The Fires

The smoke will be with us for some time. The losses will be with us far longer.

My heart aches for those who have lost their homes. Many years ago, a colleague assured me that people who choose to live in the forest accept that this day might come, the day when fire takes it all away. [But, still ... ]

When the Tubbs Fire blew over the ridge into Santa Rosa a few years ago, I took a deep breath. That could have been my town, embers flying miles over the hills to land on our rooftops. When a nearby community was put on an evacuation watch, I decided it was prudent to gather a few things together, just in case. I stashed my sleeping bag and tent in the trunk of my car; I could think of a few friends who wouldn't mind having me camp in their backyards. [Socially distant.] An evacuee's RV has been tethered to a neighbor's house for several days.

The red splotches on Cal Fire's Incident Map are not abstract to me. I have biked the back roads through so many of them (annotated here with black lightning bolts).

As it happened, I chose to click on HamCam 1 just as flames crept into view on a ridge below Lick Observatory. I couldn't bear to watch. [Thanks to a heroic effort, only one unused building was lost.] The valley on the back side burned; it must look very different from this view, which I captured near the base of the fire lookout on my most recent visit.

There will still be a spectacular view of the Pacific from Meyers Grade.

But the landscape, I expect, no longer resembles what I pedaled through a few years ago.

The northern end of Swanton Road drops steeply down to Highway 1, not far past the intersection with Last Chance Road (where the fire tragically cost a man his life). I had no idea there was a community up that road; umarked, I'd always presumed it was private, perhaps leading to an out-of-sight ranch.

This intersection of Alba Road and Empire Grade, I believe, has been incinerated.

 

Did this quirky spot near Big Basin survive? [Doubtful.]

The park—California's first state park—has burned.

There are reports that this beloved tree survived. As you can see, this was not the first fire in its (long) lifetime.

We are so small. What have we wrought?

The Smoke

With the windows open, I could smell the smoke when I woke during the night. Closing them would wait until morning.

Not the best photo, but you get the picture. A smoky sunrise.

Fires are raging to the west, north, and east.

I stepped outside to water some plants. There have been other fires over the years, and enough smoke to warrant closing windows. But nothing like this. I wasn't sure I could stay out there, even briefly, to finish watering things down. This was the worst I'd experienced. Smoke was seeping through every gap in my leaky old house; I taped shut the edges of two doors.

Little bits of ash were drifting down from the sky. Some were recognizable fragments, ghostly tips from redwood branches that had been incinerated. Something jet-black caught my eye—a leaf. It disintegrated in my hand. The closest fire is 10 miles away.

Colleagues have been evacuated from their homes. At least two know people (friends, family) who have lost everything.

The Storm

We're in the midst of a heat wave, and it hasn't been cooling down at night. No breeze. No marine layer.

I woke up at 3 a.m. What was that light? I'd opted to sleep downstairs, where it was a tad cooler (88°F, instead of the 94°F in my bedroom). The display screen on my cordless phone was glowing (and blank); the power had just gone out. Maybe it would be cool enough upstairs, now.

Thunder was rumbling, with the occasional flash of lightning. It was windy, and I heard a smattering of big raindrops plopping down. And then, a rush of vehicles. Red and blue flashing lights. “Got a saw?” I overheard one officer remark.

I stepped outside for a peek at the action. Big branches had come down from a tree across the street. A chainsaw appeared, the road was cleared, and soon thereafter I was asleep again.

It wasn't the work of the wind. Evidently I woke up when lightning struck that tree and multiple branches exploded. The main strike blackened the sap where it split the largest branch from the trunk, but it did not ignite.

That bolt, or its kin, ripped the tops off two additional trees a couple of houses away.

One piece landed atop the utility pole; larger branches took out the traffic signal.

It had been an epic lightning storm for the Bay Area: thousands of strikes, which started hundreds of fires.

