MacMurray Ranch

I have cycled 100 miles, eleven times, to raise funds for Best Buddies International over the past 10 years. And while the organizers offer a few training rides leading up to the Hearst Castle Challenge, I typically skip those—club rides and bike commutes keep me fit.

At the same time, some of those training rides are enticing. Like the opportunity to bike some backroads in the wine country of Sonoma County. It's been years since I've biked up there.

The logistics always discourage me. I'm not up for driving more than two hours in the early morning to reach the starting point. Wine Country hotels are expensive, and fussy about demanding two-night minimum stays.

This year I explored Airbnb. Not only did I find a convenient location, I made some new friends in the process.

The ride started and finished on the private grounds of the MacMurray Ranch.

There was just one problem. I came down with (yet another) cold. [What is going on, this year?!] If I had been at home this morning, I would have stayed there—nursing my full-blown cold symptoms in bed.

Riding the longer 40-mile route was out of the question. If I'd had any doubts before I got to the ranch, they evaporated when I caught sight of my fellow riders. Can you say, “hammerfest?” [Yes, I thought you could.] I probably shouldn't be riding at all, but ... here I am. Twenty miles isn't much, really.

I got off to a rocky start. I'd brought my older road bike along, and although I'd carefully leveled the saddle when I reattached it after my recent Five Countries tour, I had not sufficiently tightened the bolts, nor had I given it a test ride. Before we rolled out of the driveway, it shifted and tilted when I hit the first bump. [It would be mile 15 before I finally got it properly clamped.] On the plus side, I'd replaced the speed sensor on that bike (also untested) and it was operating just fine.

With a hot day forecast, I was glad not to push myself hard. We headed straight for the Wohler Bridge, but time lost to the saddle shenanigans cost me the photo stop. I've crossed it many times on a bicycle, back in the days when it was part of the original Waves to Wine ride.

The short route, 21 miles with 540 feet of climbing, was a little taste of rolling Wine Country hills. Back at the ranch, we enjoyed lunch and a speech by a Best Buddies Ambassador. “Only 500 people (worldwide) have been diagnosed with the neurological disorder I have,” he explained. “How lucky am I!” Doctors told his parents he could never ride a bicycle; last year, he did the 30-mile route in the Hearst Castle Challenge. This year he's training for the 60-mile route.

How about you? 15, 30, 60, or 100 miles? You can sign up here.

Shades of Gray

Mystery solved: The reason I never see two folks I know on the road—the reason I never see them pass me on this ride—is that they start off with a shortcut. Instead of turning right at the start with the rest of the pack, they skip the first six miles and head directly toward the coast.

Tempting. But I have always done the full route, and today is no exception.

Last night I broke with routine and attended the opening festivities. The invitation said “cocktail casual,” so I turned to the Interweb for fashion advice. I forgot how cold it was likely to be; my nice dress ended up hidden under a less-than-cocktail jacket. [Most of the guests paid far less attention to their attire.]

The marine layer was thick in the morning; with that, we trade a visible sunrise for warmer temperatures. The gray fog, however, would shroud us all day. Around Big Sur, we climbed high enough to feel the tiny droplets ping our faces. The yellow flower that adorns my saddle bag was often the only spot of color in the landscape, and it drew many comments. “It makes people smile,” I'd say each time. And that's true. One rider recognized me from last year (well, he recognized the flower).

The route down the coast is up and down, with a just a few extended climbs. Big Sur is the first, and that's where I begin reeling them in. Riders from flatter places, or those who haven't sufficiently trained, start blowing up there. One was already off the bike, walking up the hill. [That did not bode well for the tougher climbs after lunch.]

There were a few short stretches of pavement that had been scraped and grooved, as if in preparation for re-paving. I took extra care on each of these, wary that I'd catch a tire and go down. Later I would learn that at least one rider required a trip to the emergency room to get his arm stitched; his bike was damaged and his helmet destroyed, but he had no broken bones or concussion.

The Soberanes fire was still burning; having consumed more than 103,000 acres, it was only 60% contained. There was a hint of the sour smell of damp ash as we reached Big Sur, and signs for firefighter staging areas and encampments. The fog denied us great views of the coast, but I knew it could only help suppress the fire.

On the east side, near Fernwood, the fire had burned down to the edge of the road. Homes, and the life of one firefighter, have been lost. All because some selfish fool lit an illegal campfire on July 22.

