Slip Slidin' Away

Warning: loose gravel.

There is always loose gravel on this road, of the natural variety (shed from the hillside). The signs were posted because Mt. Hamilton Road has been freshly chip-sealed, from mile marker 9.0 to a level just above the Twin Gates trailhead (Joseph Grant County Park). The surface is rough, but there was scant loose gravel after the first few turns.

With September promising to be a busy month, I decided it would be best to climb Mt. Hamilton today. My usual ride buddies had other plans, but a cyclist is never alone on this route. For that, I am grateful.

I was strong on the climb, and cautious descending on the rough road. Taking a tumble on that would be, in a word, gruesome.

As the saying goes, there are cyclists who have crashed and there are cyclists who haven't crashed yet. [Can you guess where this story is headed?]

With less than a mile and a half to the end of the road, I rounded the final hairpin bend. The bike slid out beneath me. In the instant that the wheels lost traction, I knew this one was not recoverable. The road was smooth and dry; perhaps I braked too aggressively and locked the rear wheel.

The stats: My speed dropped from 30.4 mph to 0.9 mph in five seconds. My heart rate accelerated from 125 bpm to 147 bpm in those same five seconds.

Miraculously, the bicycle and I are intact. We slid together, and nothing came unhinged. Water bottles stayed in their cages. My sunglasses did not fly off. Most importantly, my head did not hit the pavement. Once I stopped sliding, I sat up and thought "Huh. That wasn't so bad." I thought back to my favorite Jonathan Vaughters quote:

Next time you're in your car at 50 mph, strip down to your underwear and jump out the door. And that's what it's like to crash in a professional bike race.

My right outer thigh took the brunt of the impact (a fine hematoma, there), and my right arm got most of the road rash. Toward the end of the slide, the edge of my helmet visor grazed the pavement. My bike jersey and shorts? Grimy, but not torn.

Being only somewhat the worse for wear, I declined a ride from the kind motorist behind me. I found a safe spot to collect my wits, pulled out my first aid kit and cleaned up the messiest bits.

The bike seemed rideable, until I noticed that the brake hoods were askew and the stem was not aligned with the fork. As I hiked down the hill, the first ascending cyclist stopped to help. He tugged the hoods into place, realigned the stem, and checked the bike over. Worried, after watching me get off to a wobbly start, he turned around and generously accompanied me back to my car.

Thank you, Monta Vista Velo guy. I apologize for being too rattled to ask your name.

High on a Hill

The climb was steep, but the view across the valley was worth the effort invested. Following the group on a route new to me, I paused for a brief recovery when my heart rate reached 180 bpm and the end was not in sight. [The end of the road, that is.]

Curiously, the path to the left in the photo appears to be part of the Novitiate Trail on a map, but it traverses private land before entering St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve and was clearly marked "No Trespassing." That was okay, though; hiking, we were not.

My legs protested this after-work foray, but I managed not to fall too far behind the rest of the group. Our route was long enough to press against the limits of daylight; our evening ride series will soon close as summer drifts into fall. On this particular night, it was a treat to slip home through the back streets after dinner in the light of the (almost) full moon.

Detoured to Distraction

Some detours are lovely (A Ride in the Park).

And some detours are good for you, like a gratuitous hill climb (not to mention the view).

But some detours are downright treacherous, as I learned today.

New principle of safe bicycle commuting:
Beware the impromptu detour.

A public works crew has been layering a new surface on one of the roads I frequent. Never mind that the new surface is annoyingly irregular, making for a most unpleasant ride. That, alone, is a temptation to shift my route by a block or two.

This morning, temporary detour signs were posted during the morning commute hours as they prepared to work on the next section. Should I just ride through? They were not far along, a bicycle would not be a problem. Should I veer onto the sidewalk and slip past? Or should I do the right thing, behave like a vehicle and follow the detour?

I chose Door Number Three, and I feel lucky to tell the tale. There is a fourth option, which I highly recommend:

Steer clear of the official detour and improvise your own.

The problem with the official detour, even in a low-traffic area, is that the motorists are discombobulated. They are befuddled. Their routine has been disrupted, they are not familiar with the adjacent streets, and they are running late for work.

And thus I was nearly mowed down (twice) by a driver who (1) disregarded my right of way, (2) appeared to be proceeding straight but was not, (3) made a sudden u-turn in the middle of an intersection, and then (4) abruptly decided to parallel-park.

Had I chosen to tap on his window, he would have jumped out of his skin. I am sure he never saw the cyclist [that would be me] in the neon-yellow jacket with the flashing white light on her bike's handlebar and the flashing red light atop her helmet.

I shall not pass that way again.

Goats Gotta Eat

And girls gotta ride.

On paper, the road to Henry Coe State Park looks no more difficult than climbing Mt. Hamilton—and it is shorter. Why does it feel so much tougher on the bicycle?

To avoid the unpleasantly busy stretch of the lower climb, we prefer to wend our way along Thomas Grade. From there, the next mile averages a grade of about 4.1%. Here is why the next three miles are so trying: the gradient is about 7.2%. This time, I was mentally prepared for the final challenge, the painfully steep-but-short segment that rises after a cattle guard in the last mile.

Although this was a club ride, I spent most of the day riding solo. After the group pulled away from me on the Coyote Creek trail, my pace was good enough to keep them in sight but not good enough to catch them. When I reached the herd of brush-clearing goats, I threw in the towel. I would rather fend for myself and enjoy the sights.

Before he left me in the dust, I had a chance to chat with a club member who is lucky to be alive after suffering a heart attack out on the road a few months ago and undergoing bypass surgery. This is no average unhealthy American: he has completed the Furnace Creek 508 (look it up) more than once. Then, as today, he was riding his fixed-gear bicycle. "You could ride one too," he encouraged me. "Only if it were geared as low as my lowest gear," I replied. "But then you would spin out here [on the flats]," he explained. Exactly. Later, he gave me a cheerful wave on his way back down the hill; I, of course, was still climbing.

