Roue de Secours

There should have been a tailwind. Heading south on Santa Teresa, there is always a tailwind. My ride partner was having an off day; anticipating that tailwind could only help.

But no, the winds were cross today—huffing and puffing with sideways gusts that thrust me toward the traffic lane.

What happens if you get a flat tire?

I fix it, I replied. The question had come from an elderly uncle some time ago, though the answer made no more sense to him than anything else he can imagine about my time on a bicycle.

What happens if you get two flat tires?

The odds are low, unless you did a poor job fixing the first one.

Low, but not zero. At that point, you rely on your patch kit. [Or your ride buddy.] When he flatted a second time, I gladly proffered my spare tube. What are the odds of three flat tires? Even lower, provided your route is not strewn with sharp pointy things. My mind drifted back to a vintage game ... The Increvable card, that's what we need!

Next Saturday is the Tierra Bella; today, volunteers rode the course to look for trouble spots. [And, evidently, to collect sharp pointy things in our tires so our guests will have a better time.]

No mille bornes for us today; a mere 100 km, instead.

Whirring Wind Farm

On my last outing, the post-ride conversation turned to wind power and why it seems that the turbine blades are stationary more often than spinning on the hills outside Livermore.

Today, they were spinning. The headwind channeling through the Altamont Pass was not the worst I have faced, but it was substantial. This is, after all, why they planted a wind farm there.

The 35th annual Cinderella ride [my sixth] was arguably the best yet.

We were underway before 7:20 a.m., which is no mean feat given that sign-in opens precisely at 7:00 a.m. Coordinating a small group is always a challenge; invariably, someone needs to return to her car for some critical piece of forgotten gear, or someone can't be found. Three of us took off; rider number four gave up on our missing Cinderella and later caught up.

An early start is a good thing on this ride, to be well ahead of the main pack of less-experienced riders. Off the front of a small group, I missed a turn when I was distracted by a bad driver making a sloppy u-turn (into the bike lane) at that very intersection. That added an extra mile to my day, but the real penalty was the contingent of less-predictable riders into which I merged.

This being my longest ride (by far) in more than six months, I expected to suffer. I thought about not following the Challenge loop, but the Classic route alone is no longer interesting. With ten miles or so to go, I overheard a nearby rider:

Follow those two, they know what they're doing.

Now the gantlet was down—we had a reputation to uphold! We hammered along at the head of the pack for a few miles before we found an opportunity to back off gracefully.

Overall, I averaged 12.9 mph over 82 miles with a modest 3,545 feet of climbing. I can't think of anything good to say about riding into the wind, other than ... it builds character?

Hello Sunshine

Like flowers popping up after a spring shower, so were the joggers, dog walkers, and cyclists up with the dawn of our first dry day in more than a week.

Our numbers swelled as we made our way along a relatively easy route, intercepted by riders who knew where to find us. Muscles that had gone slack over these past two weeks were [somewhat reluctantly] recruited to carry me uphill.

It was not a day to linger alongside steep, sodden hillsides. For the most part, only the vestiges of slides stained the roads. Most of us chose to portage our bicycles through a thick patch of slippery mud in a low dip of a trail; those who gamely rode through chuckled at our abundant caution.

Gray clouds blanketed the sky by the time we were done, but we were so happy to be outside (dry!) that our post-ride coffee stop lasted longer than the ride itself.

Trains, Planes, and Bicycles

All aboard! For a Saturday morning, the bike car was busy (and our party accounted for only four bicycles).

Destination: San Bruno Mountain, on the other side of the tracks.

Conditions: Some haze, no fog. What a view from the top of the hill! The Pacific Ocean, San Francisco, the Bay, Oakland.

One of my favorite segments on this route is cycling along the perimeter access roads for San Francisco International Airport. [Now marked with "Share the Road" and "Bike Route" signs, I might add.] Skirting the far end of the runway, we are guaranteed to enjoy a few jumbo jets taking off at close range.

While picnicking at the beach, I met a woman who wistfully remembered digging clams out of the mud around the bend at Coyote Point, some 40 years ago; a feast for the shore birds, today.

We booked it south along the water's edge before heading west for some gratuitous hill-climbing, passing through the campus of Stanford University to return to the train station—with ample time to savor a treat from the local bakery.

A train ride, urban cycling, a hill climb, an international airport, lunch at the beach, a bayshore bike path, a university of world renown ... all in a day's ride.