Hearst Castle itself was closed just 10 days ago, and some of the Hearst Ranch property was scorched by another wildfire (dubbed “Chimney;” cause, as yet, still under investigation). Battalions of firefighters defended the historic property as the flames advanced to within a mile or two.

We were quite fortunate indeed to be able to proceed with this ride.

Today marked my tenth foray down the coast for Best Buddies; by now, the route is very familiar. The speed sensor on my bike was acting up (as in, not functioning), which meant that I needed to rely on memory (and the event signs placed at 10-mile intervals) to gauge where I was, between rest stops. I focused instead on the elapsed time from one stop to the next, and tried to keep each stop to a minimum. Ten minutes at the first stop, fifteen at the next two.

Past Rocky Point, where we used to descend a steep hill to our first rest stop. Past the private home that hosted us, one special year. Over the Rocky Creek Bridge, the iconic Bixby Creek Bridge. Past Andrew Molera State Park, closed as a staging area for firefighters. Through Big Sur, past Ventana and Nepenthe. Over the Big Creek Bridge, through Lucia and Gorda. Past the Piedras Blancas Elephant Seal Rookery, to the finish line at William Randolph Hearst Memorial Beach.

100 miles in all, with 6,205 feet of climbing. My legs were a bit sore afterward, despite my recent 500-mile tour of Greater Yellowstone (more, and steeper, climbing on this route).

This year, after several moving speeches, we were entertained by The Beach Boys. [A subset of the original band, of course.] They rocked us with one hit after another, projecting images of the sixties on a giant screen at the back of the stage. Pictures of their own youthful selves, of cars and surfer girls. Their music is just fun ... [fun fun fun till her Daddy takes the T-bird away ... ]

The sweetest moments came when a very talented Buddy, Marlana VanHoose, joined them for vocals on “Help me Rhonda” and “Barbara Ann.” And when Maria Shriver (and more) flooded the stage for “California Girls.”

And now, a word for my sponsors ...

I wouldn't be here for the tenth time without the generous support of all the friends who respond year after year when I reach out for donations (and my employer, who matches them). I learned a valuable lesson about fundraising years ago, when I was too timid to solicit a single contribution. A more gregarious colleague, with experience in sales, counseled me: “Just ask.”

Even then, I agonized over the list of people I would approach. There was one, in particular, that I almost skipped—someone I knew professionally, but hadn't seen in years. “What's the worst that could happen?” I thought. “Someone might tell me never to ask again?” Okay, I could handle that.

Not only was he the very first person to donate—less than an hour after receiving my email message—in later years, after I started riding for Best Buddies, he went on to hire a Buddy.

There is no better outcome than that.

Coastal Caravan

The first couple of times I did this ride, the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, I was itching for a faster start. We were paced out at a leisurely 12 mph or so over the initial 10 miles, which was a penalty for me because that was terrain I could cover at a faster speed.

Oh, how times have changed. With former Olympians and pro riders at the front, including Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, this year I lost the wheels of the front of the pack before our u-turn at Robinson Canyon. I rode my heart out, averaging 18 mph for the first 30 minutes, but resigned myself to surrender. A local woman would cross the line first today, champion rider Christine Thorburn, in 4 hours, 46 minutes, 13 seconds—besting Christian and George by 3 seconds. [Well done, Christine!]

I, on the other hand, availed myself of rest stops along the way and stopped to snap the occasional photo. It wasn't a picture-perfect sort of day; it was warm, but there were only brief glimpses of blue skies to the east. The sun peeked out for all of about five minutes.

One factor that slowed me down this year was the traffic. More traffic than I've ever experienced on this ride. Along one stretch, I passed the same vehicles multiple times. Not only did I lose precious momentum on a key downhill, I had to pick my way gingerly alongside SUVs and motorhomes crawling up the hill. In one case, a few of us threaded our way through stopped traffic to the left of a Cruise America RV that left no room to ease past on the right.

It was quiet along the open road. The air was still; no tailwind for the final miles, but no headwind either. Between the layers of low clouds, the sky had a pinkish hue above the horizon. Pelicans, silhouetted against the gloom, glided past at eye level—some heading north, some south. I spied a juvenile snake in my path with little time to react; I think I managed not to clip it.

A volunteer at a rest stop looked out at the Pacific and asked me what was on the other side. I smiled. “Well, it's the open ocean, it's a long way to the other side.” Then I asked where she was from. “San José,” she replied. [Sigh.]

