About pep

Leader of the Pack

2012-01-15T21:15:00.000-08:00

Where is the rest of the group?
Someone must have gotten a flat.

No, they are a bit slow.

All the guys are with pep.

Ha, there is a comment I never expected to hear. I encouraged them to pass me—really!—but they insisted my pace was just right.

This ride lived up to its billing as a Social Climb. The guys chattered on behind me as we made our way to Joseph D. Grant County Park.

I knew that Mt. Hamilton Road was graded for the horses that hauled construction material to the top, to build Lick Observatory. From my companions, I learned that the flat segments were included to provide some rest for the animals. More than a century later, the animals are different—but we do appreciate the respite just the same.

The best story was about an antique car. The key to driving his Model A to the top of Mt. Hamilton, one rider recounted, was to pace behind a cyclist. That way, the engine would not overheat.

No one overheated at my pace today. Twenty miles, 2,565 feet of climbing.

Hi Sierra

2012-01-07T21:09:00.000-08:00

There are some fine valley views at the summit of Sierra Road, and if you continue along the back side there are some fine views of seriously steep canyons and the receding Calaveras Reservoir. Getting up there is breathtaking. Literally.

It is a memorable climb, and not just for the physical challenge. I have climbed it with friends and with the Low-Key bunch; I have watched the pros, in rain and shine, and even raced it once myself.

Today's climb was memorable for the wind, with gusts strong enough to test my agility on two wheels. Our return trip looped along Felter and Calaveras, where a tempting downhill straight is outfitted with an electronic speed sign. With no car in range, it was mine to trigger: 35 mph.

Luckily, that is precisely the limit.

To my left, a car nosed out, then stopped. There is no side street there ... what the ... uh-oh, it's the California Highway Patrol. That must be one revenue-generating spot.

Lick-ety Split

2012-01-01T19:57:00.000-08:00

Destination? The top. It is a Bay Area New Year's Day tradition to cycle up Mt. Hamilton, and that can be a hard sell on a frigid day.

Around Joseph D. Grant County Park, feathery bits of white fluff flew through the air and swirled in eddies on the pavement. Here, they close the road whenever there is snow at the summit. This being January, snow would not be a surprise. This being California, where some plant is always in bloom, the fluffy bits were seeds released to the wind. It was a freakishly warm day, in a winter so dry that the hills have not yet turned green.

The temperature at the summit peaked above 67F; I shed my jacket before I reached the halfway point and hoped the sun would be kind to my un-screened arms. I regretted wearing wool socks. I drained both water bottles. In January?

Not seeking a new record today, I spent a leisurely three hours on the climb to Lick Observatory. Nonetheless, I managed to catch and pass a few riders on the way up (and, on the way down). Round trip: 39 miles, with 4,895 feet of climbing.

Another local club was also out for some fun on the mountain. I tallied 47 Porsches snaking their way down the hill, but it was the interloper in their midst that caught my eye. Orange. Italian.

Tomorrow, I think, is not for bicycling.

Winding Down

2011-12-31T21:22:00.000-08:00

Riding out in style, with a tip of the hat to 2011.

A moderate year for me: more than 167,000 feet climbed, over some 2,260 miles.

More, next year.

Hillacious

2011-12-17T20:36:00.000-08:00

The first time I saw a bald eagle, it was grounded in a large pen at a zoo. Heartbreaking, but desperately necessary to stave off extinction. Back then, I imagined that I would never see one in flight.

I am pleased to report that the wild lands of San Benito County rarely disappoint—the black wings and white head gliding above me today were unmistakable, and always a thrill.

Climbing Lone Tree, I felt like my bike was laden with lead. [My fellow riders were likely wondering the same, as I struggled so slowly to the summit.] Along the way, a friendly driver in a pick-up truck waved and called out:

You women are motivated!

Determined? Yes. Motivated? Questionable.

The public road ends at a gate, and we were soon joined by the friendly resident dog—a fluffy little white-and-black, camera-shy cutie. Quite comfortable with us, despite being unrewarded with any treats, she trotted along when the last riders took off. She reportedly paced them at 17 mph, hampering their descent as they avoided running her down.

My legs were done. Yet, it seemed a shame to drive all that way to climb just one hill [albeit, a long one]. I headed with the group toward the base of the second climb, knowing that I could opt out for an easy return to the start. When I passed two riders repairing a snapped derailleur cable, I realized I might not be the last straggler to reach the summit if I just kept moving.

Determined? Yes. Motivated? Not so much.

The summit has to be right around that corner.
Okay, the next corner.
The one after that, for sure. Please?

I was never so happy to see the cattle grate that heralds the top of the hill. Fifty-five miles, with a painful 4,965 feet of climbing.

At least it was not 100+ degrees today.

Mines at Last

2011-12-10T19:23:00.000-08:00

Approaching Robert Livermore Park in the early morning, the temperature outside the car was rapidly plummeting ... 32 ... 30 ... 28 degrees F. It was supposed to warm up to 60F today; I was seriously not prepared for sub-freezing temperatures. And if cycling sounds crazy, what do you think of the people headed for the open-air lap pool in their terrycloth robes?

What would pull me away from a nice warm house at 7:00 a.m.? Rising early enough to catch the full lunar eclipse was merely a bonus. The main event: Morning on Mines. I have enjoyed many four-wheeled excursions along this route; today I would study it at (comparatively) a snail's pace. Somehow I persuaded a friend to join me for the out-and-back journey through this isolated canyon. Well-matched, we were—two women with frozen fingers and sluggish brains.

Defrosted by a five-mile warm-up, we were both cheerful and chatty when we reached the other riders gathered at the starting point. Still, I would not have predicted that I would comfortably shed my jacket later in the day.

Along the way, one wandering calf affirmed the validity of a posted Range Cattle sign. One distinctive "no trespassing" sign warned Danger: Stay Alive By Staying Out. In full view of the road, a group of men included one sighting a rifle up the adjacent hillside. Local traffic passed with generous clearance. A motorcyclist at the Junction café was impressed that we were out there. Their secret? Heated grips. [Hmm ...]

In all, 3,825 feet of climbing over 59 miles. The longest ride I have taken in quite some time, my legs would have you know.

Then We Were Five

2011-12-03T22:16:00.000-08:00

The first rider dropped out around mile four, at the first hill.With the strong headwind, I am not sure he would have been any less challenged on the flatter section of the route.

As hilly routes go, today's was meant to be mellow. Studying her Garmin to validate her suffering, one rider exclaimed: Fifteen percent! [Really? Not.] Another rider shrugged. Felt more like 10%. [Spot on.] My post-ride data show a steady gradient of 9.8% for slightly more than a quarter of a mile. For an accurate reading on the bike, try an inclinometer.

The second hill claimed rider number two. Riders three and four demurred in favor of a social engagement along the route. A fifth rider had a greater interest in extending her mileage than climbing hills and headed yonder. Our sociable little group of ten had been whittled down to a stalwart core of five.

Oh, what a day it was! Warm enough for a vest and arm warmers (in December!), under an extraordinary sky (a gift of the wind). 35 miles and a mere 1,870 feet of climbing.

Extra Helping of Hicks

2011-11-26T19:51:00.001-08:00

As if it were not enough to climb Hicks once in the past month (or past year, for that matter) ... what was I doing out there today?

Let me tell you, there is nothing like an extra helping of Hicks to compensate for an extra helping of Thanksgiving dinner.

We warmed up on Harwood—which is, technically, steeper (for short stretches)—before making our way to Hicks. The recent rains had induced a small landslide, mostly plowed off the road and studded with orange cones.

When the group at the top showed signs of restlessness to descend, I took my cue. Following some idle talk of descending speeds, I wanted no one trailing me. On separate occasions, two guys have crashed in my wake. Maybe they were not trying to stay with me. Or maybe they were. A little head start gets me out of sight, and I prefer it that way.

One block from the end of our group ride, my heart rate suddenly spiked: I turned a corner to find a wrong-way cyclist headed straight at me. [On a mountain bike, wearing no helmet, of course.] I braked, I shouted, I swerved toward the curb. Perhaps predictably, so did he. Preparing for impact, I jerked my bike to the left and missed his rear wheel by a couple of inches. You're on the wrong side of the road, I called out. Did he even understand? [Doubtful.]

For the day, 29 miles and 2,110 feet of climbing. Hicks hurts.

Cloud Computing

2011-11-24T19:14:00.000-08:00

For the 10 days leading up to today, the forecast was dire. Would the Thanksgiving Day Low-Key Mt. Hamilton Hillclimb be canceled for the first time in history?

Fair weather or foul, I was prepared to volunteer for this one. At my current pace, the volunteer crew would be lucky to make it home in time for dessert.

I would bet that I was not the only one hoping for rain this morning. The roads in my neighborhood were dry when the call was made at 6 a.m.: The climb is ON!

The roads at the base of Mt. Hamilton were not dry, but the clouds teased us with glimpses of blue sky (once or twice). More than 100 riders signed in. Crazy people.

I was so glad not to be suffering on the bike today. I cannot imagine spending more than two hours riding up the hill in a cold drizzle, and that is what it would have taken to get me to the top. (Two hours and forty minutes for the next-to-last finisher in my photo above.)

Instead, I spent more than two hours standing inside the cloud at the top, collecting finishing times. A cold drizzle, in other words. Crazy person.

My fellow Low-Keyers, I salute you!

Up to You

2011-11-19T19:27:00.000-08:00

There were some new faces at today's Low-Key Hillclimb. When I reached the top of Kings Mountain, I caught a snippet of conversation.

I wouldn't call that low-key!

I smiled. It's as low-key as you want it to be.

The road was wet, the air was cold, the trees were dripping. Along the way, the sun cast a spotlight on some moss-covered boulders; no time for a photo. When I heard a toddler's voice behind me, I knew that I was about to be passed by the racer towing his daughter in a Burley trailer.

The women started the climb together; I took my place at the back and watched them pull away. As the pack thinned, I passed one rider; she did not give chase. The gap between us began to stretch, and before long she had dropped out of sight. When she arrived at the top, I congratulated her with a high-five. That was hard, she said.

Yes, it was. A relatively short climb, I vowed to push harder this week. For more than 45 minutes, I sustained an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute, peaking at 179. Still, not as hard as I pushed the last time we tackled this climb, and the result speaks for itself.

Next year, I should train for the series. Or, give it up?

Nine, Plus Five

2011-11-12T17:35:00.000-08:00

Would I be faster? The weather was dreary and cold; it seemed certain that we would ride into the cloud. Had I vanquished the virus that attacked my body this week? I felt less tired, but still drained. I am five years older and two pounds heavier.

I was most eager to tackle Highway 9 this year. In 2006, this was my first Low-Key Hillclimb. Back then, I wondered: Did they really mean that anyone could participate?

My leg started hurting before I reached the top. Over thousands of miles of cycling, my legs have cramped on exactly one occasion. Did I pull a muscle? I was going hard up the hill, but I had not done anything unusual. Both legs were sore. Really sore.

My chiropractor's words bubbled up into my consciousness.

You are much improved, I was able to start working on your muscles.

Evidently I was not using those long-dormant adductors before he released them. Evidently a relatively short hillclimb of modest grade will tax them.

I had been excited to reach the half-way point in less than 26 minutes. Although I lost sight of the riders ahead, surely I was climbing for a new personal best.

It was convenient to forget that the first two miles of the climb are mellow; at the half-way point, you have ascended roughly 835 feet. There are some 1280 feet up ahead, and that makes all the difference.

Slower by four minutes, I was nonetheless proud of the pink stripe left by the finish-line chalk on my front tire.

Ghost Wave

2011-10-31T17:47:00.000-07:00

Halloween. Ghosts. Waves? Big, scary waves.

As a cyclist, I can fully appreciate the chasm that separates my performance from that of the pros. I can attack the same hill ... at less than half their speed. I can ski, but you won't find me rocketing down some narrow double-black-diamond chute or dropping out of a helicopter in the back country. I have never tried to surf, but I can extrapolate that a similar gap would separate me from the titans of big wave surfing.

I grew up near the sea. I am comfortable bobbing in the swells and ducking under breaking waves, even body-surfing my way toward the shore. Stand up on a board and ride the face of a breaking wave? No way. Get close to a towering avalanche of water? Absolutely, positively no way.

An armchair adventurer, I relish tales of athletes who thrive on challenges that I would not dream of attempting. Ghost Wave is a fascinating new story that I am finding hard to put down. And I enjoyed a special treat recently when author Chris Dixon visited the Bay Area to talk about the book; a treat that was magnified five-fold by the legendary guys who tagged along.

They completely upended my image of surfers as easy-going, laid-back types. It took me more than half the day to unwind after spending just a couple of hours around those guys. See for yourself ...

You should try paddleboarding, Skindog suggested. [Uh-oh.]

Almost, Almost, Almost There

2011-10-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

If I climbed this hill every week, would I get stronger? Faster? Both?

For reasons I can't explain, a Cake song started playing on my internal soundtrack—with a twist on the lyrics.

You're almost there
You're almost, almost, almost there.

There was the top of Hicks Road. I completed the climb without stopping, despite pulling my front wheel off the pavement an alarming number of times. Despite having already climbed 1500 feet before heading up the steep grade.

Having come that far, it would be silly not to continue up Mt. Umunhum Road. How else would you get to that climb? Steep in its own right, it seems easier given that one side or the other of Hicks is always the prelude.

The road passes through the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. While biding my time at a re-group with my fellow cyclists, my curiosity was piqued by an official sign featuring the green imprint of a distinctive seven-pointed leaf. In addition to the usual warnings about mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and poison oak, here was a warning for hikers to stay on the trails lest they stumble across an illicit marijuana farm. [There was an early-morning shootout up here in 2005, which did not end well for one of the bad guys.]

I declared victory at the gate, not feeling a need to grind further up the hill to the white-line-that-shall-not-be-crossed. I was not worried about the bad guys; like the mountain lions, I expect they are reclusive and nocturnal. I had simply had enough climbing. At the end of the day, 27 miles, 3,630 feet of elevation gain.

Elevator Profile

2011-10-27T20:36:00.000-07:00

The shadows grow longer, the weekends grow busier, and the cyclist grows weaker and wider. Opportunities for a round-trip bike commute in (mostly) daylight are vanishing.

It was, shall we say, a bracing start to the day. With the temperature hovering just below 42F, I should have donned warmer gloves. The cold air stung my legs and face. Still, my count of fellow cyclists was typical (more than 30). Notable was a guy wearing perfectly-polished, tasseled loafers and cream-colored pants (with a reflective band on the right leg, to keep it clear of the chain).

Making good time, I included a short gratuitous hill on both trips. My quickest elevation gain was assisted, though. To reach my office on an upper floor, I carpooled. Two people, two bicycles, one elevator car.

Lost in thought on the way home, I heard the clatter of hooves before I saw the deer. Three of them scampered across the road before pausing to study me from a safe distance, uphill. Not much of a threat, this creature, moving so slowly and breathing so hard.

For the day, 39 miles and about 1000 feet of climbing.

Are You Slower Than a Seventh Grader?

2011-10-15T15:45:00.000-07:00

Photo by Josh Hadley

[Yes.]

Slower than a guy on a mountain bike toting his daughter in a plastic seat mounted behind the handlebar?
[Yes.]

Slower than a guy on a road bike towing his daughter in a Burley trailer?
[Yes.]

In a show of mercy for our selfless Low-Key volunteer crew, the slower riders were ushered to the front of the pack. The announcement went something like this:

Juniors to the front.
And anyone else who thinks they're slower than a 12-year old.

To minimize congestion on the road, we were dispatched in smaller groups at somewhat irregular intervals.

The fastest guys were next; I was about one mile up the road when they sped past. Much of the rest of the field would pass me too, affording more of a sense of participation than I normally get [trailing off the back].

Truth be told, my usual forays up Page Mill Road involve rather wider tires and an enviable level of horsepower. This would be only my third ascent on a bicycle, and my first timed climb. That it would take more than an hour, I had no doubt.

Along the way, my spirits were lifted by so many passing climbers who encouraged me. It's one thing to cheer me along when they are descending, having already finished; it is a true gift to spare even a single word when racing up a hill. This is the essence of a Low-Key Hillclimb, and why I keep coming back for more.

A red Pantera with an out-of-state plate was extremely patient. Without a clear sight line, he hung well behind me on a grueling stretch. As soon as it was safe, I signaled him to pass. Given that there were some 140 cyclists on the road, I imagine he regretted his decision to drive up Page Mill this morning.

A dropped chain at mile 3.5 cost me close to a minute. Nonetheless, I was quite pleased with my finishing time. I ascended 2,035 feet over 8.3 miles, finishing in a tad over 69 minutes. My heart rate averaged 171 beats per minute, peaking at 180 bpm. Evidently I am unwilling to flog myself as hard as I did two years ago.

I know I can do better. The series isn't over yet.

Stress Test

2011-10-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

Last year, I was a dedicated volunteer for the Low-Key Hillclimb series, having had the good sense to sit out. Consequently, it has been almost two years since I last pushed myself to the limit; once-vivid memories of intense suffering have dissipated.

Sierra Road. It was time. Time to reacquaint myself with the pain. What début could be more fitting for my Giro d'Italia Maglia Bianca?

I admire runners who can perform at the limit. Maybe, if my life were at stake, I could run that hard. Otherwise, my brain would intervene: This is too hard. Stop. Now. On a bicycle, I must keep moving to stay balanced on two wheels. If I stop on a steep hill, I might not be able to start up again.

Racing up a hill has taught me many things: I can push myself much harder than I had ever imagined. The same hill will be a joy to climb every time I approach it at a recreational pace. And, it is worth having a go at it, even if I will be the last rider to cross the finish line.

Technically, I was not last. One of the able-bodied young men in the field flatted, which put him about ten minutes behind me. I take my victories where I find them: today, I caught and passed a guy in an orange jersey. Evidently he was a ride-along (not registered). Just the same, I dropped him, fair and square.

What is this suffering of which I speak? Panting and sweating for a solid 48 minutes and 10 seconds. Sustaining an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute during that time (peak, 179 bpm). Burning Calories at the rate of 569 per hour. All of that to travel a mere 3.6 miles. Oh, and climb 1,815 feet. [Roughly 500 feet per mile, for the math-impaired.]

If you haven't tried something like this, believe me—you don't know what you're missing.

Apple Cider Time

2011-10-02T19:58:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to wonder if every ascent of Highway 9 will be memorable.

Late on this Sunday morning, I was passed by a posse of sporty Nissans and a souped-up Miata (bedecked with a truly hideous spoiler). The speed limit is 30 mph and they were behaving nicely ... paced by a pickup truck, as it were.

Evidently they did not behave so nicely once they took the lead.

There are some lovely curves on the way from Saratoga to Skyline, including an enticing pair of 180-degree hairpins. The final hairpin, however, is a bit different. It is sharp and short and marked with a sign that recommends a speed of 20 mph.

When I rounded that bend, the posse was lined up on the opposite side of the road, facing downhill. [Odd.] Six or more young men were standing alongside one car, off the road with its hood up.

Why did the Nissan cross the road?

The punchline would be supplied by the cyclists I met at the top. They heard the screeching tires. They saw the car off the road, in the dirt, after it spun out. Fortuitously, no one was in the reckless driver's path.

We continued along Skyline to attend to some pressing business.