To the Sea

Well, not quite to the sea. To views of the sea. With only the morning set aside for cycling, there was not enough time for me to bike to the coast and back. [Sierra to the Sea is a popular ride that our club runs every summer.]

After tiring an entirely different set of muscles on skis in the Sierra, I jumped on my bike and headed for a high point in the Santa Cruz mountains. We ascended Mt. Bache Road to reach Loma Prieta and marveled at the wide expanse of agricultural fields below us, stretching all the way to Monterey Bay. The only sound up there was the occasional tumble of small rocks from the crumbling hillside.

The road named Loma Prieta approaches the (inaccessible) peak named Loma Prieta, a few miles from the epicenter of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Evidently Mt. Bache is an alternative name for the same peak, in honor of Alexander Dallas Bache.

I distracted myself from the pain of the climb by attempting to derive a correct pronunciation of Bache, for which I have found little local agreement. Should it rhyme with cache? I am influenced by the securities firm formerly known as Prudential Bache, which I recall involving "a" as in "ate" and "ch" as in "church". Oddly, the original Bache & Co. was named for Jules Bache, who was German, suggesting something more akin to the composer "Bach" with a second syllable for the trailing "e." Alexander, however, was of English descent.

Where does that leave us? Ach, my head aches.

From the Sierra

Is it really a penny slot machine if you can't insert an actual penny? I had a penny, I was willing to take a chance with it. Not one of those blinking machines accepted coins.

The casino hotel may have been just across the street (and, the state line) from the ski resort, but the ambiance was a world away. Stateline, Nevada is the closest I have been to Las Vegas.

Neon! Secondhand smoke. Flashing lights! A windowless basement restaurant bedecked with fake trees, fake rocks, fake babbling brooks, and real flat panel screens running a continuous game of keno (cards on every table). A TV set in every bathroom! A vast dinner buffet with exactly one vegetable offering: "steamed" broccoli and cauliflower (drenched in cheese sauce).

One of the challenges of skiing at Heavenly is to stay focused on the task at hand (sliding rapidly downhill on a pair of narrow waxed boards) and not become transfixed by the intense blue depths of Lake Tahoe in the distance.

Another challenge includes deciphering a terrain-challenged trail map (look for the upward arrows that point some of the trails downhill). Or taking a chance that a named trail not shown on the map is precisely the one you have been trying to find. Wait, I get it! You gamble on the slopes as well.

After day one, it was easier to identify the muscles that were not sore. [Hamstrings. Everything else hurt.] Suited and booted, I enjoyed day two without injury, despite being grazed by a careless snowboarder. Two days at Heavenly may comprise my entire ski season. I miss Alta.

Top Speed

I didn't mean to do it. Honest. It just turned out that way.

Smooth pavement. Wide and straight. Deserted. Clear view in all directions. No side streets. Some tricky crosswind gusts, but good aerodynamics contribute to good handling. Tires? In good condition. Brakes? In good working order.

This was no contest; that would be dangerous. I launched before any challenger might think to pursue me. I will not feel responsible for anyone else's lapse of judgment.

To get to the top of that hill, it was worth sustaining a heart rate of 173-178 bpm for a solid seven minutes.

The temperature was cold enough to keep me from overheating in my fleece-lined winter tights, even on the climbs. The promised snow had not fallen at our lower elevations overnight. We played it safe and climbed no higher than 820 feet. In our group of nine, only one rider begged for more. Tempting as it was to turn onto Mt. Hamilton Road, we passed it. The driver snapping photos of the sign at the bottom would discover soon enough that the road was closed at Joseph Grant County Park, well below the snow level.

Thirty-one miles, 2,670 feet of climbing, and a new top speed.
On a bicycle, that is.

Road Hazard

A good user interface is one that you take for granted. Consider, for example, the automobile. When you step into an unfamiliar car, the gas pedal is on the right, the brake pedal on the left, and you turn the wheel in the direction you wish to travel. Do you need to think about it? No. You insert the key into the ignition, put your foot on the brake, turn the key to start the engine, put it into gear, and drive away. Simple.

Unless the car is a Prius. Then, it is ... well, complicated.

Whatever would possess me to drive a Prius? Needless to say, this car is not on my short list.

I needed to run a daytime errand, and I did not drive to work. In this case, I could borrow a car: The Toyota Prius.

I have been a driver for quite some time. Various makes and models. American, British, German, Italian, Japanese, and Swedish. Manual transmission? I prefer it. Put me behind the wheel of a Trabant, and I'm told I wouldn't know what to do. The Prius? Not without reviewing my notes.