In the morning, I shuffled some containers from the freezer to the fridge to keep things cold, longer. I'd recently taken to filling containers with water and packing them into the freezer, to prepare ice for likely power outages in the coming months. This is why they recommend keeping your freezer full, for efficiency. 💡 [Duh.] 💡 Just like you'd pack your cooler with ice. I've been using quart-sized containers, which are easy to shift around and stack. Added bonus: In the event of an earthquake, there's some stored water.

My original plan for the day had been to hole up in my home office and run my portable air conditioner. My new plan involved taking a book to the local park, where I found ample shade under a tree near the lake, at a comfortable distance from other humans.

But, as it turned out, right next to a ground squirrel's burrow. The creature was nonplussed, though disappointed once it understood that I was not going to share any food. Busy enlarging its abode, it would dig with front paws and kick the dirt up and out with rear paws.

The invasive Canada geese also regarded me with indifference as they preened and took their afternoon naps. The tree cast enough shade for all of us.

My book finished, I zigzagged my way from one patch of shade to the next as I walked home. It was the hottest day so far: 103.6°F at my house (in the shade).

Shortly after I got home, power was restored. It had been off for 13.5 hours, but my cold food was still cold enough and my frozen food was still frozen enough.

Except for that container of Phish Food. [Dinner.]

Cool It

Third time's the charm!

Another hot day, this time without fog and early enough not to tangle with diverted, distracted drivers. We headed deep into the redwood forest, at last!

My guess is that Stetson was once a logging road; it's narrow and twisty and the pavement is in terrible shape. I suspect the residents prefer it that way, too. Who would want to drive it? One was happy to cheer us on, as we labored up a steepish-section before stopping at the local church to rest in the shade.

I persuaded my chief ride buddy that it was worth a little detour down a dead-end road to see a Really Big Tree. Which turned out to be not quite so big as I remembered it. It's all relative. Especially if you're not accustomed to being around redwoods, I imagine you're thinking “but, that is a big tree.”

Just off the road, however, we found a bigger (fallen) tree, and a huge old stump.

Back at the start, I continued my litter-pick-up tradition. Six cigarette butts, two AAA batteries, and one Starbucks cup (lid attached). I often wonder what sort of person throws their trash on the ground; now I know that one of them is named Bryan, and he likes a lot of caffeine, heavily sweetened. But he eschews sugar and doesn't much care about the environment.

We may have ridden only 26 miles, but with 2,430 feet of climbing it was a solid workout. And so beautiful, riding among those ancient, towering trees.

(Un)group Ride

A caution sign for motorists is often a harbinger of joy for cyclists. Translation: Tight curves and steep(ish) grades ahead.

Our club's calendar opened three weeks ago, for those wishing to lead (small) group rides, after a suitable update to our county's rules. To be safe, we remind people to stay home if they have any symptoms or known exposure to COVID-19, and we require social distancing and face coverings whenever stopped near other people.

To join a ride, or not? That was the question.

After mulling it over, I proposed to my chief ride buddy that we show up for today's ride. Listings on the calendar are few and far between; those who expected pent-up demand are likely disappointed.

For us, the routine would not be all that different. Because we're slow, we often roll out ahead of the group (and end up off the back). Today was no exception. With a head start of (at least) 15 minutes, the pack didn't materialize until we'd crested the second hill, almost 10 miles from the start. Whenever I'd pause for my ride buddy to catch up, I'd deliberately stop a good 10 or 20 yards away from where I knew the rest of the group would gather. At one such stop, our ride leader arrived to admonish them: “Social distancing, guys!”

I tuned out a guy who was holding forth with a scary tale of some road hazard, presumably on this road (“ ... rider couldn't avoid ... no guardrail ...”) Enough of that. I started my descent and kept a careful eye on the road, which was freshly paved. “That was almost fun,” another rider remarked at the bottom. (Almost? It was fun.)

