Strawberry Fields Forever

Just when you think you have seen it all, some new stupid human trick packs a surprise.

Soquel Avenue is four lanes; much of it, a boulevard. A couple of miles from the end of today's ride, I was attentively approaching an intersection in the bike lane. The signal had just turned green, and the cars were starting to roll. This is a perfect set-up for the dreaded right-hook crash: without signaling, a driver suddenly turns right in front of you.

Two motorcycles were also approaching, and saw no reason to slow their pace. One veered left, splitting the left-most lane to pass the cars. The other veered right, splitting the bike lane with me. Nothing about that maneuver was legal. There was no time to panic; he was gone in a flash.

That moment aside, it was a day of uncommon beauty. Nothing marred the saturated blue of the sky—no fog, no cloud, not even a contrail.

I started out with some friends who planned to ride only part of the the 100km route, and later caught up with another friend at the final rest stop. Notable riders along the way:

• A guy on a large-wheeled unicycle, holding a cell phone to his left ear and chatting away. I guess if you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, talk on a cell phone, and probably chew gum at the same time.
• A group of five women wearing jerseys that featured purple peaks and flowers across the front. Posing for a photo, they formed a mountain range.
• A rider stopped under the redwoods along Hazel Dell Road, re-inserting his seat post ... with no saddle attached. There is a story there, and it is not a happy one.

On the way to lunch, I flew past a few riders on a nice downhill. I do not understand why it is even possible for me to pass other riders who are tucked into their most aerodynamic posture on the bike, but ...
I pass them, nonetheless.

Climbing into the park for lunch, one rode up to me. "How fast were you going?" he asked. I checked my bike computer and gave him the answer. [44 mph.] His girlfriend rode up, saying "She's not the one who passed us." [No one passed me. Mystery woman was, therefore, faster than the speed of light.] "She was wearing gray shorts." [Have you ever seen gray shorts, apart from the Radio Shack kit?] Whatever. I have nothing to prove; I just happen to go downhill fast.

The end-of-ride meal was served about five miles before the actual end of the ride, and it is not to be missed—for that is where we gorge ourselves on the ride's eponymous strawberries (and chocolate ganache). The cruel joke was this: They eliminated the Tustin Grade, but Aptos High School is set high on a hill. Two steep climbs separated us from the food; many cyclists dismounted and walked. With any luck, I consumed fewer calories than the 2100 I burned today ... but, maybe not. A bit more climbing than the old route—overall, 3400 feet and 65 miles.

Plenty of time to get home, cleaned up, and then wow the neighbors with the best way to check out the solar eclipse (sans l'équipement spécial): Shadows.

Hard-wood

The Question: Would you like to climb it?
Correct Response: No, I hardly would.

That's Harwood.

Some people head home from work to kick back in front of the television.

Others head home from work to kick the heart rate up to 184 bpm on a steep hill.

For nearly half a mile, the average gradient on Harwood is 12.9%—with some significantly steeper sections. Pass through a gate, continue steeply uphill, pass through another gate, continue steeply uphill ... This is how to travel a short distance (1.2 miles) and fit in a good climb (some 500 feet). How economical!

Along the way, we persuaded a solo rider to fall in with our group. A strong guy, he passed me with confidence as we started the climb. When we reached Really Steep Part No. 2, he zigged (but did not zag) across the road. Once. Then he got off the bike and walked. [We really know how to treat a guest!]

Much to the confusion (and amusement) of the group, I covered an extra mile when I blew past a turn on the return route. Off the front, descending at roughly 30 mph, the closest rider in my wake shouted ... something ... which must have been "You missed the turn!" The group was confused, wondering if I decided to add another hill. And later amused, because this is my own neighborhood.

They waited, patiently, for me to sort it out and re-join them—at the dear cost of a delayed dinner. The hallmark of true friendship!

Both Sides, Now

It seems that I have inadvertently signed up for the Hamilton-of-the-Month club. January, February, April, and now May (sadly, I did miss out in March).

Wildflowers are still blooming, but the hills are fading from emerald to olive on their way to dry summer golden. Time passed quickly, as a friend and former colleague unexpectedly appeared and was content to match my pace and chat. Not having biked to the top in 20 years, he had forgotten the stunning views. I had forgotten that he had studied geology; he opened my eyes to the significance of the sheer rock faces.

As the first descent approached, I apologized in advance. "You know what happens next," I said. "Go," he replied, "this is your specialty." Resuming our conversation after he caught me on the uphill, he followed up with "You're so smooth, the best descender I have ever seen (at the amateur level)."

Today's "Free Lunch" ride is an annual tradition, wherein our intrepid ride leader hauls sandwiches (and more) to the top on a trailer attached to his bike. And yes, even with my 20-minute head start, he still passed me on the way up. This is one strong guy ... Sixty-five riders showed up, and every one of us got something to eat.

My goal today was to reach the summit twice: first, the front side (approaching from San Jose), and then the back side (approaching from the San Antonio Valley). Soon, the back side will bake dry and present a formidably hot challenge. After a brief pause for more water and a snack, I flew down to the turnaound point at Isabel Creek.

What a different world, back there! Fields, foothills, canyons, and mountain ridges as far as the eye can see. A robust breeze kept me cool, and I delighted in the isolation. A few riders were climbing out as I descended, but I would not see more of the group (descending) until I was nearly halfway back up the mountain.

I startled a jackrabbit, and paused at will to enjoy the sights: flowers, distant ridges, a handsome (but dead?) garter snake, a fabled roadside spring. I was pleasantly surprised to make it back to the top before the lunch crew departed, and was lucky to enjoy the last strawberry with some cake and whipped cream. Top that!

Some 7,100 feet of climbing over about 51 miles, same route as last year.

June is but a few weeks away.

You Can Ride Your Bike to Work

Time for that annual May tradition, leading co-workers to the office on Bike to Work Day. After all, simply riding my bike to work is no special achievement. Getting a small crowd to work, safely and smoothly? That is a worthy challenge.

This year my co-conspirator and I offered separate starting locations, converging at our rendezvous point with perfect synchronicity. Other riders fell in with our group along the way, knowing our route in advance. True to Silicon valley, technology played a successful supporting role as we invited our riders to track us with Google Latitude.

A flat tire put us a bit behind schedule, but we still managed to sweep up a third small group that wanted our leadership. With that, our ranks had swollen to 32 riders (rather more than I co-lead on a typical club ride)!

We swarmed a couple of Energizer stations in search of sustenance, and left one dad (biking his daughters to school) speechless.

You're all going to the same place? To work?

The prize for Most Creative goes to the company that set up an impromptu "feed zone" (strategically placed along a well-traveled route), where they skillfully handed bright drawstring bags to passing riders, stocked with goodies ... and a list of open positions they seek to fill.