Club members and friends pitch in each fall: apples are picked, washed, trimmed and quartered, crushed, and pressed into fresh cider. With picking and washing well-tended, I tried my hand at the remaining tasks. [With the exception of the pressing, upper-body-weakling that I am.]

That watery stuff you can buy in cartons each fall? Bah! Nothing like the real thing. Not even close.

I Will Remember You

2011-10-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

I will remember your goofy faces, your sharp wit and exquisite puns, the ease with which you would ride alongside us and snap photos—no hands on the bars. I will remember the joy of shadowing you down a curvy, unfamiliar road at speed, without a care, knowing that you would alert me to any oncoming traffic.

I remember when you flatted on one of the earliest rides I led for the club. You were the president, and a far more experienced rider than I was; I doubled back to stay with you. Never leave a rider behind. You were struggling to add another patch to your tube, on top of what appeared to be a stack of patches. [I did not laugh.] When I offered you a spare tube, you revealed that you had one. [I did not laugh.]

There are so many dimensions to a life. Today, those united in remembrance of you. Wife, sons, mother, sister, brother, college classmate, fellow fans of science fiction and gaming, former co-workers, and so many cyclists. Alternately, we laughed and cried.

We were reminded to remember the whole of your life, which was not defined by the irrevocable choice you made in a dark night of the soul.

Paul, I will remember your friendship.

In desperation, never abandon hope. Seek help. 1-800-273-8255

Conversation Piece

2011-09-24T20:43:00.000-07:00

Climbing Old La Honda Road this morning, I heard the quick "yip" of a siren. On Old La Honda? That made no sense. Maybe one of the homeowners has an unusual alarm system.

I rounded a bend and was completely astonished to see that a motorcycle officer had indeed stopped a minivan driver. Slow climber that I am, I overheard a snippet.

Do you live on this road, ma'am?
Are you late for an appointment?

The supreme irony of this encounter would be clear if you had been following the chatter on one of the local bike club mailing lists over the past week. The authorities recently stepped up enforcement for cycling infractions in this area, and there has been much indignation about (perceived) selective enforcement.

There would be more surprises on this familiar climb today.

A couple of riders passed me. [No, that's not surprising.] One called out Cima Coppi! ... in perfect Italian. My feeble monolingual brain was not quick enough to respond with a friendly Ciao! I had chosen to wear the new jersey that I had earned on the Stelvio Pass; I did not expect anyone to understand what it represented.

Never underestimate the Bay Area cycling community. A racer in a team kit slowed to chat with me, wanting to hear about the Stelvio. He had spent some time in Italy, and compared watching the Giro d'Italia to the Tour de France (the former being much less commercialized). The crowds are smaller, he explained. There is nowhere to park a car on the big climbs; to watch, you need to cycle up.

Before the day was out, another pair of guys climbing Tunitas would chat with me, too—one had also climbed the Stelvio. What a great way to meet interesting people! At my pace, wearing any other jersey, I would be lucky to elicit so much as an "on your left" from any of those riders.

Riding without full stats today; this 41-mile loop likely involved some 4000 feet of climbing. With all that conversation, the top of Old La Honda came much sooner than I expected. Surely, I am not faster.

The Long and Windy Road

2011-09-10T23:54:00.000-07:00

Having just climbed some 27,375 feet over 287 miles during ten days in Italy, climbing 6,260 feet over 100 miles down the California coast should be no problem. Piece of cake, right?

Two days to recover from jet lag were almost enough. Almost.

An Audi R8 led us out at a brisk pace—I averaged 19.7 mph over the first 10 miles, which is a personal best. Of course, that is also not a sustainable pace for me and once the hills started rolling, I started crawling. [I must note that the R8 driver failed to rev the engine in the tunnel under Robinson Canyon Road, an offense for which the key to that vehicle should be summarily confiscated.]

The day was cool and foggy, but not as intensely so as last year. The sun began to break through near the Bixby Bridge, which was a fine place to peel off a layer. I rounded the bend on the other side and ... when did they install a wind tunnel here? It was blowing a gale—headwind, crosswind. This is completely unnatural; in the morning, the air should be still. In the afternoon, there should be tailwind.

Twice, I was nearly blown over—the bike tilted violently to my left each time. I actually contemplated getting off and walking. This was the most extreme wind I have ever faced on a bicycle. Ever. How far would I have to walk? How much would that slow me down?

Being the stubborn sort, with less common sense than I need, I kept pedaling. One thing about wearing one of those ultralight jackets: the material snaps loudly in the wind, and it was snapping furiously. This is the perfect accessory for fine-tuning your aerodynamics: streamline yourself and be rewarded with the sound of silence. Streamline yourself to stay upright.

Further south, a presumptuous passenger in a passing Prius with Utah plates shouted

Get on the other side of the line!

Wrong. I don't know what your vehicle code specifies, but the California vehicle code does not require me to ride on the shoulder [which was vestigial, at that particular point]. I may choose to ride on the shoulder, but I am only required to ride as far to the right of the road as practicable. The white line is the "fog line" that marks the edge of the road.

At our lunch stop, I assured a weary rider that he could make it. I told him what to expect of the two hills ahead. Two riders recognized me from our Woodside training ride. Passing me a short time later, one called out "I hope this is the second hill!" Cruel, isn't it, at mile 80?

The sky was growing darker [and not because I was running out of daylight, I am not that slow]. Ten miles outside of San Simeon, the first big raindrops plopped down. I am not made of sugar, I will not dissolve in the rain. [A chemist told me so.]

I crossed the finish line a full hour behind my best pace [in 2009]. It was the headwind, I tell you!

A local band from San Jose rocked out at the post-ride barbecue (Smash Mouth). Well-fortified with caffeine, I was still awake at 8:30 p.m. The best was yet to come.

The Neptune Pool. What if this is my last chance? Cold, tired, foggy ... none of it matters.

To everyone who supported my fund-raising for Best Buddies this year: thanks for throwing me in the pool!

The Adventure Ends

2011-09-07T20:22:00.000-07:00

My Italian adventure draws to a close today. Aware that the airport shuttle would pick me up before breakfast, the hotel delivered one to my room the night before—without a word from me. Croissants, bread, jam, cheese, butter, juice, tea, and a small electric kettle.

The first part of the trip included a ride downhill, then snaked along the shoreline through small towns. With the road barely one lane wide in many places, hugging the contours of the cliffs around blind corners, it was quite the ride. In the early morning shade of the valley, the driver would flick his headlights on to illuminate the arrow signs on the outside edge of the curve—thus alerting oncoming traffic to our approach. Where that was not feasible, he would sound the horn. Driving those roads takes nerves of steel. We didn't share a common language, but facial expressions were enough to convey a mutual opinion of a few incautious drivers.

He transported me safely to a rendezvous with a full-sized bus, which would carry me the rest of the way to the airport. Again, I was the solo passenger—but this driver spoke some English. He was impressed to hear that I had bicycled up Stelvio, Mortirolo, and Gavia all in one week; he and his wife ride motorcycles, so he knows those roads. At the airport, he sent me off with a traditional European kiss (both cheeks).

I managed not to doze off until I saw the icebergs and glaciers at the edge of Greenland. It would be several more days before my body would find the right time zone.

Passo del Ghisallo

2011-09-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

This was the first day that I managed to bike with our host, Laurenz. We headed downhill and traced the shoreline of the lake to the city of Como, passing through many of the little towns we had admired from the water yesterday. After relaxing in the Piazza del Duomo, we meandered [with a few wrong turns, for good measure] toward a café at Lago di Segrino.

At small places like this, lunch is whatever they are serving: in this case, pasta with pesto or a tomato/bacon sauce. As we were leaving, the matriarch approached me, expecting that I spoke Italian. From what I gathered (through others), she was suggesting that we call ahead the next time we have a giro and want some lunch. Nonetheless, they had accommodated our crowd of hungry cyclists with grace.

An unanticipated bonus was a visit to the tomb of Alessandro Volta, which was being tended with fresh flowers by an elderly woman. She chattered on about Volta, and I did not have the heart to tell her that I do not speak Italian; I smiled and nodded and offered si and grazie when she would pause. That worked out quite well.

One disadvantage of this loop was that we would take the easier approach to visit the Santuario Madonna del Ghisallo as we returned to our hotel, rather than earning our blessings with the long, steep climb from Bellagio. The locals had assured me that the climb to the hotel itself was the worst part, so I did not feel like a complete shirker. The rest of it, though, is pretty darned steep. At the end of the day, I had covered 47 miles and climbed 3,605 feet.

The chapel is an inspiring place, venerating cycling champions the world around—not just Italians. Admission to the nearby Museo del Ciclismo is discounted if you arrive by bicycle [keep that in mind].

It was a chance encounter, though, that I cherish most.

I lingered after the rest of our group had departed. An Italian cyclist in full team kit rolled up; as the only other cyclist there, he wanted to chat. Non parlo l'italiano, I explained. Deutsch? Belgian? he tried. With a mixture of gesture and simple words, we established that this was my first visit and the route I had taken. He drew my attention to the key bicycles in the chapel—especially Casartelli's. He pawed through the brochures and handed me one in English. He kept going back to one tray in particular, clearly troubled that it was empty.

And then, it became clear: That was the tray that normally held prayer cards with an image of the Madonna del Ghisallo, the patron saint of cyclists, that are meant to be carried with you.

Reaching into a jersey pocket, he retrieved a small plastic box and spread the contents on the table.

He found the image of the Madonna that he carried with him.

And then, he gave it to me.

Como

2011-09-05T20:17:00.000-07:00

Despite our host's admonishment,

You will not dissolve, like sugar, in the rain!

most of us opted not to bike again today. If it is necessary, I will bike in the rain. If it is not necessary, I will not. Primarily, it is not fun.

Toting my new umbrella, I joined a small group that chose to take the slow boat to Como (two and half hours). We strolled about, had lunch, visited the Duomo, and took the slow boat back to Bellagio.

Out on the lake, the skies opened up and nearly everyone fled to the cabin. I popped open my umbrella and shared the deck with another member of our group who did the same.

First to arrive for dinner, we scouted a table with a great view of the lake and were treated to an ever-changing show of clouds and distant lightning.

Tomorrow, it will be dry.

Bellagio

2011-09-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

5:19 a.m.? I didn't ask for a wake-up call.

Apparently the local roosters get started before sunrise.

Expecting last night's rain to continue, most of us opted for a rest day and hiked down the hill. After exploring the gardens and antiquities on the grounds of the Villa Melzi, we headed for downtown Bellagio.

My first order of business: Buy an umbrella. [Just like the last time I visited Europe ...]

Much to my surprise for a Sunday morning, the shopping district was fully open. Even more to my surprise, a cyclist wearing a full kit from Stanford cruised past.

A few stalwart souls from our group chose to bike, despite the weather. All returned fully drenched, one having met the pavement along the way. The rest of us were content to stay dry. Sheltered on the hotel terrace overlooking the misty lake, I worked at the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle over a steaming cup of tea. There are some constants in my life.

Grosotto to Bellagio

2011-09-03T20:13:00.000-07:00

A lovely coda to our stay in Grosotto was a choral concert at the church after dinner last night. For a small town, the Santuario della Beata Vergine delle Grazie is unexpectedly elaborate, with enormous organ pipes adorned with carved wood and a magnificent frescoed ceiling.

Our next home base would be on the shores of Lake Como. We followed the route of the Sentiero Valtellina, as best we could, aiming to rendezvous with our hosts at an abbey for lunch.

What a bike path! For most of the first 41 miles of our journey, we enjoyed the seclusion of this path. One stretch of highway challenged our nerves, but advice from a local cyclist got us back on track.

The Abbazia di Piona is situated on Lake Como ... uphill, of course. After some 60 miles of smooth, mostly flat riding, we did not begrudge a little climbing. But, cobblestones? Well, those are another matter.

Each day's riding had included some stretches of cobblestone streets. Or, so I had thought, having mistaken cut stone blocks for cobblestones. About one mile of the undulating road leading to the abbey was entirely paved with cobblestones.

That means the road surface is studded with closely-packed stones, rounded and polished smooth by centuries of use. Climbing is tricky and mildly uncomfortable; keeping a light grip on the handlebars affords some relief. Descending is treacherous and painful; gripping the brakes to control speed, the vibrations rattle through your wrists, arms, and shoulders, jostling your brain. Emulating the pros at Paris-Roubaix, I made a beeline for the concrete gutter at the edge of the road whenever possible.

Before the end was in sight, I dismounted and walked.

Our day's journey was not yet over. Having procured tickets for ourselves and our vehicles, we lined up to be ferried across the lake. Ahead, one final surprise awaited us.

Fourteen percent. As in, 14% grade (according to a roadside sign). One rider exclaimed:

This is a cruel joke!

Our hotel was located along the famous Madonna del Ghisallo climb, featured in the annual Giro di Lombardia. At least we didn't need to pedal to the top ... today.

Our longest ride so far: 72 miles, with a mere 1,310 feet of climbing.

Passo di Gavia

2011-09-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, I had not yet earned my new Cima Coppi jersey. While Stelvio is named prominently on the front, the back features three Giro d'Italia high points: Mortirolo [check!]. Stelvio [check!]. Gavia [not yet].

The logistics for attacking Gavia were a prime topic of conversation at the bar yesterday afternoon. The outcome: our host would shuttle half the group to the nearest approach, outside Bormio; then, shuttle the remaining riders to the far end, parking the van at Ponte di Legno. After climbing to the top from either side, one could descend to Bormio and ride back to Grosotto or descend to Ponte di Legno and be shuttled back.

The more difficult (Giro d'Italia) approach ascends from the south, but the only viable route for me was from the north—slow as I am, I could not afford to start with the later bunch. It would be unreasonable to ask anyone to wait for me to finish.

With no particular need to hurry, I reveled in another glorious day on another famous climb. As with Stelvio, I began to pass other cyclists as I neared the summit. [Pacing is everything.] From Bormio, the climb is pleasant and never difficult. Although the pass tops out at 8,700 feet, I was not troubled by the altitude.

Facilities at the summit were modest; the Rifugio was a combination bar/café/souvenir shop. I enjoyed a slice of fruit tart before heading for Ponte di Legno. As I launched, I heard a fading voice:

And we waited for her, why?!

I actually stopped to take photos on the descent—that is a rare sacrifice indeed, which should tell you something about the beauty of this area.

Moments after a few motorcycles zipped past me, I was suddenly grateful for their presence. I was headed, full speed, into a galleria. One that was totally unlit. [I would later learn, from those who climbed this side, that there was a walkable bypass with a mural memorializing those who lost their lives when a convoy truck plummeted down the cliff.]

What I should have done: Stop. Fish headlight and taillight out of saddle bag, mount them, and turn them on. Swap the dark lenses in my sunglasses for clear ones. What I did: Fly into the tunnel and follow the taillights of the motorcycles. Pedal faster, accelerating in an effort to keep them in sight and to get the heck out of that tunnel as rapidly as possible. It was longer than I expected, and the taillights went briefly out of view ... the tunnel is curved—yikes! One final glimpse kept me on track before they vanished, just in time for the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

A word to the wise: Do not do as I did. Look for a bypass, or prepare yourself for the darkness. I am extremely fortunate that I did not come to grief.

Studying the plot from my bike computer (speed, heart rate, altitude), it is quite evident where I entered the tunnel. The map confirms it. I was traveling approximately 23 mph as I entered. My heart rate, steady up to that point, quickly spiked up by 15 bpm. As I gave chase to keep the motorcycles in view, I accelerated to and sustained 30+ mph for three tenths of a mile. The tunnel appears to be about four tenths of a mile long; it took me just under a minute to travel through it.

I covered 28 miles and climbed 4,600 feet; the 17-mile climb to the summit accounted for all but 20 feet of that.

Grosio

2011-09-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

Having enjoyed perfect weather so far, no one was complaining about a few raindrops on a day when we were all ready for a rest.

Rest, of course, does not mean lounging about the hotel reading a book—not with this crowd. After breakfast, I set out with a small group hiking to Grosio, where we explored the remains of a medieval castle and then searched (in vain) for traces of the Iron and Bronze Age-era carvings on an adjacent rock outcropping in the Parco Incisioni Rupestri di Grosio. There are some 5,000 carvings on this boulder and we could not find a single one. Not surprising, then, that they were not discovered until the 1960s.

As the rain began to pelt us, I was reminded that I had neglected to pack an umbrella for this trip. We headed for town and took shelter in a café.

Returning to the site of the carvings, we found the adjacent museum now staffed by an amiable young man who spoke English fluently. He grew up in the area and assured us that he had not been able to spot the carvings either, until he learned where to look. Afternoon light is preferable.

The best vantage points are on the rock itself; to get close, you shed your shoes and scramble over the boulder in your socks (or bare feet). [This sort of experience would be inconceivable back in the litigious US of A.] In the flat light, visibility was somewhat enhanced now that the rock was wet: warriors, dancing figures, animals, a rake (early testament to the importance of agriculture). Once you know where, and how, to look.

Passo dello Stelvio

2011-08-31T20:08:00.000-07:00

In signing up for this tour, I was at last fulfilling a dream to cycle in Europe. When I realized that I might have a chance to climb the legendary Stelvio Pass, I was thrilled. Now, I sincerely hoped that I had not burned out my legs on the Mortirolo loop.

It would be straightforward for us to approach the summit from Bormio; while I am sure that would be beautiful, the classic approach is from Prato allo Stelvio. The logistics would be a burden, but our host made it happen. He dispatched a few strong riders to tackle the climb yesterday, reducing the size of our group to fit into two vehicles laden with bicycles today.

We drove through Bormio and up to the summit of the Umbrail Pass. There, we bundled up and descended to the valley, passing through the town of Santa Maria (Switzerland) and looping back into Italy to start the famous climb from Prato allo Stelvio.

Ever the laggard going uphill, my plan was to descend as rapidly as possible to get ahead of the group before we started to ascend. We were warned to expect one unpaved section of road (a mile of packed gravel) on the way down. I was especially cautious there; one rider caught and passed me, but nonetheless I was the first to reach the valley. [Not having seen me descend until now, my fellow riders were surprised. "You were en pointe, the whole way down!" Nice way to put it. I smiled.]

At the border, the Italians waved us through, and I booked it all the way to Prato—where I promptly headed in the wrong direction. Having stopped for a bio break, I was separated from the rest of the pack and never saw the last sign toward the pass. (Evidently it was easy to miss, being somewhat obscured by a tree.) I approached a couple of guys in a parking lot, and they happily sent me in the right direction.

More than any other climb on this trip, I wanted to complete this one. I started going up; my legs felt surprisingly strong! I began to believe that I could do it. I have certainly done more climbing in a day than this would require, but not over such a short distance.

There are 48 switchbacks on the way to the top, and each turn is numbered. I rounded switchback number 48 after about 4 miles. Warmed by the effort, I had already peeled off my outer layer. Up to that point, the average grade was 6%; almost eleven miles remained, with an average grade of 7.9%.

The road is carefully maintained, smooth pavement swept clear of gravel and rocks. I quickly found a source of acceleration in taking the right line through each hairpin—every little bit of energy helps. About two thirds of the way up, the Berghotel Franzenshöhe serves the best apple strudel imaginable—my single portion filled a dinner-sized plate and sustained me over the rest of the climb.