We thought it would be hotter than it was, but we were determined to finish while it was still pleasant and mostly kept moving. I spotted a couple of deer and a small gang of turkeys. Cattle sheltered in whatever shade they could find, watching silly humans sweat in full sun. 44 miles, 1,140 feet of climbing for me.

WFH: Week Twenty

The oleanders bloom all summer. And here we are, late July and week twenty of working from home.

When I was growing up, it was during the summer that I realized my mom had scheduled the rhythm of our life. One day was designated for housecleaning, one for grocery shopping, one for laundry. If the weather cooperated, there were beach days, too.

And so it is now, for me. Saturdays, of course, are for cycling! I've found the optimal (early morning) days for grocery shopping, and Sundays are for laundry: I tug the sheets off the bed with me as I rise, and they're washed (and sometimes dried) before I finish my breakfast.

Sundays are also for the occasional stroll to the local farmers' market. I've optimized my route, shunning the busy sidewalks for a (shadier!) back street. They've chalked socially-distant circles to help us line up at the booths, but that does nothing for the clueless who simply gather in the middle of it all to chat. Like the guy who stood less than two feet behind me, mask pulled down, gabbing with two (masked) friends.

This is why we can't have nice things.

He was facing away from me; I edged myself slightly forward, anyway. That seemed safer than asking him to move, or (imagine!) wear his mask.

Last week I was excited to score an appointment for a haircut, a luxury I haven't enjoyed since February. Salons in our county got the all-clear to open on Monday; before the day arrived, the county reversed itself and shut everything down again as of the end of Tuesday. In the grand scheme of things, my (now) ponytail simply is what it is: a reminder of the passage of time.

Not Your Spin Class

As I cycled to meet up with my biking buddy, I passed a class in session at a spin studio that had hauled its stationary bikes outside, where exercise is permitted. Do they long to ride free when they see one of their kind pass by, as horses in a paddock might?

To each, her own; I prefer views of golden hills and blue lakes to a view of a parking lot.

My plan for the day was ambitious; if I managed to finish, it would be my longest ride of the year. I was short on sleep, but it occurred to me that being short on fuel was more responsible for my craving a nap under a shady tree. How did I not remember to fill one bottle with my electrolyte mix?

Our turnaround point was Uvas Canyon County Park, which is currently requiring advance reservations—for those who need to park a vehicle. We sailed right through, and saw more vehicles and people than we've ever seen there. Including some large groups with coolers and picnic gear, which ... is not yet permitted. [We kept our distance.]

One benefit of riding on our own is the opportunity to stop whenever we want, for as long as we want; we're not holding up the rest of a group. We've certainly passed this site before, more than a few times, without ever noticing it. The plaque describes the structure, made of stone from the “Goodrich Quarry.” Stone that was also used for notable buildings in San Jose and at Stanford University.

I was curious to learn about the quarry, but what I found was more remarkable: the story of Sarah Knox-Goodrich, a determined local suffragist. She was clearly a force to be reckoned with, in her time; and I imagine she would be, today.

I made it! All 54 miles and 2,055 feet of climbing of it (and, without giving in to a nap).

Out of Towners

The area around Woodside is a magnet for cyclists, and more than a few local residents are cranky about that. [I get it.] I don't often ride there, any more.

There were a couple of cyclists chatting when I reached the (paved) end of Alpine Road; as I approached, the woman forcefully cleared one nostril (onto the ground). Seriously? You can't trouble yourself to use a tissue, especially now? [I avoided her like the plague ... so to speak.]

A large group was heading up as we descended; lucky timing, there. And yes, there were a few groups riding in tight packs. [I avoided them, too.]

There were also some unlucky novices.

One thing to remember, if you choose to ride in this area, is that that the traffic laws apply to you. Yes, cyclist: they apply to you. [Cranky locals, see above.]

This stop sign on Cañada Road is a reliable revenue generator. It's a “T” intersection; it is very tempting to ride straight through, in the bike lane, where your position on the road jeopardizes no one. Tempting, yes; and also illegal. There is a stop sign, and it applies to you. To leave no doubt, they have painted a stop line and the word “stop” across the bike lane. (I suspect they tired of arguing the point with indignant cyclists on the spot, and in traffic court.)

