Castle Crags

Another Saturday, another metric century. [What?! Three in a row?]

How could I resist when a friend asked me to join her for the Castle Crags Century Mountain Metric? We managed to squeeze yet another Friday off and headed for Mt. Shasta. Long-distance driving is not one of my strengths, so I was thrilled—normally I would not consider such a distant event. [Not to mention that this one was not on my radar.]

Our motel was close to the the route, so I suggested we just start from there—that approach worked well last time I rode here, too.

When I rode the Mt. Shasta Century a few years ago, I missed getting a good photo of Lake Siskiyou. This time, I knew where to stop. It wasn't long before we stopped again, my ride buddy shouting behind me to look up. Ospreys! And then ... a Bald Eagle. What a way to start the day!

We'd tackled the principal climb first; the ride three years ago was an out-and-back on this hill, not a climb to the summit. [Oh, what we missed!]

A rear-view mirror is handy for more than just checking the traffic behind you. Sometimes, there's a picture-worthy view.

We got the full Tour de France welcome from enthusiastic volunteers at the first water stop.

The gentle grade turned serious after that. Encouraging signs were planted in strategic locations. The first one reminded us “Remember You Signed Up For This.”

As I admired the Trinity Alps from the summit, my internal soundtrack spontaneously began looping on a particular song.

Over bridge of sighs,

To rest my eyes in shades of green

Under dreaming spires

Around the bend, Castle Crags came into view.

What did you do there?

I got high ...

What did you touch there?

I touched the sky ...

It's all too beautiful

Even the on-ramp to Interstate 5 framed a lovely view of the Crags.

And as you see, that's where we were headed ...

The orange cones on the shoulder of I5 were a helpful reminder to passing cars and trucks to stay clear.

The weather was near perfect, but a tad warm in the afternoon. I was holding up better than last week, grateful to have my lowest gears again after I'd taken my trusty steed in for some adjusting. I'd also mounted some new (wider, 25mm) tires—the organizers had been emphatic about the poor road conditions. I chose to walk when my wheels started slipping on an uphill dirt section, but the rest of the route was rideable. The hazards were well-marked and all was well, until ... I got excited about a downhill stretch and slammed into a pothole that launched a water bottle. [At least that was the worst of it.] At speed, in the shade, I didn't see the markings.

The road kicked up, I shifted down, much clattering was heard. I stopped (luckily before the rear wheel would have seized up): the chain had dropped off the largest rear cog and become thoroughly wedged between the cassette and rear wheel spokes.

I nudged.

I tugged.

I yanked with all my might.

I was skeptical when the technician had turned the limit screws on both derailleurs last week. I'm no bike mechanic, but ... that wasn't the right solution.

My hands got plenty greasy, but the chain would not budge. [Somehow it always seems like Too Much Trouble to fish around in my saddle bag for the latex gloves. Why do I carry them?]

I looked at the map; so close, yet so far. The SAG guys transported me seven miles to the finish, and then carefully pried the chain free with a screwdriver, link by link. “We should have tried that out there, you could have finished the ride!”

After partying with my bike buddy and some newly minted friends we pedaled back to the motel as planned, rounding out my day with 55 miles and 5,805 feet of climbing.

It's all too beautiful ...

Adopt-a-Park!

Every June, our company organizes and sponsors a month's worth of community service. We're encouraged to get out of the office and volunteer our brains and brawn. I traditionally gravitate toward the outdoors-y projects. [As if I didn't have enough yard work to do.]

We learned that the city of San Jose has more than 200 parks! And (no surprise here) there isn't enough staff to maintain them. Especially since, here in California, stuff grows ... and grows ... year round.

The project I chose this year was on the grounds of a large community center, landscaped with trees, bushes, and flowers that were out of control. Volunteering alone isn't enough for me; for many years, I have chosen to lead at least one project. This year I went all in: 100 volunteers to coordinate (one of whom stepped up to co-lead!).

We swarmed over the grounds and, in a matter of hours, transformed the place. Community members thanked us, the staff came out to marvel at what we accomplished, and city workers hauled multiple truckloads away.