Even though I was slower this year, I found myself passing people. Quite a few people. I played leap frog with a couple of riders for much of the day, but dropped them for good as we headed toward the final pair of climbs. I didn't mind those so much this year; and as in prior years, I passed riders who were walking (or, sitting) on the penultimate climb. Over the years, some riders would sign up to ride the century, confident that they could rely on a SAG vehicle to carry them over these hills. The organizers had been especially complicit over the past two years, providing a full-on truck to carry bikes and vans to ferry people.

Not so, this year. I watched a guy try to flag down a regular SAG van as it rolled past, but it was full. He would have to wait a bit longer.

Cresting that second summit means one thing: It's time to hammer on to the finish line. Even without a tailwind, I was gratified to pick off many riders along the way. I'd see one ahead, in the distance, and think it wouldn't be possible; but time and again, I'd reel them in. They were too spent to give chase.

Throughout the day, I reflected on how much each mile was worth in terms of the money I'd raised for Best Buddies, and I'd pedal strong and proud. I was determined to keep enough people behind me to stay clear of the well-meaning course marshals who sweep the route. Coming down off the final climb, I estimated that my on-bike time would be 7 hours, 40 minutes. I was thrilled to be wrong, crossing the line in 7 hours, 30 minutes. I wasn't last. I wasn't even the last woman. For the day, 100 miles with some 6,280 feet of climbing; average speed, 13.2 mph.

The Pointer Sisters entertained the crowd at the post-ride barbecue, which puzzled me because ... I went to a Pointer Sisters concert when I was a teenager. [That was some time ago.] Our generous host, Steve Hearst, shared the genesis of this event. Anthony Shriver had called him with a proposal for a ride that would start in Santa Barbara and end at Hearst Castle. “People will die,” Steve replied. “You need to start in Carmel.” And here we are again, 12 years later.

I was excited to have a chance to chat with Christian Vande Velde, who was a genuinely nice guy. I was looking for my buddy Cameron, to thank him for his help last fall. They'd announced his name at the start, but Christian explained that he was out with a broken foot (and, training for Kona).

The post-party party up on the Enchanted Hill seemed smaller than usual. Being an early bird for a guided tour, I was treated to a one-on-one (!) visit to two of the cottages.



The famous pool is still drought-dry. Maybe, next year?

My Buddy Cameron

October 18, 2014
The day that shall ever be known as:

The Day I Passed George Hincapie 

On a bicycle. At speed.

There was a price to be paid for this, and that was the price of a crash. [More about that in a bit.]

I had a special opportunity to ride a second time for Best Buddies this year, and so I found myself in Washington, D.C., staging with the rest of the pack near the base of the Washington Monument before dawn on a loaner Cannondale bicycle.

We rolled out and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, paced by a lead car at a nominal 12 mph. They told us that the roads would be closed for us for the first 10 miles. They didn't tell us that one of the first roads was under construction.

It was a small group, and the pack was spread out. I made a turn onto a surface that was prepared for paving, ground down and rough. The lane to my right was paved. In the pre-dawn light and pre-dawn brain fog, I decided to cut over to that lane.

Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea. The edge of the fresh pavement was too high and my angle of approach too shallow. My front wheel caught the lip and I was summarily slammed to the ground. Before I could get up, a second rider mirrored my mistake 20 yards ahead.

Shouts rang out. “Rider down! Rider down! Another one!”

As luck would have it, the Narrative Clip affixed to the back of my helmet captured the scene a few seconds before I crashed.

“Are you okay?” At least three guys stopped to help; a medic confirmed that I didn't need his attention. A tall rider in full Cannondale kit took charge (Cameron Wurf). My cell phone and water bottle having skittered away, it was the proverbial yard sale. My body cushioned the bike; apart from scuffing the tape at the end of the bar and dropping the chain, the bike was unscathed. My body fared less well: one shredded arm warmer and skinned elbow, a few scrapes, and ribs that would hurt more as the day progressed. Bruises would appear later, but nothing was broken.

I climbed back onto the bike. The pack was long out of sight. “They won't wait for us,” Cameron said. “Do you mind if I push you?” With his hand on my back, we were off in side-by-side tandem. I was pedaling moderately hard and he was hardly breathing. “I wish I had a power meter on this bike!” he said with a laugh. He related a story from a (fallen) European pro, who had said this is what it feels like to be on EPO. [Being pushed.] Wow. We were moving, soon reeling in the stragglers. When the back of the pack was in sight, I thanked Cameron, expecting him to pull off.