Our record-breaking morning crowd was followed by a smaller, but still record-breaking evening crowd: six riders accepted my offer to lead them back home. We paused to wave at the drivers stuck in the traffic jam on the freeway below us. When one rider fell victim to a flat tire near the end of the ride, everyone readily agreed to circle back and stay together. What a fine group of people!

I always enjoy biking to work, and (almost) always enjoy biking back home. What I love most about this day is proving, to so many less experienced riders, that

You can ride your bike to work!

For the day, 44 miles and 1000 feet of climbing.

Active Adults

In the home stretch for today's ride, we passed a van emblazoned "Moraga Movers, Activities for Adults 55+." They did not seem to be shuttling cyclists home from the Grizzly Peak Century, though. [Not my tribe.]

The stars finally aligned for me to tackle this ride. I was pretty new to cycling the first time a friend suggested riding Grizzly Peak. How many miles?! How many feet of climbing?! She was a weaker rider than I was, and I knew I was not ready. A few years later, illness nixed my first attempt, rain washed out my second ... third time's the charm?

A guy in a colorful Voler jacket failed to unclip at the first traffic signal and toppled over. [We have all been there.] No lasting wounds, other than to his pride. I was relieved that I had stopped behind him; this is not something I would expect to see on a ride of this intensity, and I wondered how he would get through the day.

High atop the ridge, we enjoyed multi-million dollar views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate in the early morning light. I recognized the parking lot where we celebrated the Lomas Cantadas Low-Key Hillclimb, and smiled later when I cruised past El Toyonal on a lower slope.

I was more than a little surprised when our route took us through a refinery—certainly an ironic place to be, on a bicycle.

Around mile 44, I finally met the Mighty McEwen. At the rest stop, I asked "What is the grade?" No one could answer. People shuddered, and muttered. One woman insisted it is "stand-up steep." [I am a seated climber.] At first, my ride partner could not recall the climb, having done it only last year. Had she blocked it out? I worked at calibration. Sierra Road? Montebello? Harder than Montebello, she thought; easier than Sierra, and short.

Her calibration was quite good. I measured a grade of 10.6% for a little more than half a mile. The grade is somewhat uneven, starting out sharply and then tapering somewhat. McEwen? Meh. It's a hill. On a hot day, at mile 44 (with some 2800 feet of climbing in the legs), it is a modest challenge.

The greater challenge was that, at mile 44, we had completed about half of the overall climbing. The "rollers" [ahem] along the rest of the route were extended climbs (3-5 miles apiece), with shorter downhills.

A string of riders that had passed me were still in view as I crested the next climb. I was gaining on them ... could I take them? All of them? The downhill was not steep. With a little turbo-boost kick to the pedals, I sailed past one. The pavement was smooth, the lane was wide and straight, there were no cars. Aggressively aerodynamic, I topped out at 40.9 mph and coasted past two, three, four ... all of them. "You were speedy," they chortled (when they caught me on the next uphill). Yes, I descend like a rock; unfortunately, I also climb like a rock.

For this active adult, a splendid day with her tribe: 76 miles, 5,435 feet of climbing. No people-mover van required.

For the Birds

As I was sitting down to breakfast this morning, a loud ruckus erupted outside my window. I recognized the desperate cries of a baby bird, and the angry squawking of Scrub Jays. I pulled back the curtains to check out the unfolding drama.

Hopping near the street, a pair of scrub jays was mobbing a crow, who was not giving any ground. Then I saw the sad little heap of downy gray feathers, tinged with blue, lying under the oleanders.

My breakfast could wait.

I knew these jays had nested nearby, though I never puzzled out the spot. They have been diligently scolding my (indoor-only) cat for a couple of weeks. Like the crow, they are smart; they have spied the cat in various rooms and harassed her through windows on all sides of the house.

Also like the crow, they are aggressive and will raid the nests of other birds. What goes around, comes around?

I stepped outside for a closer look. The crow winged it up to a higher perch, and the jays divided their attention: one kept after the crow, the other landed a few feet from my head and squawked incessantly.

First rule for observing wildlife: If you change the behavior of the animal, you are too close. Yes, but ... It is one thing for the crow to shadow me in the garden, swooping down to gobble the sowbugs and earwigs I unearth; it is another thing entirely to tear a juvenile bird apart. Even if it is a jay.

I turned toward the garage; I would need a shovel. Suddenly, the air exploded with the sound of wings beating into chaotic flight. I looked back to the spot where the (evidently, stunned) bird had lain, and smiled.

I returned to my breakfast. The crow, driven off by the jays, left hungry.

Kindred Climbers

I was psyched for another after-work ride last Wednesday, until I saw the first raindrops splatter the windshield on the way home. The roads were dry but the sky was threatening. Within one minute of deciding to stay indoors, the ride leader canceled; within thirty minutes, the rain came pouring down.

Better luck, this week, for a couple of short climbs with a few challenging pitches. With a name like Overlook, you might expect some nice views (and, you would be right). On the way up, I noticed this elegant little bridge for the first time. [It's private. Guess the size of the house on the other side.] We joked that they could have saved money on their security system had they opted for a drawbridge, instead.

Focusing on the uneven road surface as I descended, my peripheral vision registered ... something. A quick glance to the left confirmed it: there stood a doe, calmly watching me glide past. The vole I saw had been less fortunate; surprisingly so, given how few vehicles travel up this dead-end road.

As much as I enjoyed socializing over a warm bowl of tortilla soup on this chilly night, the real reward was the sunset that warmed my spirit.

Calaveras Cognoscenti

As we approached the turn to climb "the wall," not one (but two) cars made a U-turn and headed back toward Milpitas. At that moment, I knew that today's trip along Calaveras Road would be one to remember.

Big orange signs warn that the road is closed at the county line. And that is true ... on weekdays. The Powers-That-Be appreciate the popularity of this route for cyclists, and they kindly sweep the construction zone and re-open it every weekend. Spelling out such details on a sign could get, well, complicated. Let's just say that the drivers who turn back are exactly the type of driver with whom we would rather not share this road.

Earlier in the week, my ride partner suggested that we lead an "impromptu" ride today, and we tossed out an announcement on the club's email list. We knew that two other riders planned to join us, and expected a small group. (Surprise! Twenty-one!)

The reservoir shimmered under a vivid blue sky. With the late spring rains, the hills are still emerald green and the wildflowers still in bloom. With the passing of each dry day, the colors will fade; today we would enjoy this valley at its peak.

We invaded downtown Pleasanton for lunch, fanning out to explore the Farmers' Market and blending into the crowd on the plaza. On this day, not a single rider regretted that we would make a U-turn of our own to return on Calaveras.

I dawdled so far behind the group that it seemed I could not catch them, slow climber that I am. A photographer with a very long lens was set up to view the bald eagles' nest; I stopped to peer through his viewfinder. At the base of "the wall," a motorcyclist hesitated; I did not. By the time he chose to turn right, I had enough of a lead to keep him at a distance. Then, one by one, I rocketed past the rest of our group and led the way back to the start.