I joined a crew that tackled the weeds, leaves, and assorted debris that had accumulated in the plants along the long sidewalk fronting the facility. We raked and pulled and swept faster than our comrades could load tarps and wheelbarrows to haul it away.

A few folks even stayed late, after lunch, to help the city worker load the last load into his truck.

At the end of our stint, everyone was dirty and sweaty ... and proud of what we accomplished.

Morning, Marin

I thought last week's ride had a small turnout. Today's ride was smaller still.

I'd resisted signing up for the Marin edition of a one-day ride for the Arthritis Foundation, opting for the Pescadero ride the past two years. But there will be no Pescadero ride this year, so I decided to haul myself up to Marin to support the cause. A few days before, a friend decided to join me—that turned out to be quite fortuitous, because I would otherwise have been riding alone all day. [Pretty much.]

Sunny and windy, we both found this ride unexpectedly difficult. The temperature, though, was perfect.

A few miles into the ride, I spotted a doe and two (!) fawns next to the road. Mom decided we didn't pose a threat and tolerated our presence as they grazed. I was impressed to watch her drop down and slip under the lowest fence rail—so her offspring could easily follow.

I remembered Chileno Valley Road from last fall, and it was just as pretty.

Had I studied the profile more closely, I might not have chosen to donate blood five days before the ride. And I might have been more diligent about getting a mechanic to adjust my finicky front derailleur, which sometimes refuses to shift down to the smallest ring. [I'm apprehensive about looking after my newer bike at group events, so I rely on my older road bike—which hasn't been getting enough love, for sure.]

The back roads were quiet, passing mostly through ranches and dairy farms. There were a few steep sections, but the route was mostly rolling hills. I did manage to shift into my lowest gear once. Before and after that one long climb, it balked (and I walked).

I had a sense, on Marshall-Petaluma Road, that I had been there before. (I was right.) On the Marin Century, some years back, we rode it toward the coast. In the opposite direction, it starts out with a rude climb. I shifted down and carried some speed, but without my lowest gear, I stopped turning the pedals before the grade eased up.

With some 20 miles to go, my legs (and I) were ready to be done. I rode for miles without seeing another rider and wondered if they'd missed the turn. [They hadn't.]

I was excited, and oh-so-relieved, when Stafford Lake finally came into view.

A scenic, but painful, 58 miles and 3,885 feet of climbing.

Incarnation 100

On Thursday, I stayed at work later than usual to wrap some things up since I would be taking the day off on Friday. Waiting for a later-than-usual shuttle, a cyclist started chatting with me. “You're the one who did the Death Ride, right?”

I have a special privilege at work: every four weeks I am one of a handful of people who talk to incoming employees on their very first day. As part of our introduction, we share a fun fact about ourselves—I mention that I've done the Death Ride, and I tell them that they could do it, too! [This does make an impression.]

Our new employee was curious about my folding bike; he'd used a folder commuting to his former job. “Where?” Santa Rosa. “Oh, I'm doing a ride up there on Saturday, the Incarnation 100.” Turns out his wife used to work for one of the beneficiaries (The Living Room) and he'd done the ride in the past. Small world?!

I had never heard of this ride until a couple of weeks ago when a friend invited me to join her. [Sure, why not?]

A mile or two into the ride, I spotted a cell phone on the street and (of course) stopped to pick it up. A few miles later, we stopped at a Peet's for my ride buddy to get a caffeine fix. By now it was clear that this was a very small event, and we wondered if we would, in fact, see any fellow riders.

At the next traffic light, we caught up to a guy who had just passed us. With earbuds in both ears (a no-no, by the way), he didn't hear me say “Good morning!” But he did turn around, and ... and ... it was the new guy from work!

After chatting with me, he and his wife decided to come up and do the ride: 100k for him, 30 miles for her. “See you on Sweetwater Springs!“ he called out as the light turned green.

Think about this chain of improbable events—what are the odds?!

But, back to the ride story ... It was sobering to ride past the Santa Rosa neighborhoods that were consumed by fire last fall. If you didn't know, you wouldn't guess that those wide open fields were once suburban subdivisions, and you might wonder at the blackened trunks of nearby redwoods that survived.

