Trendy Tuesday

A bike is a bike is a bike, right? Why would you need more than one?

I log most of my miles on my sporty carbon diamond-frame road bike (about 14,000 miles, to date). My trusty steel frame hybrid pre-dates my road bike and is perfect for long commute rides to work.

My third bike, an aluminum triangle-frame folding model, is a little indulgence. It is just right for short trips that involve mass transit.

You see, I rarely drive to work; I am fortunate to rely on a commuter shuttle that stops in my town, zips down the carpool lane along the rush-hour-clogged freeways, and drops me off in front of my building. In the evening, lather/ rinse/ reverse.

Technically, I am off the bike for awhile. Walking to the shuttle stop was possible, but painful and slow. Driving to the shuttle stop was possible, but awkward and slow. (Commuter traffic. School traffic.) Biking to the shuttle stop? Easy and quick.

Herewith, in homage to my friend and stylish cyclist Ladyfleur, I present Trendy Tuesday.

The belt drive on the STRiDA is designed to overcome the greasy-chain prohibitions against carrying a bike on a bus or train; it also keeps my gray dress slacks neat and clean. A chunky scarf not only livens up a basic ivory sweater—it is a practical touch on a chilly spring morning.

No need for special cycling shoes with these platform pedals. Black is certainly the most versatile shoe color, and the open-toe design of these surgical shoes incites me to show off a color-coordinated pair of patterned socks. Reflectors on the pedals and wheels keep me safely visible on the short ride home during the fall and winter, along with an added rear red LED blinkie. Disc brakes stop the bike's little wheels on a dime.

With an elastic cord at the ready, the rear rack is handy for a quick visit to the grocery store on the way home. A traditional messenger bag is indispensable for carrying a laptop and other necessities of daily (work)life. This water-resistant design by Alchemy Goods is made of recycled bicycle inner tubes, with a strap fashioned from a recycled seat belt and a former Presta valve as a zipper pull.

Mostly Montebello

I needed a short, but challenging, ride. [Though some would suggest that 35 miles does not constitute a "short" bike ride.]

I plotted out a nice loop, including a lunch stop at a local bakery (a slice of cake with every sandwich!). We followed the route-less-taken to reach Montebello: Mt. Eden and Pierce in reverse. There is a nasty little pitch when you head up Mt. Eden from the south; one rider came to an abrupt stop, and my co-leader remarked that he had not taken this approach in years. I concede that it is steep (but short); my heart rate spiked higher there than anywhere along Montebello.

After sweeping the slowest riders, I fell even further behind the rest of our group. A few friends lingered at the top of Montebello, and we were all impressed with the young dreadlocked guy doing hill repeats.

We were less impressed with the vehicular traffic. There was a big tasting event at Ridge Vineyards; I had never seen so many cars on Montebello. Passing below their upper parking lot, I overheard an attendant say that he needed to park another 100 cars up there. Note to self: in the future, check their event calendar.

Arriving late to the bakery, we were happy to discover a few cyclists from our group had stopped for lunch, as planned.

For the day, 37 miles and some 3,365 feet of climbing. A ride to remember over the coming weeks, as I will be off the bike for a while. A day of stunning views, perfect weather, good food, and great friends.

Poster Girl

Driving to the start of today's ride, I reflected on the importance of looking far ahead, whether you happen to be piloting a bicycle or some other vehicle. At 8:30 on a clear Saturday morning, traffic on the freeway was light and flowing smoothly. Until the moment when it wasn't. The lanes ahead were filled with brake lights; I slowed and scanned for the cause.

Straddling the number two lane at an angle, pointing in the wrong direction, was a car with its front end smashed and steaming. An SUV was stopped in the number one lane. I turned on my emergency flashers and eased past the wreck with the rest of those lucky enough not to be involved. I felt grateful that I had not left home a few minutes earlier, or I might have been swept into the chaos.

Evidence of California's driest January-February on record was everywhere on the hillsides; emerald green is rapidly fading to olive. Still, the winter weather felled more trees than I expected. It has been too long since my last visit to Mt. Hamilton.

