Half Moon Bay on Christmas Day

I heard the birds on Christmas Day ... Oh, wait—that's a different song.

How would I spend this day, the first Christmas not celebrated with Mom? This, our favorite time together.

Answering the innocent question “What are you doing for Christmas?” has been hard, this year.

I thought and thought. I thought some more. A hike, I'd decided. Something local.

Then a good friend suggested that I join her for a walk along the coast near Half Moon Bay. Low tide exposed the rocky beds, and cliffs basked in the rays of the afternoon sun.

Egrets and gulls hunted their dinners, children and dogs scrambled and splashed. A stately heron stood apart.

More than a century and a half has passed since Longfellow penned those words, hauntingly apt in our time.

For hate is strong,
and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

It was, for me, a day of peace.

Ho, ho, ho!

A day off from work, my cold behind me, and the sun shining ... time for a bike ride!

The holidays are upon us, ready or not.

The local park is bedecked in lights for a nightly show. By day, the sun teases a glow from bulbs here and there.

It's fun to cruise through the show at night, headlights off (!). Some displays are animated, like this penguin who slips down the roof of an igloo.

Our group headed for a chilly canyon, its road wet and slick with fallen leaves. Recent rains have revived its dormant creek, a most welcome sight (and sound).  I will admit, though, that tackling 39 miles with 1,920 feet of climbing after six weeks of slothfulness feels more like “Ow, ow, ow” than “Ho, ho, ho.”

Thanks for the Snow

The Low-Key Hillclimb series concluded with the traditional Thanksgiving-morning climb to the top of Mount Hamilton. Snowfall would close access to the mountain, and rain would cancel the climb.

For the fourteenth time, the weather cooperated. [So to speak.]

The morning sun slipped icicles off the exposed pine tree at the summit ... but not all of them. It was that cold.

Bracingly cold (32F), with snow lingering from Tuesday night's storm. The roads were clear. [Mostly.]

Ninety-one souls were brave enough to tackle the climb—a little more than half the number who turned out last year. The urge to stay nestled all snug in one's bed can get the best of anyone. [Not me.]

Sunday Morning, New York

After a proper Sunday breakfast [it's New York!], there was one more visit on this trip's agenda. A place I hadn't visited since December, 2001.

Names are stamped into the borders around the waterfalls that pour into the open footprints of the twin towers, a ceaseless cascade of tears. Thousands of names. I needed no hint from the computerized directory. The North Tower. Flight 11. I found Paul's name.

I toured the museum, but it was too much. Fourteen years, it seems, is not long enough.

Fluctuat nec mergitur.

More New York Minutes

Most of the team headed back to the Bay Area (and to their families) on Saturday, but I opted for more, more, more.

In years gone by, I spent so many Saturdays in the city. Equipped with a list of the plays I hadn't yet seen, I'd head straight for a box office (almost always scoring a ticket for my first choice). Then I'd bide my time at a museum, taking in some exhibit I hadn't yet seen. The possibilities are endless, but this visit was limited.

I was heading for the play I'd chosen, when ... I passed the marquee for a different play I'd considered. [It was a sign.] I circled back and bought the ticket. Bob Saget did a convincing turn as Pastor Greg, but Alex Mandell's performance was phenomenal. Phenomenal.

A typical crowd was circling counter-clockwise on the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. In the midst of the chaos, a slender guy skated to the music in his ears, twirling and jumping and gliding effortlessly through the Brownian motion of hockey skaters, stiff parents, and fallen kids.

‘Tis (almost) the season, and after such a dark-but-comic afternoon, I'd reserved a fine Saturday night seat for a sentimental family favorite, the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. How many of these have I seen? Always with Mom. Always ... There were new tricks—a 3-D video journey from the North Pole, fireworks, streamers shot into the audience, and ... giant, drone-powered snow bubbles that rose from below the stage to float high above the audience (and, return). The Rockettes, kicking high and toppling as toy soldiers. The Living Nativity, complete with camels, sheep, and a donkey.

Mom would have loved it.

Some New York Minutes

New York. It's been a while.

This trip started in an unfamiliar neighborhood (the flower district), where our team huddled for a few days within walking distance of the office. But, hey, it's Manhattan. Isn't everything within walking distance?

