Great, Not Snowy

When I spied some birds hunting in the shallows, of course I had to stop.

The light reflected off the glistening mud flats might look like snow, but of course it's not. Nor was the egret a snowy (Great, instead).

Before taking wing and perching in a tree on the opposite shore, a great blue heron seemed more focused on preening than hunting.

The day started out cloudy and chilly; I was glad I'd donned a proper cold-weather jacket at the last minute, this morning. But by the time we stopped for lunch, the skies had cleared and we were eager to peel off our outer layers. My thermal capris had become too warm. I'd already swapped my winter-weight gloves for lighter long-fingered gloves; I should have brought a fingerless pair, too.

Such are the challenges of late season cycling in the Bay Area. [Ha.]

A good day to ride some 32 miles, with a touch (~900 feet) of climbing.

Windswept

I'd gone to sleep last night nearly certain that our Thursday morning bike ride was not likely to happen. A big storm (“bomb cyclone”) is approaching, and although the worst of it would pass north of us, we would get some of it.

But it was dry, and the winds not (yet) as strong or gusty as yesterday. The weather radar images suggested we'd be dry; I donned a water-resistant jacket, just in case.

The wind picked up by the time we finished our coffee stop; somehow it's never a tailwind. Side gusts presented some challenges. My heavy hybrid held steady, but doesn't allow for much in the way of aerodynamic positioning.

The sky was filled with all manner of interesting clouds ... until I turned toward home. The clouds descended to mask the hills in a gray mist, and soon I felt the first pin-prick drops on my face. I was grateful to squeeze in my second 30-mile ride of the week, and to stay (mostly) dry.

Reflections

Some months ago, my chief biking buddy observed that it had been a long time since we'd biked up Old Santa Cruz Highway. I noted that the road had been closed for quite some time (due to storm damage in multiple locations), but had reopened. (And I've explored it a few times since then.)

Today was our day. Post-summer-beach-traffic congestion. Pre-Christmas-tree-farm congestion. Neither too cold nor too hot. Lexington Reservoir's low water level surprised me; I expect they're preparing for winter rains, and I hope Mother Nature delivers.

Back in the day, it was permissible (and free) to park above the dam; that's been off-limits for many years. The local bike club prefers to start rides further south, where there is ample (and free) parking near the Lexington School, but that cuts out the scenic rolling hills on the east side of the reservoir—the route we chose today.

By now I've pedaled farther (and higher) than all of last year (or the year before that). I'd noticed that my enthusiasm for cycling waned significantly after I completed my recent three-day tour. Is this a trend? Cycling should be fun, not a chore.

We opted to return on the west side of the reservoir, which entails a short stretch on Highway 17 (at the edge of a lane that carries little traffic, leading to the reservoir). A motorist tapped his horn as he passed me, perhaps thinking that I shouldn't be there and didn't know what I was doing? Surprise! It is actually bicycle-legal (and not too scary).

We covered a little under 15 miles and 1,400 feet of elevation gain. But it's really about the camaraderie, not the stats.

Pedal Pushers

Foxy's Fall Century is a popular one-day bike event that I'd never done, and this year my chief biking buddy and I signed up. Rides like these are great opportunities to see parts of California that we would otherwise likely not visit.

Davis is renowned as a big biking town, and we saw plenty of university students (and others) on the streets and trails.

We headed for the university's arboretum to stretch our legs after our long drive. Blooms are scarce this time of year, though we did pass some common yarrow and California fuschia. Nature's Gallery Court, with its colorful tiles featuring native plants and pollinators, was a lovely consolation.

The arboretum's waterway was dry (under renovation), much to the disappointment of my biking buddy, who was especially looking forward to seeing the lake.

A red flag warning (for gusty, dry winds) had been scheduled to expire on Friday night, but then was extended into Saturday evening. On the drive up we'd seen a grass fire from the freeway, to the east; that smoke wouldn't be a factor, but I did smell smoke (faintly) when we started biking on Saturday morning. That fire was closer, I learned, but contained.

Our route followed mostly rural roads, with very little traffic, past orchards and vast agricultural fields. The middle third of the ride brought us closer to some hills, with a welcome lunch stop at Lake Sonoma. Like many of our fellow riders, we perched on the curb with our sandwiches to enjoy the view.