I've long been a fan of the historic Wohler Bridge. I know there are scenic backroads in Sonoma County; I've ridden on them. On this ride ... not so much. [But, a very worthy cause.]

I was not familiar with Sweetwater Springs, rumored to have a painfully long section of 18% grade (in reality, closer to 14%). I should have looked it up in my copy of Summerson's Complete Guide to Climbing (by Bike) in California: “two sections of sustained double-digit grade.” [I did my share of uphill walking.] I seemed to be leapfrogging two guys along the way and began to wonder if they were sweeping me. [No, as it turned out.] I would come around a bend to see them standing with their bikes, and then they'd remount and continue. [They, too, were challenged by this climb.] I got some kudos when I pedaled past one of them, but I couldn't afford a breath to say thanks.

There were a surprising number of banners strung up on barns and fences promoting this ride—surprising given how few riders there were. (200? 300?) Trails were a welcome respite from busy roads with fast-moving (though, well-behaved) traffic.

The route could have used a few more arrows. We inadvertently took a shortcut when we missed one trail junction. [Oh well.] Near the end, a clutch of riders had forked left and were standing up at street level, confused. I called out when my ride buddy headed toward them, and then all fell in line behind me. It helps to understand that, in urban areas, the main trail dips below cross-streets; you only want the street-level fork if you're exiting. I finished the day with 61 miles, and ... only 2,375 feet of climbing?

We were entertained by a live band and refueled with a meal at the finish. I pulled out the stray cell phone to see if I could determine its owner, but its battery had run dry. [Note to self: next time, put the thing in airplane mode until you have time to deal with it.] No one had reported a lost phone at the event, but I was able to hand it off to one of the event's tech-savvy guys. In all likelihood, it belonged to one of the locals; sorting it out after carrying it home to the South Bay would make its return complicated.

My best memory of this ride came on a trail. Among the cyclists we passed were a dad and his young daughter riding her own little bike, her helmet adorned with a tiara. It is especially important to slow down and call out in advance for the kids, who tend to weave unpredictably. Dad coached his pint-sized pink princess to stay to the right, and as I rolled past I smiled and said “Good job!” Before we were out of earshot, I overheard a tiny voice behind me.

“She made my day! She said I'm doing a good job!”

Aww. She made my day.

Chicks!

The chicks are bustin' out!

This year, I learned that egrets lay blue eggs (!). I found a shell cast off from a Great Egret's nest for all to admire.

Note to self: start visiting the rookery in June, not May. Sure, there were a few birds last month. But today they were on full display.

When I chatted with some folks from the local Audubon Society chapter last week, they told me they'd counted 110 nests at the rookery this year. (Apparently there are more nests in trees on the far side of the nearest building, too.)

Hungry chicks were squawking, while latecomers were building nests and fanning out their fancy feathers.

Our group had a latecomer, too: It was all chicks when we set off, till one lone male rider came barreling along to join us.

Without the headwinds we faced last time, I expected we'd find more birds along the shoreline. Maybe it was too early for lunch; apart from some snoozing mallards, we saw only a few egrets (Snowy and Great).

Everyone was mesmerized by the colony and temporarily forgot their own hunger pangs. (I will definitely move the start time for this outing up by half an hour, next time.) They were even willing to stop rolling toward lunch when I spotted a pair of Black-crowned Night-Herons on their nest.

With some errands, 56 miles and 1,000 feet of climbing for me; an essentially flat 27 miles for the main loop.

Hard to say what I enjoy more, the birds or introducing new people to the birds. It's all good.

Short and Shady

The rest of the group planned some challenging climbs, which (today) would be grueling in the heat.

I opted for the easiest climb, with a nice loop around the reservoir to cover some distance.

I eyed the redwoods towering over my head, across the ravine. I had to look down to see the base of the trees, and up (way up) to see the tops. They're that tall.

Far from the bustle of the valley, far from the highway packed with people heading for the coast for a respite from the heat, I reveled in the deep shade of a redwood grove. Moments of bliss, with just the sound of the birds and the creek tumbling over rocks.