Many cyclists passed me along the way, but as I drew nearer to the summit, it was my turn to pass. Endurance, I have. I am sure the diminishing concentration of oxygen slowed me further, but I reached 8,300 feet before I noticed. Painted marks on the road counted down the distance remaining: 6k ... 5k ... At hairpin number 1, I lingered in a state of awe.

There is quite a festival at the top of the Stelvio Pass: food, souvenirs, proud and exhausted cyclists, and plenty of tourists.

I traveled 38 miles by bike, climbing 6,040 feet along the way—virtually all of that climbing was packed into the last 15 miles. I am stunned to say this: It felt great! Which means, of course, that I should have ridden at a faster pace.

Next time ...

Bormio

2011-08-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

On the menu for today was a climb to a lake. To make that feasible, our host arranged to shuttle riders forward in two groups. I landed in the group that would start cycling from our home base in Grosotto.

I was apprehensive about this ride; not only would it be my third consecutive day of cycling, I expected to pay for yesterday's excesses.

The group took off at a brisk pace, and of course, we started the gradual uphill journey almost immediately. Despite dropping down to my lowest gear, my legs were screaming and my hands were going numb (a new phenomenon, for me). By the time we reached our shuttle rendezvous point, we had climbed 880 feet over less than six miles.

I was not the only rider who was keen for a recovery day. When our host disgorged us near the base of the climb to the lake, all but two riders rebelled and opted for a simple ride back to our home base. We created our own adventure, finding our way to a café in the oldest section of Bormio. We visited a local bike shop, where we secured advice on following the bike path back to Grosotto. After sensing some uncertainty in our group about the route, I reconfirmed the plan with one of the shop's mechanics. A picture—in this case, a Google Map on my phone—was worth a thousand words (in any language). After yesterday, I was not so ready to cede navigational responsibility to anyone else.

The sky was threatening rain, but we made it back without incident and in time for lunch.

Our return route might seem downhill (on paper), yet we ended the day having ridden a respectable 27 miles and climbed 1,525 feet. Would my legs be fresh enough for tomorrow's queen stage?

Passo di Mortirolo

2011-08-29T20:01:00.000-07:00

Heading out with the first riders was a lucky choice today, as we did not follow the traditional Giro d'Italia route to the summit of the Mortirolo. [Those who did, were humbled.] The climb from Grosio was not difficult; I paced myself, expecting the grade to worsen before I reached the top.

Approaching the summit, I was encouraged by the names still visible on the road (Basso, Nibali) and heralded by a cacophony of cowbells (on cows, of course). By the time I arrived, our group had split for lunch or to return to the start. Fortunately, I was able to hand my camera to a touring motorcyclist who paused for a break.

After lunch, my day went south—in both senses. Some miscommunication separated me from the group: I returned to the summit, hoping for some better photos, while the others thought I had gone ahead. I crossed paths with a few when I did start to descend, as they had been delayed by the Guardia di Finanza at the restaurant. [From what they gathered, the establishment was in trouble for not issuing receipts—and they had overcharged us. The tax men must have been expecting this, because they pounced as the last of our group were about to leave.]

I was not prepared to exercise my orienteering skills on this trip, and I failed to study the GPS track on my phone to understand where we were. Instead, I considered myself lucky to have synced up with the one fellow rider who spoke some Italian.

When we came to a fork in the road, we misplaced ourselves on the map. A sign pointed left, downhill, toward Doverio; the fork to the right had no sign and headed slightly uphill, which we did not expect. There was an arrow painted on the road, labeled "G F Pantani," pointing toward the uphill fork. It turns out that my reading was correct—Gran Fondo Pantani—and we should have followed that.

The key point, I now believe, is that the lack of a sign is a valuable clue: namely, that you are still on the main road and should keep following it.

We dropped down a steep set of switchbacks to Doverio, leading to an excursion along a highway (SS39) and adding an unwelcome climb up a minor pass. It also reinforced a surprising discovery about Italian motorists: They have tremendous respect for cyclists. Throughout the trip, it was rare for a vehicle to pass too closely. If there is not enough room to give us a wide berth, the driver waits. For their part, cyclists strive to travel in small bunches, leaving gaps that allow vehicles to leap-frog forward.

We passed through the town of Aprica and descended to Stazzona, at which point we found our way back to the intended route (more or less). I was oh-so-relieved when our home base, Grosotto, was in sight. After covering an unintended distance of 50 miles and climbing 6,600 feet, I was emotionally and physically spent.

And then, in an instant, I was restored: A passing motorcyclist, approaching in the opposite direction, waved and blew me a kiss! Grazie, signore; you made my day.

Eita

2011-08-28T18:18:00.000-07:00

As we rolled northeast out of Grosotto, my eyes were immediately drawn to a small town on the hillside above us. While the valley and surrounding slopes were still deep in shadow, the rays of the sun fell on that cluster of buildings like a spotlight. Naturally, that is why they were built there.

Soon, we were passing through that very town—having entered neighboring Grosio, we hung a left and immediately started climbing.

As the road snaked ever upward, through fields and hamlets, I began to wonder about ... food. We were heading for the town of Eita, and I had no clue how far we would ride before we reached it. I regretted not bringing along a PowerBar. Just then, I rounded a bend into Fusino, and lo—the rest of our group had already invaded the café, and we soon found ourselves sharing a pie-sized chocolate tart.

One of my friends emerged from the toiletta. "Good luck with that," she said, as I stared down at the porcelain fixture in the floor. There is book knowledge, and there is empirical knowledge. [N.B. see Going Abroad].

Much relieved and refueled, I happily resumed our climb. Cowbells (attached to actual cows) greeted us at the summit, along with a splendid source of water. Our group split up, with some of us venturing a bit farther down the road. In this, we were well-rewarded.

We enjoyed an unforgettable lunch at Baita Franzini, where the experience was more like sharing a family meal than dining at a restaurant. Potatoes (boiled, then fried), stew (with local mushrooms), polenta, game (wild mountain goat), cheese, apple fritters, fresh fruit. Homemade wine shared in a 100-year old communal wooden bowl. Conversation ranged from Hurricane Irene (they offered to let us watch coverage on TV), to politics (Berlusconi), to cycling (of course). On Pantani: "God gave him a big heart and big lungs, but no brain!"

My first day of cycling in Italy. Beautiful route, 24 miles, 3,695 feet of climbing. Everything I had hoped for, and more.

Grosotto

2011-08-27T18:27:00.000-07:00

My first few days in Italy were the appetizer; now it was time for the main course.

Returning the rental car was the most angst-inducing bit of driving yet. The garage was jammed, the spaces were tight, and cars were left in the driving lane. In true Italian style, someone flipped my passenger-side mirror back so I could squeeze through an opening that looked impossible. After driving 515 km without incident, was I destined to scrape the vehicle in the last 10 meters?

Next, I hauled myself and my baggage (remember that bicycle?) out to the bus that would take me to Bologna Centrale. One of the nuances of Italian train travel is the requirement to validate your ticket before boarding the train. Without prior research, this fine point would have escaped me. The high-speed train arrived in Milan in less than an hour. Needless to say, I collected some data: we averaged about 141 mph, with a top speed in excess of 162 mph.

At Milano Centrale, the ticket validating machine next to my train was non-functional. An Italian standing nearby launched into some lengthy exposition and did not stop even when I offered Non parlo l'italiano. I followed the lead of a fellow passenger and used the machine at an adjacent track.

The train ride to Tirano was neither high-speed, nor express. And that was just fine, as there was much to see along the way.

My final destination was the tiny, charming town of Grosotto. No longer a solo traveler, I would join our group for the start of our cycling adventures in the Italian Alps. We were staying at a "bike hotel," which caters to the needs of cyclists.

The Pika Packworks bag lived up to its reputation: lightweight enough to carry around, sufficient protection that the bicycle arrived unscathed. Reassembly went quickly and smoothly.

At last, ready to ride!

Bologna

2011-08-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

Driving in Italian cities is a tricky proposition. Streets are narrow, zones can be restricted, and the locals seemingly engage in creative driving as a sport. The hotel advised parking near the train station; I researched garages in the vicinity and used the navigation function on my now-enabled cell phone to home in on my destination.

Bologna Centrale is a major hub, and the station was bustling. There were a couple of unsavory-looking young men loitering about, but they were outnumbered by officers in uniform. It was straightforward to buy a ticket from the automated machine and bypass the line at the ticket counter. After scouting the platforms, I started to believe that I could board the right train tomorrow.

I stepped out of the station just as an open-air tour bus pulled up. Brilliant! Plug in the earphones and tune the channel to your native language. The tour oriented me to the city and its sights; by the time it was done, I had enough confidence to explore it on foot. Most businesses close for a few hours at mid-day; I enjoyed a sandwich and cooled down with a new discovery, granita.

Bologna is not a top destination for foreign tourists. I knew I had blended well when some young Communists tried to hand me their leaflets.

There are some 23 miles of porticos throughout the city; back in the day, they were required on all buildings. They knew what they were doing—today they provided welcome relief from the hot summer sun. I learned that Bologna is the birthplace of Nobel prize winner Marconi (wireless telegraphy), and home to the oldest (still operating) university in Europe (dating back to the 11th century). I was startled to realize that I had passed through a section of the train station that was the site of a fatal bombing in 1980.

Next on my agenda was Post Italiane. The drill at the main post office would be familiar to anyone who has visited the California DMV: determine the right category for the service you need and take a number. I presented the clerk with three identical postcards addressed to the USA. He carefully weighed each and every one of them (!) and affixed the requisite postage.

How do the Bolognese regard their city, I wonder? With its mixture of old and new, do the antiquities become a nuisance? Crumbling medieval walls, a leaning tower, monuments, fountains. Daily life flows around all of it, with hardly a second glance.

Sant'Agata Bolognese

2011-08-25T19:08:00.000-07:00

The television in the hotel's breakfast area was tuned to the news. No knowledge of Italian was needed to interpret the images: Libyan rebels had breached Qaddafi's compound. Footage of the gaudy and opulent trappings flashed by, including a mural inexplicably depicting a familiar Silicon Valley name (nVidia) [huh?] and ... a yellow Lamborghini. How ironic.

Courtesy of the free wi-fi at the hotel, I scouted out a place to recharge my SIM card and embarked on the next leg of my journey. What looked straightforward on the map was much less so once I was behind the wheel, piloting through a warren of narrow streets with few signs. Lost again in the urban fringe of Milano, I found a parking space near a busy café, and bravely took my place in line at an adjacent shop.

Buon giorno ... ricarica ... Wind ... venti ... per favore?

I successfully traded 20€ for two scratch-off cards to restore service to my SIM card.

The second time I dialed in and listened to the pre-recorded message, it started to make sense. First, some sort of advertisement for services. Next, a typical phone tree, where option sei sounded like the way to change the language. From there, option due switched to English.

Wind started sending me SMS messages. In Italian, of course. It would still be a while before my data service went live; eventually I puzzled out that one of the SMS messages asked me to text a message back to confirm my service activation, and that I needed to restart the phone.

Being somewhat anxious about soloing my way around Italy for the first few days, I had brought along point-to-point Google Maps directions (just in case). Back on the autostrade, I stopped at a service area for a sandwich that was a world apart from anything you would find along, say, the New Jersey Turnpike.

Having missed the appropriate exit [Modena Sud], I was forced to continue most of the way to Bologna before I could turn back. Rather than checking into the hotel first, it seemed most prudent to head directly to my next destination. This would allow ample time to find it, as I predicted (correctly) that I would get lost in the process.

A few more observations about driving in Italy: If there are no lines painted on the road, drivers will squeeze as many cars into the space as possible. Doing 70 kph on rural one-lane roads signed for 50 kph, drivers sped past me and zigzagged around the oncoming farm machinery. On the outskirts of town, I saw my first electronic speed sign, which might seem surprising for a town as small as Sant'Agata Bolognese.

Or not surprising at all, if you understand that this is the home of Lamborghini.

I had plenty of time to wander through the museum before my escort arrived. After stowing my bag in a locker (no photos, of course!), the doors to the courtyard were thrown open and my personal tour of the factory was underway.

New cars, in every color, filled the courtyard. Inside, I was guided along every station on both manufacturing lines (Gallardo and Aventador). Engines being built, lowered into a car, and tested. A windshield lowered carefully into place by two men, and then withdrawn to correct some small problem. Test stations. Final inspection. A separate area, where the cowhides are marked so that no flawed section will be used. Leather being guided by hand and eye through an ordinary sewing machine to add the razor-straight lines that flank each seam.

If you have seen the finished product up close, it all makes sense. Passion, and attention to detail, in abundance.

The Adventure Begins

2011-08-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

What kind of sports equipment? Is it ... a bicycle?

The Lufthansa agent did not hold my attempt to dodge the $200 bike fee against me. She switched me from a middle seat to an aisle, in a center row with just one other passenger. Consequently, I was able to curl up (more or less) comfortably across two seats and sleep through much of the long flight. There are some advantages to being small.

My first language encounter came before I even took my seat, as an older gentleman stepped aside for me. Prego, he said. Grazie, I replied (more or less). Like most Americans, I am fluent only in English.

I was seated behind an Italian family with two young boys, and one of them (watching cartoons) delighted me with the purest laugh I have ever heard. In the rearmost section of the cabin, it was easy to forget the enormity of an Airbus 380 (more than 600 passengers on board, and yet some seats were empty). Luckily, I failed to discover the three cameras mounted on the jet's exterior until the flight was nearly over [else, I would not have gotten the sleep I needed].

In Frankfurt, I chuckled at a fellow countryman who balked at forking over $10 for his sandwich at the airport, and began to feel less ignorant for having successfully coaxed some euros from a Deutsche Bank ATM.

In Milano, I was overjoyed to collect mia bicicletta (though the guy at the oversized baggage door was happy to exercise his English). I must have been quite the sight: a tiny gray-haired signorina with a backpack, tiny rolling suitcase, and a huge bag—almost as big as she is—slung cross-wise over her shoulders.

Next hurdle: renting a car and then ... driving it. The rear seats in my (pre-dented) Citroën C3 folded down, my bags fit, and off I went. The clerks at Auto Europa were friendly and helpful, and likely highly amused at the tiny gray-haired American signorina (see above), traveling alone, who rented a car with a manual transmission. Trust me, this is not something they see every day.

I headed for the autostrade to find my hotel on the outskirts of the city. My strategy: fall in line with the traffic in the right lane, decipher the road signs, and try to stay out of trouble. First observation: Italian truck drivers change lanes whenever they please, give them plenty of space. There were no attended lanes when I reached the toll booths at my exit; I managed to pay without irritating any drivers behind me. [Whew.]

The hotel, on a major thoroughfare, was clean and economical. Next to a bar, a pizzeria, and an adult store—not the best part of town. I failed at my next two challenges: finding a place to recharge the Italian SIM card I had acquired in advance, to get data service on my phone; and finding dinner. No data service = no Google Maps. No Google Maps = no Navigation. After driving more or less in circles for an hour or so on my quest, I did manage to find my hotel again. The nearest restaurant was closed: summer holidays.

Thus begins the story of my first solo international trip.

Summertime

2011-08-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

And the trees are dripping.

When the wind woke me this morning, slapping the blinds against the window frame, I knew. Such turbulence is a sure sign of a dense marine layer whipping over the Santa Cruz Mountains, and that is where our ride was headed. Time to bundle up.

As we climbed, the windshield wipers of approaching vehicles were running intermittently. For the droplets on my glasses, there was no such amenity. On the edges, the fog roils like steam rising from a pot of boiling water. [Except, of course, that the fog is cold.] In the midst of it, tiny droplets prick your face and ping off your jacket. In the thick of it, big drops condense from the towering trees and pelt you like rain.

There was little point to the sunscreen I applied, out of habit. The occasional fuzzy shadow cast by the weak light was an ironic contrast to the sharp contours I saw by the light of last weekend's full moon, deep in an isolated valley.

It was a beautiful ride nonetheless, despite wishing for long-fingered gloves and toe covers. Thirty-eight miles with about 3100 feet of climbing—the incentive, to stay warm.

Over Hill and Cloverdale

2011-08-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

When I heard the locals remarking about the weather—sunshine is not normal at 9:15 a.m.—I knew we were in for a splendid day. One reward for arriving well in advance of our planned start time was a warm cinnamon roll at the country market. Other rewards included watching a doe and her fawn wander through town, and one much-beloved dog enjoying his trip on an ATV.

Riding for the third consecutive day (why not?), I soon found myself out in front of the group. We came together again for a lunch break, but my schedule for the day left little room to dawdle. Now and again, there is a story that needs few words. This is one of those.

A field of flowers along the Butano Cut-Off.

Cloverdale Road, from a summit.

Gazos Creek spills into the Pacific Ocean.

The lighthouse at Pigeon Point.

A route of stunning beauty, just under 50 miles with 3200 feet of climbing.

End of the Line

2011-08-13T19:21:00.000-07:00

And now for something completely different: Today, I descended a hill more slowly than I climbed it. [Okay, I might be exaggerating ... but only slightly.]

How is this possible? Two words: chip seal.

Normally, I descend Wrights Station Road conservatively. It is steep, the pavement has been deteriorating for years, and sunlight filtering through the trees creates complex, shifting patterns of shadow and light. In the winter, the road can be slick and strewn with debris.

Evidently, the county has recently arrested the deterioration by chip sealing the roadway. Did someone really drive a roller up that road? The surface is still covered with loose gravel. One hairpin was particularly scary, with a deep pile in the outer radius of the turn.

Having made it safely to the bottom (Los Gatos Creek), my ride partner and I carried on with our plan to find the end of the road. There is a bit of the Wild West in the history of this land. The forest has reclaimed Wrights Station; the railway tunnel is hard to see, even if you know where to look.

The pavement ended abruptly. We kept going, sometimes on foot and sometimes on bike, to the end of the public road. Sadly, our only views of the elusive Lake Elsman will be satellite images.

Overall, a satisfying workout—18 miles, 1,865 feet of climbing—while managing to stay upright on the gravelly and rutted back roads of Santa Clara County.

BTWD Redux

2011-08-12T19:57:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about Bike to Work Day each year is inspiring others to give commuting a try. When your route to work entails pedaling some 20 miles, that represents a real commitment.

Much to my chagrin, I have rarely made the trip myself this year. (Unlike a few colleagues who make the trip nearly every day.) With some of our converts seeking the support of a group commute, a semi-regular Bike to Work Friday ride was born.

How could I say no? Look at the grin on our chief instigator. Could you say no to that man? And how can anyone be so happy at 6:55 a.m.?

Chatting away, the miles do fly by. I did my best to maintain a respectable pace for our mixed group of seven. I knew I had succeeded when I was accused of riding for the Sisters of No Mercy.

Two guys joined me for the return ride at the end of the day, which we also completed at a brisk pace. [Well, brisk for me; more of a recovery pace, for them.]

Round trip: 41 miles, 890 feet of climbing. Maybe I will do this again next week, while I still remember how great I feel when I bike to work.

Local History Tour

2011-08-07T19:39:00.000-07:00

The diversity and depth of our bike club was well-represented in our small group today: two Ph.D.s, one 71-year old (who outpaces me climbing hills), and a guy who will be riding Paris-Brest-Paris in another two weeks (for the fifth time). Having completed a century ride yesterday, he dropped everyone on today's climbs—including a friendly (and very fit) guy who works for Easton-Bell that we met along the way.

