Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 4

The jersey design for my fourth Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, planet Earth with wings and butterfly-inspired hearts, seems a fitting choice for today.

No fog. No blue sky. This is not turning out to be the challenge I had in mind. [This year is not the year any of us had in mind.] I'm in the yellow “moderate” zone; red is “unhealthy,” brown is “hazardous.”

That orange spot glowing in the water behind the mallards is a reflection of the sun, casting a bronze gloom over us all.

I slowly puttered around, crossing above two different highways on bike/pedestrian bridges. One familiar, one less so (and which would have been useful during a different exploration a few months ago). Bike through random neighborhoods, see new sights, learn new routes.

Stage 4: 14 miles, 340 feet of climbing, average speed 9.7 mph. I found a steep little hill tucked in one neighborhood, but the top will wait for another day. No exertion for me, even with moderate air quality (average heart rate: 98 bpm). I had set out to cover at least 10 miles, and decided to roll around a bit more after I stopped recording my track.

The air purifier I'd ordered almost two weeks ago arrived. Finally.

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 3

There was a distinctly yellow cast to the light when I woke up, so I wasn't surprised when I checked the air quality map. Smoke affects the wavelength of the sun's rays. Simply put, yellow means “not good,” orange means “pick another day,” and red means “don't even think about it.” Not unlike the colors on the map.

Local sensors painted a better picture than the official map. The sky was a pale blue, with the ubiquitous  purple haze of the smoke layer hanging just above ground level in every direction. I mapped out a meandering route through some unfamiliar residential neighborhoods, including a little bridge over a (completely dry) creek.

This jersey makes me smile. It makes other people smile (and wave), too. What's not to like about two cuddling teddy bears? [Well, I'll bet this design was not at all popular with the competitive male cyclists back in 2009.] After 2008's baggy “small,” I'd requested “extra small,” which was a good fit ... except for the sleeves. Toothpick arms needed. [Thee years, three different vendors.]

I was in prime shape for my third Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, averaging 14.3 mph despite climbing almost 6,300 feet. Today I was feeling less than great, with a slight but lingering headache. Could it be that I was (somewhat) dehydrated? For short rides, I don't fuss with electrolytes, but I should have mixed some up for Saturday's ride; today I did, and it helped.

Stage 3: 14.2 miles, 300 feet of climbing, average speed 10.6 mph. [Trying not to inhale, much.]

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 2

On this very date, 12 years ago, I rode the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge for the second time.

Not my favorite jersey. Baggy, despite being size “small.” And what you can't see is that the back is ... black. I see lots of cyclists wearing black jerseys and it mystifies me: it's not very visible on the road, and you absolutely cook in the sun. Maybe it's meant to be a fashion statement, but the result is that most of my Best Buddies jerseys are never seen: During cooler months I will layer a vest or jacket on top anyway; they hang in the closet during prime cycling season. (Unlike other cycling events, where you pin your number on the back of your jersey, they'd insisted we pin it on the front.)

Today would be hot, which meant that I needed to get an early enough start. I was surprised to see many other cyclists out and about. All of a similar mind, I suspect.

I paid a price for yesterday's ride. Not only had I been off the bike for three weeks; I hadn't been exercising regularly, either, due to the heat and wildfire smoke.

I studied the air quality map; it wasn't good, but it wasn't dangerous, either. I settled on a flat route and planned to take it easy, but still get home with enough time to visit our weekly farmers' market. Stage 2: 17 miles, 320 feet of climbing, average speed 10.7 mph. [Like I said, flat.]

The best way into town is on foot: no struggle to find parking, no worries about locking up a bike. But there was a small matter of a tree to deal with. The path was marked closed, but someone else had already broken through the pesky yellow “caution!” tape.

It was 93°F when I set out. Bad luck of the draw, I stood baking in the sun while one customer engaged the vendor in a leisurely conversation about their growing season and techniques, followed by a woman whose credit card didn't go through and then found some fault with the first pack of berries they presented to her. [Sigh.] My transaction took less than a minute. [Cash.]

