Sweet Panoche

It seems that there is only one Panoche, and I can attest that it is a special place, indeed. Once the gray gloom burned away, it was possible to shed my jacket and bask in the sunshine.

I get so overwhelmed by the majesty of this place that I often forget to pause for photos. There is too much to take in, and photos don't really do it justice.

You're not far from the rolling hills around Paicines before you enter another dimension—rock formations dating back millions of years.

It also seems that I have typically ridden this route in the spring, and somehow not since 2014.

East of the summit, the road is still cratered with potholes. I chatted with two women who were riding to Panoche for the first time, assuring them that they could not get lost, nor would they miss the Inn (our turnaround point).

I was surprised to find native morning glories blooming alongside the road when we reached the Panoche Valley. This late in the year, I didn't expect to see any flowers.

This view captivates me every. single. time. The road leads directly toward this formation, ultimately too close for a close-up.

Three years on, the grapevines in Paicines have become well-established.

For the day, a spectacular 55 miles, with a modest 2,795 feet of climbing. Till spring ...

(Not) Hicks

Having been off the bike for a month (where does the time go?!), a “flat” ride was enticing. Dangerously unhealthy air quality, travel, and rain had all conspired to erode my fitness. This has been my theme for 2017, and clearly I need to find some indoor substitutes.

Not today, though; the skies were sunny and the air was brisk. Puffy clouds didn't block much sunshine, but the hills did. The day never really warmed up.

The plan was to follow an easy route to two local reservoirs, Guadalupe and Almaden. We headed first for Guadalupe, which meant cycling along Hicks Road—stopping at the base of the real climb. Two riders split off and rose to the challenge; the rest of us stayed on plan and made a sensible u-turn.

The water level is low as we prepare for winter (another rainy one, we hope). Deer were grazing in the fields exposed at the southern end of the reservoir.

We stopped short of reaching Almaden Reservoir, despite taking a more direct route than our leader had mapped out. When one rider's energy was flagging, the group opted to stay together and turn back, finding lunch along the way.

40 miles, 1,440 feet of climbing: Not Hicks, but not flat.

Augusta Raurica

The work week over, I headed west to visit some friends near Basel.

Saturday started with a visit to Augusta Raurica, a site near the Rhine that had been a bustling Roman city for a few hundred years (with more than 15,000 inhabitants) .

Some features remain, some have been restored. Over the centuries, people naturally reclaimed stones from the abandoned city for new buildings. The amphitheatre faces stone steps leading up the hill to what remains of the temple.

A section of the aqueduct is displayed, along with statues and carved stones that have been excavated. This triumphant warrior, victorious over the foe trampled by his mighty steed, is long gone but not forgotten (nearly 2,000 years later).

We next drove to the top of Schartenflue, to begin a hike along the ridgeline.

The plan was to hike to Seewen, but the trails were unmarked after leaving the summit and (not surprisingly) we strayed off course. We made our way to the town of Hochwald instead.

The views were limited, but what's not to like about tromping through the forest on a crisp fall afternoon?

We finished the day with a performance of La Traviata in Basel.

At the first intermission, another patron struck up a conversation with my friends. When he turned to me, they explained that I don't speak German. “English,” I smiled. Evidently he was a fellow American ... and not familiar with the story line. “No,” I assured him, the dazzling setting for the first act was not a “beauty parlor” by day.

Opera is not my thing, really, but Corinne Winters was riveting as Violetta. After the final act, I thought we might never leave the theatre—there were that many curtain calls. Simply, wow.

Herbst in Zürich

Autumn in Zürich. It was surprisingly warm, with flowers blooming. Leaves were still changing color and falling.

Each morning I'd pass this lonely elephant and giraffe in a local park. Children were on their way to school, no time for playful climbing. I felt sad about graffiti on the elephant's ear; there seemed to be more graffiti everywhere, this trip.

While the iconography on street signs is sometimes baffling, the message near some tram tracks was clear enough (even for those of us who don't know that “gleis” means “track.” [Except that, now we do!]

I could have biked to the office, but didn't feel confident enough about the rules and traffic patterns. My route entailed crossing up and over some railway tracks, with elevators on both sides. Cyclists, however, are meant to take the stairs: note the narrow trough at the base of each railing. Cyclists need not portage their bikes; they simply roll the wheels along the edge as they climb and descend the stairs. [Brilliant!] This accommodation is not an add-on: it's part of each concrete step.

The days were shorter, this time of year; the sun had long set by the time I walked back to the apartment each evening. The bridge over the tracks was photo-worthy, at night.

The days were also packed with meetings, leaving no real time to explore. I was proud, though, to master the route to and from the office, navigating by landmarks rather than GPS after the first day.

As Friday approached, my colleagues seemed disappointed that I would already be heading back. Hmm, two weeks, next time? [I'm in!]

