Remembering

For me it seems that February is the cruellest month, having claimed the lives of two of our club members: Ellen this year, and Jon four years ago.

Today we traveled to honor Jon on our bikes.

Knowing the main road would be busier later, I headed first to visit Jon's ghost bike. I was disappointed when most of our group set off directly on the route to the Panoche Inn; would they make time for this leg later, when they were fatigued and eager to head home? (I hope so.)

Considering the rutted condition of the last miles leading to the Inn, I opted to turn around at the summit. That was better suited to my fitness level, anyway, this early in the season (42 miles and some 2,400 feet of climbing).

Fortuitous timing and placement gifted me with a two-for-one special: an Aermotor ringed by a solar halo.

Searching the airwaves on the drive to Paicines this morning, it took me a moment to flip back when I recognized a familiar voice. A tiny regional station was broadcasting a particular song that has been reverberating in my head over the past few weeks. In this case, a live performance of The Circle Game recorded nearly 56 years ago and released on Joni Mitchell's Archives - Volume I.

And the seasons, they go round and round

We can't return, but we can look back and remember our friends.

A Very Special Place

A long-planned, much-needed day off. A day for a visit to the seashore, the place where I find peace.

I puttered about, made a sandwich, and left the house at no particular time. Inching along when traffic backed up unexpectedly, I wondered if the trip would be worth it after all. Was the drive adding stress to my day?

I settled onto a bench and realized how quickly I might lose my lunch, in a moment of inattention, to a pair of determined ground squirrels (or a crafty seagull).

The skies cleared as I ambled along the coastal trail, in fits and starts, detouring onto the beach or taking a seat to gaze out to sea.

I snapped photos. I picked up litter (especially dismayed by a plastic spoon left beneath a scenically-situated bench).

The giant aloe plants had sent up red spikes; the flowers were fading, but I hoped to frame a good view.

The trail was busier than I'd expected for a weekday in the off-season; the sea, nonetheless, was working its magic.

Families, couples, singles walked and jogged in both directions. A young woman passed as I eyed the view between a pair of aloes, and suddenly turned back.

“A friend of mine is a Buddhist monk,” she said to me. “He comes here, in his orange robes, to meditate. He built a little altar, it's right here.”

She led me along a tight path between two of the giant plants. “He sits there,” she said, pointing to a flat rock. Tucked into the base of the plant was the altar.

She turned toward the water, sweeping her arm across the view. “This is a very special place,” she said. I took a deep breath.

“It is amazing to me that you are telling me this,” I said. “I have just lost a Buddhist friend, we just had services for her.” Her face froze.

I added “She was a cyclist, and she was struck by a vehicle.”

Her face contorted with grief. “I have to go now, I'm ... I'm doing a virtual race,” she stammered.

“I will stay here for a while,” I replied.

And so I did. Seated on the rock, contemplating the sea and the altar, the confluence of all the unplanned moments of my day (and hers) that brought us together at that spot, at that time. Wondering at whatever led her to single me out, to turn back, to address me. Taking in the very existence of this altar.

Thinking of Ellen and meditating, in my own primitive way, on a spiritual journey.

Flat-out Social

A girl needs a day off, now and then. Like today.

A social ride on our club's calendar fit the bill. Our leader has a regular following, but since she focuses on weekday rides her routes are often new to me.

Without a cue sheet or map, we trail along like good little ducklings. These outings typically (always?) involve a coffee stop, and today was no exception. [Except, I'm not a coffee person.]

Heading back, there were sudden calls to stop. “Why do I always get a flat on your rides?!” one guy exclaimed.

We chatted some more as we waited for the necessary repair to be completed, mostly not overseeing the operation. [No pressure.]

I could have returned via a more direct (shorter) route, but that wouldn't have been very social of me, now, would it?

In all, 32 miles and (maybe) 700 feet of climbing. Plus, a little adventure.

Remembering Ellen

The chapel was filled with Ellen's family and friends and colleagues. They shared stories and memories of a woman who was involved with her community, warm and friendly and generous and kind, a strong and accomplished athlete.

Monks chanted and sounded bells in a Buddhist ceremony before leading a procession to say our last farewells, each of us tucking a white rose beside her.

Ellen's broad smile radiated from every photo on display. Another cyclist pointed out details I would have missed in a large poster that we'd seen at Sunday's memorial ride: The photographer reflected in her sunglasses. The lacy pink shoes on her feet. She would often forget her cycling shoes but do the ride nonetheless, he explained. [Note for non-cyclists: that's quite challenging, our pedals are not designed for that.]

A dozen or so of us cyclists assembled at the rear of the funeral procession. Our spirits were lifted when one remarked “Ellen would have loved this, that we were sending her off on our bikes.”