When I got back home—90 minutes after I'd set out—I was stunned to see the temperature was now above 102°F. And I'd walked home in that? Carrying a basket full of produce? [The day was still heating up, of course; it would peak just shy of 108°F.]

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 1

Back in 2007, before I started this blog, I participated in the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge for the first time. I didn't know what to expect. Mostly, it seemed like a handy way to cycle down the central California coast, from Carmel Valley to San Simeon. Impressed with the organization, I returned the following year. And the year after that. And ...

Fast forward to 2020, when this event (like so many others) cannot be held. By the time they made the decision, encouraging us to make up our own challenge, I was uncertain about fundraising. Could my appeal to donors rise above the chaos that is 2020? I thought about scaling back. Unsurprisingly, without an actual event, many folks decided to sit this year out. Those who did sign up have raised little money. Like other non-profits, Best Buddies runs these events to bring in needed cash to support their programs year round (and, to raise awareness).

Who am I? Not a fair-weather friend! The need doesn't stop just because we can't have a mass gathering of people riding our bicycles down the coast.

Then, I had an idea. Challenge accepted. I reached out to my donors, and they've graciously supported Best Buddies for me, again. I promised them I would do something worthy. Today marked the start of my challenge.

I made a late call on what today's ride would be; where would the wind send the wildfire smoke? I checked the air quality when I woke up, and confirmed the plan with my ride buddy. The redwoods beckon on a hot day; the area we enjoyed just three weeks ago was unscathed by the lightning that torched the forest just a few miles to the north. Stage 1 of my Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Old Santa Cruz Highway to the end of Highland Way, and back.

As I expected, there was very little traffic on the route; beaches are closed, and mountain bikers who flock to the Soquel Demonstration Forest risk citations (also, closed). The road is narrow, and in increasingly wretched condition; there are a couple of construction zones, fighting to keep sections from collapsing into the canyon. A vintage red convertible (Mustang) hung back behind me, and just as the road opened up a bit and I sensed the driver would pull around to pass me, I saw a group of fast cyclists approaching.

I did what I normally do in this situation: I eased farther to the left, effectively leaving no room to pass, firmly extended my left arm straight out, palm back, and hoped the driver would react responsibly. Which is to say, stay behind me and keep to the right. [She did.] The cyclists were grateful; I received a chorus of thank-yous, and from a guy at the front, “Appreciate that!” When all was clear, I edged back to the right, leaving enough room for the driver to pass safely. As she did, she waved and called out “Thank you!” [That was a first.]

Sadly, there was a recent local case of a driver who chose to pass an uphill cyclist on a blind curve, fatally injuring an oncoming cyclist on his way down. Note to drivers: Don't do that. If you don't have a clear line of sight, don't pass. Really. On another ride, I've had a driver pull around me and nearly run head-on into another vehicle. Most drivers, though, get it and hang back when I stick my arm out.

At the end of Stage 1, I saw that I was so close to finishing on the three-hour mark. I dug deep, the final turn was in sight, seconds to spare ... and I had to hold up for an approaching car. The total duration of our outing, of course, was longer—we regrouped a couple of times in the shade, for snacks and conversation.

Stage 1: 30 miles, 2,345 feet of climbing, average speed, 10.1 mph (yes, I'm slow). High temperature this afternoon, at home: 101°F. The forecast for tomorrow: hotter.

Gusty Gutsy

Could I still do it? Could I still ride 100 miles down the coast? Last year, on the alternate route, I dropped back to 100 km due to the heat. But that would not be a factor this year.

You've done it before, I told myself. This will be the eleventh time. Of course you can do it. A 25-mile ride is nothing, this is just four of those.

The start was different this year. Although it's not a race (for most of us), this year they had us line up in three groups. Group 1 would finish by 1 p.m, group 2 by 2 p.m, group 3 by 3 p.m. Where is group 4? [There was no group 4.] I normally place myself at the front, to stay with the pack as long as possible, but I dutifully found a place at the back. Once we were rolling, I was able to catch some of the group 2 stragglers, at least.