The Uetliberg

A rainy day in Zürich. A rainy Sunday, in fact. Most places are closed—shops, and such. I considered buying a train ticket and riding off in some scenic direction (pretty much any direction, here), but rain would spoil the views.

I slept in, instead, which apparently banished any jet lag. When I arrived last night, I was indecisive about choosing a place to eat. Then it dawned on me: I'm staying in a corporate apartment during this visit—shop, and cook!

Watching the radar map, the afternoon promised a break in the weather. I set out for the Uetliberg, finding myself walking uphill almost immediately after turning the first corner.

If you were the owner of this tiny pink bike, of course you'd secure it with a pink cable lock. Note the rim brakes—no silly coaster brakes!

There was a detailed topographic map at the base of the trail I found, labeled with numbered segments and their distances. Most had one word in common: steep.

I had no idea where I was, relative to the map. Up the trail! [“Up” being the operative word.]

Fall, as it turned out, was a marvelous time for this climb. I've lived in (dry) California so long I'd forgotten the earthy fragrance of wet leaves.

They weren't kidding about steep. From time to time, I paused to get my heart rate down. There were no trail markings along the way; I just followed my nose.

During most of the climb, I didn't see another person. It was so quiet I could hear my throbbing pulse.

A closer look at the topo map, later, suggests that I chose the steepest path—the segment from point 7 to point 5: Uetlibergweg to Gratstrasse, continuing along Gratweg to reach the tower atop the summit. [A mere 2.6km, in all.]

The exposed rock at the top of the hill revealed that this land was once below the sea.

Of course I had to climb the tower. Access to the viewing platform involved feeding 2 Swiss francs into a machine. I found myself helping other confused tourists through the payment process, and the turnstile, before I was able to pass.

After sweating my way up the hill, I was glad to zip up my jacket and pull on my gloves. The storm front was blowing in; the winds were strong, and cold.

Both sets of stairs lead to the top; having climbed one, I descended the other.

Along the way, I found Jupiter, a feature of the Planetenweg. With the first raindrops falling, it seemed prudent to reserve my journey to the other planets for a future visit.

At work the next day, one of my colleagues exclaimed “You walked up?!” There's a tram that takes you to the top. [But, why?]

Pretty Pescadero

Last year we had a touch of rain for this ride; this year was picture-postcard perfect (but, windy). Good thing I'd tossed a jacket in my bag, at the last minute; it was 44F at the start. Volunteers were swaddled in quilts.

The moon was still high in the western sky as I set out on this year's Arthritis Bike Classic Pescadero ride. I arrived later than I'd planned, surprised by one-lane traffic controls on roads still being repaired from last winter's fury. Nonetheless, I managed to start pedaling a few minutes earlier than last year.

I paused to admire some fancy cattle up close: Belted Galloways, they are. Those white bands are lush and wavy. You might imagine running your fingers through that fur ... that is, until you realize that the dark hindquarters are covered (covered!) with flies.

There were a bunch of guys along Gazos Creek Road with binoculars trained on the opposite hillside. “What's up there?” I asked. “Birds.” Seriously? You make the effort to visit this remote road, and that's the best you can do? The group was so fixated, I thought maybe they'd spotted a condor. “Birds.”

The Pigeon Point Lighthouse looks best in morning light. I took care not to linger, as the headwinds were picking up early.

I chose the “45-mile” route again, which makes two loops centered on Pescadero. This year, one rest stop was hosted at the fabled Archangeli Bakery, where we sampled cinnamon bread as well as the amazing Artichoke Garlic Herb bread. Silly me, asking for half a piece of that bread ... of course I went back for more. As many times as I've been here, this was the first time I noticed the field of flowers next door.

A sign along Stage Road caught my eye, asking people not to feed the pigs, or the dog. Sure enough, there was one large pig and many little pigs. (They weren't photogenic, as pigs go, so I just rode on.)

Yesterday, on a rural Sonoma County road, a young man deliberately swerved his enormous pickup truck into four cyclists on a charity ride. This weighed heavily on our minds today, as we reassured ourselves that normal drivers don't wield their vehicles as weapons to assault other human beings. [The culprit was found and arrested, in large part thanks to video footage from a passing motorcyclist's helmet cam.]

Happily, an uneventful day of riding for me: 44 miles, with some 2,565 feet of climbing.

Snowflakes

How I loved our family traditions at Christmastime, growing up. Cherished ornaments, homemade cookies, beloved carols, and of course ... brightly-wrapped presents. A special time. My mom shared stories from her childhood, of decorating the tree on Christmas Eve.

Not in September. Which is when I spotted the first display in a local department store this year. [Really? A month before Halloween?] At this rate, maybe we'll wrap back around the calendar and start pulling out the trappings in December. [If only.]

We're starting to run low on daylight; my opportunities for an evening ride home from work are fading with the sunset. (The full 18 miles, in the dark, is too stressful. I've tried it.)