I regret that I'd never met her; I nearly turned out for a ride she led a few weeks ago, but the group was doing a long training ride and realistically I wouldn't be able to ride at their pace.

In the final ceremony before Ellen's cremation, the bells seemed to fall into the rhythm of a heartbeat. A beat that grew slower, and slower, and then ... silence.

This line from a poem by Mary Oliver echoes in my head:

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one and precious life?

While we have the chance, let's (all of us) do more.

In Somber Solidarity

We came together to ride in memory of a cyclist, a member of our club, a woman whose life was stolen last Sunday by a man driving a Land Rover on a remote stretch of road: Ellen Le.

We are reminded that the difference between life and death can be a matter of seconds. Had Ellen or the driver been a few seconds faster or slower, they would not have arrived at that place on the road at that moment in time. That moment when he rounded a blind curve and struck her, head on.

More than a hundred cyclists assembled for a memorial ride—nearly 50 from our club alone. Many of us had never met Ellen; some traveled 50 miles or more to ride in her memory.

It could have been any of us on the road that day. It could have been someone on a motorcycle, or in another vehicle. It could have been no one at all. Tragically, it was Ellen.

We pinned yellow ribbons to our jerseys and set off in waves to avoid clogging the roads. Biking to and from the place where we gathered, I covered 40 contemplative miles.

Every day is precious. Do what you love, and do it with care.

And when you drive a vehicle that weighs in excess of two-and-a-half tons—when you drive any vehicle—do it with care. Stay in your lane.

Oh Oh Henry Coe

Here's a climb I haven't done in a while—up, and up, to Henry Coe State Park.

We met our small group in a surprisingly trendy pocket of Morgan Hill. (I suppose I need to get out more.)

This is a challenging, but unremarkable, climb—which accounts for why I rarely choose to do it. At the top, wilderness stretches farther east than the eye can see.

The parking areas were filled, which seemed surprising for a winter's day. (Well, the vehicle parking areas, that is.)

It's not really wildflower season, yet—but a few early poppies had popped near the visitor center.

There was an empty picnic table, under a tree, which seemed like a perfect spot to enjoy my sandwich. Until I realized why it was empty. Under a tree. (Plastered with bird droppings.)

I'd framed a good shot of some lupines in my mind's eye on the way up. Not wanting to pause, I tried to commit a few landmarks to memory. Would I find them on my way back down?

I wasn't enthused about the return path our leader had plotted; my ride buddy was game to follow the alternate route I suggested. We weren't with “the group,” anyway; paces vary on climbs (and descents). We finished with 28 miles, 3,500 feet of climbing, and tired legs.

Social Climbers

Varying paces separated us on the road, but we'd mostly regroup at the usual places alongside the Calaveras Reservoir.

The landscape is healing, but another prolonged dry spell is fast fading the emerald hills to olive.

While everyone else was keen to continue to a cafe in Sunol (which turned out to be closed), my chief ride buddy and I split off into the Sunol Regional Wilderness, as is our habit.

The park was so busy I wondered whether they were offering free admission. (For vehicles, that is; there is no “parking fee” for cyclists.)

Another lucky reward for our visit to this park: a nice spiral-bound copy of the guidebook for their annual Trails Challenge. Their 29th annual Trails Challenge. Being denizens of the South Bay, we had no idea!

I climbed 2,780 feet over 36 miles using nothing but human pedal-power. There were at least four people in our group on electric bikes today; to my surprise, I'm beginning to find that dispiriting. I'm excited to have the company of folks who otherwise wouldn't be riding, but I'm feeling irked by others whose goal seems to be to zip ahead.

Stay tuned ...

Inclined to Surprise

Seemed like a good day for a not-too-challenging, not-too-long ride.

Running a bit later than I'd intended, I was puzzled to arrive at the starting point for today's ride to find only two fellow cyclists—and not the ride leader. I checked my email to see if he'd canceled. [No.]

We were prepared to follow the route without him, but he did materialize.

We weren't prepared for the first climb. Not having studied the route closely, in advance, I was enjoying the non-traditional route through a residential area of “estate” homes ... until a steep climb loomed above us. “Are we going up that?” my ride buddy asked. [Yup.]

I'll say this: After that, the steep-ish stretch of Roop felt like nothing. And I suspect we were not the only riders who expected a gentler route; we waited for the rest of the group to catch up. Eventually we saw them approaching below us, and that was the last we saw of them (with the exception of the lone e-bike rider). We dawdled for a while before the next turn, chatting, but got too chilled to linger longer.