It was a busy day for the sheriff, staking out that intersection and ticketing cycling scofflaws. Time well spent?

My biking buddy and I rode the full length, making a u-turn at Highway 92 (which was fully backed up with vehicles heading toward the coast). Along the way we were surprised when another cycling friend materialized, out for a spin with her own little group. Cañada Road is popular with triathletes and time-trialers, a more-or-less straight shot with gently rolling hills and almost no vehicular traffic.

Stopping at the Pulgas Water Termple was always a regular part of riding here, but I can't recall the last time I visited. We took some time to relax, watching a lone Canada (!) goose grudgingly take wing to find refuge in the reflecting pool after some children focused on chasing it. And we were amused by the antics of a photographer trying to get a shy newly-married couple to look happy.

It was a perfect day for cycling and conversation, 33 miles and 1,645 feet of climbing, cool and sunny.

Squawkers and Gawkers

Our feathered friends carry on, unaware of and unaffected by our pandemic. For the past few years, I've led rides to behold the spectacle of their rookery; this year, I set out on a solo ride, as group activities are still prohibited in our county.

As much as I would have enjoyed it, I avoided taking the scenic route along the Bay; trails are crowded, these days, with inexperienced, unpredictable, and careless cyclists. The roads, on the other hand, would be empty. I followed my old morning commute route, with a twist. It was tempting to use the empty overpass to cross the highway directly, but I stayed with my plan to explore one short trail link that was completed after our team was moved to a different town.

With the campus shut down for months, would the birds be less comfortable with humans gawking at them?

Were there fewer nests, this year? Or had I mis-timed my visit? It took patience to capture a good shot of this Snowy Egret, who was intent on preening (not posing). There weren't many birds to see.

But they were there. Each time a Great Egret glided toward the treetops, a chorus of hungry, squawking chicks made their presence known. Two fledglings prowled through the grass, and seemed uncertain how (or unable) to return to their nests: rather than fly, they tried (in vain) to scamper up the tree trunks.

Normally I bring binoculars to share—which, it turns out, people almost never want to use. This time, I'd stuffed my big camera in my bike bag, all 3.5 pounds of it.

In front of one the buildings where I'd worked, the native plants were busy with butterflies (Western Tiger Swallowtails)—just as the planners had intended.

Cruising through the deserted campus was bittersweet; so many happy memories of colleagues and conversations, the paths we'd frequented, the work we'd done together. I still resent that our team was forced to relocate to a soulless concrete office park a few years ago. But all the buildings are empty now, and may never be the same.

This being the Fourth of July, I'd normally celebrate with our club's traditional pancake breakfast and a bike ride. This year? Pancakes, no. Bike ride, yes. Mango lassi, yes! (I was in the neighborhood, and the restaurant was open for take-out.) Returning home, I chanced to meet a couple of club members heading in the same direction. Taking my usual shortcuts, our routes diverged twice and came back together (much to their surprise).

I'd shrugged off a poor night's sleep to do this ride, and was pleased that I didn't struggle to finish: 43 miles, 1,080 feet of climbing.

The Rules

Even a simple bike ride is complicated these days.

Calaveras Road, on a Friday, seemed like a friendly option. (There was more traffic than I expected. More than on a typical Saturday, even.)

We thought we'd follow our usual route into Sunol Regional Wilderness Park, where the porta-potties should be available, so I checked the current set of rules for Alameda County.

Unlike most other jurisdictions, which require outdoor mask-wearing if you're within 6 feet of another person, Alameda County requires you to cover your nose and mouth if you're within 30 feet of anyone outside your “social bubble.” Even if you are cycling. When I'm climbing a hill, the last thing I need is less oxygen. And how is compliance even feasible, in the (likely) event a faster cyclist overtakes me? Am I simply expected to restrict my breathing at all times?