The winds (headwinds, with occasional gusts) picked up as the day wore on. Despite that, I averaged 14 mph over the course's 62.6 miles. I'm pretty sure that's my fastest pace over such a distance (thanks to very little elevation gain—less than 1,200 feet).

Of course, several pacelines passed me like I was standing still ... but that's to be expected. Unlike so many rides these days, I wasn't passed by a single ebike—I saw only one, all day. What a joy it was to pedal with so many like-minded cyclists!

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 absurdity 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.

Ham for Lunch

Destination: Lick Observatory.

Having committed to do a multi-day tour (which is fast approaching), I've been upping my mileage (and hill climbing) for the past several weeks. And what better way to assess my endurance than to ascend Mt. Hamilton?

This time of year (mating season) brings out the tarantulas. Yes, they're big. And hairy. But benign.

A coyote crossed the road ahead of me, then eyed me from the nearby slope before moving along. The wild turkeys I'd passed miles earlier were out of range, I expect. I heard the usual mix of scrub jays, acorn woodpeckers, quail, and red-tailed hawks. I'm pretty sure it was a gray fox I spotted on my descent, scampering into the brush right next to the road.

I slogged my way to the top, slower than my last trip here. Skies were clear, but the temperature was just warm enough to be uncomfortable. I had paused to shed my jacket on the lower climb, then five more times on the upper climb for snacks, proper hydration (electrolytes), and the occasional photo. From the summit, I envied the fog layered over Monterey Bay.

First to the patio, I scored the best (shadiest!) table. My chief biking buddy had gamely joined me again, even though she's not particularly fond of this climb. We loitered and chatted with visitors; I ate everything I'd brought and refilled my water bottle before heading down. I was alarmed to see a fire burning near San Jose International Airport; a grass fire that was quickly contained, as it turned out.

I had my eyes peeled for a (possibly flattened) rattlesnake on the way down; a visitor mentioned seeing one across the center line on his drive up. I don't think about encountering them when I'm cycling, though ironically the only time I'd seen one was in this area.

Seemingly against the odds, there it was. Alive!

It was motionless, apart from flicking its tongue in and out a few times. I kept my distance, but the snake was not amused when I moved—stepping sideways to try for a better zoom angle on its rattle. It coiled, raised its head, hissed, rattled, and slithered off the road. Which probably saved it from being flattened by a vehicle today. [You're welcome.]

Mission accomplished: the traditional 39 miles with about 4,800 feet of elevation gain. For the month of September (so far), 311 miles and some 13,000 feet of elevation gain.

Next week ... ready or not, here I come.

Solace by the Bay

I've seen this movie before. Long-time homeowner sells; new owner moves in and suddenly notices the mature tree(s) on the property. Trees that are older than the new owners. First order of business? Cut 'em down!

Heartbroken that the neighborhood would be losing yet another towering giant, and not enthused about listening to chainsaws and chippers all day, I pedaled away. I had already been planning a long ride.

A preening white pelican perched near a napping cormorant.

A great egret hunted along the shoreline.

My habitual baylands ride is a counter-clockwise loop, heading northwest along the edge of San Francisco Bay. During one of my birdwatching pauses, I turned to cast my gaze behind me. The path aligned with Hangar 2 at Moffett Field; Hangar 3, to the left, has been deemed unsalvageable and demolition is underway. Hangar 1, largely restored, is on the right.

With a gratuitous climb on the way home, I completed my 45-mile loop with 1,100 feet of elevation gain. Wood dust and scrapes on the pavement were the only evidence of my new neighbors' once-mighty tree.

Picture Perfect

My first trip to the top of Mt. Hamilton by bicycle was in October, 2003 (on a recumbent tandem), followed by a repeat in 2004. My first solo trip was in 2005; the group started just above Joseph Grant County Park (midway) and biked out and back on Kincaid Road as well. After that, I pedaled to the top every year (mostly recorded here), from the bottom ... until last year. I was deterred by road closures, and later wasn't confident I was fit enough to make it to the top.

I wasn't so sure today, either. Then I thought about Remco Evenepoel visualizing victory at the Olympic road race in Paris two weeks ago, imagining what an iconic image it would make to cross the finish line solo at the Eiffel Tower. Then, he did it.

I planted an image in my head, standing in front of the main entrance at Lick Observatory atop Mt. Hamilton.

Much to my surprise, a good friend had driven up to meet me at the top—not only snapping photos, but bringing lunch!

I expected to see more cyclists on such a beautiful day.