Even on a familiar route, a new perspective can catch your eye. Location, location, location. I'm guessing that the adjacent stream sustained this majestic tree ... until it didn't.

And while I will rarely pause if I'm flying down a hill, it is occasionally worth it. [Occasionally.]

The lighting. The green hills. The flat surface of the muddy pond.

Free of the group, my ride buddy indulged my curiosity about taking a different route back to avoid an always nerve-wracking uncontrolled left turn across a busy road with fast-moving traffic. I'd tweak my variation slightly, next time; but overall I think it was a win.

A modest 25 miles, but with 1,400 feet of climbing.

Muddy Waters

The last time I biked past Chesbro Reservoir, there was so little water that I couldn't bring myself to take a picture.

The brown water was a welcome sight! Even though it's been more than a week since we've had any real rainfall, sediment carried by the inflow hasn't yet settled out.

My ride buddy and I were of the same mind today—follow the route that skips the last two hills, which we'd just climbed a few weeks ago.

Coyote Creek was flowing fast and the water level was high; I wondered whether we'd be forced to detour. [Yes.] We were somewhat curious to see whether the trail really was still flooded, but not curious enough to bike past the barrier and have to turn back.

Our ride leader was surprised that we'd gotten ahead of the group after we rolled out together. I've shared my route variation with him before, and now have shared it again. Next time, maybe I need to lead an expedition into the Unknown Territory.

A pleasant 39 miles and 860 feet of climbing, though oddly chillier (at times) as the day wore on.

Farewell to 2021

Wrapping up another year with a somewhat random assortment of little things, starting with some bright foliage on a winter's day.

This year I learned about the U.S. Postal Service's Operation Santa program when a colleague suggested we form a team to fulfill some wishes. As one of Santa's elves, I adopted letters from five children and spread some Christmas magic.

Strolling back from one of those trips to the post office, I was surprised to find several goats (and a dog) tethered to some lampposts. Their nomadic herdsman emerged from the library, a stopover on his way from place to place.

I'm still working from home (week 95), with occasional visits to the office (once that became possible). My hair is even longer, I've shed another pound, I've gotten vaccinated, boosted, and have managed to stay healthy. I lost a distant member of my extended family (who had serious pre-existing health issues) to Covid-19.

I developed a fairly regular cycling routine, which led to climbing more than 102,000 feet over more than 3,000 miles. I'd planned to climb up Bernal once a month, but fell short; my last climb was in May. Shorter days turned after-work rides to after-work hikes, until our timekeeping switched from daylight savings to standard.

For some variety, I finally explored a hilly neighborhood park that I'd long meant to visit.

A tomato plant sprouted unexpectedly in early May. It wasn't the variety I normally cultivate; maybe it was my reward for pressing a (spoiled) cherry tomato into that box?

Springtime gusts sent an empty bird's nest to the ground, and I was astonished see some of my own hair woven into it. A bit of lint, and hair, does escape the filter and make its way out of the clothes dryer's vent; I'm guessing that's how my avian friend scavenged it. I surely would have noticed if a bird had plucked (!) any strands from my head. [There's a newly-coined word for that: kleptotrichy.]

The Computer History Museum recognized Lillian Schwartz with a Fellow award (albeit without the fancy celebration that would have happened in the Before Times). Those of us who tuned in live had a creative opportunity to honor Lillian and her art by contributing to a word cloud.

Words of inspiration. Words to live by. In the year ahead, and thereafter.

Holiday Lights

Our club rides are normally daylight affairs (with the exception of some ambitious long-distance outings).

And the notable exception of an annual Christmas Lights Ride.

Times change, enthusiastic leaders move on, and this tradition fell by the wayside. In its heyday, I've heard that 60 or more members would turn out and celebrate with a post-ride spread of refreshments; this year's revival drew about two dozen riders.

I donned my finest reflective gear, adorned my down-tube with a colorful glow (in addition to head and tail lights, of course), and drove to the start.

When I arrived, I remembered why I had never joined this ride before: It was always scheduled on a weeknight, and I couldn't get home from work in time. On a Sunday evening, the streets were jammed with vehicles, the sidewalks with people, and I wasn't sure I'd find a place to park my car. Once the group got rolling, it was often easier to dismount and walk.

Solid bike-handling skills (and some luck) got us through the evening with no mishaps, but I think the best way to enjoy the lights would be on foot. It was too challenging to take it all in while being careful not to collide with other cyclists (or vehicles). There were carolers entertaining passers-by, a giant sleigh and several reindeer spanning multiple front lawns, and so much more.

After a slow, chilly four miles through the streets of Willow Glen, a steaming mug of hot chocolate was my recipe for recovery at home.

