Schwanensee

When they heard I'd be spending the week in Zürich, my friends were eager to hear about my adventures. “It's a trip for work,” I explained. They seemed unconvinced.

Day one began with a 7 a.m. breakfast in the two-story library (33,000 books) at the hotel (in a building that once housed a brewery). The chandeliers were crafted using original beer bottles. The day ended around 7:30 p.m., at which point my boss and I headed out of the office for dinner.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Much good work got done.

One evening was reserved for dinner with the team. Another evening, a colleague and his partner hosted us for a Moroccan-inspired dinner at their apartment. (It was amazing.) I conspired to keep one evening free. In Zürich, as in San Francisco, it's ballet season.

On my way to the Opera House on a lovely spring evening, I strolled through the Arboretum.

What could be more picture-perfect than swans on Lake Zürich?

Tonight's performance? Swan Lake.

I learned that the Opernhaus Zürich has a somewhat surprising history. Not all cultural treasures are treasured, it seems.

I thought the restoration was stunning.

The performance, featuring Anna Khamzina and Tigran Mkrtchyann, was ... interesting. I'm most familiar with Helgi Tomasson's interpretation (which, as fate would have it, I had seen just four days earlier in San Francisco). Alexander Ratmansky's revival includes elements that were unfamiliar to me, truer to the historic Petipa version. Some seemed superfluous or even confusing; other moments I will regret missing whenever I see Tomasson's version.

I walked back along the edge of the Arboretum, where this mosaic fountain drew me in for a closer look. Public fountains spouting drinking water are pretty common, but none so lovely as this.

After a moment's hesitation (walking alone, at night, in a foreign city), I backtracked to cross the bridge for a clear view of the Fraumünster and Grossmünster churches. It was worth it.

When my colleagues in Zürich asked if I had visited before, I summarized my bike trip (2015). “You've seen more of Switzerland than I have!” they'd respond. Not on this trip, though. Next time ...

Up a Random Hill

Out of shape, I am.

I did manage to commute to (and from!) work one day last week, after daylight savings time kicked in. Getting up took some convincing, it did.

Today wasn't pretty, a bit chilly thanks to overcast skies and more wind than I expected.

My ride buddy and I kept it short—just one hill. Most of the group skips the climb we chose; instead, we skipped the rest. It's quiet and wide, affording us ample time to chat. (My buddy pedaled up twice, having arrived an hour too early.)

It's been awhile since I last visited this area; there's quite a bit of development in progress.

We met at Random Access Method of Accounting and Control Park. (RAMAC Park, that is.) Named for the first computer to use a hard disk drive, which was invented nearby at IBM. Fittingly, our climb up Bernal Road ends at the Almaden Research Center's gate.

The club has been starting rides from this park after a favored bike shop shut down. Something didn't feel right with this place. Men in aggressive cars were loitering in the parking lot, or circling the neighborhood. I picked up (and recycled) an empty 32 oz. beer bottle that had been discarded. At least it hadn't shattered.

After finishing the ride, the dead-end street next to the park was blocked by adjacent patrol cars; the officers were conferring. That seemed all the more curious after I reached the main road, where the traffic signals were out at two busy intersections. Motorists were left to negotiate the multiple straight-through and turn lanes on their own.

One mile of climbing, 12 miles of flat: 575 feet, in all. In a word, enough.

Ah, Altitude

It has been an spectacularly snowy winter in the Sierras. We arrived on a perfect high-altitude-blue sky day,

which became a perfect clear black night.

In a few days, skiers from around the world will compete in the World Cup races at Squaw Valley.

They will be well-prepared. Unlike yours truly, who committed a regrettable tactical error ten days ago by donating a unit of blood. I did consider postponing till after this trip, but then made the wrong choice.

You see, at altitude, you really need those red blood cells.

My heart rate was elevated (normal) and my body was busy shedding plasma (normal) to raise the concentration of those oxygen-carrying warriors. There just weren't enough of them.

I felt tired ... was it only 8:30 p.m.? Maybe I'd feel better in the morning.

I woke up groggy. Maybe I'd feel better after lunch.