There is no key. Look for a little cubbyhole in the dash, insert the plastic not-a-key-fob into that slot.

The brake pedal is in the right place. [Whew]. Put your right foot there. [Normal.]

The parking brake is operated by a pedal on the far left; press that down with your left foot to release it. [This style of parking brake is still manufactured?]

The "shift" lever is in the middle position, which appears to be Neutral.

Press the Power button. Various elements on the dashboard light up. Adjust the mirrors. [Can you say, limited rear view?]

Move the "shift" lever to the "D" position (Drive). It snaps back to the center. [Huh?] Do not be misled by the position of the lever; the car is now in gear.

Or maybe not. You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice.[Huh?] Doesn't that mean you're turning it off? Maybe. Maybe not.

The gas pedal is in the right place. The steering wheel behaves as expected. Drive.

Uh oh. The heat is set to some high temperature and the fans are blowing full blast. Reach for the knob.

There is no knob. No buttons. No lever to slide. No apparent controls of any kind.

While stopped at the first traffic light, study the dash more closely. The display screen is flanked on both sides by rectangular buttons. Press Climate. The display switches to a busy array of icons to control the fans and temperature. The display is a touch screen? Were the designers out of their minds? If the windshield fogs up, do they expect me to pull over and stop the car first, or just stop watching the road to play this little video game?

Pull into a parking space. Keep your right foot on the brake. The "shift" lever has no position for Park. Find the button on the dash labeled "P" (Park); press that. Engage the parking brake. Press the Power button to turn off the car. Slide the not-a-key-fob out of the dash.

It won't budge. [What did I miss? Can't that fancy display in the dash give me a hint?]

Confirm that the parking brake is engaged. Depress the brake pedal. Move the "shift" lever horizontally to confirm it's in Neutral. No joy.

Sigh. Feel defeated. Scratch head. Press the Power button again. Bingo!

You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice. It's right there, in my notes. In case I ever need to drive a Prius again.

Social Sunday

Having devoted my Saturday to the Mega-Monster Enduro, I slept in and joined a leisurely Sunday ride. With winter weather forecast to return to the Bay Area this week, a warm sunny day was not one to squander.

Biking to the start warmed me up, and with a slight downhill advantage I was immediately off the front. I backed off the pace to keep more of the group in sight, and by the time we reached the base of our climb for the day, we were all back together.

Our destination was the upper reaches of Bernal Road, which pitches up uncomfortably two or three times before the public road ends at the gate marking the boundary of IBM's private property. Across the valley to the east, the white domes of Lick Observatory were gleaming atop Mount Hamilton. Our vantage point also afforded a clear view of the highest peak to the west, Mt. Umunhum, clearly distinguishable by its monolithic relic of the Cold War.

After last week's private Enduro on Mt. Hamilton, this route was oh-so-tame. The hills I climbed on the way to and from the start were actually responsible for most of the day's vertical accumulation (1,655 feet, 31 miles).

Tonight, the winds that are the harbinger of the approaching storm front have arrived. Rainy week ahead.

Divertissement

Kincaid is a long lonely road that forks off Mt. Hamilton Road about five miles from the summit. Years ago, my first ride with the club included the upper half of Mt. Hamilton and Kincaid. I had little solo cycling experience at that point, and I remember how unnerved I felt out there. The road descends to Isabel Creek and then climbs again, with public access ending at a cattle guard and gate. Separated from the fastest (and slowest) riders, I was edgy.

Today I explored this isolated canyon with fresh eyes and more confidence. Still, I would hesitate to ride it alone: a twisty six-mile dead-end road, with spotty cell phone coverage and a few gated dirt roads leading to cattle ranches. Getting there is not easy: by the time I reached the intersection with Mt. Hamilton Road, I had already traveled more than 14 miles and climbed 2,790 feet.

Unlike my first visit, I was not eager to return from the solitude of the canyon. As I drew closer, Mt. Hamilton Road sounded like a motor speedway. This unseasonably warm and sunny day in February drew a veritable parade of motorcycles and sports cars to the mountain.

The summit was little more than five miles away; it would be wrong to head downhill. The wind up there was a steady 23 mph, with roaring gusts to 42 mph. Needless to say, this added to the challenge of controlling the bicycle and making forward progress—but was well worth the effort.