Smiling, one guy remarked: "I think I know which part of the ride was your favorite! I couldn't catch you. I tried."

One mph over the limit is all it takes to make the electronic sign flash at the base of the hill. Good to know.

Hot Ham

Forecast: Unseasonable, with record-breaking high temperatures. pep-cast: Headache, with no appetite. [Could it be ... the heat?] But, I had made a promise to ride up Mt. Hamilton today. And we are tough women.

Rounding the corner to start the climb, a hand-scrawled sign about finding a goat and a dog brought out the poet in my ride partner. Herewith, a collaboration by Taylor and pep:

There once was a goat and a dog
Who went off to find their friend hog.
They found a fritter
But could not twitter,
So they went home instead to blog.

A 21st century limerick for the rural fringe of Silicon Valley.

There were fewer cyclists than usual on the mountain. [What, put off by a little hot weather?] Apart from two stokers on tandems and a mom who rode up alongside her husband towing their toddler, we were the only women.

The heat did exact its toll on me. Over the last six miles, my pace steadily dropped (5.4, 4.7, 4.3, 4.0 miles per hour). One turkey vulture swooped low for a closer look. Suitable lunch? No, still moving. For the day, the usual 39 miles and some 4,805 feet of climbing.

Climbing Mt. Hamilton is half the challenge; for many, descending it is the bigger half. Taylor had only ascended Mt. Hamilton once before, followed by descending the back side. Being an experienced mountain biker, I figured the long, twisty ride to the bottom would not intimidate her.

When we reached the first descent, I had my answer. My ride partner quickly became a distant speck. In front of me. That, ladies and gentlemen, is no mean feat.

Wednesday Workout

A fellow cyclist recently confessed her image of hell, which went something like this:

The Devil opens the door to a huge room, filled with stationary bicycles as far as the eye can see—the best models one can imagine, all gleaming and new. "Choose whichever one you want to ride!" he offers, gleefully. [For eternity.]

As I left the office today, I walked past a group laboring hard on their gleaming spin cycles. I was planning a spin, myself: Up some hills.

An after-work ride is not part of my regular routine (unless I happen to be commuting back home). It was fortunate that I faced a short ride to meet the group, because I managed a couple of false starts before I pulled myself together. Oops, forgot my vest ... Oops, forgot my gloves ...

Our route for the evening was a decent challenge that was virtually in my backyard. In other words, I could easily tackle it any evening, on my own (but, I have not). Riding with a group provides the motivation I lack, evidently.

A short ride (17 miles), with a respectable 1,630 feet of climbing. I pushed the pace much harder than I would have on my own. Surrounded by trees pushing out bright new leaves, descending in the warm rays of the setting sun, startling one wild turkey off the road ...

There is no stationary bicycle in this picture.

Spring Springs

Spring is the season for Soda Springs. The sun was shining, the springs were flowing, and the late rains had coaxed some wildflowers into bloom.

Having spent Saturday as a Tierra Bella volunteer, Sunday was my day to ride. Before tackling Soda Springs Road, we headed up Aldercroft Heights—unexplored territory, for me. The public road ends at San Jose Water Company property, protected by the usual loops of razor wire atop a chain link fence festooned with the usual warning signs.

Inexplicably, there was also a streetlight planted among the trees (in the dense shade, illuminated). The base of Wrights Station is little more than a mile away, on the other side of the fence, but you can't get there from here. A security guard in a pickup truck headed down the road as I climbed back up. Did we trigger a camera somewhere? How disappointed he would be to find a bunch of brightly clad, middle-aged cyclists loitering at the end of the road.

The public portion of Soda Springs is another dead end. The top of Loma Almaden is little more than a mile away; you can't get there from here. The grade of this road is amazingly linear, essentially uninterrupted at 8.2% for a five and a half miles. The lower slopes offer the best vistas; the road ends in the trees at a surprising altitude of nearly 3,100 feet.

With few landmarks, Soda Springs feels like the climb that will never end. Trees, blind corners, more trees ... repeat. I was ready to be done long before I reached the "500 feet to end of road" sign. With less than 200 feet to go, I discovered that I had unintentionally completed the climb without shifting into my lowest gear. Incredible!

The ascent is a test of willpower; the descent is a test of braking power (and nerve). For the day, 21.1 miles, with 3,575 feet of climbing.

Tierra Bella Redux

It is almost that time again: the annual Tierra Bella bike ride is a week away, and today was the day to pre-ride the course (for fun, and to take note of any problems along the way).

With my normal ride routine disrupted by illness and bad weather, I seriously doubted whether I could complete the 100k route. My usual ride buddy has similarly suffered, and I was relieved when he suggested that we should pause after the first loop to assess whether we should tackle the second.

Under the watchful eyes of the sheriff's department, a community service crew was hacking at weeds in the parking area at Coyote Lake-Harvey Bear Ranch County Park. The porta-potty was evidently in need of some serious whacking. While I was in it. Whatever their particular crimes, they were quite the motley crew. It seemed prudent to look the other way; they, however, stared at us without compunction. Hmm, any bike thieves among them?

At our rest stop near Gilroy Hot Springs, how could I not think of Paul? I can still see him there, last year, feeding us cookies and puns. Memories can be sticky, that way.

I trailed my ride buddy for most of the morning, but as we headed down a long straight toward our decision point, he became a distant speck. [Uh-oh. Running out of steam.] He was done; I was determined. He turned left; I turned right. Another 25 miles, or so? The pedals on the bike go round and round ...

In the last stretch, I passed a woman like she was standing still. Not bad, she had been ahead of me all day. Soon some century riders whizzed past, inviting me to hop on their train. With traffic lights ahead, I calculated that I could conserve my energy and still catch them, at my own pace. The payoff was a nice draft, for a mile or two.

My longest ride of 2012, to date: 64.7 miles, with a mere 2,230 feet of climbing. I hope the weather will be as lovely for our guests, next Saturday!

Ped Power

There were plenty of soggy Cinderellas yesterday, but I was not among them. With strong winds and a 100% chance of rain, I stayed indoors.

I was looking forward to biking on one of my favorite roads today, but that plan fell apart. Short on sleep, I was not up for an early-morning start some 65 miles away.

Still, I could not waste such a gorgeous day. I set out, on foot, to polish off some errands. Herewith, I share some sunny Sunday afternoon mysteries.

When pulling over to fuss with your navigation system, why would you choose to block the entrance to the local police operations center?

Behind the wheel of an Audi R8, why would you choose to drive through Vasona Park?

Out for a stroll, why would you choose to carry three identical pens in the pocket of your Hawaiian shirt?

