In the Misty Morning Fog

With breakfast done and luggage handed off, I managed to get rolling about 15 minutes earlier today. On my own, again.

We'd been cautioned about sharing the road with traffic as we climbed out of Pacifica, even so early on a Saturday morning. [Where are they all going?!]

Bright jacket. [Check.] Bright flashing white light on my handlebar. [Check.] Super bright flashing red light on my back. [Check.]

I found myself at Devil's Slide sooner than I expected. Vehicular traffic passes into a tunnel; cyclists follow the original road as it snakes along the slide-prone cliffs.

Not much of a view.

Visibility was so limited, even at bicycle speed, that I had to slow down. The white line at the edge of the road is your friend. (Now I get why it's called the “fog line!”)

The fog condensed on both sides of my lenses. I had to stop—often—to wipe them dry. Sometimes I just peered over the top, despite my profound nearsightedness.

Approaching Half Moon Bay, a few riders pulled out of a parking lot. [Unofficial rest stop at a Starbucks.] I. Am. So. Slow. I had been looking forward to the traditional tailwind, heading south; uncharacteristically, we were battling a headwind.

Then we saw red and blue flashing lights ahead. A lot of them. Emergency vehicles blocking most of the road. My heart dropped. I was relieved that I wasn't facing this scene alone. And even more relieved that no cyclists were involved; a large white SUV had smashed into another vehicle. Later I overhead that a couple of riders had been nearby and dodged a wheel that broke loose from one of the vehicles.

I spotted a paved trail running parallel to Highway 1 and wondered why we weren't on it. Eventually, I shifted over and enjoyed it while it lasted.

Sometimes a dry-my-lenses-and-refuel moment was at least somewhat photo-worthy.

I knew that I would pass the burn zone from the CZU fire. It's been more than four years, and I hadn't yet mustered the courage to view the aftermath. Cycling rather than driving along the edge was probably best, anyway. You can't help but be distracted by what once was, and thinking of the man who lost his life on a remote road I'd biked past many times.

The fog layer lifted overhead around the halfway mark. I'd been grateful that a car club (Porsches, mainly) had been heading north when they passed us. Now, on the outskirts of Santa Cruz, a less well-behaved caravan of mostly Ferraris and Lambos sped by, heading south. I found a safe place to step off the road.

There was a plan for everyone to assemble at a spot in Santa Cruz and ride together to the finish in our matching jerseys. Gauging the timing, I knew I wouldn't make it. Lacking local knowledge to navigate through Santa Cruz more directly, I was further slowed by boardwalk traffic, unpredictable pedestrians, and detours. I arrived just as the group photo was being taken, and missed it when a well-intentioned bike valet stopped me. Ah, well.

As a newbie, long-time participants were curious how I came to join the ride. “Are you a Rotarian?” asked one of my dinner companions on the second night. “No,” I smiled. “That's okay, I forgive you.” he bantered.

Cast your memory back to episode one of this saga, where I mentioned the article that launched me on this journey. The author didn't ride this year, but she was there at the finish line celebration. I introduced myself: “You're the reason I'm here!” Her face lit up.

With today's 65 miles and some 3,400 feet of elevation gain, I managed to ride 175 miles over three days, approaching 9,950 feet of elevation gain. The best part? The people! The organizers, the cheerful and supportive volunteers, my fellow riders, a roommate who turned out to be very compatible. Over the course of three days, I didn't see a moment of negativity from anyone. [Imagine that!]

We formed a community to raise funds for a designated set of youth-related causes—and we raised enough to support the club's commitments to all of them. Hearing from leaders of the receiving organizations, and experiencing the dedication of the people hosting this ride, was inspirational. Seriously.

Same time, next year? Hmm ...

Missing the Middle in Marin

The organizers have a check-in protocol to assure that no one is left behind; I wasn't the last one to roll out, but I should have gotten an earlier start. Breakfast was officially available at 6:30 a.m.

I was amused when one of the words I formed in the NY Times Spelling Bee game this morning was R-O-T-A-R-Y. The Santa Cruz Sunrise Rotary Club has been hosting this event for some time (2024 is the 27th edition), and it wouldn't surprise me if they had a connection to pull that off.

If I could have afforded the time to stop for photos, I would have captured the mist rising above a field in the early morning light. And a perfect shadow of me on the bike, cast by the rising sun.

A large group stopped for a photo when the northern wetlands of Tomales Bay came into view, so I pulled over and played photographer for them. I'd been leapfrogging them for a few miles, and they suggested I join them. “I can't keep up, I need to ride at my own pace,” I explained. “Well, you seem to be keeping up just fine!” they said. [Only because I was faster going downhill.]