A young couple greeted me with a thumbs-up and praise for biking up the mountain. I shared the sunny courtyard with a fellow cyclist and the toddler he had hauled up the hill in a trailer (filled with toys and other necessities). An elderly couple emerged from a back door at the observatory and slowly climbed inside their late model black Mustang. A stout rider with a wild gray beard and a head scarf (no helmet) caught up to me on his bike with tri-spoke carbon wheels, easily matching me turn-for-turn as I rocketed down the descent. Our pace slowed by an ungainly Ford Expedition, he pulled out and passed us both, never to be seen again.

Fifty-one miles, 6,965 feet of climbing, some 2700 Calories burned. Followed by a delectable six-course dinner prepared by friends, I still managed to end the day at a caloric deficit.

Casting About

The forecast for the day: Overcast.

Now, that depends upon your point of view, doesn't it? If you are gazing down from the window of an airplane, for example, would it be Undercast? What would you call it if you were in the midst of the cloud layer?

I can answer that: Wet. As we rose toward the base of the final (and easiest) climb on our route today, the winds picked up and the clouds descended to meet us.

We had already shed three of our twelve riders. Of the remaining nine, six were experienced ride leaders for the club. All but one were ready to declare victory and return to the start. (We twisted his arm.) Having tackled the climbs according to decreasing level of difficulty, no one felt shortchanged. Thirty-three miles, 2,650 feet of climbing, max heart rate 185 bpm (on Olive Tree Lane). If there are any olive trees up there, somehow I always fail to notice.

On the drive home, my windshield wipers engaged.

B-Blogging

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter "B," in honor of

... the black crows scavenging for breakfast,

... the sleek Bentley that passed me by,

... the bunny rabbit that bounded across the road,

... my fellow bicyclists [24 of them], and last-but-not-least,

... buttermilk almond pancakes studded with chocolate chips, my second breakfast.

The body must be refueled after biking 19 miles to work. Besides, what could be more motivating than pancakes?

Yet, last year I managed to bike to work [insert drum roll here] ... three times. First, a warm-up to prepare for leading a group on Bike to Work Day. Then, of course, Bike to Work Day itself. Finally, on some other random day. Pathetic.

The price of such laziness is fading fitness, and I am none too pleased with that. The sun is rising early enough, the temperature was a comfortable 43F: no excuses! Dust off the sturdy commute bike, pump up the tires, and get moving.

As I labored up the hills that mark the beginning of my route, I was reminded that the heavy commute bike makes for good cross-training. At my first key checkpoint, three miles into the ride, my pace was slower by a full minute.

Approaching a stop sign, I spotted a sheriff on his motorcycle. Rear view mirrors are indispensable. I know that particular stop sign is a notorious enforcement spot. I would have come to a Full Stop anyway. Really.

I was encouraged to see some trees already in bloom, and imagined their petals falling like snowflakes in a few short weeks. Then I remembered that heavy snow was falling on the east coast at that very moment, for the seventh time this season.

I don't live there any more.

Redwoods and Ridgelines

January in California. Back east, they are preparing to plow more snow off the roads. Up on the ridge, we passed mounds of rock and dirt that had been plowed off the roads. Both tend to wreak havoc with the pavement.

I was much happier with today's route, climbing a mere 2,465 feet over 31 miles, in contrast with last week's 52 miles and 3,910 feet. Nonetheless, I was the caboose on the climbs.

On a day like this, it was a struggle to remember that spring is still two months away. We followed the ridgeline, with sweeping views of the canyons of The Forest of Nisene Marks State Park, and passed through the watershed of Soquel Creek.

It was a day to enjoy blue skies with wispy clouds, rushing creeks with little waterfalls, and biking (of course) with good friends.

Tomorrow

I discovered the Low-Key Hillclimbs when the series resumed in 2006, curious to see whether they really meant that everyone was welcome. (They did.) In 2007, I rode most of the climbs, and served as a volunteer for those I dared not attempt. On the final steep curve near the top of Welch Creek, I snapped this photo of Thomas Novikoff. A gifted Category 2 racer, he finished third overall in the series that year.

From my position near the tail end of the field, I would naturally see little of the guys at the front. I would still be climbing the hill after they had finished and begun descending; many would cheer me on as they whizzed past.

I last saw Thomas on Thanksgiving Day. The interior of his car was packed, from the floor to the bottoms of the windows, with cycling gear that he would haul to the top of Mt. Hamilton for our fellow Low-Keyers. Just as he was about to pull away, I dashed up to the car with one more bag ... he snatched it through the window, mock exasperation on his face.

