So Many Berries!

I've done this ride many times (ten, counting today), and I've always crossed paths with someone I know. [Not today.]

Parking was a cinch. The big lot was more than half empty.

It was a chilly ride. After all these years, I finally opted for a cup of minestrone soup at the first rest stop. [Warm, and tasty!]

I was surprised to hear the sound of crashing waves. [I guess the sea has more often been calm.]

I've always gotten up the steep hill on Maher Road before lunch (12% grade). [“Not today,” said my legs.] Clearly I haven't done enough climbing this season. Was I ill-prepared for this ride? I felt tired. I was short on sleep; or was I simply low on fuel? [Maybe both.]

We passed fields of lettuce, artichokes, strawberries (of course), and many other crops.

The lunch tables were mostly empty. As I rolled out, other 100k riders were still arriving. The sun finally started to break through after lunch, and when I stopped for this photo two other riders realized it was a good shot and followed my lead.

At Gizdich Ranch, there was no need to hunt for a spot to park my bike or a place to sit with my slice of pie. I noticed that the bike mechanic was idle; why not ask if he'd take a look at my bike? It hasn't been shifting properly since the derailleur's pulley wheels were replaced. He was delighted to help me, and his adjustment resolved the issue. [Thank you, Bicycle Trip!]

I've always done most of the route with others in sight. [Not today.] Climbing through the redwoods on Hazel Dell, I saw one other cyclist headed in the same direction—and that was true for most of the remaining 10 miles.

It was puzzling. Had I started later than usual? [No.] Early on, I was passed by a few riders, and passed others in turn. Later? Not so much.

Being a bit slower than usual, I finished a bit later than usual. [Not by much.] But, still: There were so few people at the finish. Did they skip the meal (not to mention the eponymous berries, served with chocolate ganache and a dab of whipped cream)?

Maybe this year's steep increase in the registration fee dissuaded people from signing up? [The point is, it's a fundraiser.] And costs keep rising: permits, insurance, food—you name it.

I like this ride: all the friendly volunteers, the live music at every stop, the scenery, the strawberries. If there's a 34th edition in 2025, I expect to return for another 63 miles through the countryside.

Next year, I'll be prepared to pedal up that wicked hill.

Variations on a Theme

So many fun memories bubble up whenever “Bike to Work Day” rolls around. Biking to the office with more than two dozen people trailing along behind me, newbies and experienced riders alike. My co-leader's mobile “Energizer Station” (coffee and donut holes). Receiving a gift of custom, personalized tire levers from that long-time co-leader.

I visited a nearby Energizer Station on my way to meet friends for our weekly ride, chatted with the volunteers, and picked up my bag (and an apple). No more Hobee's coffee cake, alas!

Our little group's regular leader was out of town today, and ... when the cat's away, the mice will play! The rider who stepped up proposed a new game for a regular, very familiar route: each leader should take a turn at introducing a few twists. His first little neighborhood tweak gave us a new hillside perspective. Later we detoured onto the Albertson Parkway Trail, which I've passed countless times but never explored. (Note to self: Explore this again, reading all the interpretive signs along the way.) I accepted the challenge: Next time I'll work that trail into our return-from-coffee-stop route.

It was surprisingly windy this morning, in an unexpected direction: we'd have a tailwind for our return. Thirty-three miles for me, having extended the route by riding from home—a bit shy of the 40 miles I'd log commuting to (and from) the office.

No more biking to work for me, of course. I hope that my colleagues continued the tradition, and that some of the people we inspired over the years have continued to bike to the office when they can.

Spring Along the Trail

We were charmed by a few California Sisters today that were determined to perch on people, reminding me of a summertime experience I had before moving to the Bay Area. If I would pause at my back door upon coming home from work, a friendly Red Admiral would circle in and land on me, often atop my head. I could feel strands of hair moving as it explored. I'd wait patiently, sometimes for several minutes, before it would flutter away. As the season wore on, it lost bits of its wings (to predators, I assumed), until it came no more.

Accompanied by docents, most of the group was focused on spotting spring flowers, but there was no overlooking the butterflies.

Not to mention the occasional vista!

One docent was on the lookout for a particular plant (Broad-leaved stonecrop), and knew just where we'd find it. I loved the mix of colors!

Our hike was short (3 miles), but filled with spring blooms. Get 'em while they last ... summer is approaching.

An Old Favorite

Once upon a time, long before I'd joined any bike clubs, pedaling up Alma Bridge and Aldercroft Heights roads to Old Santa Cruz Highway was a regular route. (As a stoker on a tandem, back then.) The first club I joined would often start rides at the Lexington Reservoir; we'd park atop the dam (legal, back then). The second club I joined preferred to meet south of the reservoir, on the road leading to the Lexington Elementary School. Heading out from there reduced the overall distance and climbing involved (which, I didn't mind).