Sliding around on a pair of skis while lightheaded would not count as a good idea. The sled dogs were fully booked.

The skies had clouded over as the next storm approached.

I boarded the tram to visit the mountain-top High Camp.

Lake Tahoe was just visible in the distance, through the rings that remain from the 1960 Winter Olympic games.

I wandered through the Olympic Museum. I would not have fared well on those skis, not at all.

Graceful skiers carved their tracks down the slope as I watched with wistful envy.

Next time.

Water Finds a Way

With a respite between storms, I could have completed my errands by cycling around town. That would have been quicker, but I wanted more exercise. More time outdoors.

I laced up some hiking shoes and set off on foot. I first crossed the creek on my way to the dry cleaner's. Fast-moving water, the color of caramel.

Backtracking to the creek trail would likely save time: no traffic lights or crosswalks, just a direct (and scenic) route to downtown. The acacia trees are in bloom.

I was lucky to score some Girl Scout cookies after I left the Post Office, just as they finished packing up and started to roll their cart back home.

That was a genius move, as I had brought along a bottle of water—but no snack. My plan was to continue following the trail upstream, to see how much water was flowing over the spillway at the dam. Lunch could wait.

So much water, raging urgently down the creek.

Splashing and tumbling, surging and swirling.

It seemed almost angry when it sprayed up and around any obstacle in its path.

It picked up speed as it flowed from one level to the next.

It slowed in apparent confusion, losing direction when the banks widened enough for the water to pool.

Once the spillway was in sight, I couldn't resist continuing across the face of the dam to behold the sights from above.

So much water, and more on the way.

Raindrops sprinkled now and then, which kept many people at home. There were joggers and dog walkers, mountain bikers and road cyclists, parents and children.

Plenty of mud, along with puddles and rivulets, on the trail.

And one lone lupine.

Crud

No, I wasn't off-roading on my skinny tires.

A friend recently asked if I'd stopped riding, or stopped blogging. Not exactly.

The thing is, we've been having a bit of weather this winter. Wet weather. Wet, windy weather. Trees topple. Hills slide. Roads crumble.

Highway 9, closed. Highway 84, closed. Highway 35 (Skyline) will need to straddle a small new ravine that washed away the roadway (needless to say, closed). A section of Skyland Road was similarly torn away. I can't imagine what Highland Way must look like, given that the hillside had already taken its toll on a stretch that had been under reconstruction for years. Trails, which typically run alongside creeks, flooded and closed; some will need repair, like a section where Stevens Creek eroded and widened its banks.

The lower portion of Mt. Hamilton seemed like it would be a reasonable place to bike—and it was ... mostly. The asphalt was patched where a falling eucalyptus had torn out a chunk. The remains of the enormous tree were cut and left on both sides of the road. Culverts did their job, channeling much water safely beneath the surface. The road was in much better shape than I'd expected, though one section had some ominous cracks.

The road was also in much better shape than I was; I had no intention of trying to reach the summit today. In fact, I was never so happy to reach the intersection at Alum Rock Road, after descending cautiously through mud-caked and wet curves, on slick, sandy tires.

I felt victorious after covering 17 miles—not to mention climbing (and descending) 1,985 feet. After six long weeks without a “real” bike ride, it required a serious effort to pull my routine together. Luckily it was, well, just like ... riding a bike!

St. Joseph's Hill

So much rain, so many roads closed for repair or clean-up. I was apprehensive about venturing into the hills today, even though it would be sunny and clear. Rocks, mud, and trees continue to tumble down the unstable slopes.

So much water that it was still flowing down the spillway at the now-filled Lexington Reservoir!

Could we find a place to hike that was not only safe and accessible, but interesting?

We could walk up the Los Gatos Creek Trail to Lexington Reservoir; the trail is high enough above the creek. Not a serious hike, though.

Then it dawned on me: continue on to St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve. Small, but with mostly-exposed trails and mostly-gentle grades on high, rolling hills.

Perfect. Especially at this time of year, before the baking-hot sun of summer (or spring or fall, for that matter). You can't really get lost up there, either; little need for advanced planning.