Waiting for cyclists to cross the line at the snowy summit, that's Thomas striking a "thumbs up" pose in this photo by Bill Bushnell:

Our vantage point afforded a preview of the finishers. We expected Ryan Sherlock to be first across the line, but were surprised to see another rider on his wheel. How was that possible? "Who is that?" I asked. Thomas knew: "Eric Wohlberg."

A couple of weeks later, Thomas was hospitalized. A bicycle crash? An inattentive driver? No. He was gravely ill. Most of us had no idea.

He had raced up Portola Park in the third week of the series. I dragged my sorry self up East Dunne Avenue yesterday in the warm sunshine; in far less time, he had climbed it on a wet, miserable day in October. He had been eager to see Palomares on the Low-Key calendar in 2011.

Thomas kept living his life with the conviction that tomorrow would come. Racing up mountainsides. Spending Thanksgiving morning on a freezing mountaintop, cheering at the finish line.

Today there was a memorial service for Thomas at the top of Mount Tantalus in his native Honolulu. On his blog, he had quoted T.S. Eliot:

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

Thomas, you deserved to go so much farther.

A Crushing Coe

It has been a while since I set out on a long bike ride. Quite a while. Look back three months on the calendar, to Levi's King Ridge GranFondo.

Why, then, did I think a 52-mile route with an extended climb would be a good idea today? Quite simply: I wasn't thinking.

The first time I ascended East Dunne Avenue to reach Henry Coe State Park, I was a passenger in a car. A budding cyclist, I knew this was a popular route. I quickly recognized that it was beyond my ability.

The first time I climbed it on a bicycle, I had raced up Mt. Hamilton the day before. I took it easy that day, but it was not a struggle.

Not so, today. My fitness has withered, and I could have used those red blood cells I donated ten days ago. The steepest pitch is uphill of the lone cattle guard on this route. On the downhill approach, I gave it my all. I flew over the metal rails and made it most of the way up the steep grade. (Most. Not all.) I dismounted. I looked at the hill. I did not want to pedal one more meter uphill.

What remained was not so steep. With a few minutes to recover, I certainly could have remounted and continued. I ... just ... didn't ... want to.

Suddenly it seemed like a lovely day for a stroll, and I did something I have not done on a bicycle outing in years. I walked.

Dream, dream, drive

Approaching the pumps, my gaze was magnetically drawn to one vehicle in particular. An unexpected rendezvous with the shiny black car?! Headed in opposite directions, imagine the odds that we would both turn up to refuel at the same place at the same time. My Sunday drive was coming to a close; his was just getting underway. The rest of the pumps were occupied by assorted models from Mercedes Benz.

I almost bought one, I thought about buying one.

Surprisingly, not an uncommon comment. [Right. But you bought that Mercedes station wagon, instead.]

Not that there is anything wrong with that. If I needed to haul kids around, a station wagon or a minivan would be just right. If I needed to haul stuff around, a pickup truck would do nicely. If I wanted to drive to the slopes, a small SUV with four wheel drive would be a fine choice.

What kind of mileage do you get?

Another common question. “That depends entirely on how I drive it,” I smile. “Yeah, I guess that's not the point,” he observed. [Hardly.]

From the driver of the very nice Mercedes behind me:

Your car is beautiful.

The Silicon Valley International Auto Show was wrapping up today, and the local section of the newspaper featured an article from the esteemed Mr. Roadshow:
“Why buy a car when you can dream for free?”

I can assure you of this: dreaming is not driving.

Not Gonna Happen

In the last week of December, after dropping off some post-blizzard groceries and shoveling some snow for my elderly uncle, his parting words to me were:

Stay off that bicycle!

Seems like "thank you" would have been more appropriate.

Back on the west coast, January means it is time to reset that odometer before setting out on the first ride of the year. This one was damp and cold, with the cloud layer hanging just above our heads. (We could have climbed into it, had we wanted to get wet, but we opted for a lower elevation.)

Despite my cold-weather gear, I traveled a full six miles before I could feel my fingers. Later on the ride, I found that a sustained heart rate of 172 or more would bring them back to life. My toes, however, were a lost cause. When I returned home, I took my cue from the cat and cozied up to one of the heating vents.

Thirty-five chilly miles, 1,165 feet of climbing.

Stay off the bicycle? Not gonna happen.

Blitzed by the Blizzard

Mom: Stop that! Don't do their job!

In this case, "they" would be the snow-clearing dudes who were yet to appear, more than 30 hours after the Blizzard of 2010 dumped more than 30 inches of snow on us. The fierce winds had created drifts taller than me. Needless to say, the snow crews were pretty busy. I was thoroughly bored and longing for some exercise. I shoveled a narrow path down the driveway to the street, and dug out the mailbox.

