Feel the Burn

It was time to get serious, to double down, to get more fit.

Time to stop finding excuses, get on the bike, and go. Thus, I have biked eight of the past nine days (five in a row): some 319 miles, with about 12,230 feet of climbing.

It's paying off; my legs are stronger. And with this week's heat wave, there was no better time to be on the bike. The early morning hours are cool, and the temperature is dropping nicely during the evening ride home.

I've been mixing it up a bit on the return trip, having invented a new game I call “Trail Roulette.”

It's so convenient to start out on the trail, but it's also so risky. My game goes like this: Stay on the trail until I meet a Bicyclist Behaving Badly ... then, exit.

In the first few rounds, I've been exiting at the same place—the first real exit, after passing under the freeway.

Today, I didn't follow the rules; I stayed on the trail after a pair of cyclists approached and passed me while riding side-by-side, one over center line. It's Friday, the trail isn't crowded ... As I started onto the second overcrossing, an officer on a motorcycle approached. Motorcycle. Followed by three more. At least they had the sense to ride single file.

I took the next exit.

On Tuesday, taking the first exit wasn't enough to skirt stupidity: A cyclist was blocking the opening to the street, rolling to and fro in a trackstand.

Distracted, I missed the left turn I needed. Calculating new route ... oh, look, the next street is a “bike boulevard.” Let's see where that takes me.

Right back to the trail. [Sigh.] So, that's where that trail exit leads. Time to surrender to my fate. Clearly I was meant to use the trail today.

As I neared the final overcrossing at the end of the trail, a car horn sounded on the adjacent freeway. Traffic was flowing at the usual crawl, was there a bit of road rage brewing?

Then I looked up at the bridge. Two people were standing above the southbound lanes, displaying signs. “HONK! IF U ♥ BERNIE”

Brrng-brrng.

Cat Tracks!

There was some trepidation about today's ride—the leaders regretted not calling for an earlier start, as we worried that heavy traffic would make us late for our rendezvous. And, when patience ran low on the crawl over the hill to the beach, how many drivers would cut away from the freeway and compete for the lane on the narrow back roads we planned to ride?

My ride buddy and I got a head start on the group, the better to reduce our interaction with motorized traffic. This also meant entering the redwood forest earlier, the better to enjoy its fresh morning fragrance and cool shade.

An especially generous club member, known for his epic all-day adventures, brought a small tray of blueberry strudel to share. [Yum!] He worked our short route into his long plan for the day, much to our delight.

Deep in the forest, I noticed lush patches of redwood sorrel in bloom. Reluctant to stop mid-climb, I nonetheless regretted not pausing for a photo. Certain I would see more, I kept scanning the roadside. I found some on both sides of the road before climbing up to sunnier terrain, and stopped near a small stream.

Years ago I tried to recruit a fellow cyclist to join me for some after-work rides near the reservoir. She declined, for fear that we would be attacked by a mountain lion. It's true that they roam the hills, but they're generally not keen to mix with humans. If you hike in this area, it's not likely that you have seen one. It is commonly said, however, that you have likely been seen.

I turned to walk back to my bike and discovered something far more interesting than the flowers that had drawn me to stop here. Paw prints. Wet paw prints. Fresh wet paw prints. The cat had come out of the stream and sauntered briefly along the road. Closest to the stream, the blotches were indistinct—too much water being shed. But after those first couple of steps, they were unmistakable.

“It's worth stopping!” I called out in vain as the rest of the group cycled past.

They stopped instead to admire a local collection of primeval creatures. The pterodactyl was now frozen in flight, teasing the T. rex to catch it.

I wasn't sure I'd have the legs for the last climb on our route, but decided to go for it. I was surprised that we were being tailed down the hill by a pair of vehicles; any driver that could hold that pace had to be intimately familiar with this twisty road—a local. And locals who choose to live in remote pockets of the Santa Cruz Mountains are often less than friendly. Anyone who drops down a steep dead-end road is surely up to no good. Just to turn around and climb back up, on a bicycle? How ridiculous!

I imagine that she was none-too-pleased with us, but she lavished her attention on the folks in the other car that had driven down the hill. She would have them believe that they were trespassing. They were seeking to explore the abandoned train tunnel at Wrights Station. We later explained that there were no issues with them being on the road, but crossing the barbed wire fence (and poison oak) would indeed entail trespassing.

Prudence carried the day; they flashed me a peace sign as they drove past, climbing out.

A cool 32 miles with 3,170 feet of climbing. More importantly, I am pleased to proclaim that pep was not pounced upon by a puma. (Today.)