The Summit Store, our first stop, also reflected the diversity and depth of the local area. A natural stop for cyclists as well as mountain drivers, the parking lot was as colorful as ever: a cadre of motorcyclists, a small all-terrain-vehicle (not road legal, ahem), and a Bentley cabriolet.

Our ride leader kept a watchful eye on all of us, lest anyone go astray. Two members were well-versed in local lore and traded tales of Mountain Charlie, the ghost town of Patchen, the history of the submarine house, and so much more.

Alas, we did not spot the pet tortoise reported missing in the mountains (even at my sorry pace). Forty-four miles, 4,045 feet of climbing on a gorgeous late-summer day.

All Revved Up

2011-08-06T18:53:00.000-07:00

With someplace to go: Lunch, and the special privilege to meet an icon of the automotive world, Sig. Valentino Balboni.

Getting to lunch involved a bit of driving (naturally), with two groups converging from the north and south. I find group driving a bit nerve-wracking, as I fret about being too slow for the cars behind and not as talented as the drivers ahead. My plan was to hang near the back, preferably in last place.

My plan was not to be.

As we prepared to leave, I learned that my casual conversation over breakfast about local roads had turned into a new route plan. Which involved me trading places with the leader at a designated spot.

Our timing could not have been better. The southbound cars arrived at the restaurant just as we did. We were a sight to behold, and I can tell you that we were much beheld.

The young guys from the two cars tailing me closely through the forest stepped out and approached me.

You are fast!

And I thought they had been hanging back out of politeness, or resignation.

I think there is an advantage to being in the lead, after all. My concentration was devoted strictly to the road and to controlling my vehicle; following cars have the additional burden of responding to the decisions of the drivers ahead (and in some cases, coping with unsolicited passenger input as well).

This is your car?

Sig. Balboni greeted me with a bemused smile. Yes, I replied. I love my car.

When I get behind the wheel, I don't want to stop driving.

He nodded, beaming.

It is the same for me, even after 40 years.

Revolutionary Thoughts

2011-07-30T19:46:00.000-07:00

One advantage of my chosen route today was that it afforded variations on a theme. Just the thing for someone with commitment issues.

The theme: Mt. Diablo, from the South Gate. I thought I might just make a u-turn at the top, expecting all sorts of adversity. I could be too tired. The weather could be too hot. The rest of the group could be too fast and I would not want to ride alone. The whole enchilada was a route of about 64 miles that looped around the mountain (after climbing it, of course) via Morgan Territory Road.

The climb was surprisingly comfortable. The weather was cooler than expected, and there was barely a breeze at the summit. I conceded that it would be a fine day for the full loop, after all. Once I stopped shaking, that is.

Oh, that dreaded final hundred yards to the summit! From the bottom, it looked less intimidating than I remembered; it hurt as it always does. I rode straight up the middle. Seated, as is my wont. [Yes, that is possible.] My heart rate peaked at 186 bpm, a good six beats lower than I remember. The driver of a large white pick-up truck trailing me was completely gracious. Not only did he never honk or crowd me, I'm pretty sure he put the truck in neutral and waited patiently for half a minute or so.

The fastest members of our group were long gone. Not wanting to hold up the remaining riders, I plummeted solo down the hill to gain some time and took a quick lunch break near charming downtown Clayton. My timing was nearly perfect, as the first rider from the group caught me about a mile short of the summit on Morgan Territory Road.

The group got well ahead of me again after I paid a surprise visit to some friends who live along the route. Far from home, I faced the headwinds and braved the last 15 miles of the loop alone. How radical! For the day, 64 miles and a healthy 6,305 feet of climbing.

Bloomin' Gilroy

2011-07-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

See the ripples on the surface of Uvas Reservoir? See the direction of travel? Embrace the headwind. Today's route was uncharacteristically flat, climbing a scant 2,220 feet over 66 miles. The wind made up for that. [By the way, if climbing some 2000 feet does not sound flat to you, well ... you're not from around here, are you?]

Heading up Croy Road, the aftermath of last winter's massive slide was still in evidence. While there is no imminent danger now that the hillside is dry, it did look quite menacing.

Given the modest amount of climbing, I was able to sustain a pace that kept me from straggling too far behind the group—despite the occasional photographic indulgence.

Our route also included a stretch of Hecker Pass Highway (aiyeee!). The highlight of that segment—apart from living to tell the tale—was a most colorful flower farm.

Training Buddies

2011-07-17T16:39:00.001-07:00

Anticipating that a mellow recovery ride would be just the thing for today, I had volunteered to help with a training ride for the upcoming Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge. Thanks to the generous sponsorship of Audi and support from the Woodside Bakery, cyclists and other patrons were happily surprised to find that coffee was on us: we were working to recruit new riders.

Our plan included a 20-mile training route for registered and prospective riders; this being Bicycle Sunday, I presumed we would head for Cañada Road. [Wrong. But I did head there later, for good measure.]

Being familiar with the area, the staff appointed me leader of the pack. We had a range of abilities, they noted. I surveyed the crowd. About two dozen riders, some from Team Tibco. [Yikes.] I looked at the tiny scrap of paper that described the route. It didn't make sense.

Oh, the first turn is wrong. It's fine after that. With the exception of the second turn, which was also wrong. But I got the gist: we were meant to do the Portola Loop.

We streamed out of the parking lot, heading gently uphill. I pushed the pace and they were right with me. Recovery ride? What a quaint idea. I did manage to split the pack, but I wasn't concerned because a staff member was riding sweep. A buddy riding with us was thrilled when he caught up to me and stayed on my wheel for awhile, the other riders cheering him on and dubbing him "Speedy."

The first real climb on the route, a foothill near the bottom of Page Mill, loomed large. My legs begged for mercy. I waved everyone past, then easily caught them on the descent. [Whew.]

As we waited for a green arrow to turn left onto Junipero Serra, we were confused by a vehicle to our right. Despite having a green light, the vehicle had stopped and the left turn signal was flashing. The driver was not responding to us. I walked over, motioning to roll down the window. Politely, I pointed out that it was a straight-through lane, and that one could not turn left from there. No response. Your left turn signal is on, I added. I know, said the driver.

The arrow turned green. We turned left. The driver turned left, too, nearly running into left-turning cars from the opposite direction. We stayed safe. Most egregiously, this was a car-for-hire that was transporting a passenger. That company, and the CHP, will hear from me soon. I have a photograph to share.

Tasty Toppings

2011-07-16T20:54:00.000-07:00

I wanted to stop, of course. On the steepest grades, I pulled my front wheel off the pavement many times. I did not stop.

I tacked across the hill, in places. I watched my heart rate level off. 183? How long could I sustain that? I did not stop.

I kept moving, forward and upward: 12% grade for almost a mile. Just a little farther, I coaxed myself. Tough it out, it's not so steep. Fellow riders encouraged me: That's the crest of the hill, another 200 yards!

When the road is named Scenic Vista, you might guess that you are in the high-rent district. The personal tennis court at the top would be another clue. This climb was our appetizer.

For our main course, we moved on to Hicks. After Scenic Vista, it seemed less steep. Steep, yes. But, less steep. When the power lines came into view, I knew the summit was near. This was, perhaps, the first time I have climbed that side without stopping. Definitely the first time I have passed, and dropped, another rider on Hicks.

My next challenge was dodging a dingbat driver in a deteriorating red Miata. If she passed me once, she passed me four times—repeatedly stopping in the bike lane to play with her iPhone. Put it down, and drive! Or park somewhere, shut off the engine, and text to your heart's delight.

My heart's delight was dessert: rocky road, cookies 'n cream, chopped nuts, chocolate sauce, fresh strawberries and blueberries. A nice offset for the 1600 calories expended on my way to the club's annual ice cream social. That's what I call a balanced budget.

Back on Black

2011-07-09T16:49:00.000-07:00

Setting out this morning, I was reminded that today was the big day for the riders in Markleeville. In solidarity, I was determined not to falter on my little steep climb and reminisced about 2009. While it did not rival the Sierras, my view was a satisfying reward for climbing one tough hill.

I started with a group of stronger riders; knowing that I could not match their pace, my intentionally abbreviated route diverged within the first few miles. Moments after I crested the summit, a large truck turned down the narrow, curvy road. Timing is everything.

I lingered in sunny solitude before cruising along the ridge to complete my short loop. A small herd of alpacas masquerading as poodles brought a smile to my face. With our recent heat wave, I can imagine that they were grateful to have lost their shaggy coats.

As I returned to the start, I overheard two cyclists on the opposite side of the road:

Hey, didn't we see that woman earlier?

Evidently they were looping in the clockwise direction.

This short excursion (a mere 2,325 feet of climbing over 18 miles) afforded time for afternoon errands, including lunch at a local treasure: The Falafel Drive-in. The line stretched to the street when I arrived. The line stretched to the street when I left. They are the best.

Melting on Montebello

2011-07-04T20:09:00.000-07:00

The heatwave settled in for the long holiday weekend; summer really has arrived in the Bay Area. One local thoroughfare was so clogged with traffic yesterday that a motorist called out to me:

Is there a parade, or something?

Sort of. A parade of beach-bound cars cutting through town, hoping to save time by detouring off the clogged freeway. And that is why I walked to the farmers' market, and back home with a basket packed with fruits, salad fixings, and flowers.

Then I took a cue from my cat, and napped. When I donated blood earlier this week, my hemoglobin level was running somewhat lower than it has been—and my body balked at the deficit. Correlation? Probable. Uncontrolled experiment? Totally.

I was determined not to miss our club's traditional Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast today, followed by a traditional bike ride to burn off those calories. Despite the heat. Despite running low on red cells.

My goal: slowest time up Montebello Road, ever. With a watchful eye on my heart rate, I ascended at a snail's pace. I did not pass a single rider, but many passed me. Surely they thought I was pathetic. It is especially humbling when the guy riding his fixie passes you like you're standing still. On a good day, I climb the steepest sections in my lowest gear.

Satisfaction at the summit turned triumphant when a couple arrived in a white convertible and saluted us.

You ladies are amazing, biking up this hill!
I want your autographs!

Before crossing the five bridges deep into Stevens Canyon, I envied the families picnicking in the shade and the children splashing in the creek. Maybe I should sign up for How to Relax: Introductory Level. It probably does not entail climbing 3,370 feet on a 50-mile bike ride in 90-degree heat. [Just guessing.]

Time for Tam

2011-06-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

Having climbed three of the four major peaks in the Bay Area (Diablo, Fremont, Hamilton), today I conquered the fourth: Mt. Tamalpais.

I was riding in the second annual San Francisco Cycle for Life event, raising funds for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. At registration, the number they assigned to me just happened to be the year of my birth (an auspicious sign).

This was a very small event—about 150 riders spread over two routes, 35 and 75 miles. I saw only three other women tackling the long route. (The woman in the leather shoes, knickers, and blouse evidently opted for the shorter route on her pink bicycle with the fenders, racks, and basket.)

Fast Freddie Rodiguez led us out, and what a good sport he was. Having learned the importance of starting near the front in an attempt to stay in contact with the pack, there I was, riding with Freddie.

Cruising past Crissy Field, Freddie fished his cell phone from his jersey pocket and drifted left. Phone call? No. He wanted to take pictures of us!

I can do this, I'm a professional.

We all laughed.

On my way up the mountain, an elderly passerby remarked:

You've got big ones.

In that compliment, he was referring to a particular anatomical part that I (of course) do not have. A sensitive part that some of the guys around me were complaining about, when they thought I was out of earshot, as we bounced along the rough and bumpy roads.

Alone with the fog and the towering trees on my slow ascent, I heard the loud buzz of engines approaching from the other side. It was a sound not pleasing to my ears. I switched off my video camera, expecting a string of motorcycles to fly past. In that, I was wrong. I switched the camera back on. Some were part of a group that is organizing to raise funds for a good cause, too. But my ears are tuned to a deeper roar.

Ostensibly doing this ride with a team from work, I wore my logo jersey. A cyclist from Wells Fargo started chatting with me.

I love Google Maps on my phone!

He stayed with me until we reached the summit road, then diverted to a restroom. I descended toward the coast.

In Stinson Beach I met a couple of cyclists from our club, heading south on the last leg of Sierra to the Sea. I knew I was having a great day, despite a fitful night's sleep, when I saw the road sign "Jenner: 45 miles" and thought "Hey, that's not so far ..." But, I stayed the course.

Biking up Mt. Tam at a recreational pace? Not difficult. Negotiating a safe route through busy little towns? Much more challenging. Farmers' markets. Tourists. People parallel-parking SUVs, more or less badly. In the tiny hamlet of Nicasio, I supplemented my rest stop fare with a cupcake from a bake sale benefiting the local fire department (our first responders), but left before seeing the bride and groom emerge from St. Mary's church.

The route back to San Francisco snaked through one charming town after another, largely following Bike Route 20. Fairfax. Ross. San Anselmo. Larkspur. A passing cyclist greeted me:

Hey, I know you!

Not well enough to know my name, thankfully, since I was drawing a total blank on who he might be. In the population-dense Bay Area, what are the odds that you will cross paths with anyone you know on a bike ride, miles from home?

The greatest challenge of the day loomed ahead. Not the strong cross winds gusting off the Pacific. Not the short steep climb out of Sausalito. It was ... the bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge. The west sidewalk, reserved for cyclists, is presently closed during construction. Traversing the west side against the flow of wobbly tourists on Blazing Saddles bikes is hard enough. On the east side, add pedestrians to the mix, walking in every unpredictable direction and stopping randomly to snap photos. In picture-postcard weather, it would be best to dismount and walk.

The only turn I missed was the last one. I zig-zagged around buses, cars, and people to exit the parking lot at the other end of the bridge, but had to puzzle out the proper way back down the hill to our starting point.

Another beautiful bicycle ride. With the same amount of climbing as last Saturday's route (4,280), but spread over some 76 miles, I managed an average pace of 12 mph. Not too shabby.

From the Middle

2011-06-18T21:39:00.001-07:00

Some leaders lead from the front, some from the back; today, I was somewhere in between. Faster riders were off the front, slower riders trailed at the back. With a group of 16, I could barely keep track of everyone (much less remember names). Luckily, familiar faces conferred some advantage. I was amazed when we all came back together at the final re-group point, especially given that some riders had bypassed the toughest climb of the day.

There were more vehicles and fewer cyclists on Old La Honda Road than usual. On narrow, twisty roads it can be wise to play traffic cop. I thrust out my left arm at a key moment to discourage a pickup from passing me as another vehicle approached from the opposite direction. Collision averted.

A collision was perhaps not averted somewhere to the south on Skyline, though. Heading north at 30+ MPH, I was focused on an SUV waiting to pull out from a side road. Did she see me? Could I stop? Just then, a pair of emergency vehicles sped past in the opposite lane, sirens wailing. When the third one appeared, the traffic ahead of me pulled over to stop and my braking skills were summarily tested. On a wet section of pavement, to add to the excitement.

Always follow at a safe distance. And do not panic.

Bear Gulch West was longer, but less daunting, than I remembered. Maybe it was the onshore breeze? No bears, but we did find longhorn cattle lounging among the redwoods; happily, they were on the other side of a fence.

4,280 feet of climbing over 46.7 miles on a gorgeous day for a bike ride. Maybe I can retire the down comforter, at long last; summer may be here soon.

Chillin' on Calaveras

2011-06-11T19:15:00.000-07:00

What a relief to trade the hazy, hot, and humid northeast for cloudy, cool, California.

We headed straight for Old Calaveras Road, and without a warm-up I really struggled up the steep grade. Once I reached the top, the toughest challenge of the day was behind me; climbing the renowned "wall" of Calaveras Road was nothing in comparison to that.

The ups and downs, twists and turns of this route never fail to delight. No sign of the resident bald eagles, but I did see (and hear) a Western Meadowlark at close range, perched on a roadside fence post.

We also saw a freight train at close range, providing ample time for an impromptu re-group on our way to lunch in Pleasanton. Later, loading my gear into the car at the end of the ride, I would leave a curious dad speechless when I described our route for the day. If 48 miles sounded impossible to him, imagine what he thought of my response to his question about my longest ride.

In the end, the sun broke through and a fine time was had by all. My biggest smile of the day, though, was reserved for the electronic sign that registered my speed near the base of the last descent: 35 mph. That was precisely the speed limit, and I was oh-so-pleased to comply.

Predator, Prey

2011-06-06T22:42:00.000-07:00

The waves were alive, with the splashing of fish. Which mandated that we chart a new course, post haste.

We had set out for a nice summer boat ride, with a plan to venture out of the river and into the Atlantic Ocean to watch the salvage of a fishing boat that had wrecked a month ago. Approaching the scene, we were surprised at the number of boats bobbing offshore on a Monday afternoon. Why were they paying little heed to the tall crane on the large barge that was lifting a ragged hull from the water?

The salvage operation was not the main event. There were thousands of fish around us, a massive school swirling and breaking the surface of the water. Which meant one thing: they were desperate to evade something bigger, something that was driving them toward the shoreline.

We sprang into action. Fishing poles and net were pulled from the cabin. Tackle boxes were liberated from a cabinet. No need for bait: Cast a line into the swarm and enlist a live one.

The next plan that changed was dinner. Main course: Striped Bass in Agrodolce Sauce. The recipe calls for farm-raised fish, for which we happily substituted our fine wild specimen. Approximately 28 inches in length, it weighed in at 28 pounds.

The local newspaper featured a story about fraud in the fishing industry, where inexpensive species are deliberately mislabeled and marketed as higher-priced, more desirable types. These days, it is a rare privilege to look your food in the eye. I know what I ate.

Attitude Adjustment

2011-05-27T19:26:00.001-07:00

What could be better than a three-day holiday weekend? A five-day holiday weekend, perhaps?

This stroke of brilliance was late in coming, which made the time off even more delicious.

Joining some club members this morning, I had the opportunity for a rare weekday bicycle trip up Highway 9. It was less peaceful than I had hoped, but still far from the typical weekend speedway. A third of a mile from the summit, two Damsels-Not-in-Distress [that would be me, and my ride partner] came to the aid of a Not-So-Charming-Prince behind the wheel of a dead school bus. Having missed his turn, he kept flogging the poor yellow beast up the hill in search of a place to turn around, until it finally gave out. Valiantly, we emerged from the fearsome canyon into which no cellular signal dares penetrate and made a call on his behalf. [No thanks to AT&T, I might add: "No coverage" for me at the summit.]

No cell phone coverage yesterday, either. Visitors from a land without limits could be hard to impress. Two drivers, two passengers, two cars. Four ecstatic grins.

When the working day is done, girls just wanna have fun.

View→

2011-05-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

Has it been a full year since I last biked up Sierra Road? It does not get easier.

The pro riders climbed it at a considerably faster pace on Wednesday, racing in the Tour of California. The road was still chalked with encouragement for the racers. Svein Tuft, in particular, had some devoted fans. My favorite marking was a well-placed "VIEW→" pointing west. On their way to the finish line at the summit, I suspect that few could afford a moment's glance at the valley floor, carpeted with homes and the towers of downtown San Jose. The cows are jaded.

After reaching the summit on Sierra, today's ride descended the back side and then returned to the top. Having climbed 3,240 feet in less than 17 miles, I was not sure I was in any shape to complete the extended route (another 2,525 feet and 27 miles). But it was a lovely day and I was keen to identify the curve on Mt. Hamilton that some of the pros had misjudged on Wednesday's descent, running off the road onto an unpaved shoulder. And so, I pedaled on; what's the worst that could happen? I could always turn back.

