Interloper

I was in the neighborhood, so why not meander through the campus. A stroll down memory lane, as they say.

When I took a tumble at the broken-up base of the sharp descent from the Stevens Creek Trail to the end of Crittenden Lane, I could not have imagined that one day—25 years later—it would be luxuriously transformed, graded gently and paved smooth.

Corporate campuses in the Valley rise and get recycled as technologies wax and wane. In this neighborhood, territory that was occupied by Sun Microsystems and Silicon Graphics in their heyday has since been absorbed by Google. Many buildings remain, and new ones have been erected.

If this were your workplace, you just might find the place attractive enough to return to the office.

What will become of this place, 25 years hence? The revolutionary design of the building where I did my graduate work (nearly brand new, at the time), did not age well; I learned recently that it has been torn down.

I was amused to see that the local population of cliff swallows quickly embraced their new habitat. Somehow I doubt this was architecturally intended.

A thin, muddy stream of Stevens Creek was flowing toward the Bay, enough (for now) to sustain some of the marsh plants. Enough to draw your attention away from the high-voltage transmission towers.

A well-intentioned (but deteriorating) fitness trail was torn out and redone with native plants a few years ago. A loop on this trail was great for walking one-on-one meetings, and this morning I fell into line behind a few turkeys. [Literally.] The birds were completely indifferent having me on their tail. [Okay, I know where this is going ...]

I was tempted to uproot an invasive thistle plant along the trail, but couldn't tackle that without gloves. The native flora have flourished (and thus, the return of native fauna).

I continued my trek to the nearby rookery. The egret chicks were a-chattering, and some adults sat tall on their nests.

The black-crowned night herons were present and accounted for, too.

Twenty-five years hence, I likely won't be here. But if the trees and the plants are, the birds will be.

Remembering Steve

The last time someone asked me about Steve was the day he drew his final breath. At the time, I had no idea.

Ride leaders have their own styles, and I liked Steve's. It wasn't long before he recruited me to co-lead with him. At first he wanted to pre-ride (!) every route we mapped out. That was too much for me, and I managed to persuade him that we might not need quite that level of preparation.

He also shunned offering route sheets, insisting that without them the group would need to stay together. True enough, but that locks everyone into the pace of the slowest rider; I suggested that we would attract more riders if the jackrabbits could dart ahead and wait for others to catch up. He was also insistent that we plan our lunch stop for noon—later than that and he would assuredly be grumpy.

Steve had a silly sense of humor. I don't think we ever passed a horse without Steve asking “Why the long face?”

We rode thousands of miles together, and led nearly 60 rides over the course of nine years. One of my favorite memories was the day we took Caltrain to San Francisco, where we would join a group to ride across the Golden Gate Bridge and onward to Tiburon. It was Steve's birthday, and he had “permission” to ride so long as he got home in time for dinner.

I boarded the train a couple of stops before he would; I festooned the bike car with crêpe paper streamers and brought mini-cupcakes to share with all. As we arrived in San Francisco the conductor announced the last stop over the intercom, adding a spirited “And Happy Birthday, Steve!”

After Steve retired, we rarely rode together—he shifted to weekday rides and focused more on achieving milestones than riding socially. Then he disappeared.

I'd reach out to him periodically, letting him know that club members were asking about him. It would be some time before he was ready to tell me that he'd been diagnosed with Parkinson's and that he'd probably had it for years before being diagnosed. I thought back to a ride we'd co-led in 2014. He'd introduced me to that route, yet when we stopped at an intersection on the return, he didn't know which way to go. After that, we led only one more ride together.

Steve was a model ride leader: Thoughtful, patient, kind, encouraging. At his memorial service today, friends and family members filled in more pieces of his life story. I recalled words that had resonated with me at another memorial service a few years ago, exhorting us to stay present in the lives of our friends, to ensure that they can see how much we treasure our friendship. I am sad that Steve had isolated himself from our community, but he did not want his diagnosis shared. I know that his cycling buddies would have enjoyed spending time with him much more than memorializing him.

I will always cherish the memories of the adventures I enjoyed with Steve, and in that sense carry forward a thread of his life in mine.

Bike to Work Day, 2022-Style

We had a reputation, in years gone by, for rolling up to this “energizer station” with a group of two dozen or more cyclists.

Today? Me and six guys. But hey, it could've been just me.

At least one was joining us for the first time, so ... that's something. And we welcomed one colleague on a vintage special-edition folding bike. I was impressed that the thing was still functional, having been disappointed in its build quality on a test ride, back in the day.