An itty-bitty ride, just 12 miles with 1,115 of climbing.

Upside, Downside

The upside to the closure on the backside of Calaveras Road is the near-absence of traffic. [We shared the road with a total of three motorcycles, all well-behaved.]

The downside is that we can't ride all the way to Sunol, as is our wont. [Despite the helpful pointer from one member of our group that the road goes all the way. You're new here, aren't you?] Another member with intimate knowledge explained that although they did repair the slide damage, they've decided it's easier to keep it closed for a few more months and not have to sweep the road every weekend to clear the gravel dropped by trucks working on the dam.

It's not unusual to hear something rustling in the brush on back roads. Birds and lizards can make a surprising amount of noise in the dry leaves, especially if they set off a small cascade of debris. I glanced to my right and this time saw a small doe scampering away.

It was promising to be a hot day, though it turned out to be rather pleasant. I still face “the wall” with due trepidation, but as I grind my way up I admit it's not as bad as it used to seem. By the time we were heading back, a welcome wind had picked up. The hillsides had a golden hue, carpeted with sticky monkeyflower in bloom.

Round trip offered a mere 27 miles and 2,000 feet of climbing—and that will have to do until the road goes through again. Signage claimed September. [Promises, promises.]

Berry Cool Day

There was a reason why I was eager to take it easy yesterday, and that reason was today. Time for one of my favorite events on the greater Bay Area cycling calendar: Strawberry Fields Forever.

We have an abundance of choices for organized rides, and I've sampled many of them; this is my mainstay. I've missed it for assorted reasons over the years—sometimes by choice (rain). For the first time in many years, a friend signed up to join me.

There were a couple of places, early on, that could have used some route-marking arrows. My ride buddy grew concerned, but I assured her we were on the right road, headed in the right direction. I hope the newbies always had other riders in sight, to follow.

The “May Gray” might have been less than picturesque, but it did ensure we had a comfy temperature all day.

Somewhere along the way, near the Elkhorn Slough, a tall, pink poppy next to the road caught my eye. That's odd, I thought; how did that get here? [A few days later would bring the largest opium poppy bust in California history. The growing fields? Near Elkhorn.]

The route takes us along Hazel Dell Road, which had been closed due to storm damage dating to the winter of 2016-2017. The road was open, and we shared it with some cars, but ... wow, I wouldn't drive it. One of the washed-out sections was barely one lane wide, with no protection or reinforcement creekside. Even on a bike, the condition of the road gave me pause.

It's not uncommon to run into friends on this ride. One found me as we enjoyed our apple pie and fresh lemonade at Gizdich Ranch, another as we were about to head home. My ride buddy looked up from her plate at the finish and spotted a friend ... seated across the table.

Cliff swallows nesting under the eaves at the school,

great egrets hunting in the shallows of the slough.

61 miles, 2,895 feet of climbing, and more strawberries and chocolate ganache than I could sensibly eat.

Sky High

The rest of the group had ambitions to climb some popular hills to the north. Knowing that I would quickly be dropped, I was less keen on spending a few hours alone on one of the busier stretches of Skyline.

I headed south, solo. Less traffic (once you're past the entrance to Castle Rock State Park). The park was busier than usual, evidently hosting some event. Land has been cleared for the future entrance, but the pace of progress is slow. It's been more than two years since I led a bunch of volunteers hauling out debris that had been left on the grounds of the former Christmas tree farm.

I was most curious about the road repairs necessitated by the harsh storms of the 2016-2017 winter. A portion of the road washed out then, undermined by the development of a new gully.

I shared the road with a few cyclists (and fewer cars), climbing some 1,945 feet over 21 miles of peace. And quiet.

Wild Flower Hunting

The burn scars are gone; the fields have renewed themselves.

Three women (racers, evidently) passed me as we approached the first descent. Coming around the bend, I was gaining on them, and ... I dropped them. As expected, they caught me when the climbing resumed. “You started it,” they joked, “now you have to stay with us!” Ah, if only ... “I have no horsepower,” I confessed. “You've got great descending skills!“ they replied. I smiled. Yes, there is that.