Our “neutral” 15 mph start was no such thing, as I averaged 17.1 mph for the first 30 minutes. The route was also a bit longer, with a sharp uphill turn from Rancho San Carlos onto Carmel Valley Road, because they positioned us to start in the opposite direction. I didn't need that extra mileage or elevation gain ... and there were urgent choruses of SLOWING! from the pack whenever the pace would suddenly drop and we would bunch up. At one point George Hincapie effortlessly sailed past me as if I were coasting [but I was pedaling, hard]. Maybe he got a late start, because he should have been at the front.

Group 2 was ready to depart right after I arrived at the first rest stop, and group 3 followed only a few minutes later. There were plenty of domestiques (in hot pink jerseys) to look after us; I didn't want to get caught up in a group of stragglers, so I was careful not to tarry.

The weather was, in a word, perfect. Warm enough to forgo even arm warmers, and once we slipped out from under the marine layer, the views were as spectacular as I'd ever seen on this ride. Mother Nature was, perhaps, making amends for the damage that closed the route to us the past two years.

Thirty miles in, I wondered again about whether I could still do this. Seventy miles to go? Eh, 33 miles isn't a big ride, this is just three of those.

I was prepping to leave the second rest step when I heard the ride “sweep” roll in. [Uh oh.] I don't think I'd ever been that close to the back of the ride at the halfway point. I hustled out of there and understood that I needed to stop taking photos or risk being swept into a support vehicle.

The hills slow me down. “Keep on grinding,” a voice behind me called out. [Grrr.] I'm sure he meant well, but it's times like this when I wish I was wearing my Death Ride jersey. [Respect.] I adopted he following approach:

Me:  Have you done this ride before?
Domestique:  No, this is my first time, the views are incredible!
Me:  Ah yes. I've done this route ten times, and the views today are one of the top two—if not the best—I've seen.

I'd explain that I usually finish around 4 p.m., and once they were reassured that I was smiling (not struggling), we had some nice chats and they turned their attention to the strugglers. “You'll see people walking on the pair of hills after the lunch stop,” I told them.

But not so many, this year—I only passed one walker. Until I nearly got toppled by some powerful wind gusts, and I dismounted for a short stretch (self-preservation, that). On the next climb, I rounded a sharp promontory and got blasted with sand and twigs. The gusts were so fierce and unrelenting that I nearly lost control of the bike. I had a flashback to the day my bike got slammed into the guardrail, up north. There was no guardrail here; I got off the bike and walked until the road direction shifted me out of harm's way.

I couldn't resist a few more photos. For some perspective, that line cut high into the hillside (below) is the road (CA 1).

I descended with caution, concerned about the effects of a crosswind at speed. I was anxious to get down to the flat section, where I expected the (tail)wind to boost me. I usually sweep past a few riders on the home stretch, and today was no exception. After passing a domestique shepherding a spent rider, there was another guy in my sights. I didn't expect to catch him, so I was surprised to find that I was closing the gap. (Until he noticed me and dug deeper to stay ahead.)

I crossed the line at 4:18 p.m. after 101 miles and 6,405 feet of climbing, average speed 12.6 mph, top speed 41.1 mph. Not my fastest time, but not my slowest, either. [I can, in fact, still do this.]

Enough time to catch a massage, collect my luggage, and dash off to the hotel to get cleaned up for some partying.

At the barbecue, Zack Gottsagen and the filmmakers were talking about making The Peanut Butter Falcon. If you're not clear about what folks with intellectual and developmental disabilities can achieve, well ... see the film and learn the backstory.

At the after-party, I was disappointed to learn that we would no longer enjoy the privilege of swimming in the Neptune Pool. As much as I thought, each time that I bobbed and floated in that amazing place, that I might never again have the chance, I did always hope for another opportunity.