We were sorely disappointed to find no Hobee's coffeecake this year. I know the volunteers meant well, but a cookie thickly coated with sugary icing is not appetizing at 8 a.m. [Not to me, anyway.]

A day or two ago, one of my steady co-leaders had sadly tested positive for Covid-19 and thus had to stay home; one of the other riders gamely stepped up to steer folks to our rendezvous point.

I knew what to expect at the office: The ventilation in our building's shower room has not been improved, but (like last week) I would be the only one to use it.

At the end of the day, I pedaled (solo) back home; the usual round trip of 40 miles and about 1,000 feet of climbing, the usual (gradual) uphill return.

Unfortunately, I somehow irritated something in my back on an after-work ride yesterday. Today's riding didn't feel great, but luckily didn't exacerbate it. Methinks I'll be off the bike for a while, until it's sorted out.

Goin' Down to Strawberry Fields

After a two-year pause we returned to the strawberry fields, riding to benefit Cyclists for Cultural Exchange.

Fifty-five years later, Lennon's lyrics still resonate. But then, hasn't it ever been thus?

Living is easy with eyes closed

Misunderstanding all you see

The ride's organizers, I expect, were in a bind this year. They honored our registrations for 2020, many of which were locked in at early-bird prices far short of 2022's reality, but warned us that there would be no post-ride meal this year.

Without any advance planning, I ran into several cycling friends at the start. That sort of thing often happens at this ride. They got a head start, but I would later wave as I passed them on the course.

Disoriented in the morning fog, it took me a moment to register that I'd turned onto the road leading to the first rest stop—not some new tweak to the course. [That would come later.]

I paused, as usual, at the Elkhorn Slough—just then, a flock of pelicans swooped in and put on quite a show.

The course had been changed, a bit. Focused on following on a bunch of riders ahead of me, I consequently missed one unfamiliar left turn; I was puzzled that my GPS directions seemed off and I wondered why the organizers would route us to turn left onto a busy road with fast-moving traffic. [Highway 1, actually.] It was easy enough to recover by exiting immediately, joining the riders who had made the correct turn and crossed above the highway. [Whew.]

I needed a stream of self-talk to get up the steep hill to Royal Oaks Park. You've done this before. You've done this every time. You can do it today.

The eponymous berries were plentiful, at every rest stop (not just at the finish). I sympathized with the volunteers doing their best to appease the swarm of hungry cyclists during the lunch rush—they were sorely understaffed.

At Gizdich Ranch, I perched at one end of a bench to enjoy my slice of apple pie and chatted with a couple of cyclists who were new to the ride (and, loving it). One had traveled all the way from Davis!

Hazel Dell, Corralitos ... I haven't been riding enough to prepare for this event. Thankfully the last 12 miles are basically downhill.

After 64 miles and some 3,500 feet of climbing I was delighted by an unexpected half-sandwich and a crêpe at the finish. And strawberries. More strawberries. [With chocolate sauce.]

Game On

Bike to Work Day is going to be A Thing again this year, now that we have officially “returned to office.” Although I've traditionally led a group of coworkers to the office for this event, I figured I would just do my own ride this year.

Then two of my regular partners-in-leading reached out, and ... I ... just ... couldn't ... say ... no.

Oddly, instead of adhering to the usual third-Thursday schedule for the event, the Bay Area “energizer stations” will only be available on Friday (and Saturday and Sunday, go figure).

Okay, then: Friday it will be. There's no actual celebration at the office, anyway; and as far as they're concerned, you'll earn your schwag by bike-commuting any day that week.

Ride leaders get extra schwag (a Bike-to-Work-Week t-shirt), and they suggested we pick them up over lunch today and share tips with one another.

Was I going to drive to the office? [Of course not.] Besides, a preview ride seemed warranted before the big day.

The company is so big now ... We met in some newly-redone building, unexpectedly eating indoors. [Yikes!] I have not shared indoor space with other people for a meal since The Before Times. I recognized two of the other leaders, and tried to relax. [This is fine ...]

As it happened, we had some teammates visiting from an overseas office and there was a plan for a group dinner tonight. [Outdoors!] At a restaurant that was conveniently on my typical route home, so of course I said yes. [It was fine.]

Some of my newer colleagues found it inconceivable that I would bike 16 miles home after dinner. [Shrug.] Forty miles, and 1,000 feet of climbing, for the day.