I had every intention of making the round trip this week; my schedule was free of early meetings on a couple of days. But it wasn't until this morning that I woke up feeling well-rested and pulled it together.

A few quail scurried across the road in the morning, then winged it when they realized they weren't outrunning me.

In the evening, malfunctioning barriers along a little-used railroad line created an unexpected neighborhood traffic jam; I re-routed myself accordingly.

The sun had dropped below the hills, but there was enough daylight to pass through Vasona Park. Where they have, already, begun to set up the displays for the annual Fantasy of Lights. Which doesn't light up until December 2 (almost two months from now).

Merry ... October.

Lookin' for Love

This handsome fella was coming straight at me.

I'm not the female you're looking for ...

I was surprised to see a tarantula here, in the hills above the Lexington Reservoir. 'Tis the season, but until today I'd only seen them inland, farther east.

We'd climbed Black Road this morning, an exercise in pain (as always). A late-arriving rider caught up and chatted with me for a spell. I was surprised when he joined me in dismounting and walking the steep pitch on the upper section, as he's a very strong rider. Rather gentlemanly, to keep me company.

Most of the group carried on with the plan, descending to Scotts Valley and returning via Mountain Charlie Road. One guy decided to join my ride buddy and me, who had quite enough climbing after Black (thank you very much) and returned to circle Lexington Reservoir.

At the bottom of Black, a car honked at me as I walked across the intersection. We were chatting with a pair of guys in camo, who were there to train their (black!) Labrador Retriever pups in the art of retrieving. Clearly puzzled, one of them asked “Why'd he have to honk?” [Indeed.]

I was surprised by the (deliberately) low water level. Let's hope they're right about another rainy winter.

Enough of a workout for me: 18 miles, 2,495 feet of climbing. Is it bedtime yet?

Bodega Head

Our cycling done for the day, my biking buddy and I headed for Bodega Bay, a town of some renown. It's not recognizable as the remote hamlet made famous by Alfred Hitchcock—homes blanket the surrounding hillsides now. Ominous clouds moved in from the northeast as the afternoon wore on.

The coastal state park at Bodega Head was light on signage. We skirted an enormous pothole and followed our noses up a narrow road to a parking area. These were the bluffs we were looking for.

We chose a path that went up (of course), despite our whiny legs. A hiker on his way down cautioned us: “There's nothing but beautiful views up there!”

“Did you use them all up?” I joked.

He assured me he'd left some for us.

Fittingly, a flock of seagulls winged past, but I wasn't quick enough with the camera. I did catch a Red-shouldered Hawk in flight.

I have my biking (and hiking) buddy to thank for this excursion; I was not aware of this place. Despite having watched The Birds earlier this year, and biking past in years gone by, it never occurred to me to visit here.

A small group of folks gathered off-trail, excitedly studying something near some rocks. One wandered over to us, explaining that they were trackers. He pulled apart an owl pellet, revealing the skull of the unfortunate vole that fed the bird. He generously offered us the remains, but (fascinating as they were) we declined.

Our final bird sighting of the day was back in Sebastopol, on a trail where we met the rooster we'd been hearing most mornings. We learned his story (abandoned, and missing his tail feathers) from a local woman who came by to scatter grain for him. That explained why he was hanging around—he knew where, and when, he'd get fed.

And thus, our Sonoma Sojourn drew to a close.

Petaluma

By the time I finished yesterday's adventure, I figured that I was done for the week. My legs were cooked.

But how could I skip a ride that started at a creamery? A ride that promised little climbing?

Our ranks swelled with members of the local club, the Petaluma Wheelmen, and we headed out on Chileno Valley Road. I'd ridden this, in the opposite direction, on at least one organized ride in the distant past.

Little traffic, at last! Raptors above, egrets below.

Also as promised, the roads were in terrible condition.

In the spirit of this week's routes, I missed a turn—totally my fault, this time. Distracted by an Aermotor on my left, I failed to see the turn on my right as I considered whether it was photo-worthy. With wires overhead, I couldn't find an attractive angle for a shot.

When I first started pushing the pedals this morning, my legs protested. [What does she think she's doing? Enough, already! This is not happening.] I'd missed my evening recovery soak in the cool waters of the hotel's pool.

I channeled Jens Voigt: “Shut up, legs!” [They obeyed.]

Content to ride way off the back and admire the scenery, the occasional downhill would boost me to catch the rest of the group. Near the end of the ride, I saw some of them re-mount and push on ahead. Why had they stopped, I wondered?

I looked to my left, and right next to the fence was an emu. The bird, however, was having none of me. It ambled away and showed me its rump.

Today's ride was only 27 miles, with 1,525 feet of climbing; but after yesterday, I figured I'd earned some of the Petaluma Creamery's finest. Two scoops.