I'm all for mask-wearing ... outdoors, when social distancing isn't feasible. Certainly whenever I'm indoors around other people. I'm all for evidence-based rules. To the best of my knowledge, there is no evidence that I might be exposed to a concentrated viral load in the open (breezy) air if a cyclist exhales 20, or 10, feet in front of me.

There were a lot of cyclists on the road; more than usual, I'd say. We lingered to chat (safely distant) at the county line. Many dutifully wore masks or bandanas over their noses and mouths as they passed into Alameda County. We also watched a couple of stray cows grazing on the hillside above us, having slipped the fence somewhere. The grass is always greener, eh?

A woodpecker (Nuttall's, I think) glided onto a branch in front of me, but I wasn't quick enough to get a photo. A pair of deer eyed me warily from the slope below. And, for the first time on this route, quail. A large covey, in fact: one adult followed by so many chicks I lost count as I laughed at the stragglers. (Two dozen, at least.)

A paltry 21 miles, 1,880 feet of climbing. We extended our ride a bit; yes, we could have climbed Felter, but I wasn't up for that. Save it for another day.

Turn Around

Our plan was to start a bit later (than last week). I'd brought an extra layer.

So, you know what that means ... No fog. Not a wisp.

I knew we were in trouble when I saw the electronic sign on the highway: Road work, June 27. (Is that ... today? Saturday?!) Who thought that road work was a good idea on a hot summer Saturday when everyone (it seems) heads for the coast? During prime daytime hours, no less. On the first weekend when Santa Cruz gave up trying to restrict crowds and opened their beaches.

We were in trouble because traffic would all-too-soon spill onto the back roads.

As I approached Summit Road I saw more cars than I liked. They came in bursts, five or six at a time; maybe we could manage?

I pulled out my phone and looked at the traffic map. No. Way. South of Summit, the highway was a river of darkest red. There was a marker for an accident as well as the scheduled road work. For too many miles, we'd be tangling with impatient motorists who'd veered off the highway. No peaceful, cool ride through the redwood forest for us.

We turned back to follow the same route we took last week, tacking on a few more miles (and more climbing). I'd forgotten how far it was to the end of Aldercroft Heights. My legs had forgotten that the road has a few steep pitches. Some nice redwoods, though, as a consolation prize.

Back at the start, I chatted with other cyclists who'd started earlier (and cycled over the hill). They confirmed what I'd feared might be true: Wazombies going down Mountain Charlie Road. As they pedaled up from the coast, they faced a steady stream of oncoming cars. Which is ridiculous (and terrifying), though they reported that the drivers tended to be well-behaved). I suppose that makes sense, as that twisty road is not conducive to reckless driving—it's barely one lane wide.

21 miles, 2,205 feet of climbing, and one flat tire. (Rear, of course.) A pair of holes, maybe from a small two-pronged tack that popped in and out at the end of the ride—discovered and repaired at home.

Plan B(rrr)

Really, I should know better. Although the start for today's ride is just a few miles from home, conditions can be very different. Very.

I saw the fog creeping over the ridge shortly after merging onto the highway. When I bring an extra layer, I end up not wearing it. When I don't bring it, I regret it. Like, today.

While my chief ride buddy and I were reconsidering our route, another pair of club members showed up with their own (ambitious) plan for the day.

It should be less windy once we're in the trees, I reassured her. We'll meet at the top of Old Santa Cruz Highway and decide whether to drop down the other side, or return to circle Lexington Reservoir.

Visibility was not an issue, because the marine layer was above us. But nearing the summit, I heard the distinctive sssss of tires on wet pavement after a car passed me: I knew what to expect. I tilted my head down as I pedaled through a brief redwood shower.

Throughout this extraordinary time, one surprising change is the number of people visiting parks and trails. Cars are often parked in unexpected places (near trailheads). Trails can get crowded. How did all these people normally spend their weekends, before they came down with cabin fever from months of sheltering-in-place?