The park was teeming with people, and the trail was as chaotic as ever. People strolling, roller-blading, cycling. Dogs on long leashes. Kids on scooters. I intervened to help a dad who was struggling to moderate, simultaneously, the downhill speed of one child on a plastic trike and one child in a stroller.

Canada geese are a year-round nuisance, making a mess of the fields. One scofflaw's [off-leash] little dog gave them a run, but the effect was fleeting. Send in the coyotes!

I felt like royalty, commanding traffic to obey my every whim. Press the big button and post haste, all the drivers endure a long red light while the walk signal counts down. Pedestrians rule in California.

Errands accomplished: 7.7 miles, four stores, one ATM machine, one county park, and lots of sunshine.

Slow Motion

The force [of laziness] is strong in this one.

I feel tired.

You got plenty of sleep, it is time to get up.

I don't want to.

It is so easy, you laid out everything last night.

It's 39 degrees!

Wear wool.

After two consecutive rainy weekends, if I did not bike to work today it seemed doubtful that I could complete the Cinderella Classic next Saturday. Now, how silly would that be? It is sad enough that I am not in shape for the Challenge course.

By the time I failed to talk myself out of riding today, I was running 30 minutes behind schedule. Which means contending with more rush-hour traffic.

It was a good ride nonetheless. Slow, but good. Breakfast was still feasible when I arrived, but the biggest surprise was the shower upgrade. Two stalls! Plus, two private unisex stalls. [I know what you're thinking ... keep it clean.] As you might imagine, one shower stall for all the women in a four-story building was less than adequate.

Then again, on the east coast I last worked in a building designed with women's restrooms on every other floor. (Decades later, they repurposed some of the men's restrooms when scientists came to outnumber secretaries.) How times have changed.

At the end of the day, my ride home was the . slowest . ever. It wasn't enough that my fitness has eroded, or that I was tired, or that the ride home is all uphill? Noooo. The weather is changing, and the approaching storm front blasted me with headwind. At times it felt like I was pedaling just enough to keep from moving backward.

When I paused to admire the wildflowers near the Mary Avenue Bicycle Bridge, a passing cyclist asked if I needed anything. [Turn off the wind? Slow down and let me draft you? Better yet, tow me home?] "No, I'm okay."

For the day, 39 miles and about 965 feet of climbing. Sixty-plus miles on Saturday? Er, sure, no problem ...

Recovery Ride

The post-op instructions suggested that I could return to my normal activities after 3-5 days.

Define normal.

Bike up Mt. Hamilton? Somehow ... I think not.

I waited, well, almost two weeks. And I started with a more modest outing.

This image is remarkable—not for the drab scenery—but for capturing five modes of human transport in a single frame. From left to right: VTA Light Rail (Tamien Station), California State Highway 87, the Highway 87 Bikeway, Caltrain (Tamien Station), and a jet approaching San Jose International Airport.

I chose a ride that I would normally avoid—mostly on paved trails. Charging up a hill for my first time back on the saddle did not seem like a sensible plan, so I followed a "flat" route to the starting point [N.B., a mere 125 feet of vertical gain].

My chief concern was running out of energy. After a week of lolling about the house, followed by a week of work, I still needed more sleep than usual. On the bike, would I bonk?

We navigated through a veritable maze, alongside Highway 87 and the Guadalupe River in San Jose. These trails may be a boon for bike commuters; without the guidance of our local experts, we surely would have strayed off course. On a dreary Sunday morning, we shared the trails with very few recreational visitors.

The ride satisfied my curiosity on two fronts: What was it like to ride these trails? What did it feel like to be back on the bike?

The route was confusing, with trails often dumping out onto city streets with no advance warning. I was glad to be traveling in a group when we passed the homeless encampments, and dismayed at the graffiti, roadside trash, and broken glass we encountered. There is only so much a city can do, and San Jose is not in the best financial health. One of our riders proudly showed us a segment of the trail that our club maintains; he hauls water (by bicycle) to sustain the fledgling native plants our members dug into the slope, and a small group regularly blots out the latest graffiti and sweeps up. We ventured as far as the airport; with some riders reluctant to continue along the next stretch of packed gravel, we turned back.

After returning to the start, I was ready for the direct route home.

Up the hill!

For the day, some 37 miles and 1,060 feet of climbing. It feels great to be back on the bike.

One Lone Leader

Daffodils. Blossoming trees. Has Spring arrived?

The brisk wind reminded us that the proper season is Winter.

When leading rides for the club, I prefer to share the duties with a co-leader. (Having two responsible adults is a good thing.) As fate would have it, I was forced to miss our last ride and my co-leader was forced to miss our next one. [Today.]

Our modest route drew quite a crowd, with a plurality of strong riders. Content to bring up the rear, I looked after one who was new to the club. I hope he was not expecting a flat ride ...

Twenty-one miles, with a bit more climbing than I had guessed (2,695 feet). The ridge line we cruised under a clear blue sky is forecast to see a dusting of snow, a few days hence.

In the Misty Morning Fog

With our hearts a-thumpin'; and me, a brown-eyed girl.

On such an overcast day, it takes a leap of faith to leave my warm bed behind. Faith that, if I climb high enough, I will find the sun.

The lower portion of Mt. Hamilton road was as wet as if it had rained. Eyeing the slippery tar snakes, feeling the chill air on the first brief descent ... I questioned my quest. A rainbow sheen of oil coated the downhill lane of one sharp bend. I could only hope that the rest of the group noticed it, too. I was confident that I could avoid it on the return, because I know this road so well.

At 1,875 feet I met the floor of the cloud layer. Happily, it was not as cold or wet as I expected. Many miles later, I would find the ceiling (around 2,300 feet). Inside the cloud, the sound of everything but the birds was dampened and the landscape was transformed.

Approaching the summit ... what, ho! The remnants of Monday's cold storm lingered on the north-facing edges. Sheltered on the observatory's sunny patio, with snow in the shadows, I enjoyed my lunch in quiet solitude.

Quick as a wink, the winds whipped up and I was awestruck as we were enveloped in a turbulent cloud. It was time to make a hasty retreat down the mountain, with teeth a-chattering and fingers a-stiffening.

I reached the Quimby intersection just as a Caltrans driver blocked the road with his truck. Uh oh. I knew there had been an accident yesterday, but they were supposed to retrieve the vehicle this morning. I was not eager to detour onto Quimby. Reluctantly, he allowed me to squirm past.

About a mile later, a vehicle was backing up. [Literally.] Beep, beep, beep ... on twisty Mt. Hamilton Road, an enormous tow truck was comin' round the bend—in reverse. I immediately dismounted and got off the road.

The real action was ahead, and here is where my riding buddy will regret bailing out at mile 5.7 this morning. Look at that equipment! ["No, silly," she would say. "That's not the equipment I'm looking at."] The guys were happy to answer questions, and not upset that a cyclist had slipped through the roadblock.