After suffering up Sierra, the mild grade on the lower half of Mt. Hamilton made for a surprisingly pleasant spin. Generally, one can count on seeing more cyclists than vehicles on the mountain. Noteworthy today was a helmet-less guy heading up on a carbon fiber road bike outfitted with platform pedals, wearing a polo shirt, cargo shorts, and a backpack. He would power past me, run out of steam, and stop to recover. Continuing ever upward at my doddering-but-steady pace, I would then pass him. After two rounds of tortoise and hare, I detoured up a side road [for yet more climbing] and left him behind.

On the climb, I spotted an odd-looking snake near the edge of the road: bulging, the tip of its tail almost diaphanous. I assumed it had met with some misfortune and been crushed. Nonetheless, I gave it a wide berth. At the time, I was clueless that I was looking at a young rattlesnake, engorged with a recent meal.

On Wednesday, it was a privilege to see aerial footage of the familiar trip down the mountain. The pros descended Mt. Hamilton with care, and veteran cycling broadcaster Phil Liggett repeatedly described the road as a very technical descent. I complete the descent in about one hour; the pros needed 40 minutes. Of course, they were free to use the full width of the road [which was closed], without a care for the rocks and gravel that litter the corners [which had been swept]. They are also faster than me on the three miles of climbing that interrupt the descent. [Okay, faster on the pure descent, too.]

Now, about that tricky curve (hereby marked on my map). The pavement is smooth, the grade is gentle, and the curves leading up to it have mellowed out. Those who misjudged it were not expecting an S-curve: having set up the wrong line, they missed the apex of the sharp bend to the left and went straight. Into the dirt.

Entitlement

2011-05-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

Volunteering as a marshal at Turn 5 on the course for the Cat's Hill Criterium, my job today was all about safety. In other words, keep the bicycle racers and the general public from colliding. Adults. Children. Dogs. Adults with children. Children with balls. Adults with dogs. Adults with ... attitude.

This race has been held annually, in May, for 38 years. On the exact same streets, which are closed to vehicles for most of the day.

Most drivers, after turning onto the far end of our street, saw the barricade and people in bright safety vests [me, for example] and backtracked. Some did not.

One woman drove all the way to the barricade to share her indignation with us.

This is a residential neighborhood, not an athletic field!

She then proceeded to back into the bumper of a parked SUV. Bumper of said SUV being higher than the bumper of her car, she was now the proud driver of a dented BMW. After inspecting the damage, she simply drove away. All of this in full view of three people wearing bright safety vests, two of which were emblazoned with the word "POLICE." We made a note of her license plate number and shared it with the SUV owner. Misdemeanor hit and run?

Then there was the absolutely apoplectic woman in a Jaguar.

How many DAYS is this race going to last?

After turning her car around, she blew through the stop sign on the corner and nearly collided head-on with an approaching SUV. All of this in full view of three people wearing bright safety vests, two of which were emblazoned with the word "POLICE."

The evidence was abundant: Money can buy you a fancy car and a fancy house on a hillside with a view, but it does not buy you happiness.

I was happy, and I didn't spend a dime. Fast Freddie Rodriquez was happy, too; he won the final race of the day (Pro/1/2 Men).

Walking home, I paused to let a car turn in front of me. The wind was picking up with an advancing storm front, and I heard some loud rustling in a tree across the street. To my wide-eyed amazement, a large branch crashed down to the sidewalk and split into pieces. The sidewalk where I would have been at that moment, had I acted like an entitled pedestrian and forced that car to wait for me to cross the street.

Let me mention that part about being happy, again. Really happy.

Double the Fun

2011-05-12T20:03:00.000-07:00

Every year around this time, employers reach out to the cyclists in their ranks for ideas that will encourage people to give bicycle commuting a try. There are plenty of practical perks that we all need at the office: a safe place to park the bicycle, a place to get cleaned up and change into a fresh set of clothes. Stepping it up a level, a guaranteed ride home (in case of emergency).

Bicycle commuters must fend for themselves 364 days a year. Bike-to-Work Day rolls around but once on the calendar, with ample opportunities to refuel along the way at Energizer Stations stocked with food. It's not every day that we arrive at work to roll under a balloon arch into a festival of cycling. That day was today.

If a sizable chunk of your employee population already cycles regularly to work, and you already reward them with generous benefits (food, a fully-equipped bicycle repair station, donations to charity earned for each commute), you might need to do a bit more to draw them out.

Breakfast burritos. Massages. Smoothies. Baristas brewing potent coffees. Travel-sized bottles of shampoo. Colorful "I biked to work!" stickers. And of course, some cool schwag. A nice touch this year were booths recruiting riders for upcoming charity cycling events. Since I will be riding for Best Buddies again, I wore my 2010 jersey to show my support.

There were plenty of grass-roots efforts leading up to this day. Experienced cyclists offered help with planning safe routes to work. One prepared a lunchtime talk to cover the basics and answer questions. Early in the week, experienced volunteers held a clinic where they performed simple repairs. Regular commuters planned friendly routes from towns near and far, leading "no rider left behind" groups to work. That's where I come in.

Along with a colleague, I guided 10 people on a 23-mile route to the office. Our group ran the gamut from first-time commuters to guys who would ordinarily leave me in the dust. Every year, some of those first-timers get hooked; at least two from last year's group have become more active cyclists (and bicycle commuters). Maybe we converted some this year, too.

Given the distance, some coworkers were surprised to learn that I would bike back home at the end of the day. What could be better than a nice bike ride? Two nice bike rides!

Green to Gold

2011-05-07T20:47:00.000-07:00

Evidently the local BMW motor club decided to head up the mountain today. I parked my four wheels near the base instead and headed up on two. Given how reluctant I was to forgo a couple more hours of sleep for this morning's early start, I had a remarkably strong day. And eventful.

Not even one and half miles into the ride, my ride buddy for the day dropped out with a mechanical on her still-pretty-new bike: broken shifter. She turned back, I carried on.

Since I was a bit low on red blood cells [having donated just a few days ago], I needed a rev limiter. Anything higher than 160 beats per minute felt hard, so I rode at a comfortable pace.

Halfway up the hill, I chatted with a guy [who weighed a little more than two of me] riding on a very fancy bicycle [which cost four times as much as mine]. Already panting, he was disappointed when I assured him that Mt. Hamilton is not high enough for altitude to be a factor and turned his attention to a sprightly young woman who caught up to us. Accelerating to stay with her, he quickly ran out of steam. She vanished, he stopped, I carried on.

Around mile 14, I approached a cyclist at the side of the road. Broken frame, he said; his chain (and rear derailleur) drooped in defeat. Not an auspicious day for Specialized bicycles.

At the summit, I felt surprisingly ... fresh. I was not ready to be done, and it was a perfect day to venture down the back side of Mt. Hamilton. Soon it will be too warm for that approach to the summit, which is steeper and more exposed. Now, about that helicopter ...

As I descended, a steady stream of Team in Training cyclists warned me about an accident ahead, cyclist down in the middle of the road. More than 20 twisty mountain miles from the edge of San Jose, medical support out there is not straightforward. [Hence, the helicopter.] The first responder (sheriff) passed me. Passersby had stopped a car in each lane to protect the injured rider. I dismounted and walked slowly along the edge of the road, dismayed to recognize a guy who had passed me on the long climb to the top. Very fit, very capable, wearing the team kit of one of the regional racing clubs. Feeling rattled, and unsure where the hovering helicopter might land, I carried on.

The climb back up was less difficult than I had remembered; perhaps, because the temperature today was cooler. Reverend Hamilton's sunny courtyard was mine to enjoy in solitude, allowing me to relax for the long descent. For the day, 7,100 feet of climbing over 50.6 miles. I should feel tired.

Along the way, I stopped and tossed off the road: one foot-long strip of metal, one super-sized pine cone, one substantial D-shaped iron ring, and one large nasty nail. I did not, however, stop to study the small snake curled in a divot on the center line.

Angry Bird

2011-04-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

It was a breezy day, but the ride was not a breeze. For such a short route, our leader packed in the climbs (2,255 feet uphill over 25.6 miles).

Grinding up the steep grade on Harwood Road, I talked myself out of pausing for a break. I made it. I knew I could make it.

The switchback on Sheldon Lane? Well, not so much. Prudence prevailed. The first visit is always the hardest, especially when you cannot see what lies around each bend. Next time, I will know.

Along the way, some small rocks suddenly cascaded down the slope next to me. Unstable hillside, pedal faster? Wild creature, pedal even faster? The joke was on me—nothing more than a mischievous scrub jay. In life as in art, the angry bird gets the last laugh.

Redwood Gulp

2011-04-23T20:35:00.001-07:00

I can think of several ways to describe a 17% grade. Landslide, for one. Or lunacy—there's another L word. Our route for the day included Redwood Gulch, which gains 690 feet in altitude over 1.3 miles.

I will never forget the first time I tackled this climb. I felt like the proverbial lamb being led to the slaughter. My heart rate peaked at 199 beats per minute on the steepest pitch. Plug that into the common formula for estimating maximum heart rate:

199 = 220 - (age, in years)

Ah, if only that were true! It was no more true today, when I took a short break at 186 bpm. I could see that the brutal grade was about to relent, but I felt perilously close to stalling out. I should be less of a wimp; I could have made it.

After Redwood Gulch, the rest of the climb to Saratoga Gap felt like a piece of cake. Our reward was the sheer delight of descending Highway 9. The authorities recently reduced the speed limit to 30 mph, which was just as awkward for the silver F430 heading up as it was for my silver Trek heading down. I averaged 29.7 mph—close enough, okay?

Speaking of cake, we proceeded to The Prolific Oven for lunch ... where they serve not chips, but a wedge of cake (!) with each sandwich. Output, some 1400 kcal; intake, turkey sandwich on a fresh croissant and chocolate cake. Works for me.

Roue de Secours

2011-04-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

There should have been a tailwind. Heading south on Santa Teresa, there is always a tailwind. My ride partner was having an off day; anticipating that tailwind could only help.

But no, the winds were cross today—huffing and puffing with sideways gusts that thrust me toward the traffic lane.

What happens if you get a flat tire?

I fix it, I replied. The question had come from an elderly uncle some time ago, though the answer made no more sense to him than anything else he can imagine about my time on a bicycle.

What happens if you get two flat tires?

The odds are low, unless you did a poor job fixing the first one.

Low, but not zero. At that point, you rely on your patch kit. [Or your ride buddy.] When he flatted a second time, I gladly proffered my spare tube. What are the odds of three flat tires? Even lower, provided your route is not strewn with sharp pointy things. My mind drifted back to a vintage game ... The Increvable card, that's what we need!

Next Saturday is the Tierra Bella; today, volunteers rode the course to look for trouble spots. [And, evidently, to collect sharp pointy things in our tires so our guests will have a better time.]

No mille bornes for us today; a mere 100 km, instead.

Whirring Wind Farm

2011-04-02T19:15:00.000-07:00

On my last outing, the post-ride conversation turned to wind power and why it seems that the turbine blades are stationary more often than spinning on the hills outside Livermore.

Today, they were spinning. The headwind channeling through the Altamont Pass was not the worst I have faced, but it was substantial. This is, after all, why they planted a wind farm there.

The 35th annual Cinderella ride [my sixth] was arguably the best yet.

We were underway before 7:20 a.m., which is no mean feat given that sign-in opens precisely at 7:00 a.m. Coordinating a small group is always a challenge; invariably, someone needs to return to her car for some critical piece of forgotten gear, or someone can't be found. Three of us took off; rider number four gave up on our missing Cinderella and later caught up.

An early start is a good thing on this ride, to be well ahead of the main pack of less-experienced riders. Off the front of a small group, I missed a turn when I was distracted by a bad driver making a sloppy u-turn (into the bike lane) at that very intersection. That added an extra mile to my day, but the real penalty was the contingent of less-predictable riders into which I merged.

This being my longest ride (by far) in more than six months, I expected to suffer. I thought about not following the Challenge loop, but the Classic route alone is no longer interesting. With ten miles or so to go, I overheard a nearby rider:

Follow those two, they know what they're doing.

Now the gantlet was down—we had a reputation to uphold! We hammered along at the head of the pack for a few miles before we found an opportunity to back off gracefully.

Overall, I averaged 12.9 mph over 82 miles with a modest 3,545 feet of climbing. I can't think of anything good to say about riding into the wind, other than ... it builds character?

Hello Sunshine

2011-03-27T18:57:00.000-07:00

Like flowers popping up after a spring shower, so were the joggers, dog walkers, and cyclists up with the dawn of our first dry day in more than a week.

Our numbers swelled as we made our way along a relatively easy route, intercepted by riders who knew where to find us. Muscles that had gone slack over these past two weeks were [somewhat reluctantly] recruited to carry me uphill.

It was not a day to linger alongside steep, sodden hillsides. For the most part, only the vestiges of slides stained the roads. Most of us chose to portage our bicycles through a thick patch of slippery mud in a low dip of a trail; those who gamely rode through chuckled at our abundant caution.

Gray clouds blanketed the sky by the time we were done, but we were so happy to be outside (dry!) that our post-ride coffee stop lasted longer than the ride itself.

Trains, Planes, and Bicycles

2011-03-12T20:26:00.000-08:00

All aboard! For a Saturday morning, the bike car was busy (and our party accounted for only four bicycles).

Destination: San Bruno Mountain, on the other side of the tracks.

Conditions: Some haze, no fog. What a view from the top of the hill! The Pacific Ocean, San Francisco, the Bay, Oakland.

One of my favorite segments on this route is cycling along the perimeter access roads for San Francisco International Airport. [Now marked with "Share the Road" and "Bike Route" signs, I might add.] Skirting the far end of the runway, we are guaranteed to enjoy a few jumbo jets taking off at close range.

While picnicking at the beach, I met a woman who wistfully remembered digging clams out of the mud around the bend at Coyote Point, some 40 years ago; a feast for the shore birds, today.

We booked it south along the water's edge before heading west for some gratuitous hill-climbing, passing through the campus of Stanford University to return to the train station—with ample time to savor a treat from the local bakery.

A train ride, urban cycling, a hill climb, an international airport, lunch at the beach, a bayshore bike path, a university of world renown ... all in a day's ride.

To the Sea

2011-03-05T17:38:00.000-08:00

Well, not quite to the sea. To views of the sea. With only the morning set aside for cycling, there was not enough time for me to bike to the coast and back. [Sierra to the Sea is a popular ride that our club runs every summer.]

After tiring an entirely different set of muscles on skis in the Sierra, I jumped on my bike and headed for a high point in the Santa Cruz mountains. We ascended Mt. Bache Road to reach Loma Prieta and marveled at the wide expanse of agricultural fields below us, stretching all the way to Monterey Bay. The only sound up there was the occasional tumble of small rocks from the crumbling hillside.

The road named Loma Prieta approaches the (inaccessible) peak named Loma Prieta, a few miles from the epicenter of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Evidently Mt. Bache is an alternative name for the same peak, in honor of Alexander Dallas Bache.

I distracted myself from the pain of the climb by attempting to derive a correct pronunciation of Bache, for which I have found little local agreement. Should it rhyme with cache? I am influenced by the securities firm formerly known as Prudential Bache, which I recall involving "a" as in "ate" and "ch" as in "church". Oddly, the original Bache & Co. was named for Jules Bache, who was German, suggesting something more akin to the composer "Bach" with a second syllable for the trailing "e." Alexander, however, was of English descent.

Where does that leave us? Ach, my head aches.

From the Sierra

2011-03-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

Is it really a penny slot machine if you can't insert an actual penny? I had a penny, I was willing to take a chance with it. Not one of those blinking machines accepted coins.

The casino hotel may have been just across the street (and, the state line) from the ski resort, but the ambiance was a world away. Stateline, Nevada is the closest I have been to Las Vegas.

Neon! Secondhand smoke. Flashing lights! A windowless basement restaurant bedecked with fake trees, fake rocks, fake babbling brooks, and real flat panel screens running a continuous game of keno (cards on every table). A TV set in every bathroom! A vast dinner buffet with exactly one vegetable offering: "steamed" broccoli and cauliflower (drenched in cheese sauce).

One of the challenges of skiing at Heavenly is to stay focused on the task at hand (sliding rapidly downhill on a pair of narrow waxed boards) and not become transfixed by the intense blue depths of Lake Tahoe in the distance.

Another challenge includes deciphering a terrain-challenged trail map (look for the upward arrows that point some of the trails downhill). Or taking a chance that a named trail not shown on the map is precisely the one you have been trying to find. Wait, I get it! You gamble on the slopes as well.

After day one, it was easier to identify the muscles that were not sore. [Hamstrings. Everything else hurt.] Suited and booted, I enjoyed day two without injury, despite being grazed by a careless snowboarder. Two days at Heavenly may comprise my entire ski season. I miss Alta.

Top Speed

2011-02-26T17:59:00.000-08:00

I didn't mean to do it. Honest. It just turned out that way.

Smooth pavement. Wide and straight. Deserted. Clear view in all directions. No side streets. Some tricky crosswind gusts, but good aerodynamics contribute to good handling. Tires? In good condition. Brakes? In good working order.

This was no contest; that would be dangerous. I launched before any challenger might think to pursue me. I will not feel responsible for anyone else's lapse of judgment.

To get to the top of that hill, it was worth sustaining a heart rate of 173-178 bpm for a solid seven minutes.

The temperature was cold enough to keep me from overheating in my fleece-lined winter tights, even on the climbs. The promised snow had not fallen at our lower elevations overnight. We played it safe and climbed no higher than 820 feet. In our group of nine, only one rider begged for more. Tempting as it was to turn onto Mt. Hamilton Road, we passed it. The driver snapping photos of the sign at the bottom would discover soon enough that the road was closed at Joseph Grant County Park, well below the snow level.

Thirty-one miles, 2,670 feet of climbing, and a new top speed.
On a bicycle, that is.

Road Hazard

2011-02-17T19:01:00.000-08:00

A good user interface is one that you take for granted. Consider, for example, the automobile. When you step into an unfamiliar car, the gas pedal is on the right, the brake pedal on the left, and you turn the wheel in the direction you wish to travel. Do you need to think about it? No. You insert the key into the ignition, put your foot on the brake, turn the key to start the engine, put it into gear, and drive away. Simple.

Unless the car is a Prius. Then, it is ... well, complicated.

Whatever would possess me to drive a Prius? Needless to say, this car is not on my short list.

I needed to run a daytime errand, and I did not drive to work. In this case, I could borrow a car: The Toyota Prius.

I have been a driver for quite some time. Various makes and models. American, British, German, Italian, Japanese, and Swedish. Manual transmission? I prefer it. Put me behind the wheel of a Trabant, and I'm told I wouldn't know what to do. The Prius? Not without reviewing my notes.

There is no key. Look for a little cubbyhole in the dash, insert the plastic not-a-key-fob into that slot.

The brake pedal is in the right place. [Whew]. Put your right foot there. [Normal.]

The parking brake is operated by a pedal on the far left; press that down with your left foot to release it. [This style of parking brake is still manufactured?]

The "shift" lever is in the middle position, which appears to be Neutral.

Press the Power button. Various elements on the dashboard light up. Adjust the mirrors. [Can you say, limited rear view?]