I wrapped up the night with another brief tour of the castle, which has become more standardized each year. Gone are the days when the guide would ask what you wanted to see, and improvise. I don't recall visiting the Celestial Suite in the past, all the way into the top of one of the towers. The resident bats are gone, too; repelled by a clicking electronic device mounted in the eaves.

The first time I signed up for this event, it was the route that lured me. I didn't expect to return, again and again. I never expected that I could raise as much money as I have, over all these years.

I'm looking forward to next year, to riding and raising funds to help people like Zack be respected and achieve their full potential.

That's what we all deserve, isn't it?

Faster than Some

Slower than most.

The Best Buddies Sonoma training ride has become one of my favorites. I was looking forward to visiting the same Airbnb hosts again, but maybe they're working on the renovation they mentioned last year—their listing wasn't available to book.

I was stunned when I realized that the place I did find, this year, was right on the edge of the burn zone in Santa Rosa. As in, one or two blocks away. This was a direct connection to a dramatic video I'd seen in the aftermath of that fire, when firefighters from Berkeley rolled into town and found a neighborhood to defend after realizing that their assigned rendezvous point had already been lost. This was that neighborhood.

Our ride would be less hot than last year (hurray!). Our Ringleader Richard sorted the 40-milers into three groups after we'd covered a few miles. Not surprisingly, I landed in the middle group ... after hanging on at 16.4 mph (!) for the first 30 minutes (climbing 270 feet in the process).

Eventually I would slip off the back. Despite Richard's colorful admonitions not to be a “martyr” and ride alone, I am content to do exactly that. The slow group would be too pokey for me, and I'd be disappointed not to collect a good photo or two.

The middle group left the rest stop first; the fast riders waited for the slow riders to arrive, allowing for a somewhat tighter finish. [A less spread-out finish, anyway.] Along the way another rider fell in with me; his buddy was with the fast pack. A mile or two later, he said “I'd ride anywhere with you, you're very consistent!” [Well, I have that going for me. That, and descending.]

The fast group would pass us, of course. Back at the ranch, Richard's closing remarks were poignant. “I know how some of you felt this morning, wondering whether you could keep up, whether you could do this ride. Remember that feeling? That's what our Buddies feel, every single day.”

And that is why I keep supporting this organization.

I did push myself hard today, 835 feet of climbing over 38 miles, averaging 14.7 mph. [Unnaturally fast, for me. But, evidently, possible.]

Baked Buddies

For my 12th ride in the annual Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, I considered opting for the 60-mile route instead of my traditional 100. Although repairs to the Pacific Coast Highway were completed ahead of schedule [when does that ever happen?], the organizers couldn't gamble that the road would be open before the big day. We would trace the same route we followed last year.

We made the long trek to San Simeon and visited some of the local sights after checking in. For the first time, I spotted the resident zebras grazing in the fields below the castle—I've long known about them, but not clearly seen them till now.

We drove a few miles north to observe the resident elephant seals. The colony was spread around the largest bull I've seen. No doubts about who's in charge.

I wasn't enthused about reprising last year's route, and I imagined that climbing Old Creek Road would be more scenic than Highway 41. I mean, the highway was sort of scenic—this is California, after all—but the back roads are more enticing. I had been similarly tempted last year, but stayed the course.

When I thanked my donors last year, I invited any of them to join me (and expected no takers). Surprise! One of my friends signed up, excited to be tackling her first century. The die was cast.

As the day drew near, I kept a close eye on the forecast. The predicted inland high temperature for Saturday kept creeping up. As we drove to San Simeon, I checked the current conditions in Paso Robles: 107°F. (Yikes.) Neither of us could handle that kind of heat. I nearly bonked at mile 60, last year—and that was not a triple-digit day.

And so it was, with some regrets, that we traded down to the 60-mile route.

There are some stunning views as we head south along Highway 1, but with riders moving fast in a pack there are few opportunities to pull aside for a photo stop.