Some idiot [let me guess, taking that bend too fast] had forced a Caltrans truck off the road—and didn't even stop. [Coward.] The truck tumbled down a steep embankment, overturning a few times, through the trees. Fortunately, a UPS driver did stop. [Hero.] Did I say, steep? As in, pretty much straight down. I can't imagine how he climbed down to help the driver, without ropes.

The guys reported that the driver is okay—pretty sore, with bumps and bruises. Winching had dragged the truck into view, but it was still some 30 feet below the road surface.

Carrying my bike, I tiptoed behind the tow truck, along the very edge of the ravine.

"Have a safe ride," the guys called out.

Rainy Day Woman

Chocolate milk, over by the rabbit!

There was a family-friendly athletic festival at the park where we gathered to start our ride today. Momentarily stumped for a meaningful connection between bunnies and milk products, I found the answer quickly [pun intended]: it was a branded rabbit.

Here is my collected wisdom about riding in the rain:

Once you're wet, you're wet.

Profound, huh? What I mean is that it just doesn't matter any more, once you're wet.

We did not set out to ride in the rain. The radar images were clear; the skies were not. The closer we got to the base of our planned climb, the bigger were the drops pelting us. Low clouds bump into hills, rain comes down.

Agreeing that it was a bad idea to climb (or descend) steep, slippery hills, we reluctantly cut our ride short. Twenty miles were sufficient to hone our wet-road-riding skills: Stay clear of the slippery bits (painted road markings, metal grates and utility covers). Cross railroad tracks with extreme care. Brake early, to squeegee the water off your rims before the pads can get a grip. Plan to clean and re-lube your bike.

The best part: peeling off the grimy, clammy layers when you get home and indulging in a long, hot shower.

How many gallons does my hot water heater hold?

Just enough.

Bike and Hike

After last weekend, being out on my bike felt like a celebration (with overtones of rebellion). I hope to enjoy a few more weeks before I will necessarily take a break from my routine.

Two friends joined me for a club ride—giving me a sense of having my own private escort. The ride leader was surprised by an unusually high turnout; amidst the chaos, we slipped away to get a lead on the late-starting group.

The main attraction was Regnart Road, a climb that is new to the club. The upper section includes an extended steep pitch (a quarter of a mile at a grade >16%, as it turns out). After repeatedly lifting my front wheel off the pavement, I did the sensible thing: I dismounted and walked it.

The end of the public road offered a new perspective on another popular climb, Montebello Road. Not to mention the gray blotch of the quarry and cement plant that mar the hillside. With that, and the reverberating gunfire from the local rod and gun club, I surely do not envy those hilltop mansions.

The Lost Weekend

Being in rather fine health, I had been fortunate not to spend a single night in a hospital since I was a toddler. Until now.

I know my body pretty well, and on Friday afternoon I knew that something was wrong. Cardiac symptoms in women can be unusual, and I knew it was imprudent to ignore my discomfort. At the end of the day, I got a ride home, and drove myself to the local hospital emergency room.

Having done this drill with a friend a year or so ago, I expected a similar outcome: they would do an EKG, blood tests, chest x-ray, reassure me that my heart was fine, and send me home.

Little could I know that I was about to become a hostage.

EKG. Blood drawn. Chest x-ray. Nitroglycerin? [Hmm.] Morphine? [Whoa, the pain is not that severe.] Routine, the nurse explains; it helps to dilate your blood vessels.

Enter Dr. 1, test results in hand. Recognizing my phone, he chatters on about the pros and cons of Androids and iPhones, and problems with local carriers. Drug-induced haze or not, this was surreal. After ten minutes, he turns to my EKG results, in which he sees something unfamiliar that he thinks the cardiologist should review. [Uh oh.]

Enter Dr. 2, the Admitting Physician. In his introductory monologue, he announces that he had written Chapter 1 in some medical text or other, about triage. [This is playing out like a David Lynch movie.] He is sure the cardiologist will want to do a stress test. He is sure that will be a waste of time and show nothing. [Flash back to the Stelvio Pass last summer, as I peppered the cardiologist in our group with questions. What you just did was much harder than any stress test we could administer. You are fine.]

Meet Roommate 1, upstairs on the cardiac floor. Elderly stroke survivor, gravely ill, relocated to cardiac intensive care the next morning. With all manner of truly horrifying sounds, beeping equipment, and a horde of people attending to her, I might have gotten an hour of sleep.

Lesson 1: Get that Advance Health Care Directive done. Years down the road, I must not be the woman on the other side of that curtain.

Enter Dr. 3, the Cardiologist. When I describe my symptoms, he is visibly annoyed. Evidently I am wasting his time with my non-classic symptoms. He orders a CT scan to check my aorta before we attempt a stress test.

Enter Nurse, one of many. Time to take your meds. What meds, I ask? She rattles off a list of five or more, all of which I challenge. My blood pressure is normal [quite healthy, in fact]; why would you give me medication to lower it? All prescribed by Dr. 2; she checks with Dr. 3, who agrees none of the meds are needed.

Lesson 2: Ask questions before you swallow. You can refuse medication.

That CT scan was quite fortuitous, as it revealed the likely source of Friday's pain. My aorta, and my heart, are fine. The stress test was boring; they stopped it at 173 bpm (ha!), considering that "104% of normal" for my age. [Don't get me started.]

Now you would think: it is time to go home. There is no reason why I should still be hooked to a cardiac monitor and intravenous saline drip.

Dr. 2 appears, spreading FUD [fear, uncertainty, and doubt]. You need to talk to the surgeon before we can release you. Poking and prodding, he is perplexed that I don't even wince.

Dr. 3 proclaims the the health of my cardiovascular system. Cleared for surgery.

I want to go home, I say. That's up to Dr. 2, he wants you to talk to the surgeon.

Enter Dr. 4, the Surgeon. [More pain-free poking and prodding.] Yes, I believe what the CT scan found. No, I do not want surgery today. No, I do not want surgery tomorrow. I want to schedule it. [More FUD.] I will not procrastinate.

Dr. 4 fails to inform Dr. 2 that we have spoken. Dr. 2 ends his shift and refuses to release me.

Lesson 3: You can check out any time you want. Your insurance will not pay the bill. (I did not test this.)

I am a prisoner.

You want to go home? Bwahaha. Just confess! er, we mean consent!

Through another night of beeping, voices, bright lights, refused meds, and one more unnecessary blood draw, I resolve to try a new tactic.

It is time to charm my captors. Thank them for their solicitous oversight. Assure them I feel fine. [Request nothing for that caffeine-withdrawal headache, lest they order a brain scan.] Click my ruby slippers.

There's no place like home. There's no place like home ...

And home I am, at last—my left arm tracked with the pricks and bruises of four intravenous shunts (including one aborted attempt), my right arm bruised and swollen from countless blood draws.

