On a Winter's Day

One way to overcome the winter funk that's been keeping me off the bike is to persuade a friend to join me. My chief biking buddy has been in a similar funk.

My strategy worked: we wouldn't let each other down, so we both showed up. (I admit that I checked my email a few times before leaving the house, just in case she backed out.)

We did an abbreviated version of a club ride; I wasn't sure how well I'd get up the hills, and she's still coughing from a lingering cold.

On such a gloomy day I feared there would be no photo-worthy scenes; I snapped the first photo early and expected it to be the last. (Silly me.)

At the base of the second hill, a pair of turkey vultures swirled as they were lifted by the warming air—the sun finally broke through.

For my 2016 season finale, I managed to bike 23 miles and climb a measly 665 feet.

End of year wrap: I climbed more than 140,000 feet and covered more than 3,725 miles on the bike. How much time did that take? More than 415 hours (not all of that in motion). Evidently I also walked (and hiked) more than 346 miles.

Somehow it all adds up.

Christmas Cliffs

It was a moody sort of day as we set off on our Christmas stroll.

I was happy to be spending this day, again, with a good friend.

Forsaking the tide pools at Pillar Point this year, we headed south along the cliffs. The overcast skies transitioned to blue, and some of the hills had turned emerald green.

We descended to a few beaches along the way. One revealed a small waterfall that we would cross on the bridge above.

With the sun low in the sky, the cliffs begin to glow long before sunset.

If you haven't visited coastal California, you might be surprised by the vast agricultural acres that often stretch to the end of the cliffs. Brussels sprouts were in abundance.

A rude woman with a small dog flushed a stately heron into flight, not content to admire the bird from a respectable distance.

By the time we returned to our car, guests at the Ritz-Carlton were clustered around their firepits. In one ground-level room, I spied an astonishing mountain of brightly-wrapped presents.

We celebrated an eight-mile hike, and more importantly, the gift of good friendship.

Sing Out

A holiday tradition in many communities is a choral “sing along.” In particular, at Christmastime, the popular work is Handel's Messiah.

When a friend learned, a few years back, that I had some ability to sing, he gave me a copy of an acclaimed performance on CD and invited me along.

(Yikes.) Apart from the famed Hallelujah chorus, I had no familiarity with the work. My choral career ended in elementary school; to my untrained ears, this piece was operatic. As an adult, I had once toyed with the idea of joining a chorus—until I found out that an audition would be necessary. Solo.

There is much joy in singing, though; and a chorus makes such a glorious noise together.

No auditions are needed to participate in a public sing-along. With some practice, and the generosity of a choir master leading free rehearsals, I came to appreciate Handel's masterful work.

This year, when I signed up for a local 50th annual Messiah Sing-along, I missed the memo that we would be performing the entire work—not just the usual popular selections. But that was okay, thanks to those free rehearsals over the years. And besides, if you don't feel confident about a particular piece, you could just sit it out and let others carry the weight. Many of the people who show up for these are members of regional choruses, and they know what they're doing.

I strategically settled into a seat in the section where sopranos would naturally congregate, and resonated with a confident and talented voice nearby. There is an orchestra, but there are no soloists: We tackle the solos, as well as the choruses, written for our voices.

There was at least one vocalist who had participated in all 50 events. “Let's make it 60!” he called out. Some seated near me held no scores; one woman spent the evening penning Christmas cards. That seemed odd, until I concluded they were friends and families of the orchestra members.

The lyrics are bits of Biblical scripture, rendered from two of the more poetic translations. When I read some verses at a funeral service earlier this year, the passage was familiar to me through Handel's music (No. 52); I had a firm grasp on those words.

As 2016 draws to a close, I was struck by two questions (Psalms 2:1):

Why do the nations so furiously rage together,

and why do the people imagine a vain thing?

Why, indeed? More than two millennia later, so little has changed.

Can there be any hope that we will work for the good of all in 2017, and beyond?

Shadows and Smiles

Wintertime,
And the bikin' is chilly.
Trails are empty;
The sun is low in the sky.

Would this be yet another morning when I talked myself out of biking to work?

I haven't been on the bike since October 22 (not counting the handful of miles on my folding bike each weekday, to and from my commuter shuttle). I haven't biked to work since September 21. It's not the cold I mind, so much; it's the darkness. On that last commute, the traffic for the first three miles was worse than ever, earlier than ever.

Of course, once the foolishness known as Daylight Savings Time is behind us, the mornings are a bit brighter. But I still have to get up and get ready in the dark.

What's the big deal, you say? Turn on some lights. Sure. But I've just never been a morning person.

It was 39F out there; frost on rooftops, and—dare I say—on some windshields. Descending at speed, the cold air stung my face. With the sun directly behind me, I cast a long shadow. A really long shadow.

One lane of a major road was closed for a short stretch. The workers saw me coming and emphatically waved me inside the cone zone. I smiled and thanked them.

As usual, it's important to stay alert—especially at intersections—but ... all the time, really.

Wait for the drivers who run through the red lights. They're all very important people, in a very important hurry to get to very important places.

Wait for the elderly lady who's fixated on one thing: the pedestrian in the crosswalk. She's not going to look around for someone turning onto the road in front of her.

Whenever it's feasible, I stop well to the left of the bike lane at intersections where drivers will want to turn right on red. It's the courteous (and sensible) thing to do. One driver paused next to me, giving me a wave and mouthing “thank you.” I smiled and nodded. There are some nice people on the road.

Getting ready to shower at the office, another woman recognized me. “I rode to work with you once on Bike to Work Day,” she told me. I smiled.

My day ended on a particularly sweet note, at an appreciation party for those of us who teach orientation classes (in addition to our regular jobs). Impressive statistics were shared. (We taught a lot of new employees and interns, this year. I love the interns.)

“What do you teach?” asked one of my fellow instructors. When I replied, he said “I thought you looked familiar!” (One of my former students.) I smiled.

Our party was a teaching party, of sorts. The chefs had prepared a few stations for us. Grilling, appetizers, cookie decorating.

Cookies?! [Good thing I biked to work.]

A Walk in the Park

During my recent trip to Amsterdam, I developed a deeper appreciation for the bright colors and lights that are part of our winter celebrations. The days are short and often gray; when the sun does make an appearance, it doesn't rise far above the horizon.

What better way to stave off the darkness than with a festival of lights?

For many years, a nearby park gets decked out with elaborate displays of lights during the holiday season.

The patterns and colors of this tunnel shift; I managed to catch it fully lit.

This used to be a strictly drive-through event, but three years ago the organizers experimented with a walk-through night.  It's a family affair, kids in strollers and wagons—even little ones on foot. Some visitors come bedecked in lights. We even saw one girl touring on crutches, her foot in a cast.

That first walk-through was a success. A new annual tradition was born—and has grown: they offer many more tickets, and this year added a second walk-through night. I persuaded a friend to join me.

Some of the displays are animated. Here, a penguin climbs to the top of the igloo and dives into the water.

It wasn't a particularly cold night, but this snowman was shivering (in an old GTE phone booth). I was surprised when one of the kids nearby knew what that was.

The kids have the upper hand in the un-traditional prehistoric zone, where a variety of dinosaurs romp and chomp (complete with sound effects.)

There are some snow-capped peaks, and even a volcano erupting.

I think there is no better way to see the displays; but if you've missed the walk-through nights, you can still pick up tickets to drive through.

Till next year ...