We climbed Old Creek Road from one end to the other. Along the way, there was a great view of Whale Rock Reservoir with the Pacific Ocean in the distance.

There was more traffic than I expected, with a motorcycle officer from the CHP patrolling up and down. When I saw the ghost bike, I understood.

By 10:30 a.m., it was already uncomfortably hot. Toward the top, I pedaled from one patch of shade to the next (when I could find some). I passed a cyclist immobilized with leg cramps, and others who were walking.

This year, I had no intention of climbing the wall on Santa Rosa Creek Road. The organizers heeded our pleas for mercy and offered Highway 46 as an official bypass option. [Which I would have taken, anyway.]

Highway 46 offers expansive views of secluded canyons, the Pacific, and Morro Rock at the mouth of the bay. My descent was especially carefree: during yesterday's drive, we witnessed Caltrans sweeping the shoulder(!). A few pockets of warm air crossed the road, and by the time I reached Highway 1 the cool headwind was welcome. A tailwind would have been even more welcome, but ... dream on.

After crossing the finish line, I enjoyed a late lunch at the beach—watching the pelicans compete for their lunch.

The shorter route (58 miles, 3,220 feet of climbing) gave us ample time to arrive at the barbecue in time for all the speeches and award presentations. And, of course, the band!

Every year we meet new Buddy Ambassadors and are inspired by their achievements: meaningful jobs, sincere friendships, and the confidence to live full lives.

Every year I am humbled by the donations I'm able to collect, and awed by the top fundraisers.

We took a short tour of Casa Grande at the after-party, where I was thrilled to get a close-up view of the resident bats in addition to the usual sights (like Mr. Hearst's office, above). Others in our party were, shall we say ... not so thrilled?

My ride buddy and I made the right call; Atascadero topped out at 101°F. Mother Nature willing, I'll return to the traditional coastal route in 2019—all 100 miles of it.

Riding with the Bunch

After last year, I was looking forward to repeating the MacMurray Ranch training ride for Best Buddies and was excited when it materialized on our calendars.

I was eager to book the same Airbnb spot and was delighted that it was available. This year, I was joined by a biking buddy who took the leap to register for the big event this fall!

It was promising to be a hot day, so everyone was ready to get rolling. Our ringleader and master of ceremonies, Richard Fries, commanded us to “Go easy when it's hard and hard when it's easy” in a noble attempt to keep the group together. No reason not to do the 40-mile route today (well, other than the impending heat), and this year I saw a range of riders lining up. The hammerheads would split off soon enough, and the rest of us would stay together.

Or so I thought.

My cycling computer showed that I averaged 15.7 mph (!) for the first hour, and for me that's not sustainable. This was the slow group?

When we stopped for our break at the Dry Creek General Store, I learned that I was part of the “middle” group. [Ohhhhh.]

The fast group was ready to roll when the slow group caught up, and the middle group was dawdling. “Let's go,” I said. “They'll drop us, but the day is only going to get hotter.”

I soon found myself in a familiar in-between place: behind the fast group, ahead of the slower groups. That suited me just fine, allowing me to indulge in some photo-taking.

Despite the heat, the last leg on Eastside was actually pleasant—a little bit cooler, with a hint of a breeze even.

We rode 38 miles with a scant 695 feet of climbing—which factors into how I was able to average 14.9 mph (wow).

Back at the party, Richard said “You're a strong rider, I watched you in the group today.” [Me? A strong rider?] “I have no power,” I sighed. “We can work on that, and the first thing is: Stop saying that.”

A Challenged and Challenging Challenge

After riding down the Pacific Coast ten times for Best Buddies in the Hearst Castle Challenge, this year would be different.

That view never gets old, so why change the route?

Mother Nature, that's why. Last winter's storms first undermined a bridge over Pfeiffer Canyon; and then, as if knocking out a bridge wasn't enough, a massive chunk of hill slid down onto Highway 1 at Mud Creek. The road repairs may not be complete by this time next year.