How much did that second, completely unnecessary night on the cardiac ward cost? [Postscript: $3200 just for the room; associated charges, unknown.]

Leader of the Pack

Where is the rest of the group?
Someone must have gotten a flat.

No, they are a bit slow.

All the guys are with pep.

Ha, there is a comment I never expected to hear. I encouraged them to pass me—really!—but they insisted my pace was just right.

This ride lived up to its billing as a Social Climb. The guys chattered on behind me as we made our way to Joseph D. Grant County Park.

I knew that Mt. Hamilton Road was graded for the horses that hauled construction material to the top, to build Lick Observatory. From my companions, I learned that the flat segments were included to provide some rest for the animals. More than a century later, the animals are different—but we do appreciate the respite just the same.

The best story was about an antique car. The key to driving his Model A to the top of Mt. Hamilton, one rider recounted, was to pace behind a cyclist. That way, the engine would not overheat.

No one overheated at my pace today. Twenty miles, 2,565 feet of climbing.

Hi Sierra

There are some fine valley views at the summit of Sierra Road, and if you continue along the back side there are some fine views of seriously steep canyons and the receding Calaveras Reservoir. Getting up there is breathtaking. Literally.

It is a memorable climb, and not just for the physical challenge. I have climbed it with friends and with the Low-Key bunch; I have watched the pros, in rain and shine, and even raced it once myself.

Today's climb was memorable for the wind, with gusts strong enough to test my agility on two wheels. Our return trip looped along Felter and Calaveras, where a tempting downhill straight is outfitted with an electronic speed sign. With no car in range, it was mine to trigger: 35 mph.

Luckily, that is precisely the limit.

To my left, a car nosed out, then stopped. There is no side street there ... what the ... uh-oh, it's the California Highway Patrol. That must be one revenue-generating spot.

Lick-ety Split

Destination? The top. It is a Bay Area New Year's Day tradition to cycle up Mt. Hamilton, and that can be a hard sell on a frigid day.

Around Joseph D. Grant County Park, feathery bits of white fluff flew through the air and swirled in eddies on the pavement. Here, they close the road whenever there is snow at the summit. This being January, snow would not be a surprise. This being California, where some plant is always in bloom, the fluffy bits were seeds released to the wind. It was a freakishly warm day, in a winter so dry that the hills have not yet turned green.

The temperature at the summit peaked above 67F; I shed my jacket before I reached the halfway point and hoped the sun would be kind to my un-screened arms. I regretted wearing wool socks. I drained both water bottles. In January?

Not seeking a new record today, I spent a leisurely three hours on the climb to Lick Observatory. Nonetheless, I managed to catch and pass a few riders on the way up (and, on the way down). Round trip: 39 miles, with 4,895 feet of climbing.

Another local club was also out for some fun on the mountain. I tallied 47 Porsches snaking their way down the hill, but it was the interloper in their midst that caught my eye. Orange. Italian.

Tomorrow, I think, is not for bicycling.

Winding Down

Riding out in style, with a tip of the hat to 2011.

A moderate year for me: more than 167,000 feet climbed, over some 2,260 miles.

More, next year.

Hillacious

The first time I saw a bald eagle, it was grounded in a large pen at a zoo. Heartbreaking, but desperately necessary to stave off extinction. Back then, I imagined that I would never see one in flight.

I am pleased to report that the wild lands of San Benito County rarely disappoint—the black wings and white head gliding above me today were unmistakable, and always a thrill.

Climbing Lone Tree, I felt like my bike was laden with lead. [My fellow riders were likely wondering the same, as I struggled so slowly to the summit.] Along the way, a friendly driver in a pick-up truck waved and called out:

You women are motivated!

Determined? Yes. Motivated? Questionable.

The public road ends at a gate, and we were soon joined by the friendly resident dog—a fluffy little white-and-black, camera-shy cutie. Quite comfortable with us, despite being unrewarded with any treats, she trotted along when the last riders took off. She reportedly paced them at 17 mph, hampering their descent as they avoided running her down.

My legs were done. Yet, it seemed a shame to drive all that way to climb just one hill [albeit, a long one]. I headed with the group toward the base of the second climb, knowing that I could opt out for an easy return to the start. When I passed two riders repairing a snapped derailleur cable, I realized I might not be the last straggler to reach the summit if I just kept moving.

Determined? Yes. Motivated? Not so much.

The summit has to be right around that corner.
Okay, the next corner.
The one after that, for sure. Please?

I was never so happy to see the cattle grate that heralds the top of the hill. Fifty-five miles, with a painful 4,965 feet of climbing.

At least it was not 100+ degrees today.

Mines at Last

Approaching Robert Livermore Park in the early morning, the temperature outside the car was rapidly plummeting ... 32 ... 30 ... 28 degrees F. It was supposed to warm up to 60F today; I was seriously not prepared for sub-freezing temperatures. And if cycling sounds crazy, what do you think of the people headed for the open-air lap pool in their terrycloth robes?

What would pull me away from a nice warm house at 7:00 a.m.? Rising early enough to catch the full lunar eclipse was merely a bonus. The main event: Morning on Mines. I have enjoyed many four-wheeled excursions along this route; today I would study it at (comparatively) a snail's pace. Somehow I persuaded a friend to join me for the out-and-back journey through this isolated canyon. Well-matched, we were—two women with frozen fingers and sluggish brains.

Defrosted by a five-mile warm-up, we were both cheerful and chatty when we reached the other riders gathered at the starting point. Still, I would not have predicted that I would comfortably shed my jacket later in the day.

Along the way, one wandering calf affirmed the validity of a posted Range Cattle sign. One distinctive "no trespassing" sign warned Danger: Stay Alive By Staying Out. In full view of the road, a group of men included one sighting a rifle up the adjacent hillside. Local traffic passed with generous clearance. A motorcyclist at the Junction café was impressed that we were out there. Their secret? Heated grips. [Hmm ...]

In all, 3,825 feet of climbing over 59 miles. The longest ride I have taken in quite some time, my legs would have you know.

Then We Were Five

The first rider dropped out around mile four, at the first hill.With the strong headwind, I am not sure he would have been any less challenged on the flatter section of the route.

As hilly routes go, today's was meant to be mellow. Studying her Garmin to validate her suffering, one rider exclaimed: Fifteen percent! [Really? Not.] Another rider shrugged. Felt more like 10%. [Spot on.] My post-ride data show a steady gradient of 9.8% for slightly more than a quarter of a mile. For an accurate reading on the bike, try an inclinometer.

The second hill claimed rider number two. Riders three and four demurred in favor of a social engagement along the route. A fifth rider had a greater interest in extending her mileage than climbing hills and headed yonder. Our sociable little group of ten had been whittled down to a stalwart core of five.

Oh, what a day it was! Warm enough for a vest and arm warmers (in December!), under an extraordinary sky (a gift of the wind). 35 miles and a mere 1,870 feet of climbing.