And so we set off along the trail, busy with runners and cyclists and dog-walkers and people like us, out for a stroll on a precious sunny day between the “atmospheric rivers” of rain that have been battering us this month.

From the summit, we had clear views in all directions: The cube atop Mt. Umunhum, across the valley to the domes of Lick Observatory on Mt. Hamilton. Mt. Diablo to the north east, and the city of Oakland. Even San Francisco was visible, and Mt. Tamalpais beyond that. A thin line of smog hovered over it all, having risen quickly after the rains subsided.

We returned on the hikers-only Flume Trail, having hiked almost seven miles. (Not to mention the three miles we covered, walking to and from the trailheads.)

Nearly ten miles. Not bad for a walk-out-your-front-door-and-take-a-hike kind of day.

Rancho Cañada del Oro

My New Year's tradition is to eschew New Year's resolutions. As this year begins, though, I could use some inspiration. Motivation. Something.

And so I resolved that I should hike more often. In fact, why not start today?

We are blessed to have so many unspoiled places to visit, just a short drive outside the sprawling, heavily-developed valley. County parks, open space preserves, state parks—even national parks.

My chief biking/hiking buddy suggested Rancho Cañada del Oro, an open space preserve.

After taking a wrong turn and circling round on the Llagas Creek Loop Trail, we headed onto the trail we'd planned: Mayfair Ranch.

We crossed paths with a few hikers as we surveyed some of the hillsides that the Loma fire consumed last fall. Hay bales and signs have been placed to keep people from straying off the trail onto the fire roads and into the burn zone.

We also met a family on mountain bikes, but for the most part we had the serenity of the preserve to ourselves.

There were trailside mushrooms and a few flowers in bloom, and plenty of birds twittering about. Our fellow hikers had asked if we were participating in the annual Audubon Society bird count (no), but then I did spot a few small birds with yellow patches exposed above their tail feathers as they flew (Audubon's warblers?). Not to mention the turkeys we saw on the way to the park, and the ubiquitous turkey vultures circling overhead.

And so, with a five-mile hike, 2017 begins.

On a Winter's Day

One way to overcome the winter funk that's been keeping me off the bike is to persuade a friend to join me. My chief biking buddy has been in a similar funk.

My strategy worked: we wouldn't let each other down, so we both showed up. (I admit that I checked my email a few times before leaving the house, just in case she backed out.)

We did an abbreviated version of a club ride; I wasn't sure how well I'd get up the hills, and she's still coughing from a lingering cold.

On such a gloomy day I feared there would be no photo-worthy scenes; I snapped the first photo early and expected it to be the last. (Silly me.)

At the base of the second hill, a pair of turkey vultures swirled as they were lifted by the warming air—the sun finally broke through.

For my 2016 season finale, I managed to bike 23 miles and climb a measly 665 feet.

End of year wrap: I climbed more than 140,000 feet and covered more than 3,725 miles on the bike. How much time did that take? More than 415 hours (not all of that in motion). Evidently I also walked (and hiked) more than 346 miles.

Somehow it all adds up.

Christmas Cliffs

It was a moody sort of day as we set off on our Christmas stroll.

I was happy to be spending this day, again, with a good friend.

Forsaking the tide pools at Pillar Point this year, we headed south along the cliffs. The overcast skies transitioned to blue, and some of the hills had turned emerald green.

We descended to a few beaches along the way. One revealed a small waterfall that we would cross on the bridge above.

With the sun low in the sky, the cliffs begin to glow long before sunset.

If you haven't visited coastal California, you might be surprised by the vast agricultural acres that often stretch to the end of the cliffs. Brussels sprouts were in abundance.

A rude woman with a small dog flushed a stately heron into flight, not content to admire the bird from a respectable distance.

By the time we returned to our car, guests at the Ritz-Carlton were clustered around their firepits. In one ground-level room, I spied an astonishing mountain of brightly-wrapped presents.

We celebrated an eight-mile hike, and more importantly, the gift of good friendship.

Sing Out

A holiday tradition in many communities is a choral “sing along.” In particular, at Christmastime, the popular work is Handel's Messiah.