After lunch, I considered my options for returning to the start. Direct-but-congested ride on busy roads? Flat-but-dull route along the Coyote Creek trail? Hilly-but-scenic return past the reservoirs? Oh, why not.

When asked how I was doing by a younger couple on the gentle climb, I responded without hesitation: "Tired." "You don't look as tired as we do," they offered. Once I passed them, they had a target to chase and picked up their pace. As I pushed up the last little hill, they ran out of gas and slipped out of sight. The reward for my hard work was to have the final curvy descent to myself. For the day, some 59 miles and 4,085 feet of climbing.

A Ride in the Park

Friday is here, bringing with it the opportunity to join another group commute. Six riders today; alas, we will never rival SF2G in size, but we turn heads nonetheless. For most cyclists, commuting by bike is a lonely affair.

One of the guys probably wished he was alone today, after a rather spectacular crash. I think he took a turn too wide, clipping a pedal on the curb. His bike landed on the sidewalk; miraculously, he disengaged and stayed upright, carrying his momentum across some grass and into the shrubbery. (No bushes, bicycles, or bodies were harmed in the process.)

Now, that's a hand signal!

one of the guys exclaimed, after I stopped a Mercedes in its tracks. Approaching an intersection where we would follow the straight-through lane, this driver was accelerating to overtake us on the left—with his right turn signal flashing. Never mind that we were taking the lane. Never mind that the traffic light was red, anyway.

It is prudent to send a clear message to an errant motorist. I held my ground, firmly thrust out my left arm to telegraph "STOP," and twisted left to stare him down. The dark lenses in my sunglasses shielded him from the full force of my disdain, but he got the memo. He yielded, then took his proper place in the right lane.

Since the pre-dawn sky had treated me to a view of Venus rising, I was surprised when we rode into the fog zone. Blue skies reappeared, though, at the end of our route, and lingered through the day.

Having managed a respectable pace on my return route, I chose to deviate through a scenic county park instead of skirting along its border. As I dawdled on a bridge over the lake to watch some egrets and a black-crowned night heron, the resident flock of Canada geese took flight above me.

I am confident that the commuters idling in the Friday-evening freeway-jam had a less rewarding trip home.

The Following Leader

Unable to lure any of the usual suspects to Mt. Hamilton for the August Ascent, I decided to list it as a club ride. The schedule for today was light; I managed to attract a convivial group of 14, including a pair of Frenchmen and two riders who were climbing Hamilton for the first time. Not to mention the guy on the "three-speed" single-speed bike. (1: Sitting. 2: Standing. 3: Walking.)

I warned the group about my slow uphill / fast downhill pace, but another rider called dibs on being the last one to the top. (He won.)

There is always something new to discover on the mountain, even when you are biking up for the seventh time in eight months.

Surprise #1: Road construction signs. Some stretches have already been re-paved; most of the problem spots have been marked for repair, including my particular (least) favorite. This year, I finally figured out why I never miss it on the descent: it is a nasty little gully that extends diagonally across the entire lane, right past the apex of a sharp switchback. Now it is labeled "3A." Hurray!

Surprise #2: Fire damage. A large grass fire had blackened the hills about halfway up, near a ranch. Closer to the summit, a smaller fire claimed trees and brush on a steep drop right next to the road. A survey marker has been driven into a small boulder at this spot.

Surprise #3: Lick Observatory has kindly modified their public drinking fountain: It now includes a spigot that is the perfect height for re-filling our water bottles. Less fuss, no muss!

For me, the tricky part about leading this ride is the descent. I need to look after my riders, which means I should really be the last one down the hill. The solution? Give them a generous head start. The last three riders included a couple who would stay together, and a very capable guy who insisted that I need not wait.

The couple left first. I lingered, chatting with the last rider until he left. I refilled my water bottles. I had a pleasant conversation with a couple enjoying a picnic on their way to Livermore (for his 40th high school reunion). Despite growing up in the Bay Area, she had never been to the top of Mount Hamilton until today.

On my way down, I passed an ambulance and a paramedic hurrying up the hill. At that moment, it was a huge relief to know that all of my riders were ahead of me. I did not see any incidents along the way, so the emergency must have been on the back side of the mountain.

About halfway down the hill, I caught up with my last rider. I was convinced that I would not catch the other couple ... until I did. They were stunned to find me back at the starting point; they had not seen me pass. Now, that's fast!

Sleepy Ride

I confess that I felt more like taking a nap than climbing on my bicycle at the end of the day (which explains why I felt even more sluggish than usual). Or was there something in the air? A glance in my rear view mirror at one point caught a fellow cyclist in mid-yawn.

A short and moderate route attracted a large and varied group; several of the more capable riders graciously backtracked on the hills to look after our stragglers.

Daylight fades faster now, and the sun slips earlier behind the hills. We visited the century-old estate of a former senator, given for all of us to enjoy as a public park. With more hills to climb before sunset, though, we could not linger at Villa Montalvo tonight.

We were tired and we were slow, but we were out there on our bicycles.

Perspirate, Evaporate

Eons ago in Biology class, I learned that the human body produces perspiration to cool off; at the time, that seemed like nothing more than a puzzling theory. In the summertime, this east coast empiricist observed that perspiration dripped off her face and ran in a river down the center of her back; it drenched her clothing and made her feel sticky and miserable.

When the humidity is 90%, there is not much evaporating going on.

