July 26, 2020

WFH: Week Twenty

The oleanders bloom all summer. And here we are, late July and week twenty of working from home.

When I was growing up, it was during the summer that I realized my mom had scheduled the rhythm of our life. One day was designated for housecleaning, one for grocery shopping, one for laundry. If the weather cooperated, there were beach days, too.

And so it is now, for me. Saturdays, of course, are for cycling! I've found the optimal (early morning) days for grocery shopping, and Sundays are for laundry: I tug the sheets off the bed with me as I rise, and they're washed (and sometimes dried) before I finish my breakfast.

Sundays are also for the occasional stroll to the local farmers' market. I've optimized my route, shunning the busy sidewalks for a (shadier!) back street. They've chalked socially-distant circles to help us line up at the booths, but that does nothing for the clueless who simply gather in the middle of it all to chat. Like the guy who stood less than two feet behind me, mask pulled down, gabbing with two (masked) friends.

This is why we can't have nice things.

He was facing away from me; I edged myself slightly forward, anyway. That seemed safer than asking him to move, or (imagine!) wear his mask.

Last week I was excited to score an appointment for a haircut, a luxury I haven't enjoyed since February. Salons in our county got the all-clear to open on Monday; before the day arrived, the county reversed itself and shut everything down again as of the end of Tuesday. In the grand scheme of things, my (now) ponytail simply is what it is: a reminder of the passage of time.

July 25, 2020

Not Your Spin Class

As I cycled to meet up with my biking buddy, I passed a class in session at a spin studio that had hauled its stationary bikes outside, where exercise is permitted. Do they long to ride free when they see one of their kind pass by, as horses in a paddock might?

To each, her own; I prefer views of golden hills and blue lakes to a view of a parking lot.

My plan for the day was ambitious; if I managed to finish, it would be my longest ride of the year. I was short on sleep, but it occurred to me that being short on fuel was more responsible for my craving a nap under a shady tree. How did I not remember to fill one bottle with my electrolyte mix?

Our turnaround point was Uvas Canyon County Park, which is currently requiring advance reservations—for those who need to park a vehicle. We sailed right through, and saw more vehicles and people than we've ever seen there. Including some large groups with coolers and picnic gear, which ... is not yet permitted. [We kept our distance.]

One benefit of riding on our own is the opportunity to stop whenever we want, for as long as we want; we're not holding up the rest of a group. We've certainly passed this site before, more than a few times, without ever noticing it. The plaque describes the structure, made of stone from the “Goodrich Quarry.” Stone that was also used for notable buildings in San Jose and at Stanford University.

I was curious to learn about the quarry, but what I found was more remarkable: the story of Sarah Knox-Goodrich, a determined local suffragist. She was clearly a force to be reckoned with, in her time; and I imagine she would be, today.

I made it! All 54 miles and 2,055 feet of climbing of it (and, without giving in to a nap).

July 18, 2020

Out of Towners

The area around Woodside is a magnet for cyclists, and more than a few local residents are cranky about that. [I get it.] I don't often ride there, any more.

There were a couple of cyclists chatting when I reached the (paved) end of Alpine Road; as I approached, the woman forcefully cleared one nostril (onto the ground). Seriously? You can't trouble yourself to use a tissue, especially now? [I avoided her like the plague ... so to speak.]

A large group was heading up as we descended; lucky timing, there. And yes, there were a few groups riding in tight packs. [I avoided them, too.]

There were also some unlucky novices.

One thing to remember, if you choose to ride in this area, is that that the traffic laws apply to you. Yes, cyclist: they apply to you. [Cranky locals, see above.]

This stop sign on Cañada Road is a reliable revenue generator. It's a “T” intersection; it is very tempting to ride straight through, in the bike lane, where your position on the road jeopardizes no one. Tempting, yes; and also illegal. There is a stop sign, and it applies to you. To leave no doubt, they have painted a stop line and the word “stop” across the bike lane. (I suspect they tired of arguing the point with indignant cyclists on the spot, and in traffic court.)

It was a busy day for the sheriff, staking out that intersection and ticketing cycling scofflaws. Time well spent?

My biking buddy and I rode the full length, making a u-turn at Highway 92 (which was fully backed up with vehicles heading toward the coast). Along the way we were surprised when another cycling friend materialized, out for a spin with her own little group. Cañada Road is popular with triathletes and time-trialers, a more-or-less straight shot with gently rolling hills and almost no vehicular traffic.