Of course, there are the Citi Bikes. And “protected” bike lanes. People do it, I saw them. [Definitely not this person.] I may be comfortable biking in traffic, but Manhattan traffic is a level above. I did, however, patronize a local bike shop. [I 🚲 NY.]

Each morning we'd pass towering tropical plants, imprisoned on the sidewalk with heavy chains, marked for clearance before they become victims of the first frost. Temperatures were moderate during our visit, but their prospects for the coming week looked bleak. At night, the storefronts along our block looked vacant. Each morning, the street was packed with trucks and the shops with fresh blooms.

Arriving late on our first night, we stumbled (hungry) into a classic neighborhood bar minutes before the kitchen would close (at 1 a.m.). They happily served us. [It's New York.] It was bustling with regulars when we returned (earlier) the next night.

We dropped down to Little Italy for a team dinner, four courses—family style. Thick slabs of mozzarella served with sliced tomatoes and fresh basil. A heaping platter of hot antipasti. Pasta—gnocchi, rigatoni, and more. Chicken, shrimp, and veal pounded paper-thin. And dessert (of course). Our team includes a guy with an unfathomable metabolism; even his ability to consume was stretched to the limit that night. Our waiter was seriously impressed. [We cleaned the plates. All of them. And that's an uncommon feat.] Everyone was grateful to walk all the way back to the hotel.

We passed the Flatiron Building, where an image of the Eiffel Tower was projected in blue, white, and red on one side. Intermittently the words “She is tossed by the waves but does not sink” were superimposed. [The motto of Paris, I would later learn.] Latin: Fluctuat nec mergitur.

The Meatpacking District was another neighborhood new to me. The famed Chelsea Hotel was bigger than I'd imagined, and considerably less seedy. The place of so many legends. We took an afternoon stroll along The High Line, and in one of those true New York moments, so did Angela Lansbury. It's likely that few people recognized her that day; and those of us who did, let her stroll with her companion in peaceful anonymity. [It's New York.]

We marched uptown, straight through Herald Square and Times Square, to see an irreverent Broadway musical at the Eugene O'Neill Theatre—a first for some in our group. At intermission, the look on their faces? Priceless.

I miss New York. It's been too long.

Picture Perfect Pacific Coast

Apart from an evening reception at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, I didn't have a plan. I didn't really need one.

I found a place to park and started walking northwest along the coastal trail.

An approaching winter storm, promising rain tomorrow, churned up some big waves.

Estimating how long it would take to walk back to the Aquarium, I kept an eye on the time.

But then I kept walking, reaching Point Pinos at sunset.

At a brisk pace under the darkening sky, I made it to the Aquarium just as the doors were opening.

The best plan can be no plan at all.

South County Cookin'

Fall days are often among the hottest in the Bay Area—like today, when local thermometers were approaching the 90F degree mark. Not an ideal day to spend the afternoon baking in the rural southern reaches of Santa Clara County.

But there we were, making the rounds on our club's annual progressive dinner ride—a roving pot-luck feast. The challenge, I've learned, is not to over-eat.

After dropping off our contributions, three of us headed for the first stop: appetizers. I'm not sure why my couscous salad ended up there. Fresh veggies, asparagus wrapped in puff pastry, mini tacos, and a tasty garlic/shrimp dip.

Did I mention that bit about not over-eating? [Why yes, I think I did.]

Second stop: salads. Pasta salad, broccoli salad, kale salad, fresh strawberries. Healthy, healthy, healthy. [Okay, not the pasta; but we do need some carbs, we're exercising.]

Third stop: main course. Ham, turkey, macaroni and cheese, green beans, corn. Small portions; just a taste, really. [I was ready for my nap, here. My fellow cyclists were caffeine-loading, but I'm not a soda fan, diet or otherwise.]

Final stop: dessert. Here's where things fell apart. In past years, we could count on a veritable smorgasbord of luscious treats. This year, the organizers discouraged us from bringing desserts. For more than 30 people, there were only four desserts. No tangy lemon bars. No chewy brownies. No decadent chocolate mousse cake. The fruit salad had been set out with the appetizers.

Riders to the rescue! Pies were procured—berry, pecan, and more. [Whew. Close call.]

A flat 30 miles, with a mere 500 feet of climbing. Not a calorie-neutral day, but that's not the point ... is it?