Our destination (Hearst Castle) is a constant, but ... you can't get there from here. The ride must go on, and thus Plan B was hatched. All routes would start (as well as finish) in San Simeon, at Hearst Memorial Beach, instead of the traditional start in Carmel Valley.

I struggled mightily over which route to pick. Forego the 100 mile route and opt for the 100 km route instead? Yes? A more scenic climb up Old Creek Road (vs. Highway 41). No! I've always done the century; if I skipped this year, I wouldn't know whether I could have done it. Either way, late in the route (mile 37, or mile 78) I'd face a steep climb on Santa Rosa Creek Road. (Going rogue, following Highway 46 all the way to the coast, did cross my mind.)

But I stayed the course. All 101 miles of it. From San Simeon, through Cayucas, to Morro Bay.

Up Highway 41, into the Los Padres National Forest, to Templeton.

In keeping with this year's track record, my level of training was not where I needed it to be. A record-breaking heat wave, enhanced by bad air (from distant wildfires), kept me mostly off the bike over the preceding ten days.

The sun broke through and started baking us as we climbed inland; I started feeling a bit twitchy around mile 60; a bit of bonk was creeping up on me. [Uh oh.]

We would be tackling Santa Rosa Creek Road in the downhill direction, descending the wicked wall. I'd wager that a handful of participants (at best) had ridden this road before, in either direction. The climb from Highway 46 starts out gently.  I knew it had to get steep, recalling my wild ride last year. “Is this the climb?” a nearby rider asked, clearly not impressed. “No, it gets steep.” (He thought an earlier climb today was steep.) “No no no, this gets steep.”

A rider walking up the hill came into view. It didn't look all that bad.

And it probably wasn't all that bad, at that point. But with 78 miles and more than 4,300 feet of climbing behind me, my legs simply gave out. For the first time, I considered what it might be like for pro riders in Grand Tours to finish a long stage at the top of a mountain. Sure, I've pedaled up some of those climbs. But not with 100+ miles in my legs. (By the way, our peloton today included Big George and Christian Vande Velde, so there just might be a new KOM on Strava's leaderboard.)

The pavement is in terrible condition, making the technical descent to the coast even more tricky. There were occasional signs cautioning “Rough Road,” but it would have been more honest to mark the few sections of smooth pavement, instead. The ever-vigilant Best Buddies staff must have emptied a full can of purple paint marking the cracks and potholes. In a couple of places, they had consistently sprayed “Very Steep Decent,” which made me laugh. There's nothing decent about a steep road.

There was no warning about the loose dog. He turned to face me, and of course decided to give chase. Having expected that, I dug deep and sprinted, hoping to outrun him. [I did.]

There was no warning about the loose head of cattle, either. He was walking up the road and bellowing. I slowed, glad that it wasn't one of the longhorns I'd seen earlier, but unsure how he'd react. He moved to the opposite side of the road, focusing on the herd on the other side of the fence and bellowing mournfully. [Whew.]

There were no bikes at the rest stop at the base of the road (even though I'm slow, that was a first). I knew there were riders behind me, and I knew that most of them would not have an easy time coming down the hill. Of course, they might have given up and hopped in a SAG wagon, but that didn't occur to me. [They hadn't.]

The next challenge was heading north on Highway 1. The name of that challenge was “Headwind”—payback for 10 years of tailwind. This year, we had a crew of domestiques (!), outfitted in yellow jerseys emblazoned with “Get on my wheel!” My guy pulled me for a few miles before swinging off to wait for others, and I relished every inch of that draft.

Mother Nature had one more surprise for us: Hurricane Irma. [Say what? We're in California.] This year's entertainment at the post-ride barbecue was to have been KC and the Sunshine Band ... but they were stuck in Florida. At the last minute, the organizers pulled an LA-based band out of a hat—Soulville California Band. And the dance floor was packed!

My internal soundtrack during the ride was the Hollies:

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I'm strong ...

I love this charity, and I keep coming back—for the Buddies. He ain't heavy, he's my brother.