I've also found that people are friendlier. Virtually everyone smiles and says hello; some even start a conversation. It's a fellow human! At a safe distance!

Circling the reservoir entails riding a short stretch of Highway 17, and I always imagine that passing drivers are startled to see cyclists on the road. We're at the right edge of a lane dedicated to the next exit, which offers a relatively comfortable buffer from the fast-moving traffic. Today, though, that exit lane was a bit busier than usual (people visiting parks, see above).

By the time I finished our abbreviated route (17 miles, 1,685 feet of climbing), the fog had retreated and the sky was thoroughly blue. We'll try this again next week; a later start should make all the difference we need to follow the route I'd intended.

Oh, and maybe I'll remember to keep a small trash bag in the car. I have a sometimes-habit of leaving a place cleaner than I found it. In that spirit, today I collected two flattened cans, one empty plastic water bottle, a (broken) glass bottle, two flattened paper cups, and a fast-food fries container.

Suffering is a Constant (Q.E.D.)

Why did the peacock cross the road, dragging his tailfeathers behind him?

Because, he can. Traffic will stop. [I was headed downhill, at the time.] The car behind me stopped. An approaching car stopped. We waited patiently while he changed direction, crossing back whence he came.

Before that, though, I had made it to the top of Montebello Road.

It's been awhile (nearly four years!), but I know what to expect: a steep start, a steep finish, and merely uphill in the middle. Still, one mile into the climb, I doubted whether I could make it. Four-point-three more miles? I expected the initial steep part would be shorter than it is. The landmark “flag” mailbox is gone; I think it's covered with sparkly stars, now.

This was my choice, today, for me and my chief ride buddy. For two reasons: Number one, the wineries are still closed (less traffic!). Number two, it's not a magnet for driving enthusiasts (it's a dead end). Though I did choose to pull aside twice (uphill, and downhill) for a small petroleum tanker—driven by a guy who was clearly very comfortable with the twisty road.

This wasn't my fastest time up this hill (not race pace); but I was three and a half minutes faster than on my last visit.

For the day, 39 miles, 3,090 feet of climbing (we took the flat route, back). Looking at my stats, my average and peak heart rates today were the same as they were in 2016. But there's the rub: the level of suffering is the same, you just get faster.

WFH: Week Thirteen

Last week, I felt it was time to reduce the frequency of these dispatches, as I will be working from home for (possibly) the rest of this year. But this week, I do have some words to say.

I don't know what the history books will make of this ugly period in our nation's history, but it will not be kind. (Nor, should it be.)

I watched footage of protesters, having stopped traffic on one of our local freeways, bashing at the windows of the trapped cars. I felt terrified, and I wasn't even one of those drivers. I recognized that I am privileged not to feel afraid as I go about the ordinary business of living my life.

Are we the only species that has evolved to be cruel? To take satisfaction, or even pleasure, from inflicting suffering on others? I don't know anyone who raised their children to be cruel; but if, for some sad reason, your family did, please ... rise above it.

I am old enough to remember the tumult that swelled during the 1960's. My family fled the city for the suburbs, and it took me a few days to sort out what was unsettling about my new school.

All the faces were white.

My urban school hadn't been heavily integrated, but there were black and brown faces among my classmates. Even as a child, I found myself uncomfortable in a place where everyone looked just like me.

Last fall, I waited to cross a major thoroughfare that bisects our campus. A family (mom, dad, and toddler in a stroller) waited alongside me. I wondered why they were there; not because they were Black, but because the nearest park and the nearest residential area is some distance away.

I smiled at them. The father scowled at me. “Are you one of them geniuses that work here?” he asked.

Ouch. There was a lifetime of pain behind that question.

“No,” I smiled, “but I work with some!” The walk signal started counting down. It's a wide street, but the normally impatient drivers waited without turning across our path.