Sister-in-law's mom: Stop that! I can get the car out!

Sure, but the softening patches of ice on the driveway will freeze solid overnight and be just as treacherous tomorrow.

Uncle (and his next-door neighbor, in harmony): Stop that!
I don't want you to do that. It will melt!

Yes, it will melt. Eventually.

When you cross the threshold into your eighties, do they hand you a script? Is there a prohibition against graciously accepting the help of the next generation?

The most effective response, I have learned, is simply to turn my back and tune out the tirade. As my brother later remarked, they do not understand that I am in better shape than they were at any point in their lives.

My Christmas holiday visit was unexpectedly extended by the storm, which would have been classified as a Category 2 hurricane in a different season. A state of emergency was declared, thousands of flights were canceled, at least five state highways were closed (unplowed) for several days, and the Post Office stopped delivering mail.

The airports were jammed with stranded travelers and Continental Airlines would not answer the phone. They are not accountable for the weather, but they are responsible for how they cope with the aftermath. Grade: F-

At least I was comfortable and merely inconvenienced, staying with family. Five days after my flight was canceled, I rescued myself with a one-way ticket on a different airline.

There's no place like home, there's no place like home ...

Into the Mist(ic)

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

We were too far inland to smell the sea, but we certainly did feel the sky. It was neither cold nor rainy, but wet without any doubt. I was coated with grime before I arrived at the official starting point and then astonished that five intrepid riders showed up for our ambitious climb-fest in spite of the weather.

Confidentially, I had been hoping for rain; when my ride co-leader originally suggested this route, my eyebrows went up. "We could always make Reynolds optional," I proposed. As we started up Mt. Umunhum today, one of the guys asked "Are you really going up Reynolds, too?" Yup. Three hill climbs, each with an average grade hovering around 10%. For me, two additional hills riding to the start and back home. Sounds crazy? [Okay, it probably is crazy.] By the time I would load the bike into the car, drive to the start, unload and set up the bike ... trust me, it is faster just to ride the bike.

Slugs were the only creatures climbing Hicks more slowly than I was today. I respectfully avoided them. Three deer crossed in front of me; the last, a young buck, lingered in the middle of the road to study me. "What sort of weakling is that?," he must have wondered. Labored breathing, moving so slowly, separated from its pack.

Thirty-three miles, 3,635 feet of climbing through the clouds.What a view.

Touch of Color

All the hills are brown
and the sky is gray.
I've been for a ride
on a winter's day.

Judging by the radar map this morning, I would have stayed home (warm and dry). Technology is not always the best thing. A ride partner willing to goad you onto the bike can be better.

The rain did start coming down just before he arrived, but it was insincere. Undeterred, we headed for the hills.

It has been three weeks since I was last on the bike, but I did surprisingly well. Realizing that I should be cross-training in practice, rather than in theory, I signed up for the Concept 2 Holiday Challenge. To date, I've rowed 35,130 meters. Given my performance on the bike today, that has indeed paid off.

We climbed 1,675 feet over 15.9 miles, with views of steep forested canyons and Santa Clara Valley in the distance. Not to mention the usual quail and one flock of wild turkeys. Only a few cyclists, though; the hard-core who pay little heed to weather forecasts.

Traditions

With snow at the summit of Mt. Hamilton, this year I broke with tradition. In each of the preceding four years, I have finished off the Low-Key Hillclimb season with a hundred or so kindred spirits by charging up the mountain on Thanksgiving morning. Expecting to be slower this year, I was not eager to push myself to the max for more than two hours; instead, I planned to get an earlier start and then to assist at the top.

Regrettably, common sense took hold when I saw that the high temperature at the summit on Wednesday was 28F. Sure, I could send extra layers to the top to stay warm after the climb, but it would be impractical to carry all that gear back down on the bike.

Honestly, I can climb Mt. Hamilton whenever I want.

It was one of those rare days when the view extends from San Francisco to the north, clear to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierras in the east. Having spent most of my life in colder climes, it was easy for me to dress for success. With the thermometer climbing slightly above the freezing mark, I didn't even need to tap into my bottle of hot chocolate.

As a volunteer, I stood in the enviable position to witness the first guys crossing the line: Irish hillclimb champion Ryan Sherlock, with three-time Olympian and former Mt. Hamilton champion Eric Wohlberg close on his wheel.