Move the "shift" lever to the "D" position (Drive). It snaps back to the center. [Huh?] Do not be misled by the position of the lever; the car is now in gear.

Or maybe not. You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice.[Huh?] Doesn't that mean you're turning it off? Maybe. Maybe not.

The gas pedal is in the right place. The steering wheel behaves as expected. Drive.

Uh oh. The heat is set to some high temperature and the fans are blowing full blast. Reach for the knob.

There is no knob. No buttons. No lever to slide. No apparent controls of any kind.

While stopped at the first traffic light, study the dash more closely. The display screen is flanked on both sides by rectangular buttons. Press Climate. The display switches to a busy array of icons to control the fans and temperature. The display is a touch screen? Were the designers out of their minds? If the windshield fogs up, do they expect me to pull over and stop the car first, or just stop watching the road to play this little video game?

Pull into a parking space. Keep your right foot on the brake. The "shift" lever has no position for Park. Find the button on the dash labeled "P" (Park); press that. Engage the parking brake. Press the Power button to turn off the car. Slide the not-a-key-fob out of the dash.

It won't budge. [What did I miss? Can't that fancy display in the dash give me a hint?]

Confirm that the parking brake is engaged. Depress the brake pedal. Move the "shift" lever horizontally to confirm it's in Neutral. No joy.

Sigh. Feel defeated. Scratch head. Press the Power button again. Bingo!

You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice. It's right there, in my notes. In case I ever need to drive a Prius again.

Social Sunday

2011-02-13T21:30:00.001-08:00

Having devoted my Saturday to the Mega-Monster Enduro, I slept in and joined a leisurely Sunday ride. With winter weather forecast to return to the Bay Area this week, a warm sunny day was not one to squander.

Biking to the start warmed me up, and with a slight downhill advantage I was immediately off the front. I backed off the pace to keep more of the group in sight, and by the time we reached the base of our climb for the day, we were all back together.

Our destination was the upper reaches of Bernal Road, which pitches up uncomfortably two or three times before the public road ends at the gate marking the boundary of IBM's private property. Across the valley to the east, the white domes of Lick Observatory were gleaming atop Mount Hamilton. Our vantage point also afforded a clear view of the highest peak to the west, Mt. Umunhum, clearly distinguishable by its monolithic relic of the Cold War.

After last week's private Enduro on Mt. Hamilton, this route was oh-so-tame. The hills I climbed on the way to and from the start were actually responsible for most of the day's vertical accumulation (1,655 feet, 31 miles).

Tonight, the winds that are the harbinger of the approaching storm front have arrived. Rainy week ahead.

Divertissement

2011-02-05T23:08:00.000-08:00

Kincaid is a long lonely road that forks off Mt. Hamilton Road about five miles from the summit. Years ago, my first ride with the club included the upper half of Mt. Hamilton and Kincaid. I had little solo cycling experience at that point, and I remember how unnerved I felt out there. The road descends to Isabel Creek and then climbs again, with public access ending at a cattle guard and gate. Separated from the fastest (and slowest) riders, I was edgy.

Today I explored this isolated canyon with fresh eyes and more confidence. Still, I would hesitate to ride it alone: a twisty six-mile dead-end road, with spotty cell phone coverage and a few gated dirt roads leading to cattle ranches. Getting there is not easy: by the time I reached the intersection with Mt. Hamilton Road, I had already traveled more than 14 miles and climbed 2,790 feet.

Unlike my first visit, I was not eager to return from the solitude of the canyon. As I drew closer, Mt. Hamilton Road sounded like a motor speedway. This unseasonably warm and sunny day in February drew a veritable parade of motorcycles and sports cars to the mountain.

The summit was little more than five miles away; it would be wrong to head downhill. The wind up there was a steady 23 mph, with roaring gusts to 42 mph. Needless to say, this added to the challenge of controlling the bicycle and making forward progress—but was well worth the effort.

A young couple greeted me with a thumbs-up and praise for biking up the mountain. I shared the sunny courtyard with a fellow cyclist and the toddler he had hauled up the hill in a trailer (filled with toys and other necessities). An elderly couple emerged from a back door at the observatory and slowly climbed inside their late model black Mustang. A stout rider with a wild gray beard and a head scarf (no helmet) caught up to me on his bike with tri-spoke carbon wheels, easily matching me turn-for-turn as I rocketed down the descent. Our pace slowed by an ungainly Ford Expedition, he pulled out and passed us both, never to be seen again.

Fifty-one miles, 6,965 feet of climbing, some 2700 Calories burned. Followed by a delectable six-course dinner prepared by friends, I still managed to end the day at a caloric deficit.

Casting About

2011-01-29T19:05:00.000-08:00

The forecast for the day: Overcast.

Now, that depends upon your point of view, doesn't it? If you are gazing down from the window of an airplane, for example, would it be Undercast? What would you call it if you were in the midst of the cloud layer?

I can answer that: Wet. As we rose toward the base of the final (and easiest) climb on our route today, the winds picked up and the clouds descended to meet us.

We had already shed three of our twelve riders. Of the remaining nine, six were experienced ride leaders for the club. All but one were ready to declare victory and return to the start. (We twisted his arm.) Having tackled the climbs according to decreasing level of difficulty, no one felt shortchanged. Thirty-three miles, 2,650 feet of climbing, max heart rate 185 bpm (on Olive Tree Lane). If there are any olive trees up there, somehow I always fail to notice.

On the drive home, my windshield wipers engaged.

B-Blogging

2011-01-26T21:03:00.000-08:00

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter "B," in honor of

... the black crows scavenging for breakfast,

... the sleek Bentley that passed me by,

... the bunny rabbit that bounded across the road,

... my fellow bicyclists [24 of them], and last-but-not-least,

... buttermilk almond pancakes studded with chocolate chips, my second breakfast.

The body must be refueled after biking 19 miles to work. Besides, what could be more motivating than pancakes?

Yet, last year I managed to bike to work [insert drum roll here] ... three times. First, a warm-up to prepare for leading a group on Bike to Work Day. Then, of course, Bike to Work Day itself. Finally, on some other random day. Pathetic.

The price of such laziness is fading fitness, and I am none too pleased with that. The sun is rising early enough, the temperature was a comfortable 43F: no excuses! Dust off the sturdy commute bike, pump up the tires, and get moving.

As I labored up the hills that mark the beginning of my route, I was reminded that the heavy commute bike makes for good cross-training. At my first key checkpoint, three miles into the ride, my pace was slower by a full minute.

Approaching a stop sign, I spotted a sheriff on his motorcycle. Rear view mirrors are indispensable. I know that particular stop sign is a notorious enforcement spot. I would have come to a Full Stop anyway. Really.

I was encouraged to see some trees already in bloom, and imagined their petals falling like snowflakes in a few short weeks. Then I remembered that heavy snow was falling on the east coast at that very moment, for the seventh time this season.

I don't live there any more.

Redwoods and Ridgelines

2011-01-22T18:59:00.000-08:00

January in California. Back east, they are preparing to plow more snow off the roads. Up on the ridge, we passed mounds of rock and dirt that had been plowed off the roads. Both tend to wreak havoc with the pavement.

I was much happier with today's route, climbing a mere 2,465 feet over 31 miles, in contrast with last week's 52 miles and 3,910 feet. Nonetheless, I was the caboose on the climbs.

On a day like this, it was a struggle to remember that spring is still two months away. We followed the ridgeline, with sweeping views of the canyons of The Forest of Nisene Marks State Park, and passed through the watershed of Soquel Creek.

It was a day to enjoy blue skies with wispy clouds, rushing creeks with little waterfalls, and biking (of course) with good friends.

Tomorrow

2011-01-16T17:06:00.000-08:00

I discovered the Low-Key Hillclimbs when the series resumed in 2006, curious to see whether they really meant that everyone was welcome. (They did.) In 2007, I rode most of the climbs, and served as a volunteer for those I dared not attempt. On the final steep curve near the top of Welch Creek, I snapped this photo of Thomas Novikoff. A gifted Category 2 racer, he finished third overall in the series that year.

From my position near the tail end of the field, I would naturally see little of the guys at the front. I would still be climbing the hill after they had finished and begun descending; many would cheer me on as they whizzed past.

I last saw Thomas on Thanksgiving Day. The interior of his car was packed, from the floor to the bottoms of the windows, with cycling gear that he would haul to the top of Mt. Hamilton for our fellow Low-Keyers. Just as he was about to pull away, I dashed up to the car with one more bag ... he snatched it through the window, mock exasperation on his face.

Waiting for cyclists to cross the line at the snowy summit, that's Thomas striking a "thumbs up" pose in this photo by Bill Bushnell:

Our vantage point afforded a preview of the finishers. We expected Ryan Sherlock to be first across the line, but were surprised to see another rider on his wheel. How was that possible? "Who is that?" I asked. Thomas knew: "Eric Wohlberg."

A couple of weeks later, Thomas was hospitalized. A bicycle crash? An inattentive driver? No. He was gravely ill. Most of us had no idea.

He had raced up Portola Park in the third week of the series. I dragged my sorry self up East Dunne Avenue yesterday in the warm sunshine; in far less time, he had climbed it on a wet, miserable day in October. He had been eager to see Palomares on the Low-Key calendar in 2011.

Thomas kept living his life with the conviction that tomorrow would come. Racing up mountainsides. Spending Thanksgiving morning on a freezing mountaintop, cheering at the finish line.

Today there was a memorial service for Thomas at the top of Mount Tantalus in his native Honolulu. On his blog, he had quoted T.S. Eliot:

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

Thomas, you deserved to go so much farther.

A Crushing Coe

2011-01-15T21:11:00.000-08:00

It has been a while since I set out on a long bike ride. Quite a while. Look back three months on the calendar, to Levi's King Ridge GranFondo.

Why, then, did I think a 52-mile route with an extended climb would be a good idea today? Quite simply: I wasn't thinking.

The first time I ascended East Dunne Avenue to reach Henry Coe State Park, I was a passenger in a car. A budding cyclist, I knew this was a popular route. I quickly recognized that it was beyond my ability.

The first time I climbed it on a bicycle, I had raced up Mt. Hamilton the day before. I took it easy that day, but it was not a struggle.

Not so, today. My fitness has withered, and I could have used those red blood cells I donated ten days ago. The steepest pitch is uphill of the lone cattle guard on this route. On the downhill approach, I gave it my all. I flew over the metal rails and made it most of the way up the steep grade. (Most. Not all.) I dismounted. I looked at the hill. I did not want to pedal one more meter uphill.

What remained was not so steep. With a few minutes to recover, I certainly could have remounted and continued. I ... just ... didn't ... want to.

Suddenly it seemed like a lovely day for a stroll, and I did something I have not done on a bicycle outing in years. I walked.

Dream, dream, drive

2011-01-09T20:42:00.000-08:00

Approaching the pumps, my gaze was magnetically drawn to one vehicle in particular. An unexpected rendezvous with the shiny black car?! Headed in opposite directions, imagine the odds that we would both turn up to refuel at the same place at the same time. My Sunday drive was coming to a close; his was just getting underway. The rest of the pumps were occupied by assorted models from Mercedes Benz.

I almost bought one, I thought about buying one.

Surprisingly, not an uncommon comment. [Right. But you bought that Mercedes station wagon, instead.]

Not that there is anything wrong with that. If I needed to haul kids around, a station wagon or a minivan would be just right. If I needed to haul stuff around, a pickup truck would do nicely. If I wanted to drive to the slopes, a small SUV with four wheel drive would be a fine choice.

What kind of mileage do you get?

Another common question. "That depends entirely on how I drive it," I smile. "Yeah, I guess that's not the point," he observed. [Hardly.]

From the driver of the very nice Mercedes behind me:

Your car is beautiful.

The Silicon Valley International Auto Show was wrapping up today, and the local section of the newspaper featured an article from the esteemed Mr. Roadshow:
"Why buy a car when you can dream for free?"

I can assure you of this: dreaming is not driving.

Not Gonna Happen

2011-01-08T17:16:00.000-08:00

In the last week of December, after dropping off some post-blizzard groceries and shoveling some snow for my elderly uncle, his parting words to me were:

Stay off that bicycle!

Seems like "thank you" would have been more appropriate.

Back on the west coast, January means it is time to reset that odometer before setting out on the first ride of the year. This one was damp and cold, with the cloud layer hanging just above our heads. (We could have climbed into it, had we wanted to get wet, but we opted for a lower elevation.)

Despite my cold-weather gear, I traveled a full six miles before I could feel my fingers. Later on the ride, I found that a sustained heart rate of 172 or more would bring them back to life. My toes, however, were a lost cause. When I returned home, I took my cue from the cat and cozied up to one of the heating vents.

Thirty-five chilly miles, 1,165 feet of climbing.

Stay off the bicycle? Not gonna happen.

Blitzed by the Blizzard

2010-12-31T16:22:00.000-08:00

Mom: Stop that! Don't do their job!

In this case, "they" would be the snow-clearing dudes who were yet to appear, more than 30 hours after the Blizzard of 2010 dumped more than 30 inches of snow on us. The fierce winds had created drifts taller than me. Needless to say, the snow crews were pretty busy. I was thoroughly bored and longing for some exercise. I shoveled a narrow path down the driveway to the street, and dug out the mailbox.

Sister-in-law's mom: Stop that! I can get the car out!

Sure, but the softening patches of ice on the driveway will freeze solid overnight and be just as treacherous tomorrow.

Uncle (and his next-door neighbor, in harmony): Stop that!
I don't want you to do that. It will melt!

Yes, it will melt. Eventually.

When you cross the threshold into your eighties, do they hand you a script? Is there a prohibition against graciously accepting the help of the next generation?

The most effective response, I have learned, is simply to turn my back and tune out the tirade. As my brother later remarked, they do not understand that I am in better shape than they were at any point in their lives.

My Christmas holiday visit was unexpectedly extended by the storm, which would have been classified as a Category 2 hurricane in a different season. A state of emergency was declared, thousands of flights were canceled, at least five state highways were closed (unplowed) for several days, and the Post Office stopped delivering mail.

The airports were jammed with stranded travelers and Continental Airlines would not answer the phone. They are not accountable for the weather, but they are responsible for how they cope with the aftermath. Grade: F-

At least I was comfortable and merely inconvenienced, staying with family. Five days after my flight was canceled, I rescued myself with a one-way ticket on a different airline.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home ...

Into the Mist(ic)

2010-12-11T19:47:00.000-08:00

Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly

We were too far inland to smell the sea, but we certainly did feel the sky. It was neither cold nor rainy, but wet without any doubt. I was coated with grime before I arrived at the official starting point and then astonished that five intrepid riders showed up for our ambitious climb-fest in spite of the weather.

Confidentially, I had been hoping for rain; when my ride co-leader originally suggested this route, my eyebrows went up. "We could always make Reynolds optional," I proposed. As we started up Mt. Umunhum today, one of the guys asked "Are you really going up Reynolds, too?" Yup. Three hill climbs, each with an average grade hovering around 10%. For me, two additional hills riding to the start and back home. Sounds crazy? [Okay, it probably is crazy.] By the time I would load the bike into the car, drive to the start, unload and set up the bike ... trust me, it is faster just to ride the bike.

Slugs were the only creatures climbing Hicks more slowly than I was today. I respectfully avoided them. Three deer crossed in front of me; the last, a young buck, lingered in the middle of the road to study me. "What sort of weakling is that?," he must have wondered. Labored breathing, moving so slowly, separated from its pack.

Thirty-three miles, 3,635 feet of climbing through the clouds.What a view.

Touch of Color

2010-12-04T19:29:00.000-08:00

All the hills are brown
and the sky is gray.
I've been for a ride
on a winter's day.

Judging by the radar map this morning, I would have stayed home (warm and dry). Technology is not always the best thing. A ride partner willing to goad you onto the bike can be better.

The rain did start coming down just before he arrived, but it was insincere. Undeterred, we headed for the hills.

It has been three weeks since I was last on the bike, but I did surprisingly well. Realizing that I should be cross-training in practice, rather than in theory, I signed up for the Concept 2 Holiday Challenge. To date, I've rowed 35,130 meters. Given my performance on the bike today, that has indeed paid off.

We climbed 1,675 feet over 15.9 miles, with views of steep forested canyons and Santa Clara Valley in the distance. Not to mention the usual quail and one flock of wild turkeys. Only a few cyclists, though; the hard-core who pay little heed to weather forecasts.

Traditions

2010-11-25T19:29:00.001-08:00

With snow at the summit of Mt. Hamilton, this year I broke with tradition. In each of the preceding four years, I have finished off the Low-Key Hillclimb season with a hundred or so kindred spirits by charging up the mountain on Thanksgiving morning. Expecting to be slower this year, I was not eager to push myself to the max for more than two hours; instead, I planned to get an earlier start and then to assist at the top.

Regrettably, common sense took hold when I saw that the high temperature at the summit on Wednesday was 28F. Sure, I could send extra layers to the top to stay warm after the climb, but it would be impractical to carry all that gear back down on the bike.

Honestly, I can climb Mt. Hamilton whenever I want.

It was one of those rare days when the view extends from San Francisco to the north, clear to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierras in the east. Having spent most of my life in colder climes, it was easy for me to dress for success. With the thermometer climbing slightly above the freezing mark, I didn't even need to tap into my bottle of hot chocolate.

As a volunteer, I stood in the enviable position to witness the first guys crossing the line: Irish hillclimb champion Ryan Sherlock, with three-time Olympian and former Mt. Hamilton champion Eric Wohlberg close on his wheel.

All of this may sound like a strange approach to Thanksgiving, what with most of the country traveling far and wide to celebrate with family; my tradition is to be less traditional. [Although, my all-time favorite was watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, eye-level with the giant balloons, from a hotel balcony on Broadway. It was cold that day, too.]

Envying all the jubilant cyclists at the top of the mountain, I longed to fit some physical activity into my day. In this crowd, one need not look far to find a co-conspirator; a friend was eager to hike after our volunteer duties were done. Some passing hikers alerted us to a bobcat and a mountain lion in the vicinity; birds were abundant, but the only traces of the cats we saw were their tracks.

I finished the day happily tired and sore, though also sad not to have tackled the climb. But another Bay Area tradition is little more than a month away: Mt. Hamilton on New Year's Day. At my own comfortable pace.

Preserve and Protect

2010-11-20T13:34:00.001-08:00

When the Ranger pulled out her digital camera and started snapping photos, well, a certain song came to mind. It is, after all, nearly Thanksgiving.

I mean, with the rare sight of all those colorful Lycra-clad bodies on such a gloomy day, maybe our ranger just wanted an image she could admire forever?

But there was another possibility, one much closer to those immortal twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. Preserved in some file somewhere will be a photo of a volunteer shivering behind a video tripod, sleet bouncing off her rain jacket as she recorded the finishing time of each rider.

The third Ranger truck arrived with lights flashing and siren wailing. As it turns out, a fourth Ranger truck waited at the base of the hill.

I mean, what better way to spend a cold, wet morning than haranguing a bunch of cyclists who harmed no one as they climbed up a (paved) road to nowhere in the rain? We are not the vandals they normally chase away; those prefer the cover of night and have the sense to stay warm and dry on a day like this.

Every hiker, every cyclist, in the Bay Area looks forward to the day when the top of Mt. Umunhum is reopened to the public.

