Turn Around

Our plan was to start a bit later (than last week). I'd brought an extra layer.

So, you know what that means ... No fog. Not a wisp.

I knew we were in trouble when I saw the electronic sign on the highway: Road work, June 27. (Is that ... today? Saturday?!) Who thought that road work was a good idea on a hot summer Saturday when everyone (it seems) heads for the coast? During prime daytime hours, no less. On the first weekend when Santa Cruz gave up trying to restrict crowds and opened their beaches.

We were in trouble because traffic would all-too-soon spill onto the back roads.

As I approached Summit Road I saw more cars than I liked. They came in bursts, five or six at a time; maybe we could manage?

I pulled out my phone and looked at the traffic map. No. Way. South of Summit, the highway was a river of darkest red. There was a marker for an accident as well as the scheduled road work. For too many miles, we'd be tangling with impatient motorists who'd veered off the highway. No peaceful, cool ride through the redwood forest for us.

We turned back to follow the same route we took last week, tacking on a few more miles (and more climbing). I'd forgotten how far it was to the end of Aldercroft Heights. My legs had forgotten that the road has a few steep pitches. Some nice redwoods, though, as a consolation prize.

Back at the start, I chatted with other cyclists who'd started earlier (and cycled over the hill). They confirmed what I'd feared might be true: Wazombies going down Mountain Charlie Road. As they pedaled up from the coast, they faced a steady stream of oncoming cars. Which is ridiculous (and terrifying), though they reported that the drivers tended to be well-behaved). I suppose that makes sense, as that twisty road is not conducive to reckless driving—it's barely one lane wide.

21 miles, 2,205 feet of climbing, and one flat tire. (Rear, of course.) A pair of holes, maybe from a small two-pronged tack that popped in and out at the end of the ride—discovered and repaired at home.

Plan B(rrr)

Really, I should know better. Although the start for today's ride is just a few miles from home, conditions can be very different. Very.

I saw the fog creeping over the ridge shortly after merging onto the highway. When I bring an extra layer, I end up not wearing it. When I don't bring it, I regret it. Like, today.

While my chief ride buddy and I were reconsidering our route, another pair of club members showed up with their own (ambitious) plan for the day.

It should be less windy once we're in the trees, I reassured her. We'll meet at the top of Old Santa Cruz Highway and decide whether to drop down the other side, or return to circle Lexington Reservoir.

Visibility was not an issue, because the marine layer was above us. But nearing the summit, I heard the distinctive sssss of tires on wet pavement after a car passed me: I knew what to expect. I tilted my head down as I pedaled through a brief redwood shower.

Throughout this extraordinary time, one surprising change is the number of people visiting parks and trails. Cars are often parked in unexpected places (near trailheads). Trails can get crowded. How did all these people normally spend their weekends, before they came down with cabin fever from months of sheltering-in-place?

I've also found that people are friendlier. Virtually everyone smiles and says hello; some even start a conversation. It's a fellow human! At a safe distance!

Circling the reservoir entails riding a short stretch of Highway 17, and I always imagine that passing drivers are startled to see cyclists on the road. We're at the right edge of a lane dedicated to the next exit, which offers a relatively comfortable buffer from the fast-moving traffic. Today, though, that exit lane was a bit busier than usual (people visiting parks, see above).

By the time I finished our abbreviated route (17 miles, 1,685 feet of climbing), the fog had retreated and the sky was thoroughly blue. We'll try this again next week; a later start should make all the difference we need to follow the route I'd intended.

Oh, and maybe I'll remember to keep a small trash bag in the car. I have a sometimes-habit of leaving a place cleaner than I found it. In that spirit, today I collected two flattened cans, one empty plastic water bottle, a (broken) glass bottle, two flattened paper cups, and a fast-food fries container.

Suffering is a Constant (Q.E.D.)

Why did the peacock cross the road, dragging his tailfeathers behind him?

Because, he can. Traffic will stop. [I was headed downhill, at the time.] The car behind me stopped. An approaching car stopped. We waited patiently while he changed direction, crossing back whence he came.

Before that, though, I had made it to the top of Montebello Road.

It's been awhile (nearly four years!), but I know what to expect: a steep start, a steep finish, and merely uphill in the middle. Still, one mile into the climb, I doubted whether I could make it. Four-point-three more miles? I expected the initial steep part would be shorter than it is. The landmark “flag” mailbox is gone; I think it's covered with sparkly stars, now.