“I want to get you to the front,” he insisted. We passed some guys who knew him. “Hey! She's helping you! That's cheating!” they joked.

The closer we got to the front, the more tightly packed were the riders. I can ride in a pack, and Cameron has experience in the peleton, but these were riders of unknown provenance. “On your left!” I called out as we whirred past.

How did Cameron, who started the day at the front, end up behind me in the first place? [Evidently, he crashed, too.] And when he said he wanted to deliver me to the front, he meant The Front.

As we edged into the gap between the pace car and the lead riders, George Hincapie was at my right elbow and then ... he was somewhere behind me.

Those early miles through D.C. and along the eastern shore of the Potomac were a blur. I lost any advantage at the first rest stop when I visited the medical tent for some attention to my raw elbow.

Before mile 20, the bike's bottom bracket was making a racket. It sounded like a loose ball bearing clattering inside with every turn of the crank. [Ugh.] Would I have to abandon? I wasn't confident that a quick repair was possible, and the time lost would force me to be sagged forward. I soldiered on, and for much of the ride the errant ball settled into some happy place and fell silent.

By mile 30, the wind became a factor. It was blowing hard from the west—the general direction for today's adventure. My ribs hurt on the side that took the impact. I had been nonchalant about this century, which involved less climbing than September's. What was I thinking? The prospect of another 70 miles of rolling hills suddenly seemed daunting. I kept going.

Without a cycle computer, I had no way to judge my speed. Without a route map, I had only the yellow signs along the course to follow. My sole reference points were placards at each 10-mile mark, and the rest stops. I calibrated my effort by my heart rate and cursed the headwind. I couldn't drink while riding—the impact of the crash had shattered the hard plastic lid of my water bottle.

By mile 50, I calculated that I was flirting with the edge of the ride's 4 p.m. cut-off time. If you were still on the course at that time, the broom wagon would sweep you up (and drop you off near the finish, so you could ride ceremoniously across the line).

The course rolled along back roads through the woods of Maryland and Virginia. Autumn was changing the color of some leaves, but the theme of the day was green—an unfamiliar sight for those of us visiting from parched California. There were vast green lawns, meticulously trimmed in patterns by men on riding mowers. You don't see acreage like that in the West unless it's a ranch.

By mile 70, I was winning the endurance game. Few riders had chosen the 100-mile route, and they were mostly the fast guys. There weren't many fading riders on the course for me to catch, but I did pass some. A couple of ride officials trailed me at a courteous distance, but I got a gap when one flatted. SAG vehicles cruised by, some loaded with bikes and riders.

When I reached the W&OD trail around mile 89, I knew I was golden. I would follow this for some 10 miles, turning off close to the finish. The broom wagon couldn't touch me now! I relaxed.

I crossed the line at Morven Park around 4:30 p.m. The announcer was there to greet me. “She crashed in the first mile,” he explained to the people standing nearby. “Where's my buddy Cameron?” I asked. “He's been worried about you. I'll find him for you. You need a hot shower. Right now!” he commanded, assessing the chilled bare skin alongside my knee.

101 miles and some 4,560 feet of climbing, approximately 3500 Calories burned (and fewer consumed).

My buddy, I expect, had left the party hours before I arrived.

Thanks, Cameron, for one of my top ten moments on a bicycle.

Love is All Around

One hour into the ride, I had the opportunity to chat with a Best Buddies Ambassador, Donna Gunn, and her “pet rat” Willard. [Quite the sense of humor, eh?] During the brief opening program before the Hearst Castle Challenge century riders started rolling, she had spoken about how Best Buddies had brought “the spirit of belonging” into her life. Donna was our host at the first rest stop, and she was bobbing with excitement to meet the cyclists in all our colorful gear.

I thought last year's pace was blistering ... ha! With George Hincapie, local race champions, and a smattering of Olympians at the front, I could barely hang on. Over the first 30 minutes, I averaged 20 mph. That included the first small hill, where I lost contact with the front of the pack. They were out of sight by the time I made the turn toward Highway 1. The next group flowed past me up a rolling hill, and I heard one of the retired pros call out “C'mon, Anthony, everybody is fast going downhill.” [Anthony Shriver was riding the full century this year for the first time.] They crested the hill and relaxed ever so slightly. I attacked. It was a proud moment when I passed the lot of them, and the retired pro called out “Nice work!”