No Peaches Here

Our cycling comrades arrived late yesterday afternoon, with epic tales of their own to share. (They had worked a side trip into their journey south, to bike a rarely-visited road.) Spoiler alert: It was windy.

We caught up, poolside, with snacks before feasting on sandwiches that one of our crew had coordinated for us. [I'm so lucky to be a part of this party, as a party-planner I am not.]

As we completed a round of introductions, a guy piped up playfully from the far end of the pool to introduce himself. In the small-world, truth-is-stranger-than-fiction department, I came to learn that he's in executive management for a large firm, running an organization responsible for the same line of work I'm in. Compounding the oddity of all this, I had recently interviewed an applicant from the staff he proudly crowed about—and [spoiler alert] he did not do well. [This, of course, I kept to myself.]

A surprising number of folks on this escapade are riding e-bikes. They have been well-behaved, though—not zipping ahead and leaving the strictly human-powered bikes in their dust.

Nonetheless, the group fractured; a planned regroup went awry when the venue was closed and some stragglers were left behind. An alternate winery (Opolo) was proposed—and happily welcomed us; fortunately, I was part of the group in sync with the new plan. As folks settled in for a full-on lunch, my chief biking buddy and I bid our farewell and headed back to town. We'd find something to eat there before heading back to the Bay Area.

Having biked Peachy Canyon on my last trip to this area, I expected it would seem at least somewhat familiar. [But it was not.] Largely because much of today's route was entirely different, but in part because we rode it from the opposite direction.

We biked 41 miles and climbed about 3,500 feet before shedding our sweaty bike clothes for street clothes and starting the long drive home.

A Ride on the Wild Side

A few club members proposed a cycling getaway to Paso Robles—count me in!

My cycling buddy and I were on the same wavelength, both of us able to take just two days off. To make the most of our trip, we headed down one day earlier than the rest of the group. For Monday, I put together a route to see the elephant seals near San Simeon, starting from the coastal town of Cambria.

The challenge of biking north on Highway 1 is ... headwind. We knew the winds would be picking up as the day wore on, but hoped to escape the worst of it by starting early.

Good in theory. Bad in practice, after we effectively lost an hour when I cavalierly headed us east, instead of west toward the coast. [Note to self: You have reliable navigation at your fingertips; use it!]

Into the wind, we headed. Well aware of my cycling buddy's disdain for strong wind, I would pause periodically to get a pulse on whether we should keep going.

She was a trouper today, game to continue—never having seen this colony of elephant seals, she trusted me that it was worth it. [It was.]

A chatty fellow in town for yesterday's Eroica was all-too-happy to educate us about the event. Vintage-bike people are passionate about their machines.

The ever-strengthening winds were now in our favor: without pedaling, I found myself coasting back toward San Simeon at 18 mph! Hoping to grab a bite to eat at Sebastian's General Store, we turned off near Hearst Memorial Beach—and found the building gutted, in the process of a major renovation.

It was bittersweet to ride down that avenue of eucalyptus trees, recalling the finish line for so many Hearst Castle Challenge rides for Best Buddies. The “barn” where we'd gathered to collect our bags and get massages is now a fancy wine-tasting place, its patio private with no access for a view of the beach. I had always expected that I would keep doing that ride—maybe scaling down from the full century to the metric, as I got older; but seeing these changes drove home a reality that those events are now just memories. Great memories, certainly; but new editions will not be minted. Maybe it's not just that the pandemic, including the closure of Hearst Castle, disrupted the routine.

There were still beautiful vistas to behold as we sailed back toward Cambria. I paused on a bridge to watch the cliff swallows swooping and was surprised by a bonus: turtles! Three were sunning on a rock, and another two were paddling about in the silty water.

I wrapped up our flat-but-challenging 24 miles (less than 700 feet of climbing) at an average speed of 13 mph (courtesy of that tailwind).

Back in Cambria, I decided my lunch should be a slice of olallieberry pie at Linn's, and I was not disappointed. [Fruit. Carbs. Mmm.]

And before heading back to Paso Robles, my cycling buddy introduced me to a place I'd never been—the quirky little hamlet of Harmony. A pretty glorious day, I would say.

Remembering Doug

I was surprised, two months ago, that Doug didn't join us when we rode to remember Jon. Doug (sporting a Death Ride jersey) is the taller guy on the right in the photo above, taken at the site where we would later erect the Ghost Bike in memory of Jon.

Doug was a cut above—in 2019, he completed five double-centuries (those are one-day, 200-mile rides), distinguishing himself (yet again) as a California Triple Crown winner. I am not in that league, so I would rarely find myself sharing the road with Doug.

