Glacier Lodge

There is no lodge at the end of Glacier Lodge Road; sadly, it burned some time ago. There isn't much glacier left, either—or at least, not much that's visible.

Some riders chose to skip this climb; not one of their favorites, they said. Scary descent, they said. In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson ranked this as the 15th most difficult climb in California, and 38th in the United States. He notes that it is “almost identical in length and average grade to the mighty Tour de France climb of the Tourmalet,” and cautions that “it is an extremely fast descent in places so watch the drop off into the creek.”

What was I getting myself into?

Glacier Lodge was a long, exposed, and challenging climb. Some clouds had rolled in, and I was grateful for the looming shadows they cast. The breeze picked up, but morphed into crosswinds on the descent.

My ride partner and I met a few others at the top, where we enjoyed an impromptu picnic next to a small pond stocked with trout for fishing.

Mindful of the wind and the warnings, I descended with abundant caution. One gust was strong enough to move me and force me to adjust my balance.

On a descent like this—especially on a descent like this—don't hug the rightmost edge of the pavement. Whenever there were no vehicles in sight (which was most of the time), I took the lane. That is, I rode smack in the middle of the right lane—often edging close to the center line. A lane wide enough for a truck is plenty wide enough for a skinny little bicycle.

It was a short-ride day (22 miles, with a stout 3,655 feet of climbing) and a not-so-scary descent after all.

Lakes, South and Sabrina

Decisions, decisions. The full route for today's ride sounded pretty daunting, with the first climb a slow uphill grind through the desert on a state highway with little or no shoulder (and some blind curves). We would visit two lakes today, South Lake and Lake Sabrina, and the group was buzzing about the steep approach to South Lake.

Hot day. Steep finish. High altitude.

Riding straight from the hotel had a certain appeal, but I fretted about completing the ride. This group of riders is a class above; if they think this is a difficult ride, for me it might be a climb too far. In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed South Lake as the 8th most difficult climb in California, and 21st in the United States (13th and 32nd for Lake Sabrina). The cover of the first edition to his Complete Guide to Climbing (by bike) in California features a photo taken on the climb to Lake Sabrina.

Maybe I should ride from the hotel to Lake Sabrina, skipping South Lake. After poring over the map online [thank you, Google Streetview], I embraced the wisdom of the crowd. Most people planned to drive to an intermediate point, skipping the long climb through the desert in favor of the upper climbs.

When I stepped out of the car at Aspendell (elevation 8,400 feet), I felt a little woozy. [Uh oh.] I decided to start the ride and turn back if I felt unsteady. I often start to feel the effects of altitude at an elevation of 8,000 feet, so this was no surprise.

My regular ride buddy, having done these rides before, had moved on to tackle some mountains farther south. I was delighted to pair up with another rider who was content to match my pace—and who shared my weakness for photo ops.

We paced ourselves up the long climb to South Lake, dreading the long steep pitch we expected at the end. It was so quiet that I was startled by a loud whoosh whoosh when a pair of ravens swooped alongside us, checking us out.

The road pitched up a bit ... and then, there we were! A recurring theme of this trip is “I kept expecting it to get horrible, and it didn't.” [Not that I'm complaining.] I felt triumphant as I circled the parking lot at the top; another rider commented that I looked fresh. [Pacing. It's all about the pacing.]

We headed back down and turned onto the (easier) climb up to Lake Sabrina, which rewarded us with a clear view of the old Cardinal Gold Mine along the way; today, the only gold we saw was in the changing colors of the aspen leaves.

Mountain berry pie à la mode was my reward for 3,110 feet of climbing over 23 miles.

Back at the hotel, I found a cyclist pulling a beautiful bicycle out of his somewhat rare 12-cylinder BMW. He was not part of our group; he was in town for the weekend's big event, the White Mountain Double. And because he was using this as a training ride for the Everest Challenge, he was hoping to make it a double double: Ride the 200-mile course twice (Saturday and Sunday).

Crazy. I will never attempt a double century, much less back-to-back double centuries; not tomorrow, and definitely not when I'm ... 72 years old. Crazy.

Nonetheless, we are sampling our way through the Everest Challenge. One climb at a time.

Ruby Lake

What do cyclists do on a rest day?

Hike!

We piled into a couple of SUVs to carpool to the end of Rock Creek Road to explore what we missed yesterday. And, of course, to climb even higher.

Our visit to this corner of the John Muir Wilderness began at the Little Lakes Valley trailhead, reportedly the highest trailhead in the Sierra. Along the way, we passed a local woman who has been hiking up there for 90 years (beginning when she was four years old). Yes, you read that right: We met a 94-year old woman hiking, alone, at an elevation above 10,000 feet. [I hope that's me, someday.]

I was lagging behind (as usual) when another local hiker approached. His eyes grew wide when I described our previous two days of biking. “You're a cardiovascular animal!” he exclaimed.