Mother Nature presented us with the traditional morning gloom, but the sun found a way to break through to highlight this cove before fully beating back the marine layer. I was determined not to have the specter of the broom wagon dogging me this year, which meant riding faster and being less of a tourist along the way, but how could I not stop to capture this magical moment? A passing rider shouted “Great shot!” and then called out his email address so I could send him a copy. [Right. Like I would remember that.]

Of course, I can't sustain a 20 mph pace to finish a century in five hours. Over the first hour, I averaged 17.8 mph—which for me is pretty darned amazing, hills or no hills.

The post-lunch climbs were lonely; the fast guys were long gone, and there was not a single slow rider walking up. (These days, they load them onto vans at the rest stop and ferry them to the top.) The second climb is slightly steeper, but the first climb breaks your spirit. The contours obscure the road ahead; you round a bend only to see the next highest point. I hammered the last 13 miles and stopped counting the cyclists I overtook. Some, I passed more than once (after pausing for the occasional photo). I rolled across the finish line in 7:05 (moving time), averaging 14 mph. I could have passed the handful of riders ahead of me in the final stretch, but that would have been rude.

I thought the “race” announcer missed me in the scrum, but he had a sharp eye. As one of the top 25 fundraisers, my bib was yellow and my number was my rank: 13. The pros have a tradition for that number, and I followed it: I wore my number upside down. “Just like Fabian Cancellara,” the announcer proclaimed. “I learned that from Fabian,” I smiled.

After celebrating at the post-ride barbecue and concert (Bruce Hornsby, this year), I finished the night as an invited guest at the intimate party up on the hill. The first time I swam in the Neptune Pool, I expected that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The next five times, I lingered as if there would never be another chance. Given the now-historic California drought, this year the pool stands empty. A good opportunity for some repairs, they say.

Next year?

Shadows and Fog

Some years ago, the time had come for my mom to downsize. The house was sold, and the utility company sent a representative to shut off the water and record a final meter reading. Looking at the name on his work order, he asked “Do you have a daughter named ... ?”

Flash back to [a long time ago]. There was a student in our 8th grade class, “M,” who was old enough to drive. He had some sort of learning disability; there was no place for him in our high school, nor did he belong in the special education classroom. He was mainstreamed with us, though the age difference must have made it awkward for him.

There was another student in our class who was ... bored. Insufficiently challenged. Our teachers understood this, and so it came to pass that I tutored M. My best friend and I developed lesson plans, and part of our education was teaching M.

That same M who now stood before my mom, with a decent job and a family. I had made a difference in his life, and he remembered.

There was no organization called Best Buddies then, but that is who we tried to be. That summer, I did more tutoring and worked with special needs children. I would choose a different path for my career, but with the indulgent support of my friends I now ride each year to support the work of Best Buddies.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge—the seventh ride for me. With some racers and former Olympians at the front, the century riders set off at a blistering pace. I lost contact with the lead group by mile five, despite sustaining an average speed of 18.6 mph over the first ten miles. At the one-hour mark, I had covered 17 miles and climbed some 580 feet. Only 83 miles and 5,750 feet of climbing to go ...

The fog toyed with us as we approached Big Sur, casting shadows as it drifted across the road. It filled the canyon at Bixby Creek, obscuring the iconic bridge. By mile 60, it hugged the coast and swallowed the view. For the last 13 miles, I regretted two things equally: the lack of a taillight and the lack of a tailwind. I hammered that stretch as best I could, averaging 15 mph and sweeping past four very tired guys. As I closed in on the fourth, he rose out of the saddle in a vain attempt to defend his position; the other three never gave chase. [You know a guy is spent when he lets a woman pass, unchallenged.]

Yet, I was speedy only in my own mind—I was a full mile per hour slower than last year, and well off my best pace (14.3 mph in 2009). I managed to roll across the finish line in time to claim a quick massage before getting cleaned up and heading for the traditional barbecue at Piedra Blanca Rancho. I was fortunate again to close out the night partying on the patio behind Casa del Monte. And of course, frolicking in the Neptune Pool. One of the Castle's resident bats circled overhead before dropping down for a quick sip of the pool's fresh spring water.

There is no better way to see the California coastline than from the seat of a bicycle. Next year, I'll be back: same charity, same coast.