I hadn't known that health issues had led him to scale back his cycling—and that he was taking it easier, riding on weekdays—until the day he collapsed, at the top of a familiar short climb he'd ridden countless times before.

Thirty-nine of us came together for a modest ride at a gentle pace, in memory of Doug. A few of Doug's treasured jerseys had been gifted to some of his friends, who wore them proudly today in his memory.

And so, we keep rolling forward. For me, merely 36 miles with less than 800 feet of climbing today. But I will never forget Doug protectively trailing behind me on Airline Highway the day we captured that photo.

Twelve Hours of Tierra Bella

I knew it would be a long day ...

Not an early riser, by nature, my choice for volunteering at a rest stop today was determined by how early I didn't have to be there. 8:00 a.m, I could manage.

Save the time I spent behind the wheel, I was on my feet the entire day (over 12,600 steps counted).

It was a team effort: Unload the truck, puzzle out how to set up the canopies and screen enclosure for the food-prep area, set up the tables and bike racks.

Fortunately, some of our crew had done this before, expertly keeping the iced water and Gatorade flowing. Without a water source onsite, we had trucked in gallon jugs of bottled water. [So. Much. Plastic. Sigh.] Maybe we should prefer rest stops where we can use a local source for water?

Our first riders rolled in before we were quite ready, though technically they were ahead of our scheduled opening time.

We didn't seem to have any particular job assignments, so I roved. When the guy staffing the hydration station stepped away, I stepped up. Three women had the food prep well in hand, so I ferried trays to and fro, letting them know when we were running low on grapes or wraps or whatever. I restocked and tidied the assortment of packaged snacks.

Our riders were stoked. It was a perfect blue-sky day (albeit a little windy). Their smiles and words of praise were energizing. I had a chance to catch up with some friends who were riding—some of whom I hadn't seen in years.

When the health inspector arrived, most of us scattered to let her conversation play out with our rest stop captain. She found some minor things she wanted addressed, and we ended up with a satisfactory grade.

As the day wore on, the riders were also worn—they were the ones following the longer routes. [I've been there.] By mid-afternoon, I was feeling pretty worn, myself.

We tore everything down and loaded it back onto the truck. That would have been easier had we remembered to use the truck's lift gate ... [duh].

Most of our crew was done, at that point. Except for two of us. The truck needed to travel on, rendezvousing at the finish area where it would be unloaded again. There, everything would be sorted for cleaning, return to storage, or rental return ... and loaded onto different trucks, accordingly.

Another friend spotted me at the finish area; most people had cleared out, but the last riders were still straggling in. [I've been there.]

My final responsibility was to follow our rest stop captain back to the truck-rental place, and then then transport her to the neighborhood where she'd parked her car.

More than twelve hours after I'd left home, I returned.

Months of planning, and years of experience, paid off: We ran a successful event and gave over 1,000 of our cycling comrades a fun (and safe) day.

Kudos to the army of volunteers who made it possible: designing routes, securing permits, purchasing supplies, coordinating logistics, laying down route arrows, managing parking, running rest stops, offering mechanical support, driving SAG vehicles, providing radio communications, and staffing tricky spots along the course to keep riders safe!

Lift and Load

Organized cycling events are back on the calendar in the Bay Area this year—hurray!

Our club has hosted one of these events (annually) for more than forty years, with the exception of the last two (of course). We were just a few weeks away from holding our event in 2020 when we had to scramble to cancel it due to the developing Covid-19 pandemic.

When I ride in one of these events, I often try to learn more about the volunteers. Some are run by bicycle clubs, like ours; others are community events, put on by local boosters. Either way, these events take a lot of coordination and the labor of an army of volunteers.

Some of us signed up to fill multiple roles (three, in my case) ... and yet we were still unable to fill some positions.

My first gig was a mailing party: To streamline the sign-in process, we mail wristbands and route sheets to all participants in advance. That reduces the number of volunteers that would be needed to validate registration and hand out the materials on event day, and makes it easier for the riders to get rolling once they arrive. I had been surprised to see several packets heading out of state!

Today was my second gig: Loading a truck with supplies for one of our rest stops. (The rest stop, in fact, which I will help to staff tomorrow.) I used half a vacation day to be able to pitch in.

The logistics are impressive. The morning crew transported all the supplies and equipment to a central location, then arranged what was needed for each individual rest stop. [Lots of checklists are involved. And they're checked once ... twice ... thrice ... ] Not to mention the months of planning that got us to this point.

