WFH: Week Fifty-Two

There was a hint of color in the sky, on my evening walk. I've been encouraging down-in-the-dumps colleagues to get outside. Even if they just take a walk around the block. Fresh air, sunshine ... it's not hard to give a wide berth to others you might encounter.

It's been a full year since I transitioned to working from home. Our team has demonstrated good productivity, despite all challenges. Structured social engagement (video calls for morning coffee, afternoon tea) has mostly withered away. There is an expectation that we will return to the office, in some form, this fall; my position on that is: Wait and see. If it entails wearing a mask for the entire day, that would make me miserable. If it means sitting in a conference room on video calls with remote colleagues, well ... I can do that at home.

To brighten my days, and mark the passage of time, I decided I wanted a page-a-day calendar. Torn between two (birds, and nature scenes), I picked up both.

My last haircut was in February, 2020. By the second time restrictions were relaxed, I didn't see the point. I fully expected another lockdown, leading to another awkward growing-out period. [I was right.] My hair may soon be longer than it has ever been. I'm kind of used to it now, and some people have commented that it looks good.

Cheerful sidewalk chalk art is a thing of the past. Face masks (cloth, or single-use) litter the sidewalks and roadways.

I'm trying to bike more regularly; when our club couldn't host rides, I'd plot a simple route and my chief ride buddy would join me. That way, we could look out for each other. All the spring and summer cycling events have been canceled, postponed, or gone “virtual.”

I continue to minimize my time indoors around other people—because, I can. For me, the calculus has been straightforward: “If I do Thing X, permanently wreck my health or die as a result, will I have thought it was worth it?” Not surprisingly, the answer is: No. No weekend getaways. No restaurant dining. No social gatherings.

I'm not eligible to be vaccinated, yet; there isn't enough vaccine, still, for everyone who is eligible (and wants the shots). I know at least 11 people who have been vaccinated; their reactions have ranged from nothing, or a sore arm, to headache, fever, and fatigue, to much worse. I also know at least 12 people who contracted the virus (and recovered). “Do. Not. Get It.” they counseled. [Well, that's my plan.] Of those 12, at least one person tested negative, but subsequently had antibody results that were off the charts. At least three were presumptive cases (not tested, but symptomatic—two with family members who did test positive). I have not lost any friends or family members, but I know people who have.

The week closed with 111,839 reported cases of COVID-19 in our county, and 1,859 confirmed deaths. Which [see above] is an undercount.

For the Love of Biking

Someone's had a little fun with a standard “Share the Road” sign.

My ride buddy and I agreed to a later start; overnight showers had left the roads slick. It was chilly and breezy; wear my wool jersey, or not?

Once we were moving, I regretted my decision; wool would have been cozy.

A cyclist doing hill repeats on Mt. Eden passed us (more than once; sigh). My legs were feeling it; I decided to try a little roller-coaster bypass to get to Pierce; I'm not sure it's a win, but maybe if I had been more confident I would have carried enough speed up the hill. Shifting into my lowest gear also might have helped. [Duh.] Focused on the detour, I neglected to use my two lowest gears.

26 miles, 1,600 feet of climbing ... I love to bike. [But, you knew that.]

Poppies are Popping

Once upon a time, it turned out that I climbed Mt. Hamilton once a month—almost, but not quite, every month that year. I climbed Bernal in January. Hmm, maybe Bernal could be my (modest) goal this year.

My ride buddy was game, and we decided to take it easy (follow the flat route, to climb with fresh legs).

We loitered after descending, chatting in the afternoon sunshine; multiple passing cyclists paused to make sure we didn't need help. [Our fellow cyclists are the best!]

We finished with 31 miles and about 1,000 feet of climbing. I had held a steady pace on the hill, but ... not my personal best.

March is almost here.

Just Enough

During a bike fitting many years ago, the fitter quizzed me about my riding style and habits. “You need to ride during the week, too; otherwise you're essentially starting over every weekend.”

I miss my occasional bike commutes, and I've gotten lazy. Why get up early, pull myself together and ride before my workday begins—when I can just step into my office after breakfast?

Why? Well, because otherwise I'm essentially starting over every weekend.

The days are getting longer, why not hop on the bike at the end of the workday?