“Hah,” I said. “We got some respect, for your baby; normally they just drive right on through.” That led to a little pleasant conversation before we parted ways, and I left wondering what that toddler's life experience will be. Better than that of her parents, I hoped.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

More than 56 years have passed—a lifetime, for some—since Martin Luther King Jr. spoke those words. The content of the character of too many of our leaders, and fellow citizens, is appalling.

Not the Tippity-Top

It was windy, but I decided to head for one of my favorite climbs, anyway. I could always bail out. [Right, like that's gonna happen.] My chief ride buddy turned back, but there are always other cyclists on this route. Fewer today, than usual—but possibly some pros? I was passed a couple of times on the climb by helmet-less guys moving at least three times faster than I was. And I saw one descending, disturbingly close to the rear of a car with a bike racked on top.

The observatory is closed to the public, at present, denying us the opportunity to reach the highest point. I made a left at the top to capture some less familiar vistas from San Antonio Valley Road. I definitely didn't have the stamina to add the backside climb today, unlike one couple I overheard. The woman was ready to continue. “We still have 75 miles to go,” she told her companion. [Yikes.] “It's 50 to Livermore. It will be getting dark, normally we'd have started this ride much earlier.”

The temperature at the top was only 50 degrees, and the wind was gusting to 20 mph. Why didn't I think to bring a lightweight jacket for the descent? My toes got cold, and I kept my teeth from chattering only through the sheer force of will. Descend slowly for less wind chill, or descend fast to spend less time being chilled? Those are your options.

There were a few clusters of sports car racer-wanna-bes driving the narrow mountain road today. As well as the occasional SUV that kept going to the top—despite the hand-lettered signs placed at manageable turn-around points, warning that the observatory is closed. I watched one car pause at the top, the occupants seemingly bewildered that there was no place to park.

By happenstance, I found this unusual specimen when I stopped to admire a cluster of wildflowers. It was the only one of its type.

Biking 39 miles is no big deal, but climbing 4,995 feet on my road bike definitely engaged some underutilized muscles. Aches, soreness ... it's all good.

WFH: Week Twelve

I had a most unusual dream this week: I was walking down the aisle of a supermarket, and there on the shelf were a few packages of toilet paper. And facial tissues. [True story.]

When the novel coronavirus emerged, I took in the news with some alarm—at a distance. I'd understood, in an academic way, that such an event was possible (inevitable, really). I just didn't expect to see it, in my lifetime.

As the pandemic began to build, I was grateful for the privilege to switch to working from home. But at the same time, I could not see how this would end.

As the virus began to spread in our county, I was grateful for the protective course set by our leaders. I was puzzled that people were hoarding bottled water and toilet paper. I did not expect that, three months later, our markets would still be struggling to stock even facial tissue.

I surveyed my food supply; would I have enough to eat if I needed to quarantine myself for two weeks? And if I became sick, what might I want to eat?

I surveyed my medicine cabinet; I didn't have enough fever-reducing medication to get through one week. I was not alone in that anxiety; the shelves had been stripped bare, everywhere. It was a massive relief when I found one last box at my local pharmacy.

As more became known about symptoms and severity, having a pulse oximeter seemed sensible—the better to notice a decline in lung function before too much damage might be done.

Working from home is now the norm, not the novelty. Our team can work effectively, but so many opportunities that organically develop from serendipitous connections and conversations are lost, now.

I believe the safest course is to minimize close, unprotected or prolonged interactions with other people, and I can do that. Even as restrictions are relaxed, I will watch, and wait.

Five years ago this week I found comfort venturing out on a simple and familiar route: just one hill to climb.

The week opened with a confirmed 2617 cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 2776 (a 6.1% increase).

The end is not in sight. One hill at a time.

Spring Squall

With thundershowers in the forecast, my ride buddy and I scrapped our plans. Being exposed on the flanks of Mt. Hamilton would not be prudent.