There were two options for today's hike: Most of us chose the shorter route to Ruby Lake, but a few indomitable souls more than doubled the distance to reach Mono Pass. From the lake shore, they were soon bright specks on the rocky slope towering above us. We counted down to hoot and holler in unison to draw their attention, and impressed ourselves with the echoing clamor we unleashed.

An unexpected pleasure of this trip is getting to know my fellow cyclists. One of my regular ride buddies is here, but most of the other riders are new friends. My club rides are limited to weekends, and many of the folks on this trip are retired and ride on weekdays. Conversation is easier when hiking than biking, although the altitude (over 11,000 feet) and elevation gain (more than 800 feet) had me huffing and puffing a bit.

I have been admiring the deep blue sky on this trip, and picked up a new fact from one of our fellow hikers who has visited much higher altitudes: The higher you go, the darker it gets. [Of course.] Learn something new—every day.

Hiking back down, I was especially grateful for my Leki hiking pole. The flat-top handle is like having your own personal handrail, wherever you want one. Being something of a klutz, it has saved my bacon more than once over the years.

Our last stop was another spot we were denied yesterday: Pie in the Sky. I earned that, right? Yesterday, if not today. Boysenberry ... mmm.

Paradise

I have seen more Caltrans trucks in two days in the Eastern Sierras than I've seen all year in the Bay Area. Everywhere, roadwork.

We learned that the upper portion of Rock Creek Road had been pulverized in preparation for re-paving, which disappointed some and delighted others. I fell into the first group, having never climbed it. The second group included many who had.

In his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed Rock Creek as the 10th most difficult climb in California, and 26th in the United States. The climb tops out at an elevation of 10,220 feet, the end of the highest paved road in California. I would not find out today whether I could turn the pedals at that altitude, and the road work may not be completed by this time next year, either.

Lower Rock Creek Road passes through Paradise, which (as one might expect) is not a crowded place. Population: 120. Reaching Upper Rock Creek Road entails a short trip on U.S. Route 395. Three of us (the stragglers) reached the highway ... and paused. That stretch of road was being re-paved; all vehicles were being funneled into the rightmost lane, which was barely wide enough for the tractor-trailers lumbering through and which had no shoulder whatsoever. [Yikes.]

Luckily, a worker was nearby and directed us to ride in the closure: smack down the middle of the highway! Queens (and King) of the Road, we were.

There was some uncertainty about how far we could venture on Upper Rock Creek. The pavement might end six miles up the road, or at 1.6 miles. Heavy equipment was tearing into the right lane of a bridge over the creek. A flagman waved us through, and a descending rider told us we could go up four miles before the pavement ended. [Yay!] Later we would be the envy of the rest of our group: everyone else had turned back at this bridge, discouraged by the flagman and a long line of cars.

Shortchanged by Upper Rock Creek, we headed northwest for a consolation climb along McGee Creek. Returning riders cautioned that it was steep: 12-14% grade. “You'll need your low gears,” they advised. Not to worry; my lowest gears get a lot of action.

We felt intimidated, but we did not turn back. The grade felt more like 9%, and my stats later confirmed my hunch: 8.8%. My heart rate spiked at one point, so there definitely was a steeper segment (for a distance of about 20 yards). We were rewarded with views of Crowley Lake and celebrated with treats at the local bakery; then we realized that we faced more climbing in retracing the morning's route. Remember that long, sweeping descent on Lower Rock Creek? [Uh-oh.]

We were astonished to enjoy the wide shoulder of U.S. 395 on our return—road markings were fully painted, and the workers were collecting the safety cones and temporary markers. All in the same day! In the Bay Area, temporary markers can be in place for weeks before the lanes are striped.

Being the few who completed the full route, and being slow, we were the last to roll back to the start. And proud, we were: 51 miles, 6,005 feet of climbing.

Pine Creek

Wow. Wow, wow, wow.

I had not spent time in the Eastern Sierras before this trip. Some club members have been leading rides here each fall for the past few years, and this was the year I managed to join the group. The hotel clerk had commented “You folks like to suffer!” when the leader shared our plans.

Pine Creek Road was our first climb in the Bishop area. In the first editions of his Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) books, John Summerson listed Pine Creek as the 49th most difficult climb in California, and 81st in the United States. (In the second edition of the national guide, it has fallen off the top 100 list.) I tackled it with some trepidation, but did not find it difficult (despite the altitude, and the heat). The scenery was even more stunning than I had hoped. The slower I climbed, the more I could take in.

We marveled at the robust flow of Pine Creek (given our extended drought), and wondered about the source. In a rocky, brown landscape studded with sagebrush, it was easy to trace the water's path: just follow the green line (trees, bushes, grasses). At higher elevations, I even saw some ferns!

The public road ended at a gate to a (closed) tungsten mine; our highest point, about 7,250 feet. Starting my descent, a cautionary sign caught my eye: Trucks Use Low Gears. Translation: Cyclists Use High Gears. My highest was maxed out; I surrendered to gravity and coasted. The pavement was smooth and clear, with long straight stretches—a glorious descent!