Soon enough the terrain flattened out, I lost my advantage, and they were ... gone. An hour later, I needed a break (and Tomales Bay was stunning).

The farther south I rode, the more concerned I became that I'd missed the official rest stop. I passed the “usual” spots (from past experience with rides along this road). Mile 23? Or mile 27? I pulled out my route sheet: Mile 31.

Shortly thereafter, the road turned east and the climb ramped up. The day was already warmer than I'd expected. I passed a SAG vehicle that had pulled over. “I'm not stalking you,” he joked. And then I knew: I was the last rider on the road. Sausalito (our lunch stop) was on the other side of Marin County, 30 (hilly) miles away. I'd noticed an odd little tent in the field at the rest stop. Not being a camper, it later dawned on me that it was probably a pop-up privacy potty.

When I next met the SAG truck, I pulled over. I really wanted to ride the post-lunch segment, from Sausalito to Pacifica, and I decided that wasn't realistic unless I skipped ahead. [Sigh.] We slowly cruised to Sausalito, stopping to check on or pick up other cyclists. I enjoyed both our conversations and the airconditioning, and really looked forward to reaching a restroom. With about 2,000 feet of elevation gain, I'd averaged 12.2 mph over those first 33.6 miles, which was pretty typical for me.

I saw a few familiar faces at lunch, just before they took off. I didn't linger, determined not to be last on the road.

It had been many years since I'd biked over the Golden Gate Bridge. Even on a weekday, outside of tourist season, it was busy—and now many visitors are on rented ebikes. Unlike yesterday, we had clear views.

The blind turns around the towers are always dicey, with pedestrians and cyclists traveling in both directions. I walked around the busier south tower and tucked out of the way for a photo. A yellow sign warns cyclists about the gusty winds I'd already braved.

Okay. It was worth it.

Our route headed through a ritzy neighborhood into Lands End and past the Legion of Honor before continuing south on the Great Highway. When people had mentioned the steep climb to the water tower in Daly City, I knew exactly where we would be. I've pedaled up that street from the other direction, and I can tell you that side is tougher. (The steepest part of today's route was on Alexander Avenue in Sausalito—climbing up to the bridge.)

Not being familiar with the area, I hadn't realized how close I was to the end of today's route in Pacifica (less than six miles). I covered about 22 miles on the second half of my ride, climbing some 1,700 feet along the way. My pace was slower, in part because I allowed myself to relax and in part due to the usual challenges crossing the bridge. For the day, about 3,700 feet of elevation gain over 56 miles (shy of the route's full 86 miles and 4,400 feet). It was the right call.

The view from my hotel room and the soothing sounds of the sea were my rewards.

Hopefully I can start pedaling earlier tomorrow, to complete the last leg of this journey!

On the Road Again

Late last year, browsing the website of one of the bicycle clubs in our region, I read an article about a multi-day cycling event that has been held annually for 26 years. Twenty-six years, and I'd never heard of it until then?

Here we are at 6:00 a.m., loading bikes into trucks, and cyclists and their bags onto a bus. This year's cadre was disciplined; the organizers were delighted that the bus actually pulled out more than 15 minutes ahead of schedule. Destination: Healdsburg.

We stretched our legs at the rest stop just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I hoped that we'd have a view when we cross it on our bikes, tomorrow. But you never know.

We were so busy chatting on the bus that I was puzzled when we pulled off the freeway. Suddenly, it seemed, we were in Healdsburg.

After a group photo and a few verses of On the Road Again, we were on our way. I started with a small group of women (who pulled ahead within the first mile). I've never been a speedy rider. The day was warm, and with two more (hilly) riding days ahead, I also needed to pace myself.

Our lunch stop was hosted at a participant's cabin along the Russian River. [Top that!]

Our route followed many Sonoma County roads familiar to me from rides gone by: Waves to Wine, club rides, Best Buddies, Wine Country Centuries, and more.

Memorable moments: A truck hauling junk (uncovered) passed me early on; I hung back, imagining the oddity of being flattened by a flying mattress. Unsurprisingly, a big boy in his big pickup truck found it necessary to blast us with clouds of sooty exhaust on a rural road. Had we put it to a vote, the one-mile stretch along Barlow Lane would come out on top as the worst road surface. Ever, according to some. Struggling to shift gears at one point, I glanced down at my rear wheel and discovered that a small branch had hitched a ride in line with my chain. [That's a first.]

When we reached Roblar Road, I knew Rohnert Park (and our hotel) was near. Of course, we had followed a scenic route to get there: 53 miles and some 2,800 feet of climbing. Somehow, I managed to roll in with a small group—headed by the guy who'd led the training ride I'd joined a few months ago.

Tomorrow will be a long day.