Not my fastest time up the hill, but not my slowest either! On the way up, I'd thought about pausing for a quick snack, with a particular tree-shaded overlook in mind. Not finding it, I just kept going. On the way down, I saw why: Only a low stump remains, a casualty of the fire in 2020.

A couple of miles from the bottom, I caught up to a vehicle and slowed to keep a safe distance between us. With a bike rack on the rear (empty), the driver understood that I could outpace him and graciously waved me to pass when it was clear.

I'll be back. Soon.

Pedal Power

It's been ... a while.

I joined a club ride today, and one of the stronger riders captured a photo of me coming up a hill (trailed by a few others).

We had a friendly group of people, most of whom I knew. On a “regular” bike, I was in the minority; more than half of the riders were on e-bikes. Coasting on a downhill, I was surprised to pass two of them—but of course, they had every advantage on the climbs.

The group bifurcated, with the stronger cyclists and battery-powered cyclists waiting for the rest of us at various points. [Until they didn't.]

Despite taking it easy on the ride home, my overall pace was still faster than the expected pace for the ride ... and yet I trailed the pack. It brought back memories of the first club I'd joined, many years ago, which I left after being routinely dropped (and sometimes lost) on group rides where everyone rode faster than the advertised pace.

It was nice to see folks I hadn't seen in quite some time, and to catch up with those who lingered for lunch at the end of the ride. It was less nice to ride off the back, knowing that if I paused to snap a photo I would only fall farther behind. [Hence, no photos.]

I completed more than 47 miles with some 1,600 feet of elevation gain by riding to meet the group en route (and back). Would I join another club ride? (Maybe.)

Or maybe not.

A True Test

There were two ways to get a look at the recently-burned section of Almaden Quicksilver Park from Hicks Road. I chose the route less traveled.

The visible burn scar was open land, probably mostly grass; the nearby trees and shrubs appeared to have been spared. No official cause has been given, but nearby residents reported hearing fireworks that night.

Realizing that I need to spend more time on a road bike, and curious to test my new lower gears, I had decided to tackle the “easier” side of Hicks Road. [Which is not actually easy.] I told myself I could always abandon the climb and retrace my route, downhill, to return home.

Of course, I wouldn't surrender. I also wasn't strong enough to pedal up the steep section, even with more climbing-friendly gearing. [I walked.] A passing cyclist asked if I was okay. “Yes,” I replied. “For some definition of okay.”

Descending the steeper side was fast (and twisty); I was relieved when the familiar hairpin at Guadalupe Creek was in view. The rest of the ride would be tame.

Until I spotted a deer at the side of the road. Where there is one, there are often more. [Three, in this case.]

When you stop for a closer look, or to snap a picture, they typically flee. [Not these three.]

I opted for the flat route home, completing 29 miles with some 1,600 feet of elevation gain. Will I try that climb again? (Maybe.)

Or maybe not?

Ride Up Grades

“Don't buy upgrades, ride up grades.” [Advice attributed to champion cyclist Eddy Merckx.]

But maybe there's a limit to that? An age limit, perhaps? If I swapped out my rear cassette for one with more teeth, is that a downgrade?

I came up with lots of reasons why I should abandon today's plan to check out my new gears climbing Bernal. It was early afternoon (too warm). The climb is exposed (too warm). I haven't been on the bike, really, in a couple of weeks. I felt tired. I was hungry.

Then I remembered a key takeaway from a talk by a nutritionist many years ago: If you're out there on the bike and you feel like pulling over to take a nap under the nearest shady tree, you're low on fuel—your brain isn't starving. [Right. I was hungry.]

Up I went. [Not my fastest time, nor my slowest.] Thirty miles and some 1,100 feet of climbing.

Ride up grades.

Lexington Loop

This is why I ride.

We're having another heat wave—topping out at 104°F in my neighborhood, this afternoon. Which is why I was determined to go for a ride this morning.

I chose a lightweight jersey, but questioned my choice as soon as I stepped out of the car into the blazing sun. The material was thin and well-ventilated, but the color was ... not light.

Part of me wanted to extend today's route with a little more distance and climbing; another part of me dreaded slogging uphill on exposed, sun-baked roads on the return.

There was a road crew metering traffic around some tree work. Being the only moving thing on the road (coming, and going), they flipped their sign from stop to slow as I approached. “That's me, slow!” I joked as I passed.