Mission San José

It was a fine day for a bike ride, with a hospitably later start on a chilly morning. Destination: Mission San José (which is in ... Fremont, not San José).

Our route meandered through a few residential neighborhoods after passing through Milpitas. There was enough of a breeze to remind us that the Newby Island landfill was nearby (and, that our sense of smell was intact). This would not be a fun place to ride during the heat of summer.

While the rest of our group satisfied their coffee cravings, my ride buddy and I were more curious about the mission (founded in 1797). Today's buildings are restorations of the originals.

Our expedition turned out to be surprisingly hilly for a “flat” ride: 1,120 feet of climbing over 27 miles.

Lexington

Too chilly to ride, my biking buddy suggested a hike. We headed for the Flume trail alongside Los Gatos Creek, climbing up to St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve. A route with options along the way.

Game to continue, we passed the first turnaround point. The Jones trail gave us the choice to continue to the reservoir (less than a mile!), or head back.

Given our extended drought, the water level in the Lexington Reservoir is low—though not as low as it was in 2008, during a much-needed construction project.

Not low enough to expose what might remain of the old towns that were sacrificed to the water. Normally we pass by bike; today we explored a road that led to the shoreline.

Looks like plenty of water, until you consider where I was standing.

It was a decent walk across the gravel to reach the water's edge. Tangled in the rocks at my feet I found two lengths of fishing line; I tugged them loose and carried them out for disposal.

We opted for an easy (flat) return along the Los Gatos Creek Trail. In all, we covered about 7.5 miles—not bad for an impromptu hike!

Wintry Palette

Given how little I've been riding lately, I didn't expect a new personal record on the third climb of the day. [19 seconds faster.]

This traditional ride on the club calendar always draws a decent crowd (25 of us, today).

My ride buddy and I got our usual head start and were surprised when the pack didn't catch us on the first climb. Maybe folks were feeling mellow today; we were uncharacteristically in touch with the group for most of the ride.

In touch, that is, until I broke with tradition for the last couple of miles—taking advantage of a road that didn't exist when the original route was established. A road that is nicer, and quieter, than the old route. (I've shared my route, but ... tradition, I guess.)

I wasn't sure I was up for a long ride today, but it turned out just fine: 44 miles and 1,140 feet of climbing.

Not Too Proud to Walk

Summer treks to the coast have subsided with the cooler weather, and seasonal treks to the local Christmas tree farms have not yet ramped up. Seemed like an auspicious day to tackle another climb I haven't done in a while.

The steep pitches on Loma Prieta Way are exposed, which makes them even less appealing on a hot summer day. Another reason to ride here this time of year: With no marine layer, we were rewarded with a shimmering view of Monterey Bay.

As ever, the road is in a sorry state—a veritable patchwork quilt. Want to bet that it has never been repaved? Want to bet that it never will be repaved?

Truth be told, when the going got tough today, I got off the bike. Earlier in the season, when I was stronger, I could have gone the distance. Today my body said “Nope, not gonna happen.” Twenty-five miles, 2,960 feet of climbing, however you slice it.

It Takes a Village

I faced down two conflicting temptations: a challenging bike ride on Saturday, or a Covid-19 vaccine booster shot on Friday.

Taking it easy after getting the shot seemed prudent, so ... one or the other. [Decide.]

The booster won. Appointments were plentiful on Friday; next week, not so much.

A modest (5-mile) hike on Sunday seemed doable.

I wasn't the only one out for a stroll. A civilized “March Against Hate” drew a sizeable crowd, responding to a disturbing uptick of baseness in our community. Motorists idled patiently as the police escorted the flow of people toward town. Peace and Coexist signs. Hate has no home here.

I took my time, exploring occasional clearings alongside the trail. Some water still flows in the creek, released from the reservoir above.

Music interrupted the sounds of nature as a couple approached briskly from behind. I stepped aside to let them pass, wondering why the man was carrying a large white sack. I didn't notice the piece of litter at my feet until he paused to collect it (with his nifty trash-grabber gadget). The sack, of course, held the trash he'd picked up.

A kindred spirit! Years ago, my coworkers and I had a few favorite spots where we'd enjoy our lunch (weather permitting), and we would always pick up some trash left by others. I've removed countless nails and screws from the roadway, while biking; and last year I stashed a bag in my car to collect at least some of the litter I find in remote spots where we gather to ride.

I would later learn that what I thought were chestnuts were actually dangling from California Buckeyes, a reminder that it's a bad idea for amateurs (like me) to eat what you might forage. [They're toxic.]

Now, foraging for trash—that's something I can get behind. Strive to leave every place better than you found it.