Perhaps the organization should consider a new name at the same time: Midpeninsula Regional Closed Space District.

A Peak Experience

2010-11-13T21:22:00.001-08:00

Saturday morning found me in an unusual position, test driving a strangely familiar vehicle on a route I planned to bike in the afternoon. With too much traffic on the highway, I checked with my official escort: Would a spin around the reservoir be okay? Sure, wherever you want to go.

Now here is one interesting, potentially scary, job: sit in the passenger seat of a fabulously powerful car with some random driver at the wheel. Prerequisite? Nerves of steel.

While most people I know would do almost anything for the opportunity to get behind the wheel, this random driver hesitated. It would be intimidating enough just to drive the beast. Add to that, being accompanied by a guy who really knows how to drive it. And did I mention the videocam?

See what I mean? No pressure.

As I stepped out of the car, someone asked "So, how was it?" One of the guys laughed: "She's smiling."

The afternoon involved carbon fiber too, but of the two-wheeled variety and propelled by my rather pathetic human engine. A colleague visiting from the east coast was eager for a local bike ride, so long as I promised not to beat him up "too badly." With limited time, I led him to the reservoir and beyond, through the redwoods to the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

I am not sure he will forgive my legendary ability to underestimate distance. [We're almost there, probably two miles to the top.] But after gliding back down through the redwoods, I can tell you this: He was smiling.

Which brings to mind a morning conversation in the car, about passion. Driving. Cycling. Life well-lived.

It's All Relative

2010-11-07T20:33:00.000-08:00

Some family members came out for a few days, and I packed as much fun as I could into their brief visit.

We toured the Monterey Bay Aquarium and took in the sunset at Carmel Beach.

We sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge and then hiked above it in the Marin Headlands.

We toured the Jelly Belly factory and sampled beans in various stages of production, starting with a most unexpected flavor (sweet potato).

On a handsome and assertive Arabian, I did my best to follow our guide along a hilly trail.

We clambered over shoreline rocks to explore the natural tide pools.

I had a blast. Maybe the family did, too.

Done with Dunne

2010-10-30T21:01:00.000-07:00

Ah, the nuances of Bay Area micro-climates. The short drive to the start of today's Low-Key Hillclimb was dry ... mostly. The live radar map showed a distinct lack of precipitation in the area.

As the saying goes, you had to be there.

There, it was decidedly moist. You might think the turn-out for a late-season hill climb in iffy weather would be low. You might think that, and you would be wrong. Some ninety-seven riders headed up a slippery road into the clouds. Cyclists are a hardy bunch.

Last Thursday night, as I watched a Major League pitcher cede the mound in the second game of the World Series [he had a blister on his finger], I thought of the guy who broke his collarbone [in two places] in a crash on the first day of the Tour de France some years back. He got back on the bike, and kept riding. Over the next three weeks, day after day, he kept riding [and even won a stage of the race]. Cyclists are a hardy bunch. Not to mention stubborn and perhaps a bit loony.

Riding with Levi

2010-10-09T22:24:00.001-07:00

Who needs a travel alarm, when you can count on some fellow traveler to set off his car alarm at 5:20 a.m.? I am sure that everyone in our little motel building appreciated his ineptitude, not to mention the residents of the neighboring apartment complex.

Given the apocalyptic warnings of insufficient parking at the starting location for Levi's second annual King Ridge GranFondo, my ride buddy and I biked to the start. After that nice 3.5 mile warm-up, we settled into our place near the front ... of the back of the pack. With approximately 6,000 registered riders, this would be the largest cycling event in which either of us had participated.

Sensibly, they stage the riders from fastest to slowest. Regrettably, that means some cyclists with good bike handling skills are mixing it up at the back with those whose skills are, shall we say, a bit dodgy. After an electric rendition of the national anthem, with a helicopter hovering overhead, the familiar voice of the announcer from the Amgen Tour of California coached us through the mass start. Packed like sardines on wheels, we started inching forward at 8:00 a.m.; we crossed the starting line at 8:15—and there were hundreds more behind us.

Roads were closed for us throughout Santa Rosa. Six thousand cyclists take up a lot of space, and they gave us both sides of the road. When we transitioned to sharing the road with the motoring public, we found officers controlling every intersection. In that sense, this was one safe ride.

I lost my ride buddy around mile two, as I picked my way forward through gaps in the sea of riders. The three routes (Gran, Medio, Piccolo) diverge in Occidental. After leaving the first rest stop, I had the road to myself for miles.

Apparently that first stop was meant for the Piccolo riders, but without route sheets or clear guidance, many of us made the stop. That spot has served as a rest stop for the Wine Country Century, so it seemed natural to stop there. I arrived before the main crush; by the time I departed, they seemed pretty overwhelmed.

As with any organized ride, people sign up for a variety of reasons. Some hope for a chance to hang tight with Levi and his crew. Some hope for a chance just to see Levi. I longed to ride the Medio route because it follows much of the same course used for years by the first day of the classic Waves to Wine event. I suspect I was not the only Medio rider with that agenda; I saw one woman sporting the beautiful Champagne Club jersey from 2004. Sadly, Waves to Wine moved away from this route after 2006. Unlike that foggy day, today the coast was clear.

I had considered wearing that very jersey for old times' sake, but opted instead for a badge of honor—my Death Ride jersey. Unlike Waves to Wine, the GranFondo's Medio route heads up a steep climb on the return to Santa Rosa: Coleman Valley Road. I may be slow, but I can climb and I want some respect. I was anxious to reach the hill ahead of the crowds, after hearing hair-raising stories of unprepared riders stopping at random in the middle of the road to dismount (and walk).

By this point, the crowds were thinner, and—as one cyclist wryly observed—so were the riders. As I reached the base of the climb, I asked a passing century rider how long it was. "A mile and a half," he replied. Oh, not so bad. The narrow road was not too crowded; I chided one wobbly warrior to pick a direction, right or left, before I could safely pass her. The number of riders was about evenly matched with the number of walkers. The grade was steady, averaging 10%.

Those who were climbing were strong, which incited me to ride at a faster pace. A thin climber in a BMC racing kit encouraged me:

If you can do the Death Ride, you can get up this hill.

With my heart rate at 186 bpm, I pulled off into a shady nook about halfway up the climb. Lowering my heart rate allowed me to spin up the second half of the climb and enjoy the view. On the descent, I was particularly respectful on a sharp hairpin set up with an opposing wall of hay bales. This was one safe ride.

I was just about to leave the final rest stop, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but Levi Leipheimer himself. He graciously mingled and posed for photos with us, asking if we were having a good time. Back on the road, his posse passed me on a slight uphill grade, which subverted any chance that I might tack on to the back for a spell.

In a crowd of 6,000, I really did not expect to cross paths with anyone I knew. As I rolled across the finish line, I was astonished and pleased to be cheered by another ride buddy who had to sit out this event. I re-connected with my morning ride partner and devoured a heaping plate of chicken-and-shrimp paella. On the way back to our motel, we made one more stop: to admire the brand-new Cyclisk, one day before its official dedication.

Still feeling the aftermath of the cold virus that sidelined me for the past few weeks, I suffered less than I expected. I managed to average 12.7 mph over 60 miles, with a paltry 3,180 feet of climbing.

And, They're Off!

2010-10-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

Photo by Alison Chaiken

Fall is here, and with it, the start of the Low-Key Hillclimb season. You have been training, right?

Well, maybe you have. I, on the other hand, have been more relaxed about my cycling this year. I thought about charging up Montebello Road today, at close to my maximum capacity for close to an hour. I know how that feels.

Then I signed up ... as a volunteer. Oh, what a noble sacrifice!

After a chilly summer, fall has brought warm weather. I was sweating in the bright sunshine, and I was standing still. [So glad I wasn't charging up the hill.]

The sight of 100+ cyclists, clad in bright Lycra, swarming all over the top of Montebello was something to behold. I was busy collecting finishing times as riders crossed the line, no time for photos.

With our top three endurance cyclists sitting out, there was uncertainty at the finish line about whether anyone was still climbing after the one-hour mark. (There were two.)

By the time we were done, I was longing for a nap. My first cold of the season has really set me back, but still ... all I did today was stand around.

Good thing I didn't try to charge up the hill.

Skies of Blue, Where Are You?

2010-09-18T19:51:00.001-07:00

Mr. Blue Sky
Please tell us why
You had to hide away
For so long
Where did we go wrong?

We headed for Hollister, inland, away from the coastal gloom. Surely we could find some sunshine there?

Not on the northwestern segment of Cienega Road. Still, I preferred today's cool temperatures to last September's scorching 100+ degrees on this route.

Back on my own bicycle, my ride partner asked if it felt any different. Reflexively, I responded "No." After all, I have spent thousands of hours and put more than 10,000 miles on this bicycle. How could a single 100-mile ride on a demo bike affect the feel of my own machine?

But it did. I felt as though I could not fully extend my legs. Was my saddle too low? No, the height of my seatpost was unchanged. I felt as though I wanted to be pedaling a larger circle. Did the longer cranks on the demo bike make that much of a difference? 2.5 millimeters? I rode that bicycle for less than eight hours. Uh-oh ...

We enjoyed the usual wildlife along the way. Several types of hawks soaring overhead. Treacherous ground squirrels. [Note to hawks ...] The graceful young buck who crossed the road in front of us, easily clearing the barbed wire fences that keep the cattle at bay. Skydivers (a different variety of wild life).

By the time we reached Quien Sabe Road, the marine layer was only visible above the western hills. Today's route varied slightly from last year's, with a little more climbing and distance—yet, I rode it faster (11.8 vs. 11.1 mph) and at a lower average heart rate. What a difference 30 degrees makes.

Nothing to See Here

2010-09-12T21:44:00.000-07:00

The fog was so thick that droplets condensed and fell from the visor on my helmet. Another rider pointed out that he might as well be riding the rollers and staring at the gray wall in his garage, the view was the same. Mother Nature didn't get the memo to turn off the fog machine on Saturday, when packs of cyclists headed down the coast in the seventh annual Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge.

Repeating this ride for the fourth year in a row, I fully appreciate what a fluke it was to have clear weather on my first ride in 2007. But it is a great cause and a challenging, well-supported ride, so I keep returning. Maybe we will get to enjoy the view next year ...

We start the century by heading east on Carmel Valley Road, making a u-turn through the tunnel at Robinson Canyon Road to head west to the coast. Our pace car this year was a white Audi R8 convertible, which led some of my fellow cyclists to speculate whether it was possible for that vehicle to run at a mere 15 miles per hour. When the driver reached the tunnel, he knew what was required. The incomparable sound of a 10-cylinder Lamborghini engine at play is a fine way to start the day.

At the first rest stop, a tall cyclist was blocking access to the food as he distractedly munched away. Eventually, he realized that he should move—and lo and behold, it was Anthony Shriver himself, founder and chairman of Best Buddies International.

At the second rest stop, a chatty guy on an ElliptiGO raced to a stop. His legs were amazing, nothing but skin stretched taut over a perfect musculature. Was this the power of the ElliptiGO? Uh, not entirely. I would later discover that he was no ordinary athlete, but none other than Ultramarathonman himself, Dean Karnazes.

My next brush with celebrity was a chance to pace for awhile with another respected Bay Area athlete, the weather anchor for the San Francisco CBS affiliate, Roberta Gonzales. She was completely charming, just another cyclist for the day, repeating the ride for the fifth time.

The new twist for me this year was the uncommon privilege to test ride a fabulous S-Works Amira bicycle for the entire length of the course. Thank you, Specialized!

I thought it would be fun to broadcast my location in real time on Saturday, but abandoned that idea when I realized that there would be no cell phone coverage south of Big Sur until we reached the outskirts of San Simeon. I did bring along a spare battery for my Android phone, though, which allowed me to run MyTracks long enough to capture the entire route. Unlike a woeful fellow cyclist, whose iPhone battery ran out of juice in less than five hours. Since he can't swap out the battery on an iPhone, I told him the solution was obvious. Ride faster. He thanked me with a playful slap on the shoulder.

The evening festivities included a bountiful barbecue and an engaging concert by Natasha Bedingfield. Fundraising is becoming a competitive sport in and of itself, which is all good news for this charitable cause. Seventeen riders raised more funds than I did, which earned me the yellow number "18" as one of the top 25 fundraisers this year. Following the concert, I was shuttled up to Hearst Castle to enjoy the final celebration of the day.

Above the marine layer on the Enchanted Hill, the skies were clear for stargazing as I soothed my tired muscles in the chilly spring water of the Neptune Pool. For that, I willingly traded my wool sweater and jacket for a bathing suit. There is nothing like the privilege to swim in that pool.

Thanks to the many friends who supported my ride for Best Buddies in 2010!

I Am Specialized

2010-09-12T15:52:00.001-07:00

This story is more hard-core bicycle-centric than most. [You have been warned.]

When shopping for a car, or a bicycle for that matter, you are well-advised to take it for a test drive. You want to put the vehicle through its paces and see how it handles, but such opportunities are rare (and regrettably all-too-brief).

Imagine your good fortune if someone were to hand you the keys [so to speak], point you at a famously scenic, undulating road and say: I'll be waiting for you at the other end [100 miles away].

Such was my good fortune on Saturday, when Specialized—the official bicycle sponsor of the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge—extended me the offer to test ride the bicycle of my choice down the Pacific Coast Highway, from Carmel Valley to San Simeon.

Did they really mean "the bicycle of my choice?" After all, my bicycle is pretty nice; it would not be interesting to downgrade. "How about the S-Works Amira?," I asked. "We will have it waiting for you," they replied.

The S-Works Amira is Specialized's hottest women's road racing machine.

To put this in perspective for the non-cyclist who might still be reading this post, let's say my current bicycle is equivalent to, for example, a BMW. It is well-built, high-end, sporty, and pretty fast—but it's not an M-series. The S-Works Amira is a Superleggera [as in, Lamborghini]. It is constructed almost entirely of carbon fiber, outfitted with top-of-the line components.

In other words, unless a particular bicycle part really needs to be made of metal, make it out of carbon fiber instead. The handlebars? Carbon fiber. The crank arms? Carbon fiber. Even the wheel rims are carbon fiber, with an alloy strip for braking. The saddle is mounted on hollow titanium rails. The end product is a bicycle that weighs less than 15 pounds.

My current bicycle is also pretty light, with a carbon fiber frame; it weighs in around 20 pounds. When I bought it a few years ago, I was accustomed to a hefty steel-frame hybrid. That is a fine utility vehicle, but not well-suited to keeping up with my road biking compatriots on the hills. The first time I lifted a carbon fiber bicycle in a shop, I nearly flipped it over my shoulder. I was totally unprepared for how lightweight it would be. The S-Works Amira is stunningly lighter.

Was I really going to hop on a totally unfamiliar bicycle and go for a 100-mile ride? Some would call this a crazy idea. An ill-fitting bicycle is a source of guaranteed misery: soreness, pulled muscles, inflamed joints. Some would call it risky: the handling characteristics would be different. I was apprehensive about moving from my triple chainring set to a compact double. I compared the gear ratios, and tried to convince myself that I would still be able to propel myself up the pair of hills at mile 75 on the route. They are not steep, but with more than 5,200 feet of climbing in my legs at that point, I would be grateful to spin a lower gear up those climbs (1,100 feet over 4 miles).

To keep the bicycle light, I packed the bare essentials for repair in a minimalist saddle bag. Armed with the measurements from a prior bike fitting, it was easy for the mechanic to set me up on Friday afternoon. I spent a few minutes rolling around the parking lot and was relieved that it felt good to me. Game on. Then I observed that it was outfitted with road tubeless tires, and realized that I should chuck the saddle bag. If I flatted, I would have no idea how to effect a repair.

How was it? It was one sweet ride.

This game is all about power-to-weight ratio, and my engine is sadly underpowered. I am slow as molasses, but given how lazy I have been this year, I expect I would have been slower than molasses on my own bike. When I got to the lunch stop, I was feeling quite perky. The first year I did this ride, at that point I was longing for a nap and forced myself to drink a caffeinated soda to keep my engine running.

I was well into the long hill climb when I thought, wistfully, "Now is the time when I would wish for a lower gear." I dejectedly flicked at the lever, and ... shifted down. Whoa! I wasn't already in my lowest gear?! Another half mile or so, I sighed. "This is okay, but a lower gear would be nicer." I flicked at the lever, and ... shifted down. Surely now I was in my lowest gear? I could have assessed my rear wheel, but I realized that I must normally be a wimp to drop into my lowest gear at the first sign of strain. As it turned out, I had two more downshifts to play before I reached the lowest gear. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what a lightweight bicycle can do for you.

What else did I notice about the bike? The big chainring was smaller than the one on my bike (50 teeth, vs. 52), the smallest cog was the same (12 teeth). I missed the speed of my big ring. Shifting from the smaller ring to the big ring seemed a bit tricky; I found that I needed to be more deliberate about it. The cranks were 2.5mm longer than on my bike, which meant I was pedaling a larger circle. I had no discomfort while riding, but with a new soreness running down the backs of my calves and tightness in my Achilles tendons, I suspect the longer cranks worked my muscles differently. I was also startled by the sound of the wheels when cornering at speed, and I backed off. It was only then that I heard that distinctive sound of carbon rims and, without prior experience, it seemed prudent not to push the limits.

When I bought my bicycle a few years ago, my brother remarked:

You paid HOW MUCH for something you have to PEDAL?

Imagine his reaction to the S-Works Amira, more than twice the price.

Like Fabian Cancellera, I Am Specialized. For a day.

Um, Hicks

2010-09-06T21:51:00.000-07:00

On a day when we might have lolled under a shady tree with a good book and a tall glass of iced tea, three of us set out for a short local ride. Uphill, of course. Twenty-four miles, 3,360 feet of climbing.

The temperature rose a bit higher than was forecast, which was only fitting given that we were heading for Hicks. One friend knew she had been on Hicks, but did not remember how far she had gone. "Hmm, I think you would remember." How far is it? "Trust me, that isn't what you want to know. What you want to know is that the steep part is about 3/4 of a mile long, without a break." At the top, the look on her face said it all before she spoke. See, I knew she would have remembered that climb, had she been up it before.

Not content to rest on our laurels, we continued up Mt. Umunhum. I was determined to reach the end of the public portion of the road, to see firsthand the infamous white line and threatening signs. In a few years, perhaps we will be permitted to continue to the summit.

The Mt. Umunhum veteran in our trio assured us that the climb from the gate to the white line was "easy." [Not.] In some key places, my line up the hill was prescribed for me, as I picked my way through the broken pavement and loose gravel. Maximum heart rate: 188 beats per minute.

On the steepest part of the descent, the road skirts the edge of the mountain. Even as I moderated my pace, I felt spooked when I recognized a sensation that reminded me of soaring in a hang glider.

Sadly, this particular visit will not be forgotten. Did we cross paths with the cyclist who would, shortly thereafter, tragically crash and lose his life while descending the other side of Hicks? In closing, I offer my condolences to his family and friends.

Our Labor Day

2010-09-04T23:44:00.000-07:00

Our bike club organizes one large event each year, the Tierra Bella. It takes a lot of volunteer labor, behind the scenes and on the scene, to stage that well. Traditionally, the club thanks us with a pre-event ride and barbecue, giving us the opportunity to check out the route with snacks along the way. When that was rained out this spring, a new plan was hatched: out-of-the-area routes leading to a barbecue (and, more importantly, fresh fruit pie!) at Gizdich Ranch.