Our job today was “easy”—all we had to do was load everything onto the truck that will transport it to our rest stop tomorrow morning. Preferably with some semblance of order so we can unload and set it up efficiently.

New to this undertaking, I was here to contribute brawn, not brains. [For some weak definition of brawn.] Along the way I picked up a new skill: how to climb up and into the back of a truck.

Tomorrow's gonna be a loooong day.

For a Good Time

Regrouping to ensure that no one would miss the turn, I found a moment to gaze into the redwood canopy high above me.

This was meant to be an easy ride: not too long, not too hilly, not too steep, and at a gentle pace through mostly redwood forest. Plus a coffee break! What's not to like?

It was designed to attract some of our newer riders. How many showed up?

Not a single one.

Their loss. Eight of us—active, long-time club members all—had a splendid time. For one, this was a first trip out to the end of Aldercroft Heights Road.

During our coffee stop at the Summit Store, a customer strolled over to learn more about our group. He said he was getting back into riding, and we looked like a friendly bunch. We chatted and I handed him one of our calling cards. Join us!

We covered 20 miles and climbed 2,100 feet. Hmm ... maybe that sounds like a lot. [Not to us.]

Shake Those Tailfeathers

What better way to commemorate the first official day of RTO (“return to office”) than to take a vacation day?

And if you decide to take a couple of days off, you might as well make a long weekend of it. Since I'm still feeling like a superwoman (after biking 83 miles over the course of last Friday and Saturday), why not mix it up a little and go for a hike?

The Ladies Who Hike had wildflowers on their minds, and we headed for another park I hadn't visited. [So many parks, so many trails!]

A few tom turkeys fanned out their tailfeathers to greet us. Technically, I have been to Santa Teresa County Park before—always passing through on my bike, not on foot.

The landscape is already drying out. This is a true snapshot of the Bay Area: spring poppies, dried grasses, and dark green chaparral.

Having forgotten (again!) to restart my GPS tracker after we stopped for a break, I recorded only a portion of our loop. We ended up, of course, back where we started—certainly more than five miles and 1,000 feet of elevation gain later.

WFH: Week One Hundred Eight

This week marks the official end to full-time working from home. Starting tomorrow, we're supposed to be in the office three days per week. [Technically speaking.]

Practically speaking, there's some wiggle room—probably through the end of the year. Our leadership recognizes that we need to re-adjust our lives after two years of working from home, and some people are still uncomfortable about being in the office, mixing with lots of people, indoors.

I've made the pilgrimmage a couple of times during the “optional” return-to-office period; for all but one of those visits, I received a follow-up message that someone who had been in one of the same buildings had tested positive for COVID-19 ... (despite the requirement to be vaccinated, or have a valid exemption, to work onsite).

How about we reckon with whether the old way of doing things really made sense?

I'm all for being onsite if we're getting together as a group, brainstorming in a room with a whiteboard.

But to sit in conference rooms all day, meeting with colleagues in far-flung offices? Nope. I can do that from home—and not resent early-morning meetings with folks in Europe and late-day meetings with folks on the other side of the Pacific.

Have we forgotten how most of our team members sat at their desks wearing headphones, so they could effectively concentrate on their work in our open-plan office environment? [Sure, a serendipitous conversation would occasionally break through.]

Count me in the less-than-enthusiastic camp about returning. And certainly with no plan to spend 90 minutes or more of my day sealed up on a commuter shuttle bus.

I did get my hair chopped off, though. I could say that it was time to look respectable again, but in reality it had just become a nuisance.

Our county has recorded 310,016 cases of COVID-19 and 2,272 deaths—well over twice the number of cases, but only 135 more deaths, than the last time I shared these numbers (Week 62). I know many more people who've contracted the virus (some, more than once); fortunately none required hospitalization.

I Feel Fine

My chief biking buddy was disappointed when I said I doubted I would ride today, given yesterday's long outing.

And yet ... I felt fine. Mysteriously fine. So I said sure, I'd join the ride, but likely skip the gratuitous climb up a lower section of Calaveras Road. But then, well ...

I felt fine. So up I went.

What is the source of this sudden superwoman power?

There is a word for it. Steroids.

And no, I have not suddenly taken to doping. But if this is a taste of that, no wonder so many professional athletes have gone down that road.

Unable to shake off the lingering misery of sinus inflammation (for nearly a year), I finally saw a specialist. The initial treatment includes a few days of prednisone, which is having the desired effect. [And then some.]