Despite good intentions, I got a later start than I'd wanted. How far could I ride? I set a goal. [I think I can, I think I can ...]

I rode at a brisk pace; although it had been a warm day, it was cooling fast (as soon as the sun dipped below the nearest ridge). I'd misjudged the temperature as well as the distance (27 miles, a flat 460 feet of climbing); a comfortable test of my recent repair work (no mishaps).

There were no visible stars overhead when I finished—so technically, it wasn't dark.

But ... oops, the moon was rather bright ...

Holey Spokes, Batman!

And now a few words about rim tape.

When last we left our heroine, she had safely completed her ride and traced the source of her flat tire to a gash in the side of the tube that faces the rim.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

Where the tape should have safely covered a spoke hole, there was instead a jagged tear. The tube, regularly inflated to a high pressure, had evidently pushed the tape into the hole and eventually ripped it open.

I must admit, I have never given rim tape a second thought. Or a first thought, honestly. Its job is to protect the tube by covering the holes in the rim through which the spokes are inserted; once it's in place, it never occurred to me that it could fail. But, fail it did.

Here's a view from the flip side. We can see a slight dimple from the pressure of the tube having pushed the tape into the hole. The tape was similarly dimpled at every spoke hole, though only one had given way.

The wheel in question is a stock Mavic wheel, fitted with their stiff, woven plastic-y tape. (Or I should say, had been fitted.)

A little research and a couple of helpful YouTube videos later, I picked up two rolls of classic Velox tape at a local bike shop, removed the original tape, wiped the rims with rubbing alcohol, and applied the new tape.

Two rolls, you say? Yessiree, two rolls. One for each wheel. You didn't think I was going to risk a repeat performance on the rear wheel, did you?

And, um, if you haven't inspected the tape on your rims lately (or, ever), you might want to have a look-see.

Pffffft!

The Almaden Reservoir was not filled with chocolate, much as it might appear.

It's been a week since we last saw rain, but the muddy runoff hadn't yet settled out.

A friendly trio of fisherman waved goodbye as they drove off. They'd caught only one fish, a two-and-a-half pounder. Catch-and-release, it's strictly for sport—the fish are contaminated with mercury, a legacy of the New Almaden quicksilver mines.

My guardian angel was watching over me today. Two (downhill) miles from the end of our ride, I stopped to wait for my cycling buddy and parked my bike against the curb. Moments later there was an explosive hiss ... and my front tire was, instantaneously, flat. Had I not stopped there, then, I would almost certainly have crashed (descending at speed), the metal rim sliding out on the pavement.

This is the stuff of nightmares.

An earthly angel soon appeared in an SUV, a mountain biker heading for the nearby trail. He pulled out a full-sized floor pump, generously waited for me to replace my tube, and made short work of inflating it.

I had been puzzled not to find anything stuck in the tire, nor any obvious puncture in the tube. I imagined that the removable valve core had loosened; a small puncture would have leaked slowly. [I should know better.] Always take the time to find the cause.

Always.

I descended cautiously, tenatively. And luckily, my guardian angel was still watching over me. Because, when I did trouble myself to pump some air into that tube, certain I would confirm my hunch ... the air rushed out of a gash on the rim side of the tube. Despite having run my fingers over the rim after removing the tube, I had not felt a problem.

We were happy to ride 29 miles, climbing 1,820 feet, on another warm winter day. But above all, I'm grateful that I will get to ride another day. [After I attend to that wheel.]

Bonus Ride

How could I not ride, on one last warm January day? [Let me count the ways.]

A car to get smog tested, yard work to be done ...

How could I ride? [Finish those chores by early afternoon.]

I headed through the same neighborhoods, past the deflated Santas and Christmas trees kicked to the curb, for a total of 28 miles and 500 feet of climbing.

The painted miniatures, still in place yesterday, were mostly gone today. Only the Ship, and Smile, remained.

I paused for another bit of whimsy: A little, hand-carved black bear clinging to a tree branch. A pink heart with a message on both sides.

Hang in There

Stay Safe

Time to Climb

Despite being off the bike for two weeks, yesterday's outing didn't exact a toll. Today I'd trade the heavy commute bike for my road bike and climb Bernal.