Extra Helping of Hicks

As if it were not enough to climb Hicks once in the past month (or past year, for that matter) ... what was I doing out there today?

Let me tell you, there is nothing like an extra helping of Hicks to compensate for an extra helping of Thanksgiving dinner.

We warmed up on Harwood—which is, technically, steeper (for short stretches)—before making our way to Hicks. The recent rains had induced a small landslide, mostly plowed off the road and studded with orange cones.

When the group at the top showed signs of restlessness to descend, I took my cue. Following some idle talk of descending speeds, I wanted no one trailing me. On separate occasions, two guys have crashed in my wake. Maybe they were not trying to stay with me. Or maybe they were. A little head start gets me out of sight, and I prefer it that way.

One block from the end of our group ride, my heart rate suddenly spiked: I turned a corner to find a wrong-way cyclist headed straight at me. [On a mountain bike, wearing no helmet, of course.] I braked, I shouted, I swerved toward the curb. Perhaps predictably, so did he. Preparing for impact, I jerked my bike to the left and missed his rear wheel by a couple of inches. You're on the wrong side of the road, I called out. Did he even understand? [Doubtful.]

For the day, 29 miles and 2,110 feet of climbing. Hicks hurts.

Cloud Computing

For the 10 days leading up to today, the forecast was dire. Would the Thanksgiving Day Low-Key Mt. Hamilton Hillclimb be canceled for the first time in history?

Fair weather or foul, I was prepared to volunteer for this one. At my current pace, the volunteer crew would be lucky to make it home in time for dessert.

I would bet that I was not the only one hoping for rain this morning. The roads in my neighborhood were dry when the call was made at 6 a.m.: The climb is ON!

The roads at the base of Mt. Hamilton were not dry, but the clouds teased us with glimpses of blue sky (once or twice). More than 100 riders signed in. Crazy people.

I was so glad not to be suffering on the bike today. I cannot imagine spending more than two hours riding up the hill in a cold drizzle, and that is what it would have taken to get me to the top. (Two hours and forty minutes for the next-to-last finisher in my photo above.)

Instead, I spent more than two hours standing inside the cloud at the top, collecting finishing times. A cold drizzle, in other words. Crazy person.

My fellow Low-Keyers, I salute you!

Up to You

There were some new faces at today's Low-Key Hillclimb. When I reached the top of Kings Mountain, I caught a snippet of conversation.

I wouldn't call that low-key!

I smiled. It's as low-key as you want it to be.

The road was wet, the air was cold, the trees were dripping. Along the way, the sun cast a spotlight on some moss-covered boulders; no time for a photo. When I heard a toddler's voice behind me, I knew that I was about to be passed by the racer towing his daughter in a Burley trailer.

The women started the climb together; I took my place at the back and watched them pull away. As the pack thinned, I passed one rider; she did not give chase. The gap between us began to stretch, and before long she had dropped out of sight. When she arrived at the top, I congratulated her with a high-five. That was hard, she said.

Yes, it was. A relatively short climb, I vowed to push harder this week. For more than 45 minutes, I sustained an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute, peaking at 179. Still, not as hard as I pushed the last time we tackled this climb, and the result speaks for itself.

Next year, I should train for the series. Or, give it up?

Nine, Plus Five

Would I be faster? The weather was dreary and cold; it seemed certain that we would ride into the cloud. Had I vanquished the virus that attacked my body this week? I felt less tired, but still drained. I am five years older and two pounds heavier.

I was most eager to tackle Highway 9 this year. In 2006, this was my first Low-Key Hillclimb. Back then, I wondered: Did they really mean that anyone could participate?

My leg started hurting before I reached the top. Over thousands of miles of cycling, my legs have cramped on exactly one occasion. Did I pull a muscle? I was going hard up the hill, but I had not done anything unusual. Both legs were sore. Really sore.

My chiropractor's words bubbled up into my consciousness.

You are much improved, I was able to start working on your muscles.

Evidently I was not using those long-dormant adductors before he released them. Evidently a relatively short hillclimb of modest grade will tax them.

I had been excited to reach the half-way point in less than 26 minutes. Although I lost sight of the riders ahead, surely I was climbing for a new personal best.

It was convenient to forget that the first two miles of the climb are mellow; at the half-way point, you have ascended roughly 835 feet. There are some 1280 feet up ahead, and that makes all the difference.

Slower by four minutes, I was nonetheless proud of the pink stripe left by the finish-line chalk on my front tire.

Ghost Wave

Halloween. Ghosts. Waves? Big, scary waves.

As a cyclist, I can fully appreciate the chasm that separates my performance from that of the pros. I can attack the same hill ... at less than half their speed. I can ski, but you won't find me rocketing down some narrow double-black-diamond chute or dropping out of a helicopter in the back country. I have never tried to surf, but I can extrapolate that a similar gap would separate me from the titans of big wave surfing.

I grew up near the sea. I am comfortable bobbing in the swells and ducking under breaking waves, even body-surfing my way toward the shore. Stand up on a board and ride the face of a breaking wave? No way. Get close to a towering avalanche of water? Absolutely, positively no way.

An armchair adventurer, I relish tales of athletes who thrive on challenges that I would not dream of attempting. Ghost Wave is a fascinating new story that I am finding hard to put down. And I enjoyed a special treat recently when author Chris Dixon visited the Bay Area to talk about the book; a treat that was magnified five-fold by the legendary guys who tagged along.

They completely upended my image of surfers as easy-going, laid-back types. It took me more than half the day to unwind after spending just a couple of hours around those guys. See for yourself ...



You should try paddleboarding, Skindog suggested. [Uh-oh.]

Almost, Almost, Almost There

If I climbed this hill every week, would I get stronger? Faster? Both?

For reasons I can't explain, a Cake song started playing on my internal soundtrack—with a twist on the lyrics.

You're almost there
You're almost, almost, almost there.

There was the top of Hicks Road. I completed the climb without stopping, despite pulling my front wheel off the pavement an alarming number of times. Despite having already climbed 1500 feet before heading up the steep grade.

Having come that far, it would be silly not to continue up Mt. Umunhum Road. How else would you get to that climb? Steep in its own right, it seems easier given that one side or the other of Hicks is always the prelude.

The road passes through the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. While biding my time at a re-group with my fellow cyclists, my curiosity was piqued by an official sign featuring the green imprint of a distinctive seven-pointed leaf. In addition to the usual warnings about mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and poison oak, here was a warning for hikers to stay on the trails lest they stumble across an illicit marijuana farm. [There was an early-morning shootout up here in 2005, which did not end well for one of the bad guys.]

I declared victory at the gate, not feeling a need to grind further up the hill to the white-line-that-shall-not-be-crossed. I was not worried about the bad guys; like the mountain lions, I expect they are reclusive and nocturnal. I had simply had enough climbing. At the end of the day, 27 miles, 3,630 feet of elevation gain.

