I Feel It in My Fingers

I feel it in my fingers,
I feel it in my toes.
Cold fog is all around me,
And so the tingling grows.

(Apologies to The Troggs.)

The Low-Key Hillclimb season is over, whatever will I do with myself on a chilly December Saturday morning? [If you have to ask ...]

With my regular ride partner, I led a small group uphill to Henry Coe State Park. I recall my first trip up this road (in a car). It looked steep at the time, and I was astonished to see cyclists.

That was then, this is now. We transitioned into the lower wisps of the marine layer at 1400 feet, but it would not burn off quickly enough to unveil the views we expected. As I climbed, some fellow Low-Keyers from Team Spike were descending. Someone recognized me and cheered me on!

When I reached the top, I had to hunt for the rest of my group. How can you not see a bunch of people clad in neon yellow jackets? Mystery solved: They had taken shelter in the gift shop, which (thankfully) was open and warm. We fortified ourselves with hot beverages (25 cents?!), and browsed. A thin book about ticks, a thick book about mushrooms, and some fine specimens of the local fauna. I am quite certain I have never before seen a badger, and let me tell you, those claws look pretty fierce.

The next dilemma: descend at speed (very cold), or more conservatively (prolonged and cold)? [If you have to ask ...] On the wide sweeping pavement leading into town, I was passed by a speeding pickup truck. Dude! The limit is 40 mph and I'm cruising at ... uh ... 43.