For the west coast empiricist, perspiration is a textbook experience. There were no water boys on Metcalf today, but a slight breeze on the exposed climb helped lift the moisture off my glistening skin. Despite the blazing sun, the core of my body felt cooler as an underlayer wicked the wetness away. Coasting down a stretch of road at 44 mph felt like a veritable blast of air conditioning. Theory in practice!

The southernmost segments of the Coyote Creek Trail (officially designated COY14 and COY15) were new to me, and I was glad to follow the leaders. Without local knowledge, good luck staying on the trail: intersections, spurs, and road crossings are unmarked.

Our ride leaders, training for an upcoming excursion, bracketed our small group on their low-geared touring bikes—complete with fenders, racks, and loaded panniers. The rest of us were just riding for the fun of it. [Really. Climbing Metcalf is fun. Really.]

Will I embark on a bicycle tour some day? Decidedly ... maybe.

Let Me Eat Cake

With back-to-back bike-to-work days, I earned it. [The cake.]

Today's jubilation was not related to biking, but one of the parties was conveniently located along my homeward-bound route. There were two county Paramedic vehicles standing by, and since the guys were not busy I finally satisfied my curiosity: Why are the Paramedic vehicles so large, closer to the size of a fire truck than to an ambulance?

It is simple, really. They are fire trucks. (Back on the east coast, the fire department and the first aid squad are typically separate organizations.)

With fire stations located to respond to calls within five minutes, they can get to the scene of an emergency faster than an ambulance might. First, they added EMTs to the fire crew; later, they switched to paramedics.

Speaking of the east coast, I recently returned from a short visit. I enjoyed the fireflies and thunderstorms; the mosquitoes and humidity ... not so much. When I stepped out of the air-conditioned car at the airport, my glasses fogged up.

Pleased to return to my regular routine, I was eager to get back on the bike. After a leisurely solo commute yesterday, this morning I fell in with the Friday crowd. Averaging 14.5 mph, I did my best to hang with the boys without pushing my limits. Two days, four rides: 80 miles, 1,725 feet of climbing, some 2100 Calories burned.

Happy 125th Birthday, Los Gatos! Thanks for the cake.

A Hard Day's Ride

The more I thought about joining today's hilly ride, the less sense it made. Get up early, load the bike into the car, drive to the starting point ... and then bike back toward home? A posse of renegades formed instead, with a plan to link up with the rest of the riders en route.

It was a day for ice cream (the hard stuff). And that, of course, calls for a hard ride.

The main group would be climbing the easier [cough, cough] side of Hicks, followed by a trek up Mt. Umunhum. To meet them, why not take the most direct route? In other words, the steeper side of Hicks. Then, descend the "easier" side and climb it with the group. On the face of it, this is a ridiculous plan. Climb both sides of Hicks on the same ride? I had no intention of following that with a spin up Mt. Umunhum.

Deer have no regard for right of way; as we approached, two scampered up the steep hillside while a third stared us down before turning tail and trotting up the road ahead of us. There was a kindred spirit, averse to a steep climb!

When I reached the top of Hicks for the second time, I felt ... fine?! Evidently the key to enjoying the "easy" side of Hicks is to suffer the steeper side first.

Mt. Umunhum beckoned. Three hard hills, three scoops?

The end of the public road is well-marked with No Trespassing signs. Today, we would find our own welcoming committee—one sour-looking guy glaring at us from the cab of his pick-up truck, parked in the DMZ between the signs and the colloquial "white line of death." What a sad way to pass the time on a beautiful summer day. What will he do in a few years when the public gets access to the summit?

Befitting the road surface on the upper portion of Mt. Umunhum, I celebrated with a double scoop of Rocky Road, topped with Cookies 'n Cream.

Up on Umunhum, one of the renegades had turned to me for confirmation of the distance we had traveled. When she heard my reply, her jaw dropped. Since our route included a few descents, we had just climbed some 3,660 feet in less than 15 miles.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

After the peanut gallery weighed in, our ride leader may have regretted that he had shared his route plan a few days in advance. I felt torn: Should I stay with the group on the official route, or occasionally deviate onto roads that I know are more cycling-friendly?

My conscience was salved once I dropped off the back of the group. My ride buddy and I warned the leaders that we are oh-so-slow, do not wait for us. We will watch out for each other. Along the way, we will chat, leapfrog one another, and pause for photos and bio breaks. We will have a civilized ride on a hot summer day.

We were pleasantly surprised to meet up with some of our group at the lunch stop (the turnaround point). Even more so, because most of them had opted for the faster, no-hills version of the route. (Of course, we did not choose that option.)

Outside the local market, we found a "bake sale." Befitting the tony town of Woodside, some enterprising young equestrians were raising funds to attend an upcoming competition. In France. On weekends, much to the dismay of the local residents, the place is overrun with cyclists—the girls were onto us! I made a donation and enjoyed a cupcake.

My plan for getting us back to the starting point was a bit hazy. Despite my uncertainty about the last couple of miles, I managed to home in on my ride buddy's car without leaning on a technological crutch (Google Maps).

But, wait—what about the bike? The bike with the broken cable?

Fixed, finally. New, improved shifters deliver responsive, crisp gear changes. I swung by the bike shop for a minor tweak and was happy to find my mechanic on duty. When he asked how many miles I had put on it, he was pleased to hear "70."

For the day, 73 miles and 2,955 feet of climbing.

Commute Train

All aboard! The South Bay, No-Rider-Left-Behind Local was scheduled to pull out of the Depot at 7 a.m. Two more stops and our train topped out at eight riders.

For this Friday tradition, I have habitually demurred in the interest of keeping my legs fresh for Saturday rides. After completing difficult back-to-back rides on two weekends this summer, that excuse was rendered null and void. Then there is the matter of a regular 9 a.m. meeting (for which there was a reprieve this week). We arrived by 8:30 a.m.; so much for that excuse.