The morning was dry, though I could see patches of precipitation on the weather radar. And I did rather want to ride.

Because I did, after all, have a goal: one more selfie to complete my personal bike bingo challenge.

I headed for a Saturday farmers' market in a nearby town. Should I make a (hillier) loop of it, or a longer (flatter) ride by tracing an out-and-back? I turned right for the longer option, and ... seeing no traffic in sight I made a spontaneous u-turn. Hillier, it would be.

The market was big and bustling; I stayed clear of the perimeter. I needed only a photo; no produce, today.

I'd felt the occasional sprinkle, until (just a couple of miles from home) I was caught in a downpour. [Payback for claiming it wouldn't rain again until the fall.] I could have found a spot to wait it out, but the words of a wise man echoed in my head: You will not melt.

Should I take the usual route, cutting through the park? It should be empty, given the weather. [It wasn't. But I would have avoided the trails anyway.] A simple 11 mile loop with 460 feet of climbing.

Into each life, some rain must fall. [And I didn't melt.]

Nowhere Ride

With the possibility of record-breaking temperatures over the next few days, there was only one way—get up, get out, and get back before it gets too hot.

To the post office, and then a little ride before the work week resumes tomorrow (just 15 miles and a mere 300 feet of climbing). A ride to nowhere in particular, a ride to pick up a few more selfies for a bingo challenge of my own design. Leaving just one more to collect, maybe mid-week.

But then, what?

He's a real nowhere man
Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody

WFH: Week Eleven

Ten years ago this week I pedaled up a difficult hill to watch a stage of the Tour of California. The organizers pulled the plug on this year's race, long before COVID-19 emerged.

This was a short week (thanks to an extra day off) during which ... nothing remarkable happened. And, like so many others, I'm feeling a bit housebound—despite getting out and biking 59 miles.

I found that free day to be surprisingly unsettling. Is this what it would be like to retire without a plan? Wake up with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to visit? Sure, there are plenty of chores I've endlessly deferred, but at some point I'll work my way through all of them. [It will take a while, truth be told.]

But then, what?

My life has been pretty structured for a long time. Monday through Friday, work (and sometimes bike). Saturday, bike. Sunday is typically reserved for chores and puttering around. (And sometimes for biking.) Special events, weekend getaways, and longer trips are plotted on the calendar.

Now, what?

The week opened with a confirmed 2453 cases of COVID-19 in our county, and closed with 2617 (a 6.7% increase). That's trending in the wrong direction, but a consequence of more testing or more viral transmission?

A Pace of Teslas

Here was a sign I'd never seen before. There wasn't anything obviously treacherous about the road surface on this residential street, and of course it was completely dry.

A bit of searching confirmed that it is indeed meant to convey “slippery when wet,” which I reckon should be sometime around November, or October if we get lucky.

So many signs, so many rules (five four). There is no fifth rule; whatever it was, it has been obliterated with duct tape. My bike buddy and I are safely staying six feet (or more) apart, which means we aren't required to wear face coverings. Social distance or face coverings, we don't need both. Seriously.

“Please use another table that has not been marked NOT AVAILABLE FOR USE.” (Of course, there are none.) Your type is not wanted here.

Thankfully, though, the park's restroom was available for use, with soap, water, self-flushing toilets, and that most precious commodity, toilet paper.

The strangest observation of the day came at the end of our ride, when we spent some more socially-distant time chatting in a parking lot. A parking lot that was, of course, essentially empty. A Tesla drove through. After a while, another Tesla drove through. And another. And then the same one, recognizable by the dirty splatter on its windshield. (And on, and on.) There are electric charging stations in the lot, for public use, including Tesla Superchargers, and most were not in use. Were the cars in so-called “autopilot” mode, compelled to circle around the nearest Supercharger site until they do need to juice up?

After 32 miles and 1,965 feet of climbing, I was ready to refuel. Yogurt with a dash of granola and some cherries for me. Plus some chocolate. I earned it.