I peered out my window, and ... there, smack in the middle of my birdbath, sat a bird!

Big deal, you're thinking; that's why it's there. But despite keeping it fresh, until recently I'd never seen evidence that any bird took advantage of it—when I saw a Spotted Towhee perch on the edge and take a sip.

Feathers fluffed out, this Dark-eyed Junco preened, and sat. I watched for a while; he was in no hurry to move on, giving me ample time to pull out my camera. Now and then, after warily surveying the surroundings, he'd spread his wings, dunk his head, and go all in.

I went all in, too; all the way to the summit of Bernal Road. I was puzzled when a pickup truck continued past the public turn-around point, near the top. On a weekend, and especially now, I would not expect an IBM employee to be heading through the gate onto their campus.

Sure enough, the pickup soon returned.

By the time I started my descent, not one but two more vehicles made the same trip. You do need to pass a written test to get a license, so I expect the drivers could read the posted warning signs. The third one seemed particularly flummoxed; if you don't have the skills to read the signs, perhaps your skills for executing a u-turn on an incline are similarly challenged?

It was another glorious, unseasonably warm day. Climbing Shannon and Bernal added up to 1,300 feet, over 29 miles. My legs insisted on taking a flat route, back.

Little Things

Evidently today was Car Wash Day. I didn't get the memo, so I went for a bicycle ride instead. How could I not, with temperatures in the mid-70s—in January?!

The extra canopy in the parking lot of the local hospital we passed last week, for arriving ambulances, was a sobering reminder of our stressed medical infrastructure. This is not the time to need help on the road, and not the time to risk an incident that would warrant medical care. I can enjoy a nice day pedaling through low-traffic neighborhoods; for now, my focus is more on exercise than scenery.

I made my way to the base of Bernal Road, where a line of hikers was snaking single-file up a trail. I paused to capture a photo and was foiled by the angle of the sun. I continued a bit farther, into a shady spot, but the moment was lost. This was my planned turn-around point; as I pulled out my snack I noticed something tucked against the fencepost. I frowned, thinking someone had left a crumpled wrapper. But, it was not that.

There were similar splashes of color on the other nearby posts. Each was a unique work of art, painted on carefully-chosen rocks.

Who would ever notice these? This stretch of fence was not near the trailhead. I've seen a few people walking down the road, from the park; some of us pass by on our bikes, but most visitors are sealed up in their cars.

That might explain why these little gems were still on display (though one post was conspicuously bare). Or maybe the artist intends for admirers to pocket them?

One rock was out of place, on top of its post. Its face was blank, but surely it was part of this collection.

I flipped it over and restored it to is rightful spot. And, smile I did.

Along with my exercise (28 miles, 460 feet of climbing), I was renewed with an unexpected, simple dose of joy.

A Fresh Start

One local tradition for today is to climb Mt. Hamilton, and I'm sure there were cyclists who did.

We were not among them. (Too cold.)

Seeking a long ride and as much warmth as a weak winter sun might offer, my chief cycling buddy agreed to the route I proposed.

Even an ordinary route can be interesting, no? I led us across five bike/pedestrian bridges above five different  freeways, passing through eight different municipalities along the way. Not bad for 43 miles (and 960 feet of climbing).

Happy New Year!

2020 Retrospective

Herewith, some signs of the times.

I got my happy smile from a neighbor's weekly update during late summer:

I'm still working from home (week 43), and there is a cadence to my productivity level. I've learned, when it dips, to take some time off. When my colleagues ask what my plans are, I doubt they're surprised to hear: “To be not in front of a computer screen for 8-9 hours per day.” It's that simple.

Of course, I have ridden my bike: something more than 1,376 miles and 68,200 feet of climbing, my lowest stats since I started keeping records in 2005. A more interesting statistic, I think, is that the miles I drove weren't much more than that.

My last haircut was in February; it hasn't been this long since I was a teenager. There were a few months where I could have gotten it trimmed, but I expected that the salons would be shuttered again (true, that). Once it was long enough to tie back, why would I cut it only to grow it out again? One day, on a whim, I put it up in pigtails—unexpectedly to the delight of my colleagues.