The camaraderie makes for a fast trip to the office—conversation makes the time pass quickly, and staying with the group motivates me to keep the pace high.

The return trip was a bigger question. Could I ride home with enough margin to walk into town, where (at long last) my road bicycle was waiting for me, before the shop closed?

Answer: A resounding Yes! Evidently I can push myself harder at the end of the day. Less lollygagging, more determination. It helps to have a goal.

Madone on Loan

Another weekend without cycling? Inconceivable.

A mechanic who understands? Priceless.

And so it was that I found myself on a Trek Madone 5.2 demo for a day. The bike seemed to have been waiting for me to ride it: all that was needed was to install my pedals and shift the saddle back.

I had planned to join an ambitious ride over the Santa Cruz Mountains, but was apprehensive about the final steep climb of the day. The gearing on the Madone's compact crankset was not as low as the triple on my own bike. Plan B: Ride the first two climbs with the group; if that goes well, tack on some additional miles and hills without dropping down to sea level.

I was impressed with the Madone as soon as I loaded it into my car. There was no denying that it weighed substantially less than my own (carbon fiber) bike: 19.2 pounds, including my heavy saddle bag.

After a few nagging twinges on the first climb, my body settled into the fit and feel of the new machine. The geometry was a bit cramped for me—fine for a day, but not the right size for the long term.

The first hill climb was effortless. The bike is fast! By the time I completed the second climb (and descent), I was comfortable with the bike. My ride partner called it a day after our third climb; I was ready for a fourth.

Halfway through, I reached a confusing intersection. A road to the right was marked Not A Through Road. Clearly, that is not part of my route. Why was it so tantalizing?

Don't take me home to the shop yet!
They will just hang me back up in the rafters.

It was the Madone.

We're having such a great time!
I was built for this.

We turned. We descended to the "enda da road" and climbed back up, startling some quail and passing the largest redwood tree I have found outside of a public park.

After returning home, I rode my proud steed back to the shop—one hour before closing time. Fifty miles and 4800 feet of climbing to remember.

Bridging the Gap

My road bike, sadly, is still out of commission (awaiting parts). If I needed any additional motivation to bike to work, that was it. Bonus: it was a Spare the Air day. The cool morning air was refreshing; I was puzzled to see fellow riders sporting tights and jackets.

There would not be time to clean up before my first meeting at 9:00; ordinarily, I would not choose to bike in. To my advantage, my workplace is not ordinary. It is the sort of place where I can show up in my damp jersey and shorts, a bowl of fresh fruit in my left hand, a bowl of fresh yogurt and granola in my right hand, and have my VP open the conference room door for me.

The ride in was particularly smooth, my progress interrupted only twice by stoplights. Today was my first opportunity to introduce a new bike bridge to my route, one that grants direct access to the Stevens Creek Trail at its southernmost point.

First impression? We have a winner!

Riding the trail is always tricky, with the usual mix of pedestrians, joggers, cyclists, and suicidal squirrels. On the whole, though, it presented fewer challenges than my normal route. No stoplights. No right-hooking cars. No jockeying to stay out of the door zone. No waiting to cross the Caltrain or light rail tracks at grade. No need to merge across three lanes of traffic to slot into the left-turn lane at Central Expressway.

The trail was busier in the evening. To the mix, add oblivious dog-walkers and a woman on inline skates, with a jogging stroller, who planted herself smack in the middle of an uphill intersection.

Finally, this trail is is worth the trouble. What a difference a bridge makes.

Lesson Learned

Why is a good bicycle mechanic so hard to find?

After reading some good comments about the mechanic at a new independent shop, I headed there about a month ago. Shifting my rear dérailleur felt mushy, and the front dérailleur was over-shifting. I was ready to leave the bike with them, but they seemed eager to make some adjustments and send me on my way.

Had I ever replaced the cables? Yes, but I could not remember when. A good next question might have been "Have you put more than 3,000 (4,000? 5,000?) miles on the bike since then?"

With the bike clamped in their repair stand, the angle of the handlebar looked wrong to me. The mechanic had failed to notice that the stem's grip was not-quite-tight-enough, which had allowed the handlebar to rotate slightly, which affects the cable tension. Could that be the real problem?

They replaced the rear brake pads [it was time]. At home, I immediately saw that a pad dragged on one side of the rim. The mechanic had failed to notice that the wheel was slightly out of true.

Their dérailleur adjustments helped ... for a short time. The frayed cable finally snapped. With broken pieces embedded in the shifter, it will now be replaced; it is not designed to be disassembled.

The last time shifting felt mushy, a (better) mechanic at a different shop replaced the cables. Five years, and more than 10,000 miles ago.

Cables are cheap. Shifters are not. You have been warned.

Foiled on the Fourth

Bedecked in red, white, and blue, I headed for our club's traditional holiday pancake breakfast. Surveying the parking lot, you might expect that two dozen cyclists had turned out for this Fourth of July fest.

You would be wrong. Inside the courtyard, bicycles were stacked three and four deep. A small crowd sporting stars-and-stripes jerseys posed for a photo. Everyone pitched in to stack the tables and chairs before pedaling off the pancake poundage.

On the way to the first real climb of the day, there is one spot where I know to carry some speed to launch myself up the following short-but-steep bit. Halfway up, I start shifting. Rear dérailleur, down down down down. Front dérailleur, down. [Hmm, this still feels too hard.] Front dérailleur, down. [Shimano gave me gears and I will use them.] Why ... is ... it ... so ... hard ... to ... turn ... the ... pedals? [I am perilously close to stalling out and toppling over.] Almost there ... [Whew, just made it.]

Rear dérailleur, shift up. [Nothing happens.] Shift down. [Nothing happens.]