After a couple of rounds of winter storms in recent years, sections of those roads were closed. Early accounts of passing through sounded sketchy: I didn't try. [Until today.]

When I started up the first incline, my legs rebelled. I know I haven't been doing much climbing lately, but this old favorite shouldn't be this hard! [And that's why I'm here.]

The work isn't finished, but the section I traversed was fine.

I wasn't looking forward to returning the way I came, having less-than-fond memories of a short-but-steep climb approaching the rowing club. I spied a new (to me) bench overlooking the water, which I decided was my reward for making it up that pitch.

Relaxing with my snack, I watched a bald eagle soar overhead—second reward!

A tidy 1,700 feet of climbing spread over some 16 miles—a scenic and efficient workout. I'll be back!

Be Cool

Expecting warm weather, three friends agreed to join me for a hike in the forest today. It's not an easy hike—there are hills to climb (and descend)—but it's well-shaded.

Having no post-hike commitments, I decided to do a little more exploring (albeit, exposed to the sun).

Private estates were once built on this land, later acquired for the establishment of a religious institution (Alma College), and more recently for a nature preserve (Bear Creek Redwoods).

I wandered through what remains (and is accessible), trying to imagine the site in its heyday. The former carriage house is now a habitat for bats, which seemed a worthy use for it.

My additional trekking, added to the usual loop, amounted to more than six miles (and about 1,000 feet of elevation gain). The vibe around the college site felt decidedly creepy—most likely because I was the only person around. Worth it, though, to satisfy my curiosity.

Two Too Close

I nearly died today.

It was my second close call in a week. The first incident, a few days ago, happened when I committed the sin of cycling near a school as parents were picking up their children. [No school buses?! Don't ask.] You might think parents would be extra careful around all those children. [They're not.]

When Minivan Mama evidently finished chatting with another mom across the street, she suddenly and sharply pulled away from the curb. Without looking. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

Even though I was being cautious, moving slowly, I still had to panic-stop.

Her son waved happily through the window to his friend, and off they went—utterly oblivious to the accident narrowly averted.

I would have been injured, perhaps seriously, colliding with that minivan. Today's incident was much, much worse.

Today I'd decided to get some climbing in; having completed the first hill, I came to a stop at a T intersection where I would turn left. I unclipped and waited astride my bicycle, having heard a vehicle approaching from the right. A white Tesla waited behind me.

The vehicle I'd heard was some deep shade of red; burgundy, perhaps. A small SUV or crossover, perhaps. Driven by a woman with longish dark hair, perhaps. That much registered in my brain.

She was turning onto the road where I stood, cutting the corner at speed—completely on the wrong side of the double yellow line, into my lane. Hurtling straight at me. I'm pretty sure my mouth hung open; my expression was likely one of disbelief rather than terror. This is it, I thought. I'm going to die now.

Here I am, though, telling the tale.

Brakes screeched. The lanes flare out at the intersection, the corners rounded for cars turning right. Mindful of drivers seeking to turn right, I was positioned far enough to the left, and the Tesla just far enough behind, that the reckless driver managed to thread the needle to the left of me and to the right of the Tesla. And simply continued on her way.

Flowers, Frogs, and Fish

Riding on my own, I've fallen into an all-too-comfortable pattern—cruising through quiet residential neighborhoods with wide streets. But, honestly, there are more scenic routes that also have little vehicular traffic (on weekdays).

Just look at the Almaden Reservoir, framed with lovely lupine!

At the water's edge, I was puzzled by a noise I'd never heard before. I figured it had to be a frog, but it sounded more like moaning than croaking. When a fisherman wandered by, he confirmed that the frogs hang out in the reeds along the shoreline. (Cleverly concealed.)

I decided to venture out onto the dam for another perspective (on foot, though I hefted my bike across the vehicle-blocking boulders to keep it close). In the past, I've focused on admiring the water; today, I turned to the side and spotted the giant chimney in Quicksilver Park, a relic of New Almaden's cinnabar-mining and mercury-production days.

Fishing here is strictly a catch-and-release sport—too much mercury contamination. I don't get the attraction of catch-and-release, but I suppose the fisherman doesn't get the attraction of biking out here just to turn around and bike back home (32 miles round-trip, about 900 feet of climbing).

To each his (or her!) own.

Fluff

Normally I avoid biking on trails; today's route with some friends included a stretch of the Los Gatos Creek Trail that I've rarely used.

What was going on with these trees? I doubled back later, not wanting my curiosity to interfere with our group's plans.

Fluffy white stuff drifting all around us; not snowflakes (of course), not bits of dust on the lens of my camera ...

Puffy balls hanging all over the tree ... could these be cottonwood trees? [Duh!]

I took note of another oddity that caught my eye, and managed to find it when I returned: white California poppies (a cultivar, as it turned out).

