Fifteen Pies

There are many metrics by which to measure a fun bicycle outing, and I learned a new one today. Fifteen pies. That is the answer to the question: How many pies are consumed by a hungry horde of cyclists, per hour? In this case, we sampled petite wedges of the fine apple pies at Gizdich Ranch—the better to leave room for luscious crêpes, turned right out of the pan onto our plates. This year, I had enough patience to avoid burning my fingers in my eagerness to devour my treat.

When is the last time you enjoyed a fresh crêpe as an essential element of sustenance on an organized bicycle ride?

Before I met up with my cycling buddies for the day, I ran across five other cyclists I knew (some faster, some slower). At the end of the day, I met yet another. Strawberry Fields Forever is that kind of ride: enjoyed by bicycle commuters, recreational cyclists, denizens of the Death Ride, and bicycle racers alike.

We negotiated some rolling hills in drizzly fog on our way to the coast and cruised through fields of strawberries, lettuce, and raspberries throughout the day. In some places the fields stretch as far as the eye can see; harvesting them, manually, seems like an impossible task. This image returns whenever I eat strawberries, these days.

Less strong this year, I dreaded the steep grade I would face on Tustin Road. Fortunately, there were few cyclists when I reached the hill, and auto traffic in the opposing lane kept people from tacking widely from side to side. Riding close to another woman traveling at my pace, the only real path was ... straight up. Highest heart rate: 187 beats per minute, yet still able to pedal. Less fit this year. At the top, one guy remarked to his companion: That was the big hill? [Sigh.]

We saw some dappled sunlight as we made our way through the primeval forest of Hazel Dell Road, shaded by towering redwoods along a creek. I was certain that the sunshine had finally dissolved the cloud layer above us, until we descended back into the gray. I did not expect that the highest point of Hazel Dell was all that high. It is a gentle climb; I had forgotten that the approach on the lower portion of Mt. Madonna Road was more challenging than Hazel Dell itself. This is not flat, chided one of my buddies. As we veered onto Hazel Dell, I pointed to the start of the real Mt. Madonna climb.

Each cyclist has his or her own breaking point. Back in the parking lot at the finish, I overheard a woman bemoaning the "three-mile climb" (Mt. Madonna/Hazel Dell). Indeed, I had passed a couple of cyclists who were done in by that climb, pausing for a break. I can climb for miles and miles ... if the grade is not too steep. Something like Tustin Road, on the other hand, approaches my breaking point.