Not Too Proud to Walk

Summer treks to the coast have subsided with the cooler weather, and seasonal treks to the local Christmas tree farms have not yet ramped up. Seemed like an auspicious day to tackle another climb I haven't done in a while.

The steep pitches on Loma Prieta Way are exposed, which makes them even less appealing on a hot summer day. Another reason to ride here this time of year: With no marine layer, we were rewarded with a shimmering view of Monterey Bay.

As ever, the road is in a sorry state—a veritable patchwork quilt. Want to bet that it has never been repaved? Want to bet that it never will be repaved?

Truth be told, when the going got tough today, I got off the bike. Earlier in the season, when I was stronger, I could have gone the distance. Today my body said “Nope, not gonna happen.” Twenty-five miles, 2,960 feet of climbing, however you slice it.

It Takes a Village

I faced down two conflicting temptations: a challenging bike ride on Saturday, or a Covid-19 vaccine booster shot on Friday.

Taking it easy after getting the shot seemed prudent, so ... one or the other. [Decide.]

The booster won. Appointments were plentiful on Friday; next week, not so much.

A modest (5-mile) hike on Sunday seemed doable.

I wasn't the only one out for a stroll. A civilized “March Against Hate” drew a sizeable crowd, responding to a disturbing uptick of baseness in our community. Motorists idled patiently as the police escorted the flow of people toward town. Peace and Coexist signs. Hate has no home here.

I took my time, exploring occasional clearings alongside the trail. Some water still flows in the creek, released from the reservoir above.

Music interrupted the sounds of nature as a couple approached briskly from behind. I stepped aside to let them pass, wondering why the man was carrying a large white sack. I didn't notice the piece of litter at my feet until he paused to collect it (with his nifty trash-grabber gadget). The sack, of course, held the trash he'd picked up.

A kindred spirit! Years ago, my coworkers and I had a few favorite spots where we'd enjoy our lunch (weather permitting), and we would always pick up some trash left by others. I've removed countless nails and screws from the roadway, while biking; and last year I stashed a bag in my car to collect at least some of the litter I find in remote spots where we gather to ride.

I would later learn that what I thought were chestnuts were actually dangling from California Buckeyes, a reminder that it's a bad idea for amateurs (like me) to eat what you might forage. [They're toxic.]

Now, foraging for trash—that's something I can get behind. Strive to leave every place better than you found it.

Rays of Autumn

I wasn't expecting a party.

I've been reluctant to start my cycling day with a long drive, especially because it means rising extra early. I've never been a morning person, and dark mornings are extra challenging.

Today's ride was appealing, though; I haven't dragged myself up Patterson Pass in ages, and the rest of our route would be more mellow.  The sun will rise, the hills are greening, and there would be moments where the lighting is just right.

There had been some mention of a pot-luck, which I figured I'd simply bypass.

When I managed to find the group (parked in a large field at a sports complex), the location made sense. This was more than a usual club ride—it was a thank-you for volunteers who had supported a double century a few months ago.

We were in the mix with a large crew of very strong riders. I was confused when I overheard one guy ask another if he planned to ride to the marina, which conjured up images of San Francisco Bay. That there is a “marina” at Lake Del Valle didn't occur to me, until the route led me there.

I tried to dodge the post-ride feast, having done nothing to earn my share, but our gracious host would simply not allow that.

Thirty-two miles, 2,620 feet of climbing and a little chow fun.