There is a bulletin board near the mailroom at the top. One of the few items tacked to that board was a sheet, yellowed with age, that described the vital statistics of the climb for cyclists. I was surprised, and a bit sad, when it disappeared last year. I was even more surprised, then, when I recently heard that a certain poster was still on display.

Last Thanksgiving, I wanted to thank the Observatory for their hospitality. We take shelter in their warm lobby, refill our water bottles, use the restrooms, and try not to jam the vending machine with our damp dollar bills. I created a poster, taped it near the mailroom, and set out some markers for my fellow cyclists to add their messages. (They did.)

I don't know if the poster will yellow with age, but for now it hangs over the water fountain—and has collected a few more signatures from grateful cyclists. That makes me smile.

Unwelcome Mat

The top of the hill on Bernal Road is a great vantage point for views across the valley—Mt. Umunhum and the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west, and Mt. Hamilton and the Diablo Range to the east. Not to mention IBM's Almaden Research Center, tucked against the hillside. It had been our custom to ride as far as the guard house and gate before turning back, but apparently even cyclists are not welcome to traverse that last 400 feet of precious private pavement.

When I woke up this morning, I decidedly felt the effects of yesterday's outing. I convinced myself that I really would feel better if I got back on the bike. Really.

That turned out to be true, with liberal use of low gears on the hill climbs. [Yes, of course, there must be hill climbs.] I added a pair of hills and some distance, for good measure, by riding to (and from) our starting point: thirty-one miles, with a mere 1600 feet of climbing.

Wintry weather will return next week. It is February, after all; the acacia trees are in full flower.

Goldilocks and the Three Hills

Today's ride was not too long and not too short, not too steep and not too flat. It was ... just right.

A bunch of other cyclists thought so, too—more than a dozen joined us for three climbs deep in the forest.

First, we climbed through the redwoods along Old Santa Cruz Highway, to the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Once is not enough, so we descended back down to the level of Los Gatos Creek and then climbed back up through the redwoods along Wrights Station Road.

Finally, we circled back to climb through the Aldercroft Heights neighborhood. You guessed it: this involved descending back down to the level of the creek, but not another climb to the summit. (If the water district allowed passage along the old railway bed, we would have a direct route to Wrights Station. It is safe to assume that we will never see this.)

Twenty-three miles, some 2700 feet of climbing. No bears were sighted.

Green Acres

Dress warmly to enjoy the rolling green vistas along Calaveras Road; the peak months of the rainy season are cold, and the hills block the low angle of the winter's sun.

Heading east on the lower section of the climb, I thought of Sierra Road's steeper ascent of this slope a few miles to the south. I will need to be in better shape before I tackle that, this season.

The level of the reservoir is lower than I have ever seen it, as the water district works to replace the old dam. Lying along the roadside were some new utility poles, waiting to be erected near the site of this massive construction project.

Our 50 mile route passed through the tiny town of Sunol to explore some new territory, Kilkare Woods. The dead-end road climbs gently along Sinbad Creek, and despite the variety of architectural styles and vintages, there was a strong sense of community there. We passed a noisy flock of turkeys midway up the road, and several (human) families strolling along the upper section.

Returning to Sunol, I was happy to enjoy my lunch at a sunny picnic table in the Sunol Community Park. This little gem is tucked alongside the railroad tracks; until today, I had never even noticed it. At the entrance, a small sculpture sets the mood for an exuberant romp in the park.

I took advantage of a head start on the rest of the group to avoid trailing the pack on our return to San José. Along the way, I was impressed with the behavior of two drivers. An SUV was in a position to overtake me, just as a small oncoming car appeared in the middle of the narrow road. I thrust out my left arm to signal "wait" to the driver behind me; the approaching car froze in place. Moments later, the SUV safely passed me; the driver (a woman) gave me a friendly toot on the horn and waved.

The second courteous driver was a man in a sizable pickup truck who caught up to me on the fast descent of lower Calaveras. With a couple of cars behind him, he allowed me a generous and steady lead, even when he might have pulled out to pass. Perhaps he gave me some respect for traveling close enough to the speed limit and appreciated that he would gain little by passing me?

Wrap Party

I never was a tomboy, but I am nonetheless deficient in many traits common to my gender. I seemingly lack the fashionista gene, as well as the one that inspires home decorating. I have never had a pedicure. The notion of pampering myself is alien to me.