Instead of returning the same way, I decided to pass Lexington Reservoir on the west side. I'd heard that the road had been passable for a while, and now the “road closed” signs were gone. I knew I needed the climbing I would have done on the east side, but not in today's heat. And I was curious. [I didn't stop to snap a photo at the damaged section. Next time ...]

My route adjustment was the right choice. Only a relatively short uphill stretch in the sun; after that, the rest of the (long) exposed portion was downhill. [Woo-hoo!] Fifteen miles and some 1,400 feet of elevation gain (vs. 16 miles and about 1,700 feet had I chosen to return on the east side).

Next time ...

Biking and Birding

Now that's a serious nail.

When I spotted it, I chose walking over pedaling, so I could pick it up. (On yesterday's ride I collected four nails—three of which were rusty—and a large sheared-off bolt.) How do so many pointy things end up on the road?

I was in the mood for a long ride and headed toward the bay. It occurred to me that I could reverse the loop and enjoy a tailwind, but I hadn't plotted out the best route for that. And a fresh fruit tart on the return leg is becoming a tradition.

A giant shadow passed me on the trail along the shoreline—cast by a brown pelican flying not far above my head. The bird was skittish, but I managed to get a few photos.

And of course there were egrets, hunting in the shallows.

I added a bit of climbing on the way home to finish with about 1,300 feet of elevation gain over 45 miles. Another beautiful day of biking and bird-watching!

Remembering Keith

This is how I will remember Keith.

My friends were stunned that day when Keith shared his age (less than a month shy of 94). He came out for a ride I led to see the birds; he was on an electric bicycle then, but ... still. If I make it to that age, will I still be cycling?

I remember a presentation Keith gave about a cycling tour he'd completed in Germany. He'd served as a meteorologist with the Army Air Force during World War II, so needless to say he had a full appreciation of weather patterns. When he found himself riding north along a river—battling strong headwinds—he took a boat to the northern terminus of his route, hopped off and biked south. He crossed paths with the rest of the group again somewhere along the route.

Another story stuck with me from one of Keith's presentations. He was touring on his own (in his eighties, then) and found himself in a place that had changed since his guidebook had been published. He was perplexed. A woman in her backyard not only sorted out the route for him, but invited him in for a meal.

The only other time I rode with Keith involved cycling up a pretty steep street. He might have been the last one to the top, but he made it. On a regular bicycle. At the age of 84.

His failing eyesight ultimately kept Keith off the bike. His last ride with the bike club was at the age of 95—he even co-led a 21-mile ride to celebrate his birthday that year.

To celebrate his 100th birthday, we gathered at San Jose's Municipal Rose Garden. He seemed happy to be surrounded by old friends—and with his birthday cake!

Keith has left us, now; but his adventures and good humor will not be forgotten by those who knew him.

Cruising Up the Canyon

One of the advantages of cycling with a bike club was learning about lots of interesting places to ride (and more motivation to ride them). Now that I'm mostly cycling on my own, it's been easy to fall into a bit of a rut, cycling along a small set of familiar, comfortable routes.

But an advantage of cycling on my own is the freedom to start pedaling when it's convenient for me, rather than conforming to a club's calendar. Today I reminded myself that I was perfectly capable of biking up Stevens Canyon on my own. [And that's what I did.]

I knew it would be shady and cool along the creek, and that there would be other cyclists on the road. [Surprisingly, not many.]

On the weekends, this quiet (dead-end) road has been getting an inordinate amount of traffic. High-speed traffic. Thanks to construction on Highway 9 (ongoing for a couple of years, now), drivers learned a bypass from Stevens Canyon onto Redwood Gulch Road. I haven't climbed that super-steep road in years, and I certainly wouldn't do it now (on a weekend).

A young woman wearing a face mask, on an electric bicycle, was clearly uncomfortable on the road; she pulled over and stopped when there was a car behind her. I passed her and reached the end of the road long before she did, despite stopping to watch some butterflies (woodland skippers) on the aptly-named butterfly bush.

I imagine her partner thought this would be a pleasant, non-threatening ride for her—and maybe it was, once she got past the intersection at Redwood Gulch. I took off before they did, mindful that she would likely not be comfortable descending through the canyon at speed.

I considered a couple of options for my return route, settling on one that involved the least amount of climbing. I did, however, include one (short) gratuitous hill in both directions, because ... why not. Forty-one miles and some 2,000 feet of elevation gain for the day. [And sore legs.]