Eager to explore some hills without following the same course we had ridden last May, my ride partner and I included a loop that is part of the Strawberry Fields Forever century route. I covered 63 miles, with 4,070 feet of climbing, to earn my slice of olallieberry pie (á la mode).

Eureka Canyon Road has been in poor condition for years. One option would be to fix it, but perhaps the county exhausted its road maintenance budget rebuilding the segment that slid out a few years ago. Instead, they have erected permanent "Rough Road" signs at both ends of the road. The conditions make for a treacherous descent on a bicycle, so I was surprised to see a few riders on their way down. Maybe if you are the type of rider who never releases the brakes on a descent? Broken pavement ... potholes ... poor visibility in patchy sunlight under the towering trees ... deep piles of loose gravel. Climb it to savor the views, descend at your peril.

Rush Hour

2010-09-01T20:43:00.000-07:00

On a hot summer night, would you ... oops, that's a Meat Loaf moment. Start over.

On a hot summer night, where would you rather be? In fairness, it was 7 p.m. and the traffic on the freeway below was easing. Still, I had the better view.

With my annual charity ride (a century) only 10 days away, it was high time to stifle the excuses and fit some bike commuting into my week. My slothfulness will exact a toll this year, given that there have been precious few weeks where I have managed to bike more than 50 miles.

Commuting is a commitment: 40 miles round trip, with 415 feet of climbing in the morning and 605 feet on the return. I was not too far off my pace, averaging 14.1 mph on the way to work and 12.8 mph on the way home. Pathetic, I know.

Maybe 100 miles this week? Last week, 129 miles. The previous week? Zero. Two out of three ain't bad.

Jill's Ride

2010-08-28T15:27:00.000-07:00

It is still summertime—I checked the calendar. The water in my bottle at the end of a 60-mile bike ride should not be colder than when I started out (but it was).

As soon as I learned of this opportunity to support a worthy local organization, I signed up. Jill's Ride for Hope was a grass-roots, lightly-supported cycling event to benefit CASSY, a non-profit counseling service.

I did not know Jill, a high school student who took leave of the world in March 2009, but I find it heartbreaking enough just looking at her photo. CASSY has been there for her friends and family, and today's ride ended at a newly-created memorial garden on the grounds of the high school. There, benches have been set to remember students we have lost.

The 60-mile route was pretty challenging—climbing Highway 9 to the summit from Saratoga, then looping around to descend Bear Creek Road to Boulder Creek and climbing back up the other side of Highway 9 (by the end of the day, 5,715 feet of climbing). When I rode the Sequoia Century last year, I still faced more than 60 miles (and some significant climbing) after completing that loop. I have not been training hard this year, but I knew I could do it.

The marine layer was not a factor today, but it was surprisingly windy (and cold!) approaching the summit. I was mindful of the extra challenge of braking with numb fingers on the descent. Surprised to find it warmer in Boulder Creek, on the return climb I took refuge off the road in a grove of redwoods to peel off my jacket.

And then ... oh, how I know that sound.

What came into view first was the Gallardo, top down, plastered with logos from head to tail. Many similarly-adorned vehicles would follow—some Porsches and BMWs, a Mercedes, and an impressive array of Lamborghinis: Gallardos and Murcielagos in black, yellow, red, and orange. Fortunately for all concerned, the cars were descending and the cyclists were climbing. Many of the drivers were taking some liberties with the center line when the curves were clear. [Ahem.]

Dropping down the other side, I enjoyed a smooth descent unimpeded by vehicles until I reached the line-up at the traffic light controlling that pesky single-lane stretch. Along the way, it seems that I might have exceeded the speed limit. Just a little bit. [Ahem.]

I considered taking the most direct route back to the high school rather than following the circuitous "official" route ... but hey, what's one more gratuitous hill among friends?

Back at the school, the party was in full swing. I cherish living in a small town, with a community that rallies to support a cause. Trader Joe's donated cookies. Someone baked brownies. The Lions Club managed the barbecue and served us on plates that were actually Frisbees. The band was surprisingly good. The local merchants were so generous with schwag for the riders that I felt guilty. All I did was go for a nice bike ride, and I was sent home with a card for a free burger at Main Street Burgers. A card for a free pizza at Willow Street. A bean-shaped tin of ... you guessed it, Jelly Bellies from Party Beans.

And a photo of a beautiful young woman named Jill, whom I never met but will not soon forget.

What Goes Around

2010-08-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

The Tour of Napa Valley was my very first organized bike event, back in 2002. I was not in shape, riding my trusty old steel frame hybrid bicycle, and unprepared. I did have bike shorts, but I was so cold at the start I layered the event t-shirt on top of whatever else I had chosen to wear that day. At the end of the day, surrounded by real cyclists, it was the skinny guys in the Death Ride jerseys that made the greatest impression on me.

Today it seemed only fitting that I should wear mine. As I was climbing Ink Grade, a guy in some team kit passed and gave me props. "Child's play for a Death Rider," he called out. It was a nice, steady climb that reminded me of our local Old Santa Cruz Highway. Turns out my hill sense was right on: OSCH climbs 1210 feet over 4.5 miles, and Ink Grade reportedly ascends 1110 feet over the same distance. I was surprised at the number of people who were walking up the hill. I made a point of asking each one if he or she was okay. I worried about one woman who failed to answer me, until the third time when I insisted "I need to hear yes."

The highlight of the ride for one friend is the Ben & Jerry's ice cream at the end. [I was delighted they were dishing out my favorite, Phish Food.] The highlight of the ride for me is a fabulous five-mile descent on smooth pavement. On the approach, I reluctantly touched the brakes when I saw a patrol car ... but on the long descent, I was free to roll.

I started out with about a dozen friends; the faster half of the group was soon out of sight. I had failed to connect with two friends at the start, but had a chance to chat when our paths crossed at the first two rest stops. Imagine my surprise when I pulled up to a Starbucks on the long drive home and spotted their car in the parking lot!

I will remember 2010 as The Year of the Feather. I still have a small spotted one from a woodpecker tucked into my saddle bag, and I collected a turkey feather on a previous ride. This fine specimen was shed by a hawk, I believe.

The downside of cycling in the wine country is, as you might guess, people touring wineries and driving. It is not a good mix; the safest finish is an early one, so the metric route is the only viable choice for a slow poke like me.

Exotica

2010-08-13T22:07:00.001-07:00

I never imagined I would find a place to park this car where it would hardly be noticed. A place where ... well, it just blends in.

The hard-core enthusiasts stake out their turf early. The sky was barely light and the fog was misting low when one guy strategically planted his tripod to capture the cars streaming into the Laguna Seca Golf Ranch for the 25th anniversary Concorso Italiano.

Was it the same guy on that same corner in the evening, waiting for the last cars to stream back out? I patiently waited my turn at the traffic light, no cutting into the flow by turning right-on-red, even though ... well, I could have. Green light. Pause. Turn. Accelerate. Smile.

So many people. So many cars. So many great photo opportunities. Somehow I failed to shoot a single proper Alfa Romeo, the only other Italian marque I once had a chance to drive. The Ferraris were staged with precision, carefully spaced with marks on the grass.

What is that F50 doing here?
These are the F40s, he has to move!

Inevitably, there would be an announcement like this one:

We have a report that a vehicle is blocking a roadway.
It is a Lincoln Navigator.
You need to move your car, or ...

Complete the sentence, you know the drill. It will be towed, right? No.

... it will be set on fire.

At the end of the day, one of my friends asked me which car was my favorite. "It is so hard to choose," I replied.

I thought of the jaunty Fiat Jolly, with its wicker seats and ball-trimmed canvas roof.

The light blue Bianchina, rolling in again this year with three guys and their picnic—including their umbrella, table, and chairs.

The classic exotics, lovingly restored.

The cars that are driven, for that is why the cars were made.

The answer, of course, is obvious.
The one that I drove home.

Cookies 'n Cream

2010-08-01T18:27:00.000-07:00

Enough with images of California's rolling golden hills, towering trees, sparkling blue water. It's all just too scenic. As you can see, this was a very serious ride.

Serious enough to wake up early on a Sunday morning and roll out for a 42-mile excursion over some local hills. I was a little apprehensive, because despite the "social" pace advertised for today's ride, I expected to be the laggard. But the hills were so familiar, it would be okay if they had to drop me. [They didn't.]

I nearly talked myself out of climbing Sanborn Road, but I tackled it. I nearly talked myself out of climbing Sixth Street to Oak, but I made it all the way to the gates of the cemetery. Surprisingly, the greatest punishment was dished out on some residential back road we followed to avoid Highway 9. That little hors catégorie gem made my legs burn! Normally I just slow to a near-stall, but this was so short and steep that I think my heart rate did not have time to become the limiting factor.

Our group did so well that we were the first to arrive at the club's annual Ice Cream Social party. We pitched in where we could, and mostly tried to stay out of the way of the selfless volunteers dishing out the ice cream. With one final hill between the party and home, with any luck I was calorie-neutral for the day. If not ... well, I can live with that.

Trees, Glorious Trees

2010-07-31T17:22:00.001-07:00

Another fine day in the redwood forest. Along the way, we shared curvy Kings Mountain Road with what appeared to be a local chapter of the BMW Club. One M3 was stranded on Skyline, more or less off the road (but blocking half of the intersection), hood raised and all four shiny tailpipes silenced. Should you find yourself in a similar situation one day, do turn on your emergency flashers.

It seemed that Kings Mountain was exacting its toll today. On the way down, I passed a motorcyclist walking his machine down the hill. "Wish it had pedals," he remarked.

Bracketed by these breakdowns, we enjoyed our up-and-down day in the trees. My hands started going numb as I descended Star Hill—not from gripping the brakes, but from the chill. I have enjoyed this cool summer.

Waiting for my ride buddies before descending Kings Mountain, I watched a timid Jaguar make the turn from Skyline. By the time we were ready to roll, I had forgotten the sedan ... until I caught him, never taking his foot off his brakes. Descending at his speed was painful, and inhaling goodness-knows-what from his brake pads was unhealthy. Since it was not safe to pass him, I pulled off the road to grow some space between us.

Pausing to regroup at the base of Kings, I smiled when I saw the guys from Plus 3 Network approaching. My Plus 3 vest not only kept me warm today, it earned me three high-fives as they cruised past. "Looks great on you!," one shouted. Orange, yes.

The Hamilton Habit

2010-07-24T16:16:00.001-07:00

Such an inviting plaza for a summer picnic, don't you think? It happens to be on top of a mountain ...

Having convinced two riding buddies that half is not enough, we rolled out early to climb up to the starting point for today's club ride—which was scheduled to cover only the upper half of Mt. Hamilton. It must be a cool summer if this registers as an appealing ride in late July.

Curiously, the temperature was warmer on the upper slopes. Warm enough to put my ride buddies into some difficulty, I would later learn. Merrily pedaling ahead, exchanging greetings with the many riders who passed me, I was oblivious to their discomfort. [Some friend, I am!]

I arrived at the sharpest, steepest hairpin near the top at just the right moment for a little drama. Two motorcyclists passed me on the approach, and as the second one entered the steep curve, he stalled his bike and went down. The only real injury was to his pride, and likely some regrets about fresh scratches on his BMW. I rounded the corner as he extricated himself from his machine and began the struggle to set it right. In this, I could be of no use; a larger cyclist behind me did stop to lend some muscle to the effort. Raising that beast from a flat surface would be hard enough—now imagine what was required to push it upright with all that weight downhill from the wheels.

Once everyone had recovered at the top, I led off down the hill. The car that was preparing to leave the observatory at the same time caught me only after I stopped to wait for my ride buddies at the base of the first descent. With all the gravel I had noticed in the corners, I took it easy. [Honest. One cyclist even passed me.] On the way up, one of the riders in our group had caught me on this last ascent. "I was behind you," he said, "and I was sure I would catch you on the descent, but I couldn't." Shaking his head, he added: "I thought I was a good descender."

Laughing Crows

2010-07-17T20:51:00.000-07:00

They were laughing at me, I am sure of it, those crows. Cackling at the cyclist on the steep bit of San Benancio Road, moving so slowly she could not outrun the buzzing horsefly orbiting her head.

I chose a distant club ride today to explore some new territory. As we met more cyclists traveling toward us, it was clear that we were taking the more difficult approach. But that was okay, we would climb the hill from both directions.

San Benancio Canyon is Steinbeck country—mostly sprawling ranches, with bits of suburbia on the fringe near the highway. Turkey vultures, lots of quail, and a red-tailed hawk were among my wildlife sightings for the day. From the sun-baked summit, I eyed the cool fog bank hanging over Monterey with envy.

Splat! A large insect hit one lens of my sunglasses with enough force to leave, shall we say, residue. [Not because I was moving so fast at the time—the unfortunate victim was.]

All in all, a nice road if you find yourself in that neighborhood, but a bit far off the beaten track to venture for such a short ride (20 miles).

Dicey Descending

2010-07-11T23:22:00.001-07:00

This is a blind curve. What you cannot see around this bend is dangerous—the grade drops steeply into an immediate hairpin turn that hooks left.

The extra orange sign was placed to warn cyclists participating in a charity ride to slow down; normally, on this curve, it is just you and your best judgment.

Tip #1: If you cannot see around the bend, be prepared to stop.

You normally brake to reduce your speed before heading into a curve; be especially cautious when you cannot see what surprise might be lurking around the bend.

What is wrong with this picture?

Everything.

Let's start with the guy on the left. He is on the wrong side of the double yellow line. [Did I mention that this is a blind curve?]

Tip #2: Stay in your lane.

Why do you suppose he is over the double yellow line? Perhaps he noticed that the other three riders are not skilled descenders, and he wanted to pass them.

Tip #3: Do not pass on a blind curve.

Even if you can stay in your lane. You do not know what you will find around the bend. If you need to veer suddenly to your right, you will endanger the cyclists you just passed by cutting them off. If you need to veer left and there is oncoming traffic ... well, enough said.

Next, let's consider his position on the bicycle. His bike is tilted into the turn—in this case, to the right. That is good. His feet are level, with pedals at the 9:00 and 3:00 positions. That is less good. I saw this on every mountain bike heading into that curve. A mountain-biking friend tells me that this is proper mountain-biking technique, to avoid clipping a pedal on a rock, tree root, or other miscellaneous obstacle on the trail. I am not a mountain biker, and this cyclist is riding a road bike on a road.

What is the stable position on the bike, when cornering? [Hint: Did I mention that the other three cyclists are not skilled descenders?]

Tip #4: Lean into the curve, with your leading (inside) knee up and your weight planted firmly on the extended (outside) leg, pedals at 12:00 and 6:00.

Like the pros in this photo I snapped during the last San Francisco Grand Prix,

cyclists on our local curve need the same good form:

Think: Right turn, right knee up. Left turn, left knee up. [If you tend to confuse "right" and "left," come up with your own mantra.]

Maybe these were lucky shots, and I just happened to catch the riders' legs at a particular moment during the pedal stroke? Nope. They were all coasting downhill.

In the second photo at the top, three riders have positioned their legs exactly opposite of where they should be. What could go wrong? Well, as the bike rounds the bend and naturally tilts into the turn, they risk clipping the inside pedal (extended leg) on the pavement and crashing. Notice their upright posture. With their weight distributed through the extended leg beneath them they risk toppling over as the bike tilts. I can only imagine how unbalanced this must feel; I am not about to give it a try.

What about lane position? That guy in the blue jersey is in the middle of the road, and the guy in the white jersey is right next to the double yellow line. Shouldn't they keep as far to the right as possible, like the guy in the first photo above?

No. By "taking the lane," they are more visible to traffic approaching from behind, and they send a clear message: It is not safe to pass us on this curve. There is no room to share the lane; you would squeeze us off the road. [They are really taking a good line through the curve, but let's call that an advanced topic.]

Bonus Tip #5: Descend at your own pace.

Your skills may not match those of the rider ahead of you; don't give chase. If you are less skilled, you risk losing control of your bicycle.

Bonus Tip #6: Before the curve, slow to a comfortable speed you are willing to carry through the curve.

You want to roll through the curve; if you grip your brakes and your wheels lock up, they are not rotating and you will skid (or worse).

Bonus Tip #7: Look where you want to go.

Your visual system is powerful. Your body will follow where your eyes are tracking. If you look at the edge of the road, guess where you will end up?

Water Boys

2010-07-11T19:39:00.001-07:00

This was the third year that the LIVESTRONG Challenge rolled through San José, but the first time that I chose to support the event as a volunteer. It takes a good cause to rouse me from bed on a Sunday morning at 4:30 AM, to report for duty downtown at an hour when I am usually still sound asleep (even on a weekday).

The organization understands the value of recruiting volunteers from the local bike clubs—we know the terrain and the route well. As we assembled for our briefing, there were so many familiar faces that we joked about who would lead the ride today. We were released a few seconds ahead of the first participants, and for the first couple of miles we enjoyed a dream ride as we were paced by official vehicles through deserted city streets in a rolling road closure.

Despite following a shortcut to reach our assigned posts ahead of the pack, I was passed by the elite riders as I ascended the first real climb of the day. I positioned myself just above a tricky downhill curve on the course, where I would repeatedly warn riders "Sharp turn ahead!" My approach was effective—none of our riders crashed. [I heard that one of the elite riders ahead of us went down. They should know better.]

With the responsibility to watch 1,000 or more riders head into this familiar curve, I recognized a valuable opportunity to capture images of cornering technique on a bicycle. Whenever there was a sufficient break in the stream of riders heading downhill, I would point my camera at the haphazard descenders.

By the time the last of the 50-milers straggled by, I was so far behind the last 65-mile rider that I would never catch up to finish my job for the day as a riding course marshal. Arriving at the next rest stop as they were packing everything away, I stuffed my pockets with energy bars and accepted a ride forward to the next stop.

Continuing along the route, I monitored the riders I caught for signs of trouble. Throughout the day, I was fortunate not to face any serious incidents. There were riders whose legs seized up with cramps, in need of some electrolytes. There were riders who were fatigued, not having trained adequately; those I met needed only some encouragement and advice to sustain them up the next hill and on to the finish. I was surprised to learn how many people traveled from afar to do this ride. I was inspired by a cancer survivor from Toronto who was working hard to complete the 50-mile route. I was proud to ride alongside a woman from Idaho, riding 50 miles alone—the longest distance she had ever attempted. When she crossed the finish line, I was there to give her a high-five.

The two longer routes include a serious challenge: climbing Metcalf Road. Rumor had it that when he rode the inaugural San José LIVESTRONG Challenge in 2008, Lance Armstrong was "impressed" with Metcalf. As one of the century riders passed me on the hill, I remarked that this was the second time I had climbed Metcalf this year, and that was one time too many. "Or two," he replied.

This ascent was memorable, not only for the cheering section or the guy belting out his improvised tune about the hill, but especially for the water boys. A couple of moms set up along the roadside under beach umbrellas with their sons—armed with Super Soakers. Loading up as we approached, if you agreed to get wet they would enthusiastically take aim. Sheer brilliance! I am not sure who had more fun with this, the riders or the boys. Farther up the hill, a guy with a bucket of ice water wrung out a huge sponge over my head. Climbing Metcalf will never be this good ... well, until next year. Boys, I'm counting on you!