Wine Country Century

Racers have an expression for this: It's known as getting “chicked.”

You made me pass you,
I didn't want to do it,
I didn't have to do it.

What's worse than being passed by a chick? [If you're a guy.]

Being passed by a chick with gray hair and a flower tucked into the back of her saddlebag.

Maybe I was a little naughty. Or playful. [But they started it.]

I get irritated when a bunch of guys pass me and then ... slow down. I mean, I'm slow enough, don't block the road and make me ride slower. Especially when I have some momentum.

I pulled around, called out “On your left!” and started passing. That was enough of a blow to one vulnerable ego that he stood and applied some serious power to the pedals. [Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.]

I have seen this movie before, but this time it played out differently.

I had momentum. He didn't. I held my lead.

When a friend suggested we sign up for the Wine Country Century, I agreed. In 2007, it was my first century. [It's an easy one.]

As the date approached, she reached out again. Would I mind dropping down to the metric (100km) route, instead? She had misunderstood the other women who'd enticed her to sign up. [Sure, no problem.]

The first time I did this ride (in 2004), I rode the metric. New to cycling, I was the stoker on a recumbent tandem, which was handy for picture-taking.

What do you see on this ride?

Grapevines, mostly.

And colorful rest stops, with treats for every palate.

Lots of cyclists. Too many, maybe.

Also, some old friends (who relocated up here). I was focused on the snacks, not the volunteers, until I heard my name!

The first time I visited this area, I was astonished to ride past acres, and acres, of grapevines. Translate those into actual grapes ... All for wine? Some grape juice, maybe? No raisins, or table grapes, or jam?

The Santa Rosa Cycling Club does a great job with this popular event, no question. The riders? Not so great. Too many close calls involving groups of cyclists oblivious to their surroundings, riding three or four abreast, chatting with their friends.

It's a gentle route—only 1,770 feet of climbing over 61 miles. Flat. Some rolling hills, sure. Basically, flat.

A Touch of Cold

It was inevitable, really. Sharing a road trip and hotel room with my ailing biking buddy last weekend all but ensured that I would get sick, too.

Dry air, I told myself when I detected the first hint of a sore throat. [Wrong.]

Luckily it didn't hit me quite so hard, and I really did want to ride my bike today.

From the highway, I saw the fog capping the Santa Cruz Mountains. [Uh oh.] Warm enough for a vest and arm warmers, I'd thought. [And I should know better.]

I could always do the first climb and turn back. [Right, like that's gonna happen.]

The redwoods rained big drops on us, at the top. The road was thoroughly wet. Visibility was fine, as the fog bank was above us.

Kind of mystical, really. And I think all that moisture helped me cough out some of my cold.

A brisk 23 miles with 2,320 feet of climbing.