Stopping at the Pulgas Water Termple was always a regular part of riding here, but I can't recall the last time I visited. We took some time to relax, watching a lone Canada (!) goose grudgingly take wing to find refuge in the reflecting pool after some children focused on chasing it. And we were amused by the antics of a photographer trying to get a shy newly-married couple to look happy.

It was a perfect day for cycling and conversation, 33 miles and 1,645 feet of climbing, cool and sunny.

July 4, 2020

Squawkers and Gawkers

Our feathered friends carry on, unaware of and unaffected by our pandemic. For the past few years, I've led rides to behold the spectacle of their rookery; this year, I set out on a solo ride, as group activities are still prohibited in our county.

As much as I would have enjoyed it, I avoided taking the scenic route along the Bay; trails are crowded, these days, with inexperienced, unpredictable, and careless cyclists. The roads, on the other hand, would be empty. I followed my old morning commute route, with a twist. It was tempting to use the empty overpass to cross the highway directly, but I stayed with my plan to explore one short trail link that was completed after our team was moved to a different town.

With the campus shut down for months, would the birds be less comfortable with humans gawking at them?

Were there fewer nests, this year? Or had I mis-timed my visit? It took patience to capture a good shot of this Snowy Egret, who was intent on preening (not posing). There weren't many birds to see.

But they were there. Each time a Great Egret glided toward the treetops, a chorus of hungry, squawking chicks made their presence known. Two fledglings prowled through the grass, and seemed uncertain how (or unable) to return to their nests: rather than fly, they tried (in vain) to scamper up the tree trunks.

Normally I bring binoculars to share—which, it turns out, people almost never want to use. This time, I'd stuffed my big camera in my bike bag, all 3.5 pounds of it.

In front of one the buildings where I'd worked, the native plants were busy with butterflies (Western Tiger Swallowtails)—just as the planners had intended.

Cruising through the deserted campus was bittersweet; so many happy memories of colleagues and conversations, the paths we'd frequented, the work we'd done together. I still resent that our team was forced to relocate to a soulless concrete office park a few years ago. But all the buildings are empty now, and may never be the same.

This being the Fourth of July, I'd normally celebrate with our club's traditional pancake breakfast and a bike ride. This year? Pancakes, no. Bike ride, yes. Mango lassi, yes! (I was in the neighborhood, and the restaurant was open for take-out.) Returning home, I chanced to meet a couple of club members heading in the same direction. Taking my usual shortcuts, our routes diverged twice and came back together (much to their surprise).

I'd shrugged off a poor night's sleep to do this ride, and was pleased that I didn't struggle to finish: 43 miles, 1,080 feet of climbing.

July 3, 2020

The Rules

Even a simple bike ride is complicated these days.

Calaveras Road, on a Friday, seemed like a friendly option. (There was more traffic than I expected. More than on a typical Saturday, even.)

We thought we'd follow our usual route into Sunol Regional Wilderness Park, where the porta-potties should be available, so I checked the current set of rules for Alameda County.

Unlike most other jurisdictions, which require outdoor mask-wearing if you're within 6 feet of another person, Alameda County requires you to cover your nose and mouth if you're within 30 feet of anyone outside your “social bubble.” Even if you are cycling. When I'm climbing a hill, the last thing I need is less oxygen. And how is compliance even feasible, in the (likely) event a faster cyclist overtakes me? Am I simply expected to restrict my breathing at all times?

I'm all for mask-wearing ... outdoors, when social distancing isn't feasible. Certainly whenever I'm indoors around other people. I'm all for evidence-based rules. To the best of my knowledge, there is no evidence that I might be exposed to a concentrated viral load in the open (breezy) air if a cyclist exhales 20, or 10, feet in front of me.

There were a lot of cyclists on the road; more than usual, I'd say. We lingered to chat (safely distant) at the county line. Many dutifully wore masks or bandanas over their noses and mouths as they passed into Alameda County. We also watched a couple of stray cows grazing on the hillside above us, having slipped the fence somewhere. The grass is always greener, eh?

A woodpecker (Nuttall's, I think) glided onto a branch in front of me, but I wasn't quick enough to get a photo. A pair of deer eyed me warily from the slope below. And, for the first time on this route, quail. A large covey, in fact: one adult followed by so many chicks I lost count as I laughed at the stragglers. (Two dozen, at least.)

A paltry 21 miles, 1,880 feet of climbing. We extended our ride a bit; yes, we could have climbed Felter, but I wasn't up for that. Save it for another day.