Leap Fog

On any given winter morning, it is so easy to decide not to ride. This morning, dense fog. Low visibility. Kinda scary. Should I? Should I not?

Oh, get out of the bed. Don the bright jacket. Switch on the flashing lights (front and rear), and just go.

After persuading my boss to try a different commute, who am I to wimp out?

Day one, last week, he arrived sweaty and sore and somewhat out of breath, but surprisingly enthusiastic. He was already hooked. Instead of stewing, alone in his car, for more than an hour, he had been relaxed and productive on a train. Followed by a few miles of biking (mostly on trails) to the office.

Anxious about the possibility of missing the evening train, which has limited availability, we talked about the importance of working out a Plan B in advance. I shared tips about riding in the rain, the advantage of slick tires (for his mountain bike), and the reason to wear padded shorts and stick with his firm saddle.

Today marked his third trip. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I can tell that I'm going to want a longer route soon. What if I take the Bay Trail?”

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! He's already thinking about picking up a bike more suitable for commuting. Last week, on his second train-plus-bike commute, he arrived home in less time than the trip would have taken that evening by car.

The advantage to following my timeworn route was evident this morning, when the fog was so opaque I worried that I might outpace what I could see. There's a turn up there, somewhere ... Droplets condensed and fell from my visor and rear-view mirror; my glasses were speckled with tiny dots. I looked down to see a layer of mist twinkling on my capri tights.

Hydration is not much of an issue when you can, more or less, drink the air.

Tomorrow? Lather, rinse, repeat. The forecast shows the rains will soon return, possibly spoiling any weekend rides.

A shuttle ride home tonight for me and the bike; in two weeks, daylight savings time will liberate me from the bus. (Cycling the 20 miles home in darkness is just not for me.)

The Clean-up Crew

Gray clouds loomed over the hills (where we were headed, of course). It was a leap of faith that the skies would clear. [And they did.]

I was bringing up the rear, as usual. [Note to self: Ride back into shape. Soon.]

It was an ideal day to visit some little-traveled roads east of Tres Pinos. Roads that snake through wide-open rolling hills, dead-ending at gates to private ranches. The hills are green, now, and the cattle are fat. Dramatic cliffs pop up in surprising places.

I regret not pausing to snap a photo of the oh-so-blue sky and green hills reflected on the surface of a pond, with a bull lounging nearby. “I'll stop on the way back,” I thought. But then, some twenty minutes later, a stiff wind rippled the water. A memory, that's all.

Having learned that lesson, I did stop for a peculiar alignment of cloud and hillside.

Heading back toward Tres Pinos, I spied not three pines, but three enormous buzzards on the road. One with wings spread wide, the other two picking at a freshly flattened ground squirrel. I slowed; they were surprisingly reluctant to move, and promptly circled back to their prize once I'd passed.

The longest ride I've done in a while: 46 miles, 3,440 feet of climbing. Sleep well tonight, I will.