This was my choice, today, for me and my chief ride buddy. For two reasons: Number one, the wineries are still closed (less traffic!). Number two, it's not a magnet for driving enthusiasts (it's a dead end). Though I did choose to pull aside twice (uphill, and downhill) for a small petroleum tanker—driven by a guy who was clearly very comfortable with the twisty road.

This wasn't my fastest time up this hill (not race pace); but I was three and a half minutes faster than on my last visit.

For the day, 39 miles, 3,090 feet of climbing (we took the flat route, back). Looking at my stats, my average and peak heart rates today were the same as they were in 2016. But there's the rub: the level of suffering is the same, you just get faster.

WFH: Week Thirteen

Last week, I felt it was time to reduce the frequency of these dispatches, as I will be working from home for (possibly) the rest of this year. But this week, I do have some words to say.

I don't know what the history books will make of this ugly period in our nation's history, but it will not be kind. (Nor, should it be.)

I watched footage of protesters, having stopped traffic on one of our local freeways, bashing at the windows of the trapped cars. I felt terrified, and I wasn't even one of those drivers. I recognized that I am privileged not to feel afraid as I go about the ordinary business of living my life.

Are we the only species that has evolved to be cruel? To take satisfaction, or even pleasure, from inflicting suffering on others? I don't know anyone who raised their children to be cruel; but if, for some sad reason, your family did, please ... rise above it.

I am old enough to remember the tumult that swelled during the 1960's. My family fled the city for the suburbs, and it took me a few days to sort out what was unsettling about my new school.

All the faces were white.

My urban school hadn't been heavily integrated, but there were black and brown faces among my classmates. Even as a child, I found myself uncomfortable in a place where everyone looked just like me.

Last fall, I waited to cross a major thoroughfare that bisects our campus. A family (mom, dad, and toddler in a stroller) waited alongside me. I wondered why they were there; not because they were Black, but because the nearest park and the nearest residential area is some distance away.

I smiled at them. The father scowled at me. “Are you one of them geniuses that work here?” he asked.

Ouch. There was a lifetime of pain behind that question.

“No,” I smiled, “but I work with some!” The walk signal started counting down. It's a wide street, but the normally impatient drivers waited without turning across our path.

“Hah,” I said. “We got some respect, for your baby; normally they just drive right on through.” That led to a little pleasant conversation before we parted ways, and I left wondering what that toddler's life experience will be. Better than that of her parents, I hoped.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

More than 56 years have passed—a lifetime, for some—since Martin Luther King Jr. spoke those words. The content of the character of too many of our leaders, and fellow citizens, is appalling.

Not the Tippity-Top

It was windy, but I decided to head for one of my favorite climbs, anyway. I could always bail out. [Right, like that's gonna happen.] My chief ride buddy turned back, but there are always other cyclists on this route. Fewer today, than usual—but possibly some pros? I was passed a couple of times on the climb by helmet-less guys moving at least three times faster than I was. And I saw one descending, disturbingly close to the rear of a car with a bike racked on top.

The observatory is closed to the public, at present, denying us the opportunity to reach the highest point. I made a left at the top to capture some less familiar vistas from San Antonio Valley Road. I definitely didn't have the stamina to add the backside climb today, unlike one couple I overheard. The woman was ready to continue. “We still have 75 miles to go,” she told her companion. [Yikes.] “It's 50 to Livermore. It will be getting dark, normally we'd have started this ride much earlier.”

The temperature at the top was only 50 degrees, and the wind was gusting to 20 mph. Why didn't I think to bring a lightweight jacket for the descent? My toes got cold, and I kept my teeth from chattering only through the sheer force of will. Descend slowly for less wind chill, or descend fast to spend less time being chilled? Those are your options.

There were a few clusters of sports car racer-wanna-bes driving the narrow mountain road today. As well as the occasional SUV that kept going to the top—despite the hand-lettered signs placed at manageable turn-around points, warning that the observatory is closed. I watched one car pause at the top, the occupants seemingly bewildered that there was no place to park.

By happenstance, I found this unusual specimen when I stopped to admire a cluster of wildflowers. It was the only one of its type.

Biking 39 miles is no big deal, but climbing 4,995 feet on my road bike definitely engaged some underutilized muscles. Aches, soreness ... it's all good.