I muscled myself to the top of that hill with my gearing set at 30x12. My 52x21 would have been easier. [Not that I would try that. Ever.] My rear dérailleur cable had snapped; with no tension to hold it in place, the chain settled naturally on the smallest cog.

Game over. No more hills for me today. A mere 30 miles, 590 feet of climbing.

Sit-down Sunday

With yesterday's climbing behind me, sitting around on Sunday seemed like just the right thing. I could certainly enjoy watching some coverage of day two of Le Tour de France, for example.

The marine layer gave us a cool, gray-sky morning. Hmm, I do know a sure way to find the sun. And after all, the calendar had turned another page today. Can you guess where I am headed?

Why not complete the July ascent of Mt. Hamilton on the first day of the month!

Yes, I spent a good part of the day sitting (on a bicycle saddle, while spinning the pedals) around.

My cycling buddy graciously slowed her pace to match mine, allowing plenty of time for us to chat our way to the top. The marine layer evaporated above us, but lingered over some valleys to the north—the distinctive peak of Mt. Diablo rose above it.

The cooler temperature helped boost my climbing speed by 10%, getting me to the top some 18 minutes sooner than on my last trip. With no automotive obstacles, I can also answer the open question from my last visit to the mountain: What is my average speed on the tripartite descent, factoring out the two intermediate climbs? Survey says: 21.4 mph, 22.4 mph, 24.3 mph.

Over the weekend, I managed to climb more than 10,000 feet. More significantly, with this ride I have climbed more than 100,000 feet this year. You might think I am training for the Death Ride or something.

[Not this year.]

Deep Blue Sea

The coastal waters of the Pacific never looked so blue. [I was not alone in this observation.]

Five of us opted for a head start on the rest of the group; we knew they would catch us, but were surprised that we did not see them again until we had passed the half-way point. On a route that included roads with names like Smith Grade, Empire Grade, Ice Cream Grade ... you are probably not surprised that we did a fair bit of climbing (5,410 feet).

We paused for lunch in the tiny town of Davenport; with little else along the Pacific Coast Highway for miles, this is a popular rest stop—complete with a roadhouse.

Although we lounged on a patio a few doors away from the roadhouse, the town is steeped in its spirit: We chatted with a couple of women who were biking home to Half Moon Bay, having spent Friday night in Capitola. A curious young woman from Prunedale, with the mien of a lost soul, approached us to learn more about cycling.

But it was the three guys from San Francisco who made the biggest impression. They were on their way to Santa Cruz, having left the city on Thursday. On skateboards.

Musical Moonrise

Even a familiar route can play host to a surprise or two. The seasons bring out the blooms on different trees and wildflowers. On every ride, we will surely see a few animals (of both the domesticated and wild varieties). Tonight we expected to see both horses and deer, and we were not disappointed.

We did not, however, expect to hear (and see) a bagpiper—but there he was, facing the waters of the Guadalupe Reservoir near the middle of the dam, his music reverberating through the canyon.

There are occasional rewards for being a sluggish hill climber.

On a Clear Day

We couldn't see forever, but we could see the new tower on the eastern span of the Bay Bridge, and Mt. Diablo, and Mt. Tamalpais. The sharp-eyed among us spotted the campanile at UC Berkeley. The surface of the bay shimmered in the bright sunshine.

One of our riders had never seen the views from the top of San Bruno Mountain—until today. I have biked up this hill in fog so thick I could not see the edges of the road. On another day, I could see the Farallon Islands from the summit. When I offered to lead this ride for the club many weeks ago, there was no way to anticipate what the conditions might be on June 23.

Another rider, new to this route, inquired about the title of the ride listing (Trains, Planes, and Bicycles). "I understand that you started by taking the train," she said, "but where do planes fit in?" You will see, I replied. One of the things I enjoy most about this route is the element of surprise.

After leaving the mountain, we take a road that appears to head straight for the freeway: 101 South to the left, 101 North to the right? Surprise! The right turn heads south on a narrow strip of land between the freeway and a small body of water backed by hills.

For most riders, the biggest surprise is biking through the airport (San Francisco International). That might sound intimidating, and perhaps a bit crazy. But, we stay on a perimeter road, several levels below the approach to the terminals, and usually manage to enjoy at least one jumbo jet take-off at close range.

Following a picnic along the shore of the bay, we travel south for miles on a paved trail at the water's edge. There are only a few sections, near residential neighborhoods, where we need to cope with people who move unpredictably. I actually enjoy riding this trail. [The brisk tailwind helps.]

Straight Up

Ice would have been nice. It was about 83F degrees at the top of Mt. Hamilton by the time I got there. My friends were drawing straws to decide who should be dispatched to look for me.

They know me; they know I am a slow climber. On the way up, I had suggested that they could descend the backside if they got bored waiting for me to arrive, but they were having none of that.

Down in the valley, it was about 10 degrees cooler than yesterday; which is to say, hot. The temperature at the summit was about the same. So much for the forecast.

After yesterday's adventure, what possessed me to climb Mt. Hamilton today? Well, it is past mid-June and I am not ready to end my climbing streak. So far, I have missed only the month of March. (Hmm, I need to double down once before the year is out.)

If you are looking for a good day to climb Mt. Hamilton, mark your calendar for June 16, 2013 (Father's Day). I have a hunch that, like today, traffic will be about as light as it gets on a dry weekend day. Bicyclists outnumbered even the motorcyclists, today.

I was surprised to find some wildflowers, still, near the top. I enjoyed the company of my friends, then lingered a while longer on the patio. After wondering what the SPF rating would be for the salt on my skin, I decided to slather on some more sunscreen of the conventional kind before heading down.