Our merry band picked up a few stray riders along the way, having decided we seemed like a friendly bunch riding at just the right pace. First, a woman riding alone on her vintage bike, somewhat modernized by her boyfriend; later, a pair of guys who had some familiarity with our club. You know a cyclist is truly interested when they're willing to pull over and stop so I can hand them one of our club's calling cards.

Twenty-nine miles, about 1,800 feet of climbing ... and ooh, I feel fine.

Leapin' Lupines

Taking advantage of another day off to [what else] ... ride my bike. And, lucky me, one of our club's rides was headed for Uvas Canyon County Park. This being a weekday, we'd be sharing the roads with fewer vehicles.

There was some uneasiness about whether we could enter the park. Another group had recently been turned away when the ranger insisted that admission was not free. [Hmm.] That has never been the case, before—even after reservations became required (for vehicles).

And it was not the case, today. [Whew.] I was all set to challenge the ranger to Show Me the Actual Regulation; approaching the entrance, I noted the sign that posted the fee for motor vehicles. But we just pedaled on through unchallenged, as we always have.

The condition of the private stretch of road, through Sveadal, was more hazardous than ever. I feel their pain (literally!), all those park visitors traversing the crumbling road through their community. Who should really pay to maintain, or better yet, improve what's left of the pavement?

As we prepared to return, I announced my intention to capture shots of the fields of lupine we'd passed, and was pleased that our group included a few kindred wildflower-spirits.

Biking to (and from) our rendezvous point added up to my longest ride so far this year: overall, 54 miles, with about 2,500 feet of climbing. When I got home, I felt ... oddly ... perky. [Stay tuned.]

Climbing & Coffee

A lone Ithuriel's Spear? This photo-worthy specimen popped up in my backyard.

It's often too challenging to play photographer when a group is hanging together on a ride.

What's the formula for coaxing new riders to join a club ride? A gentle pace, a modest distance, not much climbing, a later starting time, a social break?

We had all of that. Yet, besides my chief cycling buddy, the two riders who showed up were stronger than us (and, long-time members).

They rode alongside and chatted with us, loitering patiently at the top of the hill. One enjoyed a concoction that looked like a giant cup of whipped cream. Maybe there was coffee in there, somewhere.

Everyone else missed out on the 31 miles, 960 feet of climbing and the ample camaraderie that I enjoyed.

Ladies Who Hike

Every now and then, it's time for a day off. This one happened to align with a hike planned by some of my cycling friends. Monday, Monday ... sometimes it just turns out that way.

I was happy to discover how compatible we were—our pace, as well as our interests.

We explored some of the Sierra Vista Open Space Preserve, terrain that I have previously surveyed only from the road (on my bike). We had the place pretty much to ourselves.

Poppies!

And a mystery flower. Lindley's blazingstar, perhaps?

Scenic vistas, good conversation, and eight-ish miles with more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain—forgetting to unpause my GPS tracking after we stopped for a break, along with another apparent hiccup, conveys our approximate route. We stayed on the trails, of course.

I could get used to this.

A New Twist on an Old Fave

A succession of members have kept the tradition of this club ride alive after the closing of its namesake (Bici) bike shop, first moving the start to a nearby park and now to another neighborhood in response to heavy construction at the park. The new location is a winner! (Let's keep it!)

It's still a bit early for wildflowers, but there were some lupines in bloom near the Chesbro Reservoir.

Once upon a time, this region was known as the Valley Of Heart's Delight. Now we can only imagine acres upon acres of orchards in bloom, stretching as far as the eye could see. A few remain, their trees dusting us with white petals like spring snowflakes.

We made good time heading north on the Coyote Creek Trail before I led my chief biking buddy off the “official” route with my own wee tweak, near the end.

The faster riders had caught us this morning, of course, despite our usual head start—but later than expected. Perhaps they were tardier than usual. We enjoyed a solid 45 miles and 1,380 feet of climbing.

Cookie Monsters

Cookies? Did you say, cookies?

But first, some cycling. One must earn those cookies. (By riding uphill, of course.)

We started with a brief foray up a dead-end road I think I've visited only once before, waving to some familiar faces (club members) working in their yard, before continuing to the summit of Sierra Road. (The “easy” way—up the backside.)

The point of our little cookie party today was to recruit more volunteers for our club's upcoming big event. As it turned out, the crowd was mostly members who had already signed up—in some cases, for more than one role.

After 19 miles with a tough 2,700 feet of climbing (and a sandwich), I did my best to shrink the supply of cookies. (And brownie bites.)