Back on the valley floor, we followed the route across the highway into a small gorge, passing through some gates to follow an access road alongside the Owens River and Pleasant Valley Reservoir. We marveled at the exposed pink walls of the gorge—Bishop tuff, pumice formed by a massive volcanic eruption some 760,000 years ago.

For the day, 48 miles with some 3,770 feet of climbing, and no suffering at all. Really.

Bishop or Bust

For the past few years, some club members have been leading a set of fall rides in the Eastern Sierras. This year, I resolved to join them; my calendar was clear.

It's a long way to Bishop (314 miles). Road trip! But could I handle the drive? Plan A was to split the journey, driving about halfway on Sunday afternoon and finishing on Monday morning.

Paradoxically, it can be easier for me to bike 100 miles than to drive it. Freeway driving, especially in a warm sunny car, lulls me to sleep.

To execute Plan A, I needed to return from Best Buddies, load up the car, and go. In other words, I needed to have my act together ... which I did not.

The prospect of arriving at some motel in an unfamiliar town at night was not appealing, so I resorted to Plan B: Get a good night's rest and drive the distance in one day.

I avoided the route through Yosemite, with its sightseers and delays for road work, opting instead for the longer northerly route over the Sonora Pass. I drove for miles and miles (and miles) without seeing another human being, much less a vehicle, and was glad that my mechanic had inspected the car last week.

I made it! [Whew.] I didn't feel drowsy, and I think the scenic route helped with that. Eighty miles of winding roads through a national forest commanded my attention, and I didn't even get halfway through my collection of MP3 tunes. The views got more spectacular as I approached the summit; unsure how well I would manage the drive, I didn't stop as the photo opportunities rolled past my windows. [Note to self: Take the same route home. Stop often.]

By the time I reached Mono Lake, another destination long on my wish list, I was confident that I could complete the drive safely. I made a quick stop, and planned a longer visit for the return drive. Closer to Bishop, the afternoon sun delivered a rainbow in the hills behind Crowley Lake.

Little did I know that I would get a better perspective on that reservoir in a few days' time.

Love is All Around

One hour into the ride, I had the opportunity to chat with a Best Buddies Ambassador, Donna Gunn, and her “pet rat” Willard. [Quite the sense of humor, eh?] During the brief opening program before the Hearst Castle Challenge century riders started rolling, she had spoken about how Best Buddies had brought “the spirit of belonging” into her life. Donna was our host at the first rest stop, and she was bobbing with excitement to meet the cyclists in all our colorful gear.

I thought last year's pace was blistering ... ha! With George Hincapie, local race champions, and a smattering of Olympians at the front, I could barely hang on. Over the first 30 minutes, I averaged 20 mph. That included the first small hill, where I lost contact with the front of the pack. They were out of sight by the time I made the turn toward Highway 1. The next group flowed past me up a rolling hill, and I heard one of the retired pros call out “C'mon, Anthony, everybody is fast going downhill.” [Anthony Shriver was riding the full century this year for the first time.] They crested the hill and relaxed ever so slightly. I attacked. It was a proud moment when I passed the lot of them, and the retired pro called out “Nice work!”

Mother Nature presented us with the traditional morning gloom, but the sun found a way to break through to highlight this cove before fully beating back the marine layer. I was determined not to have the specter of the broom wagon dogging me this year, which meant riding faster and being less of a tourist along the way, but how could I not stop to capture this magical moment? A passing rider shouted “Great shot!” and then called out his email address so I could send him a copy. [Right. Like I would remember that.]

Of course, I can't sustain a 20 mph pace to finish a century in five hours. Over the first hour, I averaged 17.8 mph—which for me is pretty darned amazing, hills or no hills.

The post-lunch climbs were lonely; the fast guys were long gone, and there was not a single slow rider walking up. (These days, they load them onto vans at the rest stop and ferry them to the top.) The second climb is slightly steeper, but the first climb breaks your spirit. The contours obscure the road ahead; you round a bend only to see the next highest point. I hammered the last 13 miles and stopped counting the cyclists I overtook. Some, I passed more than once (after pausing for the occasional photo). I rolled across the finish line in 7:05 (moving time), averaging 14 mph. I could have passed the handful of riders ahead of me in the final stretch, but that would have been rude.

I thought the “race” announcer missed me in the scrum, but he had a sharp eye. As one of the top 25 fundraisers, my bib was yellow and my number was my rank: 13. The pros have a tradition for that number, and I followed it: I wore my number upside down. “Just like Fabian Cancellara,” the announcer proclaimed. “I learned that from Fabian,” I smiled.

After celebrating at the post-ride barbecue and concert (Bruce Hornsby, this year), I finished the night as an invited guest at the intimate party up on the hill. The first time I swam in the Neptune Pool, I expected that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The next five times, I lingered as if there would never be another chance. Given the now-historic California drought, this year the pool stands empty. A good opportunity for some repairs, they say.

Next year?