Ten minutes or so into my descent, I caught up to a knot of cars. I did not envy the driver of the minivan at the front, who certainly was not having a good time driving down the mountain. Technically, with only two cars stuck behind him (and one bicycle, of course), he was not obliged to pull over. But, still ... be polite, have some common sense, and pull over.

That is what I did, at Kincaid Road. I could not get a clear line of sight to pass all three of them, and I was not about to ride my brakes and eat their brake dust until the first uphill section (where they would, finally, pull away). I gave them a four-minute head start, and that was enough to be clear of them.

For the day, the usual 4,765 feet of climbing over 39 miles. My fitness has improved dramatically. I completed the ride in virtually the same amount of time as I did in April, but my heart rate was 18 bpm lower today (both average, and peak). That is huge! And, I did this one day after riding 53 miles and climbing 5,525 feet.

Average pace? 6.0 mph on the way up, 16.6 mph on the way down. I wonder what my pace is on the pure downhill stretches, excluding those pesky intervening uphill bits (where it dips to 5-6 mph)?

July is right around the corner.

Shade and Solitude

Mother Nature turned off the air conditioning today and the Bay Area baked. Flags told the story: the wind was blowing the wrong way—from the hills toward the sea. The high temperature was just under 103F at my house (in the shade).

What better day to head for a state park? California's oldest state park, in fact: Big Basin Redwoods. And, since a Spare the Air alert was in effect, we rode our bicycles to the park. Of course, there were the usual warnings about not exercising in the heat, so we were careful to wear light colors and drink plenty of fluids, and took a somewhat shorter route than originally planned (53 miles, 5,525 feet of climbing, for me).

Did I mention that it was hot?

I weathered it surprisingly well. My bike computer registered an average temperature of 91F. We had the redwoods and oaks to thank for some shade along much of the route, but waves of heat radiated off exposed cliffs (and the road surface). It was hot enough to make the tar snakes sticky; the first time I hear the buzz of my tires on those, it always gives me pause.

Off the back of the group, I did not appreciate how much I cherished the silence of the forest until we came back together at the bustling center of the park. Loud, annoying people. Shrieking, whining children. I ate quickly, wandered off to admire an enormous redwood, and got a head start on the return climb (eager for peace and quiet). I do prefer to hike this park from the coast.

It was a good ride, albeit slow. I did not feel tired, or sore. I did feel hungry and regretted not bringing more food, but never bonked. Climbing back up Highway 9 on the return from the park, I passed a serious cyclist (look at those wheels!) who was stopped at the side of the road. He must have been hurting, but said he didn't need anything. He never caught or passed me—and there was plenty of time for that, at my pace.

Did the heat make me crankier than usual? [Sounds like a good excuse to me.] Probably not as cranky as the folks who hoped Highway 9 would be a faster route to the coast than Highway 17 today (especially those in the cars that overheated and broke down). Traffic signals control access to two one-lane construction zones on the hill. There was little traffic when we climbed up this morning, but in the afternoon there was a solid one-mile line of cars waiting for their turn at the lower traffic light. This was not surprising, with the light cycling so rapidly that only four or five cars could get through. Even at my pace, I believe it would have been quicker to bike than drive, at that point. Or, to have taken Highway 17.

Ride Like the Wind

Heading back toward our starting point tonight, a ride buddy asked if I thought it was windy. "No," I replied, "the air is quite still." We were generating the breeze.

Climbing Sanborn Road is anything but a breeze. Steep hills are always more intimidating when the road stretches up straight in front of you. It was a treat to ride it as the evening cooled down, rather than in the heat of the day, even though it meant tangling with the tail end of the weekday commute traffic. Rocketing back down the hill, though, was the tastier treat.

The hill was tough, but tougher still was resisting the urge to indulge in the tastiest treat of all: an ice cream cone. Dinner was enough. Another family strolls past our table. That looks so creamy, I wonder what flavor? More calories in one scoop than I just burned on the bike? Surprisingly, not true! Aha! Next week I'll know better.

Giving Back

Once a year, my employer sponsors a week of global community service. Each employee has the opportunity to pick a project and spend part of a day working in the community instead of the office. The projects are diverse; rather than choosing something related to technology, I gravitate toward Something Completely Different.

The first year, I joined a large group helping out at Sunnyvale's Full Circle Farm. This being Silicon Valley, we had no shortage of ambitious engineers. The group that tackled the irrigation task quickly optimized the trenching and laying of pipes; the rest of us mulched seedlings and planted corn (by hand). We did a month's worth of work in half a day.

The projects expose us to new local places and services. In later years, I weeded and mulched at Overfelt Gardens and cleaned cat housing at the Humane Society.

This year I felt it was time to turn it up a notch and lead a project, and I had an organization in mind: the Youth Science Institute. My colleagues made it easy for me: I had a full team (and a waiting list) as soon as we opened registration.

Students will show up next week for YSI's summer camps; our mission was to clear the grounds of weeds and (of course) spread some mulch around. I felt discouraged as we surveyed the area; weeds have a way of making a place look shabby, and I thought we could make good progress today—but not complete the job.

"We get a field trip, too!" exclaimed one volunteer, as we started with a short tour of the facility and learned about YSI. Then, we set to work.

It is easy to lose track of the time, outdoors. How many afternoons have I spent in my own yard, thinking I would work outside for an hour? Taking a break to rehydrate, I checked the time—only an hour and a quarter had passed? It wasn't even close to noon.

I underestimated the enthusiasm of my hard-working volunteers. We ran out of weeds before we ran out of time, and moved on to spreading mulch and relocating picnic tables for the upcoming campers.