The Coast is Clear

Four out of five runs down the coast have been foggy. For my sixth return to the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, my reward was a crystal-blue-sky day. Oh, the splendor of the central California coast!

Strategically positioned at the front of the pack, I did my best to hang with the group for as long as I possibly could. On this "neutral" roll-out from Carmel Valley to the coast, I averaged slightly over 19 mph for the first 10 miles. Surprise!

Ostensibly, I am a member of a small team of co-workers for this event; we managed to assemble for a group photo at the first rest stop before they sped south. I am in less of a hurry to get to the finish line, especially on such a picture-perfect day. [Not that I could match their pace.]

Shortly after the second rest stop, a few large birds circled overhead. Turkey vultures are a common sight, though usually not along this stretch of the coast. There was something different about these birds. After I spotted a photographer with a very big lens, a fellow cyclist excitedly confirmed my hunch: California Condors!

This being my first ride since last week's big wipe out, I was feeling a little tentative on the bike. I was not trying for a personal best this year, but still managed a faster pace than last year's jet-lagged excursion.

Nonetheless, the late climbs seemed particularly interminable this year. For the first time, there were no cyclists walking up. At the third rest stop, SAG vehicles were running at capacity: many riders know what is ahead and are not shy about hitching a ride over the top.

At the finish line, an announcer provides a running commentary to entertain the crowd. Straggling solo across the line, he nabbed me. "Here is one of our top fund-raisers!" he called out, thrusting a microphone in front of me.

What time did you leave? [With everyone else.]
Do you know what time it is now?

"Yes, I have been sitting on the saddle for 7 hours and 24 minutes," I explained.

I scored a much-needed massage this year, but was still feeling stressed by the time I got cleaned up for the evening. For the slow, there is no margin for down time: head straight to the barbecue and concert (Blues Traveler, this year). Unexpectedly, I ran into a friend who apologized for not donating this year. "Get a picture with one of those hunky lifeguards at the pool," she teased, "and I'll double my donation next year."

Thanks to the generous friends who supported my fund-raising, I enjoyed the special post-barbecue party again this year. For some, this is an opportunity to mix with celebrities and movers-and-shakers. For me, it is a glorious night under the stars in a legendary pool. I chatted with an amiable fellow swimmer/cyclist who recognized me from the road. He introduced himself, modestly responding that he worked for the legislature when I asked.

Later, I looked him up. Legislature, indeed: a State Senator. Movers and shakers, in the Neptune Pool. And me.

The Long and Windy Road

Having just climbed some 27,375 feet over 287 miles during ten days in Italy, climbing 6,260 feet over 100 miles down the California coast should be no problem. Piece of cake, right?

Two days to recover from jet lag were almost enough. Almost.

An Audi R8 led us out at a brisk pace—I averaged 19.7 mph over the first 10 miles, which is a personal best. Of course, that is also not a sustainable pace for me and once the hills started rolling, I started crawling. [I must note that the R8 driver failed to rev the engine in the tunnel under Robinson Canyon Road, an offense for which the key to that vehicle should be summarily confiscated.]

The day was cool and foggy, but not as intensely so as last year. The sun began to break through near the Bixby Bridge, which was a fine place to peel off a layer. I rounded the bend on the other side and ... when did they install a wind tunnel here? It was blowing a gale—headwind, crosswind. This is completely unnatural; in the morning, the air should be still. In the afternoon, there should be tailwind.

Twice, I was nearly blown over—the bike tilted violently to my left each time. I actually contemplated getting off and walking. This was the most extreme wind I have ever faced on a bicycle. Ever. How far would I have to walk? How much would that slow me down?

Being the stubborn sort, with less common sense than I need, I kept pedaling. One thing about wearing one of those ultralight jackets: the material snaps loudly in the wind, and it was snapping furiously. This is the perfect accessory for fine-tuning your aerodynamics: streamline yourself and be rewarded with the sound of silence. Streamline yourself to stay upright.

Further south, a presumptuous passenger in a passing Prius with Utah plates shouted

Get on the other side of the line!

Wrong. I don't know what your vehicle code specifies, but the California vehicle code does not require me to ride on the shoulder [which was vestigial, at that particular point]. I may choose to ride on the shoulder, but I am only required to ride as far to the right of the road as practicable. The white line is the "fog line" that marks the edge of the road.