Rays of Autumn

I wasn't expecting a party.

I've been reluctant to start my cycling day with a long drive, especially because it means rising extra early. I've never been a morning person, and dark mornings are extra challenging.

Today's ride was appealing, though; I haven't dragged myself up Patterson Pass in ages, and the rest of our route would be more mellow.  The sun will rise, the hills are greening, and there would be moments where the lighting is just right.

There had been some mention of a pot-luck, which I figured I'd simply bypass.

When I managed to find the group (parked in a large field at a sports complex), the location made sense. This was more than a usual club ride—it was a thank-you for volunteers who had supported a double century a few months ago.

We were in the mix with a large crew of very strong riders. I was confused when I overheard one guy ask another if he planned to ride to the marina, which conjured up images of San Francisco Bay. That there is a “marina” at Lake Del Valle didn't occur to me, until the route led me there.

I tried to dodge the post-ride feast, having done nothing to earn my share, but our gracious host would simply not allow that.

Thirty-two miles, 2,620 feet of climbing and a little chow fun.

Rainy Day Woman

The traditional Hearst Castle Challenge was infeasible this year (again), but Best Buddies still counts on our fundraising to support their operations. And we all miss the opportunity to come together. Thus, the California Challenge was born: one route (100 km), with a heftier fundraising commitment. Or, a do-it-yourself ride (like last year), with no fundraising commitment.

And so I found myself self-administering my very first Covid test (in my car, parked in a field, before dawn). [This would have been a fumble-fest had I not watched an instructional video the night before.] Not only was vaccination a pre-requisite for participating—a negative test result was required to walk out of the parking lot.

And so I found myself welcomed with an unexpected and enthusiastic hug at the sign-in table—the first actual physical human touch I've had since The Before Times. I think of myself as just another face in the crowd, but after so many years ... they know me. And not just because I'm always one of the last riders across the finish line.

I wasn't sure what to expect. Domestiques (in their bright pink jerseys) would support three groups of riders, the slowest of which would finish the ride in four hours. (Four hours?!) I worried about how this would play out; I knew I could not sustain a pace in excess of 15 mph over this route, and hoped they wouldn't nudge me to climb into a SAG vehicle.

The heavy hitters (20 mph pace group) flew ahead, supported by pro cyclists ... including four-time Tour de France winner Chris Froome. Child's play, for them.

We started out with a rude climb, vaguely familiar from the Marin Century—and just as misty. This would not be a day for snapping scenic photos; I had to keep pedaling at a good clip. But the glassy surface of Laguna Lake was too compelling to pass up.

I'm accustomed to solo efforts on long rides—I'm too slow to hang with the jackrabbits, but faster than the slowest folks. After catching up to me, the indomitable Richard Fries was my domestique for a short stretch. Sitting on his wheel for a mile or two made such a difference! And sure, I understand that advantage ... it's just not part of my routine cycling experience.

There was a chance of rain today, on the order of 30% or so ... the odds seemed in our favor. Mist ... turned to drizzle ... turned to rain, calling for prudence on otherwise fast descents. It had been chilly enough that I'd opted to wear a jacket and long-fingered gloves [good call]; many riders had nothing more than jerseys and arm warmers.

At the second (and last) rest stop, some onlookers asked if I was going to continue. [Silly question.] Of course. Once you're wet, you're wet. And fortunately, it wasn't cold.

I didn't think much of it when the ride's medical support pulled out behind me when I started rolling. The road kicked up and they patiently hung back as crawled up the hill at my pathetic pace (as slow as 5 mph, at times). Once there was a clear line of sight, I waved and expected them to pass me.

But ... they didn't.

With 23 miles to go, they had evidently been assigned to be my escort. While domestiques hung back with the slowest riders, I had my own personal ambulance metering vehicular traffic. Once there were four or five cars stacked up behind, they'd slip slightly onto the shoulder and let them pass. I stopped at a pull-out at the top of a hill to take in some much-needed calories; there was also a police cruiser there, and I thought they might park there for a spell.

Nope.

At one point they even activated the flashing lights; maybe there were some antsy drivers behind them, as my uphill pace dropped below 5 mph. Of course, there were some downhill sections, so I managed to average 12.8 mph over the last 23 miles. But still. Imagine tailing a (slow) cyclist for ... nearly ... two ... hours.

I didn't get a chance to find them and thank them at the end of the ride, but I did get to deliver a long-overdue thank-you to Cam Wurf for his memorable assist seven years ago.

After 64 slippery miles and 3,560 feet of climbing, a warm shower and lunch fortified me for the long drive home. My 15th year of pedaling (and raising funds) for Best Buddies delivered another ride to remember!