Elevator Profile

The shadows grow longer, the weekends grow busier, and the cyclist grows weaker and wider. Opportunities for a round-trip bike commute in (mostly) daylight are vanishing.

It was, shall we say, a bracing start to the day. With the temperature hovering just below 42F, I should have donned warmer gloves. The cold air stung my legs and face. Still, my count of fellow cyclists was typical (more than 30). Notable was a guy wearing perfectly-polished, tasseled loafers and cream-colored pants (with a reflective band on the right leg, to keep it clear of the chain).

Making good time, I included a short gratuitous hill on both trips. My quickest elevation gain was assisted, though. To reach my office on an upper floor, I carpooled. Two people, two bicycles, one elevator car.

Lost in thought on the way home, I heard the clatter of hooves before I saw the deer. Three of them scampered across the road before pausing to study me from a safe distance, uphill. Not much of a threat, this creature, moving so slowly and breathing so hard.

For the day, 39 miles and about 1000 feet of climbing.

Are You Slower Than a Seventh Grader?

Photo by Josh Hadley

[Yes.]

Slower than a guy on a mountain bike toting his daughter in a plastic seat mounted behind the handlebar?
[Yes.]

Slower than a guy on a road bike towing his daughter in a Burley trailer?
[Yes.]

In a show of mercy for our selfless Low-Key volunteer crew, the slower riders were ushered to the front of the pack. The announcement went something like this:

Juniors to the front.
And anyone else who thinks they're slower than a 12-year old.

To minimize congestion on the road, we were dispatched in smaller groups at somewhat irregular intervals.

The fastest guys were next; I was about one mile up the road when they sped past. Much of the rest of the field would pass me too, affording more of a sense of participation than I normally get [trailing off the back].

Truth be told, my usual forays up Page Mill Road involve rather wider tires and an enviable level of horsepower. This would be only my third ascent on a bicycle, and my first timed climb. That it would take more than an hour, I had no doubt.

Along the way, my spirits were lifted by so many passing climbers who encouraged me. It's one thing to cheer me along when they are descending, having already finished; it is a true gift to spare even a single word when racing up a hill. This is the essence of a Low-Key Hillclimb, and why I keep coming back for more.

A red Pantera with an out-of-state plate was extremely patient. Without a clear sight line, he hung well behind me on a grueling stretch. As soon as it was safe, I signaled him to pass. Given that there were some 140 cyclists on the road, I imagine he regretted his decision to drive up Page Mill this morning.

A dropped chain at mile 3.5 cost me close to a minute. Nonetheless, I was quite pleased with my finishing time. I ascended 2,035 feet over 8.3 miles, finishing in a tad over 69 minutes. My heart rate averaged 171 beats per minute, peaking at 180 bpm. Evidently I am unwilling to flog myself as hard as I did two years ago.

I know I can do better. The series isn't over yet.

Stress Test

Last year, I was a dedicated volunteer for the Low-Key Hillclimb series, having had the good sense to sit out. Consequently, it has been almost two years since I last pushed myself to the limit; once-vivid memories of intense suffering have dissipated.

Sierra Road. It was time. Time to reacquaint myself with the pain. What début could be more fitting for my Giro d'Italia Maglia Bianca?

I admire runners who can perform at the limit. Maybe, if my life were at stake, I could run that hard. Otherwise, my brain would intervene: This is too hard. Stop. Now. On a bicycle, I must keep moving to stay balanced on two wheels. If I stop on a steep hill, I might not be able to start up again.

Racing up a hill has taught me many things: I can push myself much harder than I had ever imagined. The same hill will be a joy to climb every time I approach it at a recreational pace. And, it is worth having a go at it, even if I will be the last rider to cross the finish line.

Technically, I was not last. One of the able-bodied young men in the field flatted, which put him about ten minutes behind me. I take my victories where I find them: today, I caught and passed a guy in an orange jersey. Evidently he was a ride-along (not registered). Just the same, I dropped him, fair and square.

What is this suffering of which I speak? Panting and sweating for a solid 48 minutes and 10 seconds. Sustaining an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute during that time (peak, 179 bpm). Burning Calories at the rate of 569 per hour. All of that to travel a mere 3.6 miles. Oh, and climb 1,815 feet. [Roughly 500 feet per mile, for the math-impaired.]

If you haven't tried something like this, believe me—you don't know what you're missing.

Apple Cider Time

I am beginning to wonder if every ascent of Highway 9 will be memorable.

Late on this Sunday morning, I was passed by a posse of sporty Nissans and a souped-up Miata (bedecked with a truly hideous spoiler). The speed limit is 30 mph and they were behaving nicely ... paced by a pickup truck, as it were.

Evidently they did not behave so nicely once they took the lead.

There are some lovely curves on the way from Saratoga to Skyline, including an enticing pair of 180-degree hairpins. The final hairpin, however, is a bit different. It is sharp and short and marked with a sign that recommends a speed of 20 mph.

When I rounded that bend, the posse was lined up on the opposite side of the road, facing downhill. [Odd.] Six or more young men were standing alongside one car, off the road with its hood up.

Why did the Nissan cross the road?

The punchline would be supplied by the cyclists I met at the top. They heard the screeching tires. They saw the car off the road, in the dirt, after it spun out. Fortuitously, no one was in the reckless driver's path.

We continued along Skyline to attend to some pressing business.

Club members and friends pitch in each fall: apples are picked, washed, trimmed and quartered, crushed, and pressed into fresh cider. With picking and washing well-tended, I tried my hand at the remaining tasks. [With the exception of the pressing, upper-body-weakling that I am.]

That watery stuff you can buy in cartons each fall? Bah! Nothing like the real thing. Not even close.

I Will Remember You

I will remember your goofy faces, your sharp wit and exquisite puns, the ease with which you would ride alongside us and snap photos—no hands on the bars. I will remember the joy of shadowing you down a curvy, unfamiliar road at speed, without a care, knowing that you would alert me to any oncoming traffic.

I remember when you flatted on one of the earliest rides I led for the club. You were the president, and a far more experienced rider than I was; I doubled back to stay with you. Never leave a rider behind. You were struggling to add another patch to your tube, on top of what appeared to be a stack of patches. [I did not laugh.] When I offered you a spare tube, you revealed that you had one. [I did not laugh.]

There are so many dimensions to a life. Today, those united in remembrance of you. Wife, sons, mother, sister, brother, college classmate, fellow fans of science fiction and gaming, former co-workers, and so many cyclists. Alternately, we laughed and cried.

We were reminded to remember the whole of your life, which was not defined by the irrevocable choice you made in a dark night of the soul.

Paul, I will remember your friendship.

In desperation, never abandon hope. Seek help. 1-800-273-8255