At our lunch stop, I assured a weary rider that he could make it. I told him what to expect of the two hills ahead. Two riders recognized me from our Woodside training ride. Passing me a short time later, one called out "I hope this is the second hill!" Cruel, isn't it, at mile 80?

The sky was growing darker [and not because I was running out of daylight, I am not that slow]. Ten miles outside of San Simeon, the first big raindrops plopped down. I am not made of sugar, I will not dissolve in the rain. [A chemist told me so.]

I crossed the finish line a full hour behind my best pace [in 2009]. It was the headwind, I tell you!

A local band from San Jose rocked out at the post-ride barbecue (Smash Mouth). Well-fortified with caffeine, I was still awake at 8:30 p.m. The best was yet to come.

The Neptune Pool. What if this is my last chance? Cold, tired, foggy ... none of it matters.

To everyone who supported my fund-raising for Best Buddies this year: thanks for throwing me in the pool!

Nothing to See Here

The fog was so thick that droplets condensed and fell from the visor on my helmet. Another rider pointed out that he might as well be riding the rollers and staring at the gray wall in his garage, the view was the same. Mother Nature didn't get the memo to turn off the fog machine on Saturday, when packs of cyclists headed down the coast in the seventh annual Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge.

Repeating this ride for the fourth year in a row, I fully appreciate what a fluke it was to have clear weather on my first ride in 2007. But it is a great cause and a challenging, well-supported ride, so I keep returning. Maybe we will get to enjoy the view next year ...

We start the century by heading east on Carmel Valley Road, making a u-turn through the tunnel at Robinson Canyon Road to head west to the coast. Our pace car this year was a white Audi R8 convertible, which led some of my fellow cyclists to speculate whether it was possible for that vehicle to run at a mere 15 miles per hour. When the driver reached the tunnel, he knew what was required. The incomparable sound of a 10-cylinder Lamborghini engine at play is a fine way to start the day.

At the first rest stop, a tall cyclist was blocking access to the food as he distractedly munched away. Eventually, he realized that he should move—and lo and behold, it was Anthony Shriver himself, founder and chairman of Best Buddies International.

At the second rest stop, a chatty guy on an ElliptiGO raced to a stop. His legs were amazing, nothing but skin stretched taut over a perfect musculature. Was this the power of the ElliptiGO? Uh, not entirely. I would later discover that he was no ordinary athlete, but none other than Ultramarathonman himself, Dean Karnazes.

My next brush with celebrity was a chance to pace for awhile with another respected Bay Area athlete, the weather anchor for the San Francisco CBS affiliate, Roberta Gonzales. She was completely charming, just another cyclist for the day, repeating the ride for the fifth time.

The new twist for me this year was the uncommon privilege to test ride a fabulous S-Works Amira bicycle for the entire length of the course. Thank you, Specialized!

I thought it would be fun to broadcast my location in real time on Saturday, but abandoned that idea when I realized that there would be no cell phone coverage south of Big Sur until we reached the outskirts of San Simeon. I did bring along a spare battery for my Android phone, though, which allowed me to run MyTracks long enough to capture the entire route. Unlike a woeful fellow cyclist, whose iPhone battery ran out of juice in less than five hours. Since he can't swap out the battery on an iPhone, I told him the solution was obvious. Ride faster. He thanked me with a playful slap on the shoulder.

The evening festivities included a bountiful barbecue and an engaging concert by Natasha Bedingfield. Fundraising is becoming a competitive sport in and of itself, which is all good news for this charitable cause. Seventeen riders raised more funds than I did, which earned me the yellow number "18" as one of the top 25 fundraisers this year. Following the concert, I was shuttled up to Hearst Castle to enjoy the final celebration of the day.

Above the marine layer on the Enchanted Hill, the skies were clear for stargazing as I soothed my tired muscles in the chilly spring water of the Neptune Pool. For that, I willingly traded my wool sweater and jacket for a bathing suit. There is nothing like the privilege to swim in that pool.

Thanks to the many friends who supported my ride for Best Buddies in 2010!

Biking for Best Buddies

If you have driven in a hilly region, you are familiar with those "curvy road ahead" signs. The ones with an "S" shaped arrow and some advisory text, like Next 2 Miles. Just south of Carmel on the Pacific Coast Highway there is such a sign: Next 74 Miles.

At that point, we had completed our 9-mile warm-up on sunny Carmel Valley Road and entered the fog zone along the coast. Our starting location, the posh Quail Lodge, was a new treat this year. A truly continental breakfast: pain au chocolat and fresh strawberries.