All of this may sound like a strange approach to Thanksgiving, what with most of the country traveling far and wide to celebrate with family; my tradition is to be less traditional. [Although, my all-time favorite was watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, eye-level with the giant balloons, from a hotel balcony on Broadway. It was cold that day, too.]

Envying all the jubilant cyclists at the top of the mountain, I longed to fit some physical activity into my day. In this crowd, one need not look far to find a co-conspirator; a friend was eager to hike after our volunteer duties were done. Some passing hikers alerted us to a bobcat and a mountain lion in the vicinity; birds were abundant, but the only traces of the cats we saw were their tracks.

I finished the day happily tired and sore, though also sad not to have tackled the climb. But another Bay Area tradition is little more than a month away: Mt. Hamilton on New Year's Day. At my own comfortable pace.

Preserve and Protect

When the Ranger pulled out her digital camera and started snapping photos, well, a certain song came to mind. It is, after all, nearly Thanksgiving.

I mean, with the rare sight of all those colorful Lycra-clad bodies on such a gloomy day, maybe our ranger just wanted an image she could admire forever?

But there was another possibility, one much closer to those immortal twenty seven eight-by-ten colour glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one was to be used as evidence against us. Preserved in some file somewhere will be a photo of a volunteer shivering behind a video tripod, sleet bouncing off her rain jacket as she recorded the finishing time of each rider.

The third Ranger truck arrived with lights flashing and siren wailing. As it turns out, a fourth Ranger truck waited at the base of the hill.

I mean, what better way to spend a cold, wet morning than haranguing a bunch of cyclists who harmed no one as they climbed up a (paved) road to nowhere in the rain? We are not the vandals they normally chase away; those prefer the cover of night and have the sense to stay warm and dry on a day like this.

Every hiker, every cyclist, in the Bay Area looks forward to the day when the top of Mt. Umunhum is reopened to the public.

Perhaps the organization should consider a new name at the same time: Midpeninsula Regional Closed Space District.

A Peak Experience

Saturday morning found me in an unusual position, test driving a strangely familiar vehicle on a route I planned to bike in the afternoon. With too much traffic on the highway, I checked with my official escort: Would a spin around the reservoir be okay? Sure, wherever you want to go.

Now here is one interesting, potentially scary, job: sit in the passenger seat of a fabulously powerful car with some random driver at the wheel. Prerequisite? Nerves of steel.

While most people I know would do almost anything for the opportunity to get behind the wheel, this random driver hesitated. It would be intimidating enough just to drive the beast. Add to that, being accompanied by a guy who really knows how to drive it. And did I mention the videocam?

See what I mean? No pressure.

As I stepped out of the car, someone asked “So, how was it?” One of the guys laughed: “She's smiling.”

The afternoon involved carbon fiber too, but of the two-wheeled variety and propelled by my rather pathetic human engine. A colleague visiting from the east coast was eager for a local bike ride, so long as I promised not to beat him up “too badly.” With limited time, I led him to the reservoir and beyond, through the redwoods to the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

I am not sure he will forgive my legendary ability to underestimate distance. [We're almost there, probably two miles to the top.] But after gliding back down through the redwoods, I can tell you this: He was smiling.

Which brings to mind a morning conversation in the car, about passion. Driving. Cycling. Life well-lived.

It's All Relative

Some family members came out for a few days, and I packed as much fun as I could into their brief visit.

We toured the Monterey Bay Aquarium and took in the sunset at Carmel Beach.

We sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge and then hiked above it in the Marin Headlands.

We toured the Jelly Belly factory and sampled beans in various stages of production, starting with a most unexpected flavor (sweet potato).

On a handsome and assertive Arabian, I did my best to follow our guide along a hilly trail.

We clambered over shoreline rocks to explore the natural tide pools.

I had a blast. Maybe the family did, too.

Done with Dunne

Ah, the nuances of Bay Area micro-climates. The short drive to the start of today's Low-Key Hillclimb was dry ... mostly. The live radar map showed a distinct lack of precipitation in the area.

As the saying goes, you had to be there.

There, it was decidedly moist. You might think the turn-out for a late-season hill climb in iffy weather would be low. You might think that, and you would be wrong. Some ninety-seven riders headed up a slippery road into the clouds. Cyclists are a hardy bunch.

Last Thursday night, as I watched a Major League pitcher cede the mound in the second game of the World Series [he had a blister on his finger], I thought of the guy who broke his collarbone [in two places] in a crash on the first day of the Tour de France some years back. He got back on the bike, and kept riding. Over the next three weeks, day after day, he kept riding [and even won a stage of the race]. Cyclists are a hardy bunch. Not to mention stubborn and perhaps a bit loony.