Thanks to a semi-regular exercise routine and healthy meals, I've shed about eight pounds. I sleep better when I get some exercise, even if it's just a walk around town. I've come to prefer the side streets—not only are there fewer people to pass, the neighborhoods are more interesting than the main drag.

Some colleagues have moved out of the area, and I'm sad that our paths will rarely (if ever) cross again. Moving to the Bay Area was the right choice, for me; I don't expect to stray far from this place.

I am comfortable living in a region with more diversity, not less; though I was surprised to learn (from our health department's COVID-19 updates) that the majority demographic in our county is Asian.

May we look back to the challenges of 2020 as a low point in our lives, and look forward to more love, kindness, and healing in the years ahead.

One More Ride

Overnight showers left the roads slick on Saturday morning, scuttling our plan to ride. But with an errand to run on Sunday, why not climb on the bike?

And once you climb on the bike, why not go for more of a spin?

On my way to Almaden Lake Park, I found myself overtaking an older fellow pedaling a bike with proper fenders—even though I was cruising on the heavy steel bike I normally reserve for commuting. (Running an errand is a commute, of a sort.)

Well.

Older fellows still have egos. Perhaps even more so, when they're on ebikes.

Getting chicked hurts, so he just had to pass me. Without spinning the pedals. (Whatever, dude.)

I scoped out an empty bench at the near end of the lake, and regretted not bringing a book to read. That would have been a nice spot to loiter for an hour or two.

But alas, 'twas not to be. With a family stalled at the nearest entrance to the path, by the time I circled my way to the bench it had been claimed. Along with the next nearest bench. Like all the other paths in the South Bay, this one was busy. Thinking I would just head back, I kept going and planned to exit.

But, hmm ... where does that leg of the trail lead? Away from the park, it was empty (and not very scenic, dominated by the span of Highway 85 above).

I followed it to the end, choosing to take the road back. Although it ran alongside the Guadalupe River, it did not connect to the principal section of that trail; instead, there was signage leading to the Highway 87 Bikeway. Ah yes, I have been that way before, and ... will not venture there again.

With rain in the forecast for New Year's Eve, these 24 miles and 540 feet of climbing would like constitute my last outing for the year.

Going the Distance

To ride, or not to ride? That was our dilemma.

The county does not want households mixing, even outdoors. Given that my chief ride buddy and I have continued to be abundantly cautious, our decision was: Ride!

We stay more than six feet apart when we're not moving, and we're naturally farther apart when we roll. Riding solo is riskier (in other ways). As a pair, we keep each other in sight.

At the same time, this is not the moment to have an incident on some remote backroad. Without the inspiration of our club's group rides, our outings have tended to be shorter. We were both feeling the need to stretch our legs on a longer ride.

With the chill in the air, I suggested a flat, familiar route to Mountain View. This was the sort of day for an exposed (sunny) route. I expected the trails to be deserted ... and, I was wrong about that. Even at the marshy end of the Stevens Creek Trail, we turned tail when a small family congregated nearby. Too. Many. People.

I'd underestimated the distance and opted for a more direct return at the end. We managed to drag ourselves over 45 miles with 1,020 feet of climbing, and we were both feeling it by the end.

How Brown Was My Valley

One of the reasons to join a club is to learn the tried-and-true local bike routes. I sorted through my archives to find the route we'd follow today. It brought back memories of the couple who'd introduced me to this route. They've since relocated out of the area, and I do miss riding with them.

The air quality was poor today, but we would be skirting the outer edge of the smog.

It's been over two years since I rode up Clayton; I was not having a good day. Had the road been repaired, back then? I'm stuck remembering the damaged stretch that kept through traffic diverted. The number of passing vehicles today was a hint that the road had indeed been repaired.

A sad and broken Aermotor towered in a field; the ridge of the Santa Cruz Mountains was just barely visible in the distance, above the valley haze.

After climbing 2,180 feet over 23 miles, our legs were feeling it. Our timing had been perfect; the approaching storm front rapidly drew a blanket of gray over our heads as we lingered in the parking lot at the end. Safely distant, my ride buddy and I considred our options for future outings as our county's next (and second) lockdown looms.

To ride, or not to ride? [Stay tuned.]