The first time I saw acres upon acres of strawberries along the California coast, with the ripe fruit being pulled by the hands of a dozen or so workers, I had a new respect for the food on my plate. Tired and sweaty, dirty and sore, we had much to be grateful for today: we helped a deserving local institution, we work for a generous and thoughtful employer, and we normally get to exercise our brains at work and our bodies at play.

Did I book an afternoon nap on our calendars?

Homeward Bound

I made it home safely, despite meeting an unusually high number of dangerously clueless fellow humans. First, the trail: The guy holding a cell phone to his left ear, pedaling slowly and blocking the lane. The cyclist who planted herself in exactly the worst place on a sharp curve with poor visibility on a bridge; my wrist brushed the tip of her flat handlebar as she stood there saying "Oh! Oh! Oh!" (Had I stopped, the guy behind me would have taken us all down.)

Then, the road: The two drivers who turned right across the bike lane at traffic lights (cutting me off; one without signaling). The cyclist in the bike lane who paid no heed to the red traffic light at a T-intersection (yes, dude, it applies to you) as a green arrow granted me the right-of-way. The guy on a mountain bike (helmetless, of course) who unpredictably veered off the sidewalk into the bike lane without regard for a red traffic light or the approach of another cyclist (me).

Nearly home, the road was too crowded to negotiate the merge across three lanes of traffic for my customary left turn. Having faced enough challenges for one evening, going straight held a certain appeal. Nothing wrong with a little more climbing, is there?

My morning ride was as peaceful as the evening was perilous. As soon as school lets out for the summer, the number of vehicles on the road plummets.

I held up remarkably well, in both directions, considering that I was short on sleep. 11 p.m., midnight ... why I am still awake? Barely dozing off, then snapping back to full awareness. It is fire season ... I smell smoke, but hear no sirens. 5:15 a.m. ... beep beep beep; some vehicle is backing up.

For the day, the usual 39 miles, 925 feet of climbing (having skipped the gratuitous hill climbs en route). Almost back to a normal pace: 14 mph average, this morning! Regular riding pays off.

Biking to the Beach

Call me a curmudgeon, but why do I have to wake up at 4 a.m. every year when the DJ for the local high school's all-night graduation party cranks up the amplifier to 11? (I live a mile away and my windows were closed.) This year it was David Bowie and Queen's Under Pressure. Really? A 30-year old song for partying teenagers? "This is our last dance ..." [I wish.]

The song looping in my head on today's ride was a tad more contemporary: OneRepublic's Good Life. We were headed to the beach on a breezy, crystal blue sky day.

This has gotta be the good life ...

Thoughts drifted back to my high school days, and a faded memory of biking to the beach one summer's day with a boy who was ambiguously not my boyfriend. That would have been my longest ride: a flat 17-mile round trip on a different coast. Today's ride would have been unthinkable: 63 miles, none of them flat (4,680 feet of climbing).

The stunned bee that pelted my forehead and briefly clung to my sunglasses did not sting me.

This has gotta be the good life ...

The coast was clear, redwood trees shaded the climbs, a strong breeze kept me cool, the rushing waters of the creek soothed my ears.

Oh yeah, good, good life

A beautiful day, with friends old and new.

Please tell me
What there is to complain about?

Transit of Eden

Bicycles traversing the mountain; not nearly as dramatic as yesterday's passage of Venus across the face of the sun. You did not miss the chance to witness that, right? Venus will not pass that way again in your lifetime. It was a thrill to see—with the naked eye (well-protected, heavily filtered) and close up, through a proper telescope. When you spend most of your day staring at a computer screen, watching the transit "live" on the web just does not have the same power.

As many times as I have paused at the summit of Mt. Eden Road, I am not sure I understood it offered a clear view of Mt. Umunhum (until tonight). In the evening light, the Doppler radar sphere and the concrete monolith were plainly visible.

Tonight's after-work adventure attracted two out-of-town guests. Strong riders, they were sharp and funny and very outgoing. My hunch was spot-on: sales executives. Visiting the area on business, they found our ride listing and joined us. That is the power of the web—not to mention a high level of commitment to cycling: They traded their suits for bike gear and joined us for the ride and post-ride Mexican fare, when you might imagine they would spend their evening kicking back in some hotel lounge.

Twenty-three miles, with 1,695 feet of climbing. I struggled up the hills as my legs rebelled at being stressed for the fourth ride in five days. Shape up, I say!

Even Odds

4:15 a.m. At just the right phase of my sleep cycle, I woke up. Wide awake. At a most unnatural hour. Despite my best effort not to engage my brain, eventually I could not deny that the sky was getting lighter and the birds louder.

Another unnatural occurrence: Fifty percent chance of rain showers. I peered at the radar map before setting a foot on the floor. A bright green band was approaching the coast; in all likelihood, I would stay dry. Almost as an afterthought,I donned my rain jacket. [Which ensured, of course, that I would not get caught in the rain.]

With my building in sight, a few sentinel drops arrived just as I exited the trail. As I expected, the real downpour came later. First, there was breakfast: Greek yogurt parfait, fresh melon and strawberries, and a mini croissant with freshly ground peanut butter. Next, a videoconference: Here, it is completely unremarkable to be clad in sweaty bike clothes. Finally, time to clean up: A hot shower, soap and fresh towels provided. Elsewhere, any one of those benefits would be treasured by the typical bike commuter. I fully appreciate this, and more.

The cold front having passed through, my evening ride was actually chillier than the morning—and briefly, wetter. A mysterious burst of rain on the trail was, thankfully, short-lived.

A pleasant pair of rides to bracket the workday: the usual 39 miles and 1,000 feet of climbing, including one gratuitous morning hill climb (for the view across the valley). Traffic was light ('tis the season), and there were surprisingly few fellow cyclists on the road. Put off by the threatening skies? Ha! Fifty percent chance of no rain.