A social ride with a little extra exploring, 36 miles with about 1,000 feet of elevation gain along the way. No better way to spend a sunny spring day!

May Day Flowers

A docent-led hike, focused on wildflowers? Count me in!

First new fact: The pond is here because the water table is high at this spot. We were following the familiar Zinfandel trail at the Picchetti Ranch Open Space Preserve today, pausing only briefly to admire the pond and convince ourselves that the duck we saw at the far side was a female mallard.

While I recognized many of the flowers we found, the wind poppy was new to me (and, evidently, fairly uncommon).

Many flowers rely on pollinators—like this variable checkerspot butterfly visiting our native golden yarrow.

Having hiked this (wooded) trail in other seasons, I was honestly surprised to discover as many flowers as we did. Red larkspur and white globe lilies, columbine and smooth mule's ears, Fernald's iris and bluewitch nightshade, orange bush monkeyflower and blue-eyed grass (of course), and so much more.

A leisurely 4.4 mile walk, for the love of flowers.

Still Blooming

The signs are there: the green hills are fading softly to brown.

The trails in Santa Teresa County Park are exposed and best explored during our cooler months (which will soon be behind us, until late fall).

If you know where to look, there are flowers to be found. (And we do know where to look.)

Clear skies, a perfect spring day to share a challenging hike with friends old and new (7.5 miles, about 1,000 feet of elevation gain). Smiles, all around.

Feathering Nests

I was itching for a long bike ride. A long, slow bike ride, playing amateur naturalist along the way. I didn't intend to visit the rookery; it felt too early to find much activity there.

A great blue heron took flight, skimming across the water, when I stopped to snap a photo.

I was hungry by the time I reached Baylands Park, where I settled at a picnic table near the area where a few guys were flying their model aircraft. A perilous activity, given the wind, I thought. “Not if you're a good pilot,” one remarked.

Shorebirds are a reliable sight along the bayside trail. Pondering the route I'd take back home, visions of a fresh fruit tart clinched it. Onward, then, to the rookery!

Some nests were under construction; a few were well-established and occupied.

Big nests for big birds.

And a big ride for this old bird: 46 miles with about 1,300 feet of elevation gain. Powered, in part, by a luscious fruit tart.

In the Eyes of a Child

I'd never really considered spending an entire day (or close to it) at the Monterey Bay Aquarium—until today.

A good friend had family visitors from afar; thinking they would enjoy it, I invited them to join me.

It's fascinating to experience a familiar place from another's perspective. Years ago, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I'd explored galleries I'd never considered after asking friends what they'd like to see. Today I got a pint-sized view of the Aquarium's exhibits, and a solid appreciation for the play-centric areas where children can climb and slide and manipulate child-friendly features. [Kudos to those who designed the exhibits, including their durability.]

The little ones were too young, perhaps; will they remember anything from this day? [I will.]

Fields, Forest, and Flowers

One of our hiking buddies proposed a walk through an open space preserve that was unfamiliar to me: Glenwood.

It seemed that most of our regular hikers were out of town, leaving me to join two who were well-acquainted with this preserve.

Bisected by a busy road, I was surprised to discover how different the two sections were.

Leaving the sunny (inland) side of the Santa Cruz Mountains, I had also been surprised to ride into the fog as I headed toward the coast. The marine layer, of course, kept us cool (but not too chilled).

One hillside was gloriously covered with lupine and owl's clover in peak bloom. We meandered along more than five miles of trails, and yet left some areas unexplored. (Till next time!)

Up for the Count

Around this time of year, for many years, teams have assembled to survey the wildflowers blooming in particular sections of the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve. I was excited to learn that I could sign up to help.

While normally we're admonished to stay on the trails, today we could venture afield (in the name of science). Our group included a ranger, a staff botanist, several additional experts and docents, interns, and a couple of people like me (curious amateurs.)

Equipped with little booklets featuring the top 100 flowers found in prior years (grouped by color), we could often figure out what we were seeing. (Tomcat clover, below.)

While the experts handled formal identifications and kept the official tally (for comparison with prior—and future—years), everyone had their eyes peeled for flowers. That's where I could be most helpful.

The ranger had hiked through the area a few days before and spotted a few rarities; would we find them?

We had paused for a closer look at a plant when something caught my eye. I definitely don't remember the name of every plant I've seen, but I have a good chance of realizing when I'm looking at something I've rarely (or never) seen before. I gently lifted the drooping stalk with the tip of my hiking pole. “What's this?” I asked. “You found it!” exclaimed the ranger. (Drops of gold..)

In the company of experts, I learned (as always) a lot—including the presence of tiny blooms underfoot that I would never have noticed. (Field madder, invasive.)

It turned out that we found 114 flowering species (and no, I didn't manage to see every one—around 65, for me).

Next year ... ?