the T-shaped tourist-and-surfer town of Paia. I went with crêpes on the patio of Café Des Amis.
But what I really wanted was 20 more miles of empty upcountry roads and an encore from those singing spokes.