When assembling for a mass start at a charity ride, where should you position yourself in the pack? Wisely, the pros (including Garmin-Slipstream's Lucas Euser) are at the front. Farther back than I would like, behind which of these would-be century riders should I position myself to maximize my chances of staying upright?

1. The guy wearing tennis shoes, with platform pedals on his bike.
   
2. The dude in the baggy athletic shorts, already sagging below the waistband of his designer underwear.
   
3. The guy sporting an LA Triathlete Club jersey, with smooth, chiseled legs.
   

Once we took off, I moved up in the pack. Triathletes being somewhat allergic to hills, I pulled away from him after a few miles. I was pleasantly surprised to stay in contact with the main pack almost to the first rest stop, averaging 15.7 mph. Our cheering section directed us down a private driveway, explaining:

The food is in the garage.

I would wager that none of us had ever before seen a garage with floor-to-ceiling glass corner panels (overlooking the main house and, of course, the Pacific Ocean). Hoping to set a personal record on the ride to San Simeon, I abandoned my fantasy of moving into said garage and pedaled onward.

A new milestone for me was the realization that I could bide my time climbing behind a slower rider until traffic cleared, and then easily accelerate uphill to pass. I have the power in my legs to do this now, on a human scale not unlike the engine that rockets a shiny black car from 0 to 62 mph in 3.8 seconds. Just pull out, and go. Later, an impatient driver would floor his accelerator at his first opportunity to pass a string of riders. Oooo, I am sooo impressed by your raw display of power in that ... Kia.

The marine layer overhead kept us cool and damp as we made our way down the coast. With white-out conditions at Vista Point, the second rest stop, there was no vista to enjoy. But from the seat of a bicycle, you take your vistas wherever you find them - you are not limited to those designated roadside pull-outs. I snapped a few photos along the way.

At the third rest stop, a perky volunteer confirmed for a weary rider that there was "one more hill" ahead. Guessing that he was better off not knowing that there were really a pair of hills linked together, with the second climb being shorter but steeper, I said nothing. Ignorance is a sort of bliss, especially at mile 75 (and 80). The SAG vehicles are always busy on that stretch.

Momentum being useful for some uphill advantage, approaching the start of the second climb I flung myself aggressively (and gleefully) into the final hairpin. Grinding along, a rider caught up to admire my descending skill (wow, second time this year!). He was surprised at the speed I carried through the turns, and already understood that a big part of descending well is really about cornering. We chatted at the last rest stop; he wanted some tips. I learned from a pro rider, I explained.

Although this is the third time I have done this route, the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, there were still surprises. Booking along the final stretch into San Simeon with the traditional tailwind, I notice a patrol car at the side of the road with flashing lights. Just ahead of it ... was that a wave breaking onto the highway? Time to slow down and study the ocean. With ample caution, I rode through the seawater during a periodic lull. Next, a knot of tourists catches my eye. What's that on the beach? Elephant seals! This is the third time I have biked this stretch, and I had never before noticed the elephant seals? Translation: I am in much better shape this year.

Crossed the finish line to set a personal record, averaging 14.3 mph over 98.7 miles with 6,290 feet of climbing. Faster than last year by 0.5 mph - not bad. Ranked as the 15th top fund-raiser for this event, another personal record. Delighted to put my fitness to such good use, and grateful for the generosity of the many friends who responded to my appeal on behalf of Best Buddies.

Massaged and cleaned up, time for the evening festivities. First, the barbecue. Women in high heels step off the bus at the Hearst Ranch, oblivious to the fresh cow pies dotting the field. Hello, it is a working ranch. First priority: Food. My plate: Salmon, corn/green pea salad, garlic bread, grilled veggies, pork rib, broccoli salad, mashed potatoes, small rib of beef, half an ear of corn. Having burned over 3,000 calories to get there, I ate every last bit of it.

For me, as a top fundraiser, the day ended with a very special treat: a party at Hearst Castle. First priority: The Neptune Pool. Much to my surprise, my legs felt better after half an hour swimming around in the pool. Was it just the cool water, or was it that magical, mystical pool? Next priority: dessert (chocolate to finish the day, of course), followed by a private tour of some of the highlights of Casa del Sol and Casa Grande.

It was after midnight when I returned to the motel; you will appreciate how tired I was when I explain that I overlooked the 19 Porsches in the parking lot until the next morning.