In 2012, I managed ten and a half ascents of Mt. Hamilton. I missed March and December that year, but surely there were wildflowers in April and May. Why was today so remarkable? Was it the rainy winter, or was I just paying more attention?

I certainly never noticed the lilac bush at the summit. Because, how would you? Unless it was in full, fragrant bloom. Like today.

Yellow flowers along the driveway to the observatory.

Msny flowers I don't recall seeing before.

I started wondering how I'd identify them all, which got me thinking about how it is in our nature to name things. The flowers have no need for being named.

I noticed some yellow lupine on the way up, then regretted not pausing to get a photo. Regretted enough that I actually stopped on the descent.

The usual 39 miles and 4,890 feet of climbing, but I will never tire of this climb.

Even without the flowers.

Bike to Work Day Bunch

Bike to Work Day for me isn't just a another day to bike to work. That would be too simple.

It's a day to lead my colleagues to work.

There will always be riders to join me: some new, some regulars. We had an impressive contingent of first-timers, this year. Some sign up, some drop out, some know where (and roughly when) to meet us en route, and some ... just show up. One doesn't even work for the same company any more.

It all comes together, somehow.

With portable speakers on one rider's handlebars, the voice of Jim Morrison set the pace: Riders on the Storm.

By now, we have the timing well sorted out. Moments after we arrived at our rendezvous point, my co-leader rounded the corner with his group (eleven!) in tow.

After the traditional briefing (the most important rule: Have fun!) and group photo, our line of twenty-odd riders headed up the first bike bridge of the morning. Our route would carry us high above four different freeways, and more than one rider cackled gleefully at three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic stopped below. “Wave!” I shouted.

I can always count on extra help: The rider who darts over to press the “walk” button to give us a longer interval for crossing major streets. The rider who hangs at the back, offering encouragement and ensuring that we lose no one.

As usual, we invaded the “energizer station” in a neighboring town, refueling on coffee cake (and for those who wanted it, actual coffee). As usual, they were highly amused. Many photos were taken, including a ring of ankles bedecked in last year's colorful Bike to Work Day socks.

The biggest surprise was meeting one of our executives there. My co-leader and I had no idea that our organization's senior vice president was on that town's bicycle advisory committee. And he certainly wasn't expecting to see the two of us roll up, trailing two dozen cyclists.

This was also our bifurcation point, this year. Roughly half the group followed my co-leader to Mountain View, while I led the rest to Sunnyvale. [My, how the company has grown!] Our building's bike storage room could hold no more.

My co-leader was game to try my route home; I did my best to keep the pace brisk. (For my definition of brisk; slow, for him.) I rounded out the day with 38 miles and 880 feet of climbing, but that's not the whole story.

After Sunday's 53-mile ride, I can tell you that my legs were sore on Monday. [Eh, whatever. Get over it.]

In honor of Bike to Work Week this year, I dialed it up a notch. [Okay, maybe a couple of notches.] There was also a round-trip commute on Monday (36 miles), plus one-way trips on Tuesday and Wednesday (together, 36 miles). That adds up to 110 miles of commuting and 2,920 feet of climbing for the week. Last year, I wasn't confident I'd make it past the rendezvous point.

Friday's a rest day. I need my legs for Mt. Hamilton on Saturday.

Early Nesters

We paused at a park along the way, where a rider called out our first sighting: a hummingbird hovering overhead.

There were plenty of mallards and swallows along San Tomas Aquino Creek, but the prize was a well-camouflaged Black-crowned Night-Heron in the tall grass on the opposite bank.

The headwinds were surprisingly strong. (Builds character. And clears the air.)

Another rider knew a thing or two about birds. Terns! American Coots (male and female).

And of course, egrets. Majestic Great Egrets gliding gracefully above the surface of the bay. Snowy Egrets hunting in the shallows.

The willows are sprouting their leaves, and the birds are back—building and feathering their nests. Early birds claim the best branches.

So many fancy feathers to preen!

This being the start of Bike to Work Week, it seemed only fitting to bike to (and from) the start for today's ride. Which meant 27 mostly flat miles for the group, but 53 miles and 1,100 feet of climbing for me. My longest ride of the year!