Playing Around

Was I visiting during the off-season? Or is it the Disneyfication of Broadway? The pickings seemed slim.

I landed first at an Off-Broadway revival, the musical Desperate Measures, which turned out to be hilarious.

The story was fresh for me, as it seems I have never seen (nor read) Measure for Measure.

Next up was the play at the top of my list, Come From Away.

Last year, I couldn't bring myself to see this one. My chest tightened and my eyes brimmed when the passengers discovered what brought their planes to Gander. It was a few blocks from here, so many years ago, that I saw Evita with Paul.

Taking a break from musicals, I scored a ticket to a preview performance of The Lifespan of a Fact.

Seated next to a woman who had partied at Studio 54 back in the day, we were both puzzled about the venue. Evidently it began as a theatre, and to a theatre it has returned. The play was thought-provoking and funny, up to the (abrupt) end.

Late in the week, my chief biking buddy Ms. C joined me for a few days. “Pick a play, any play,” I said.

Kinky Boots, said she. And I'm glad she did. J. Harrison Ghee as Lola was amazing, and I had no idea that the concept was inspired by a true story.

The architectural details in these old theatres, lovingly restored, are a treat in themselves.

But why, oh why, are modern musicals so over-amplified? The lyrics were clever ... when I could make them out.

Four plays in one week—a new record for me, despite the slim pickings.

New York, New York.

Wildlife Week

Commuting to work this week, no earlier than usual, I was surprised when a coyote popped out of some bushes and trotted across the road, heading in the opposite direction. It was handsome (well-fed) and not the least bit interested in me.

Then I was even more surprised when a second one popped out, following the first. I'd seen one, years ago, in the same neighborhood—but much earlier in the morning.

That was more than the usual wildlife for the week, but ... little did I know.

While the rest of our group today chose to head out on Calaveras Road, as far as they could (it's still closed near the dam), I chose to skip that part and head straight up Felter. If I were to combine them, I'd rather tackle Felter first—but that was not their plan.

I was thinking about the time I saw a bobcat sitting upright in a field along this road, and then ...

A bobcat darted across the road, about 20 feet in front of me! Slightly bigger than a domestic cat, with that distinctive bobbed tail—no doubt about it.

The air was clear, the cloud formations were interesting, the sun was shining. There were turkeys, quail, a snake, and one scrawny tarantula. The scenery looked like an oil painting, the way the light fell on the hills. I chatted with a guy at the summit on Sierra Road. He wondered if there were more vista points (not really). I explained that he'd see the Calaveras Reservoir if he kept driving, but warned him that the road is barely one lane wide, with many blind corners.

Descending back the way I came, I was grateful to be on one of the wider sections when a red Ferrari approached in the opposite lane. I wonder how his drive turned out? There are long stretches where two cars really cannot pass.

And there are times when a single car should not pass, like the place where I boldly took the lane and signaled, palm back, with my outstretched left arm. Because at that moment, a bunch of cyclists were coming downhill in the opposite lane. I pulled to the right when it was safe, only to be yelled at by the eco-driver in the maroon electric vehicle that I'm supposed to stay to the right. [Right.] If you can't safely pass me [3 feet, it's the law] I am going to help you understand that, by taking the lane. It's a pity that you had to wait 5 or 10 seconds to pass. [Seriously.]

A scenic 19 miles with 2,195 feet of climbing. I waved to the rest of the group when I passed them (climbing) as I descended.

Maybe I should have taken that right turn and finished Calaveras ...

Puzzle Pieces

Not too hot, not too cold, not too steep, but ... not flat at all.

It seemed like a good time to tackle the climb up Loma Prieta, via Mt. Bache. I felt defeated last time, and walked up the toughest section. Today I merely paused, and was surprised at how quickly my heart rate recovered. I've done quite a bit of cycling this week, and have not felt the tiredness I expected after donating blood last Saturday.

Slides have shrunken the roadway to a single lane in places, with no evidence that permanent repairs are planned, much less imminent. It won't take much to wash more of it away—other sections are nothing more than irregular chunks fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Bicycling over them is enough to make them rattle in place; driving over them must only accelerate the deterioration.

We had a clear view of nearby Mt. Umunhum, but Monterey Bay was lost in the haze.

Having tackled the hard climb, we moseyed through the redwoods along Highland Way. Some stretches have fresh pavement (!), some are cracked and crumbling, and two “natural” speed humps have formed and been marked with bright pink paint and “slow!” warnings—likely by fellow cyclists.

We enjoyed 3,485 feet of climbing over 37 miles on what was likely the last hot Saturday of 2018.

Queen Quien

Without trying, it appears that I paused and took two photos today that I shot the last time I rode this set of hills. They were green, then.

We got our mechanical issues out of the way early. One rider realized that he had a loose cleat just as we approached some workers with tools. Then, having made it up the first little bump, I realized my rear tire had gone flat.

This was remedied with lightning speed by my crew [haha]. One guy had the tire partially off the rim before I pulled the tire levers out of my saddle bag. Another had reinflated the old tube and was searching for the puncture. In the process, I learned why it's helpful to shift the bike onto the small rings front and back, which means that now I will remember that I want “small-small” instead of “big-big,” rather than “it's a combination you wouldn't ride, but ... which one?“

My companions, more capable and experienced riders than I, took good care of me. They'd often ride at my pace to chat, and one would circle back to ride a stretch with me. He even made an animated warning of himself at one shady spot to ensure none of us would get caught out by the broken pavement there.

The second climb of today's route is gradual—but long. And the day was heating up (97°F by the time we were done). I loved the seemingly endless views of the golden hills, but I wasn't loving the seeming interminability of this leg. The reward for that suffering was to turn around and descend for almost five miles. My speed took the guys by surprise. “You're one of those riders who gets stronger late in a ride!” exclaimed one (when he caught up to me after a short ascent slowed me down). “No,” I laughed. “It's downhill.” I don't think he believed me.

After loading my bike into the car after finishing 35 miles and 2,950 feet of climbing, I discovered an abundance of goathead thorns embedded in the soles of my shoes. Evidently that was underfoot where I'd parked, and I'd bet that my tire had picked one up at the start of the ride. Almost certainly.

We were here, on this mid-week ride, to attend the next court hearing in the case against the driver who killed Jon in February.

The last time I rode this set of hills, so did Jon.

We will return. And we will never forget.