Riding with Levi

Who needs a travel alarm, when you can count on some fellow traveler to set off his car alarm at 5:20 a.m.? I am sure that everyone in our little motel building appreciated his ineptitude, not to mention the residents of the neighboring apartment complex.

Given the apocalyptic warnings of insufficient parking at the starting location for Levi's second annual King Ridge GranFondo, my ride buddy and I biked to the start. After that nice 3.5 mile warm-up, we settled into our place near the front ... of the back of the pack. With approximately 6,000 registered riders, this would be the largest cycling event in which either of us had participated.

Sensibly, they stage the riders from fastest to slowest. Regrettably, that means some cyclists with good bike handling skills are mixing it up at the back with those whose skills are, shall we say, a bit dodgy. After an electric rendition of the national anthem, with a helicopter hovering overhead, the familiar voice of the announcer from the Amgen Tour of California coached us through the mass start. Packed like sardines on wheels, we started inching forward at 8:00 a.m.; we crossed the starting line at 8:15—and there were hundreds more behind us.

Roads were closed for us throughout Santa Rosa. Six thousand cyclists take up a lot of space, and they gave us both sides of the road. When we transitioned to sharing the road with the motoring public, we found officers controlling every intersection. In that sense, this was one safe ride.

I lost my ride buddy around mile two, as I picked my way forward through gaps in the sea of riders. The three routes (Gran, Medio, Piccolo) diverge in Occidental. After leaving the first rest stop, I had the road to myself for miles.

Apparently that first stop was meant for the Piccolo riders, but without route sheets or clear guidance, many of us made the stop. That spot has served as a rest stop for the Wine Country Century, so it seemed natural to stop there. I arrived before the main crush; by the time I departed, they seemed pretty overwhelmed.

As with any organized ride, people sign up for a variety of reasons. Some hope for a chance to hang tight with Levi and his crew. Some hope for a chance just to see Levi. I longed to ride the Medio route because it follows much of the same course used for years by the first day of the classic Waves to Wine event. I suspect I was not the only Medio rider with that agenda; I saw one woman sporting the beautiful Champagne Club jersey from 2004. Sadly, Waves to Wine moved away from this route after 2006. Unlike that foggy day, today the coast was clear.

I had considered wearing that very jersey for old times' sake, but opted instead for a badge of honor—my Death Ride jersey. Unlike Waves to Wine, the GranFondo's Medio route heads up a steep climb on the return to Santa Rosa: Coleman Valley Road. I may be slow, but I can climb and I want some respect. I was anxious to reach the hill ahead of the crowds, after hearing hair-raising stories of unprepared riders stopping at random in the middle of the road to dismount (and walk).

By this point, the crowds were thinner, and—as one cyclist wryly observed—so were the riders. As I reached the base of the climb, I asked a passing century rider how long it was. "A mile and a half," he replied. Oh, not so bad. The narrow road was not too crowded; I chided one wobbly warrior to pick a direction, right or left, before I could safely pass her. The number of riders was about evenly matched with the number of walkers. The grade was steady, averaging 10%.

Those who were climbing were strong, which incited me to ride at a faster pace. A thin climber in a BMC racing kit encouraged me:

If you can do the Death Ride, you can get up this hill.

With my heart rate at 186 bpm, I pulled off into a shady nook about halfway up the climb. Lowering my heart rate allowed me to spin up the second half of the climb and enjoy the view. On the descent, I was particularly respectful on a sharp hairpin set up with an opposing wall of hay bales. This was one safe ride.

I was just about to leave the final rest stop, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but Levi Leipheimer himself. He graciously mingled and posed for photos with us, asking if we were having a good time. Back on the road, his posse passed me on a slight uphill grade, which subverted any chance that I might tack on to the back for a spell.

In a crowd of 6,000, I really did not expect to cross paths with anyone I knew. As I rolled across the finish line, I was astonished and pleased to be cheered by another ride buddy who had to sit out this event. I re-connected with my morning ride partner and devoured a heaping plate of chicken-and-shrimp paella. On the way back to our motel, we made one more stop: to admire the brand-new Cyclisk, one day before its official dedication.

Still feeling the aftermath of the cold virus that sidelined me for the past few weeks, I suffered less than I expected. I managed to average 12.7 mph over 60 miles, with a paltry 3,180 feet of climbing.