When a friend learned, a few years back, that I had some ability to sing, he gave me a copy of an acclaimed performance on CD and invited me along.

(Yikes.) Apart from the famed Hallelujah chorus, I had no familiarity with the work. My choral career ended in elementary school; to my untrained ears, this piece was operatic. As an adult, I had once toyed with the idea of joining a chorus—until I found out that an audition would be necessary. Solo.

There is much joy in singing, though; and a chorus makes such a glorious noise together.

No auditions are needed to participate in a public sing-along. With some practice, and the generosity of a choir master leading free rehearsals, I came to appreciate Handel's masterful work.

This year, when I signed up for a local 50th annual Messiah Sing-along, I missed the memo that we would be performing the entire work—not just the usual popular selections. But that was okay, thanks to those free rehearsals over the years. And besides, if you don't feel confident about a particular piece, you could just sit it out and let others carry the weight. Many of the people who show up for these are members of regional choruses, and they know what they're doing.

I strategically settled into a seat in the section where sopranos would naturally congregate, and resonated with a confident and talented voice nearby. There is an orchestra, but there are no soloists: We tackle the solos, as well as the choruses, written for our voices.

There was at least one vocalist who had participated in all 50 events. “Let's make it 60!” he called out. Some seated near me held no scores; one woman spent the evening penning Christmas cards. That seemed odd, until I concluded they were friends and families of the orchestra members.

The lyrics are bits of Biblical scripture, rendered from two of the more poetic translations. When I read some verses at a funeral service earlier this year, the passage was familiar to me through Handel's music (No. 52); I had a firm grasp on those words.

As 2016 draws to a close, I was struck by two questions (Psalms 2:1):

Why do the nations so furiously rage together,

and why do the people imagine a vain thing?

Why, indeed? More than two millennia later, so little has changed.

Can there be any hope that we will work for the good of all in 2017, and beyond?

Shadows and Smiles

Wintertime,
And the bikin' is chilly.
Trails are empty;
The sun is low in the sky.

Would this be yet another morning when I talked myself out of biking to work?

I haven't been on the bike since October 22 (not counting the handful of miles on my folding bike each weekday, to and from my commuter shuttle). I haven't biked to work since September 21. It's not the cold I mind, so much; it's the darkness. On that last commute, the traffic for the first three miles was worse than ever, earlier than ever.

Of course, once the foolishness known as Daylight Savings Time is behind us, the mornings are a bit brighter. But I still have to get up and get ready in the dark.

What's the big deal, you say? Turn on some lights. Sure. But I've just never been a morning person.

It was 39F out there; frost on rooftops, and—dare I say—on some windshields. Descending at speed, the cold air stung my face. With the sun directly behind me, I cast a long shadow. A really long shadow.

One lane of a major road was closed for a short stretch. The workers saw me coming and emphatically waved me inside the cone zone. I smiled and thanked them.

As usual, it's important to stay alert—especially at intersections—but ... all the time, really.

Wait for the drivers who run through the red lights. They're all very important people, in a very important hurry to get to very important places.

Wait for the elderly lady who's fixated on one thing: the pedestrian in the crosswalk. She's not going to look around for someone turning onto the road in front of her.

Whenever it's feasible, I stop well to the left of the bike lane at intersections where drivers will want to turn right on red. It's the courteous (and sensible) thing to do. One driver paused next to me, giving me a wave and mouthing “thank you.” I smiled and nodded. There are some nice people on the road.

Getting ready to shower at the office, another woman recognized me. “I rode to work with you once on Bike to Work Day,” she told me. I smiled.

My day ended on a particularly sweet note, at an appreciation party for those of us who teach orientation classes (in addition to our regular jobs). Impressive statistics were shared. (We taught a lot of new employees and interns, this year. I love the interns.)

“What do you teach?” asked one of my fellow instructors. When I replied, he said “I thought you looked familiar!” (One of my former students.) I smiled.

Our party was a teaching party, of sorts. The chefs had prepared a few stations for us. Grilling, appetizers, cookie decorating.

Cookies?! [Good thing I biked to work.]