Resistance Training

It is possible to find some straight, flat roads in the Bay Area (though, mostly this is a hilly place). My average pace on a long, flat stretch today was slower than 10 mph. If you think that sounds more like a hill-climbing pace, you are right. Wide open spaces are windy.

Near Uvas Reservoir, a cyclist heading in the opposite direction recognized me and called out. That explained the steady stream of cyclists on the road—a triathlon event was in progress. With their tents and gates set up, the parking lot was closed (much to the dismay of some passing motorcyclists).

Our club is large enough to support a few distinct subcultures. The long distance riders comprise one such group. As they train for their double/triple/quad centuries, they rarely cross paths with the rest of us. By biking to the start of our ride, they could almost stretch today's 68-mile route into something suitable.

Even though we claimed a head start after lunch, they caught us. Wistfully, I watched their train go by; if only I could hang onto the end of that paceline! Unable to match their speed, 22 miles of headwind was my fate. Determined as I was to head northwest to San Jose, the wind was determined to push me southeast to Gilroy. I was sorely tempted to hop on a number 68 bus ... but I resisted.

The temperature was perfect and the breeze felt good. [Really.] It was refreshing. [Honestly.] It builds character.

Simply Sheldon

I do remember this spot. I stopped here the last time I climbed this hill, and I confess it was not just to admire the view across the valley.

The road, quite steep at this point, bends sharply to the left and continues sharply upward. I was teetering on the brink of stalling when one of the strong riders in the group chose to demonstrate his hill-climbing prowess by repeating the steep segment, effectively blocking my precarious ascent by riding across my path. I stopped.

It was a friendly group, with a few Wednesday night regulars and a couple of unfamiliar faces. Not the most coordinated crowd, though—especially one woman who paid no heed to calls of "Car back!" and persisted in riding alongside her partner, blocking traffic. The more direct "Single up!" seemed to get her attention.

Another pleasant little after-work ride, offering 1,640 feet of climbing over some 18 miles. Warm enough for shorts, with the half-full moon casting some bonus light to ease the after-dinner ride home.

The Drip Zone

My car offered the first warning of the day when the heater kicked on, automatically. A rare cold front passed through the area yesterday, lingering long enough to give us a taste of winter on this Memorial Day weekend. Cycling up the east side of the ridge, it is easy to know when you pass under the tallest redwoods: the pavement is wet beneath them. On the west side the entire roadway was slick, and we rode through the occasional downpour wherever the trees excelled at collecting (and dispensing) the fog.

The temperature dipped to 44 degrees F. My brake levers were cold; so were my fingers and toes. The slippery (and frigid) descent of West Old La Honda demanded so much caution that the climb back up seemed quicker. (I am sure it also helped that we were generating heat instead of battling wind chill.) With such low visibility, riding through the forest was positively spooky—gnarled limbs and rock slides and eerie animal noises (oh my!).

Why would anyone head for the hills on such a day? Ah, well, we were committed: my ride partner and I were leading this one for the club. As for the three riders who joined us ... their motivation remains a mystery. [A long, flat ride that stayed in the valley attracted a sizable crowd of sensible people.]

Forty-two miles, 3,990 feet of climbing. Having just cleaned and lubed my bike last weekend, it is already time to lather-rinse-repeat. [After a nice mug of steaming hot chocolate, methinks.]

Bunch o' Bumps

We set out to explore some dead-end roads in the neighborhood tonight. I have cycled past each one more times than I can remember, never choosing to make the turn. Where might they lead? Too steep to climb? Too short to be interesting?

A bemused homeowner, pulling out of his driveway near the base of the first significant climb, encouraged us. "That's quite a hill, up there," he said. "That's what we've heard," I replied.

He was right. Still, upon reaching the end of the road, some of us could not resist the temptation to climb just a little bit higher ... the attainable summit beckoned from a short side street. [Extra credit.]

The steepest pitch presented a grade approaching 15%—tough enough, but also short. We climbed some 1,885 feet over 17 miles; five summits on a fine spring evening.

Lately, the spin class at work has been setting up their cycles outdoors. Out of the saddle, straining at the pedals, the instructor shouting "You're almost to the top of the hill!"

No, you're not. You are on a stationary bike, facing an office building, with your back to the view of some real hills. So sad.

Timing is Everything

Homeward bound, I pedaled for more than 46 minutes straight, without a need to unclip and plant my feet on the pavement. The challenge: flow with the traffic, and calculate whether the best approach for a given traffic signal is to accelerate or slow down. Luck helps.

My evening commute starts out on a trail, near the spot where Stevens Creek flows into San Francisco Bay. Not a big fan of biking on trails, it is expedient to follow this one over a wide swath of expressway, light rail, and Caltrain tracks before veering off onto surface streets. In the morning, I use even less of the trail.

Hungry for some variety this morning, I decided to pick up the trail where it begins. In theory, this could be a quicker route to work: no traffic signals, no stop signs, no cross traffic. In practice, it added time—and distance—when compared with my tried-and-true route.

It seemed pleasant enough on Bike to Work Day, when we guide our little pack of commuters to the head of the trail. But then, we reach that point somewhat later in the morning than my normal routine dictates. And that makes all the difference.

Getting to the trail involved multiple violations of one of my cardinal rules for a suitable morning route:

Avoid schools.

Riding through largely residential neighborhoods, I found myself immersed in the morning chaos for three different schools. Distracted parents in minivans and SUVs, driving every which way. Crossing guards blocking traffic. Gridlocked right-turning vehicles. The only feasible escape? Move out into the lane and pass them on the left.

A month from now, a new bridge promises to extend the trail to the town on the opposite side of the freeway—obviating the need to navigate this messy maze. It is safe to say that I will not pass this way again.