Could I relax during a two-day getaway? If I could not join my buddies on the ski slopes, should I just stay home? I suppose I could walk down to the lake, or read a book. I could ... try some spa services. (Seriously?)

Day One: Alone in the swirling hot mist of the steam room, it was hard to breathe, at first. Water condensed on my skin, and every other surface; droplets rained down from the ceiling. It was glorious! My skin was already softer, and this was just the warm-up. I moved on to a full-body treatment, exfoliated head-to-toe with ground grape seeds, slathered with a mixture of aloe and seaweed that felt like molten honey, wrapped up in plastic and layered with blankets. After rinsing off the green goo, the finishing touch was a nice botanical lotion.

Having spent the day doing nothing, more or less, I was ready for bed. Score one for relaxation.

Day Two: My first-ever facial. Call me a skeptic. The descriptions of the procedures always read like a mix of faux science and new-age hocus pocus. My skin was still supple from the steam room. Products were applied, to sting and to soothe. More steam, warm towels, cool towels. The finishing touch? A slick moisturizing lotion.

Facing myself in the mirror, I had to admit it: some all-too-familiar sunspots were, indeed, lighter. Score one for skin care.

Maybe there is something to this pampering stuff, after all.

Toasty Toes

Toasty toes and tingly tips. (Fingertips, that is.) Another chilly day on the bike.

A reasonable person in sub-prime condition would not spend a cold January morning biking up the steep side of Hicks Road. But today was the club's annual luncheon to thank those of us who led rides last year, and it was inconceivable to eat pizza without burning some calories in advance.

Sleeping in seemed like the better option. Cleverly, I had talked a friend into riding with me—I had to get out of the bed.

I was altogether unconvinced that I could power myself up Hicks. Should I declare victory when I reached the dam? Having made it that far, surely I could at least ride to the bridge.

Having lured myself to the bridge, I carried some speed to begin my assault on the steepness that is Hicks. With two short stops to lower my heart rate, I made it. Another rider looked at my rear cluster and observed "That's not really a climbing gear. I add a tooth every year," he joked.

Twenty-five miles, 2300 feet of climbing, and some mighty tasty pizza.

Where the Sun Don't Shine

It was a cold morning, and heading deep into a narrow canyon seemed less than enticing; but that was my plan for the day. With the thermometer hovering near the freezing mark, I revised my attire. Wool jersey, wool socks, thermal tights, booties, serious jacket and gloves. [There, that feels better.]

Given a comfortably late start for this ride, and a route that would circle back toward home, it made good sense to bike to the start. Good sense in a frigid-air kind of way.

We met the first deep pocket of cold shortly after entering the canyon. Eyeing frost-coated leaves along the roadside, I focused on the road surface. Bridge Freezes Before Road echoed in my brain. In this dead-end canyon, there is little need for signs. My cycling companions were chattering about the hazards of black ice as I studied the haze of white frost on the bridge. Above us, a patch of snow lingered on the rocks. Snow? In Stevens Canyon?

When did the last storm pass through? Certainly, it was more than a week ago. This part of the canyon must trap some really cold air. Climbing gently along the creek, the rest of the road was wet, and muddy—but thankfully, not icy. December's heavy rains had triggered some large slides. Occasional patches of sunlight were a welcome surprise; I was eager to find more. I was not eager to socialize (and cool down) whenever we regrouped.

I slowed on Mt. Eden as something clambered down the hillside toward me. Too bold for a coyote ... it was a fawn! Mom was waiting on the other side of the road. They calmly looked me over before continuing on their way.

I suffered up the steep hills, but I made it to the top of every one. Endurance, I have. Strength, I have not. Sheer ornery determination, I have.

Thirty-six chilly miles, with 2,350 feet of climbing. One look at my bike and you would think I had been off-roading. So much for yesterday's thorough cleaning. Lather, rinse, repeat.

What Am I On?

I am on my bicycle.

Celebrating a friend's birthday. Cruising down a coastal trail, hugging the shoreline of Monterey Bay. Riding through drifted sand, following the paved path up and down the dunes. From the heart of artichoke country, past Cannery Row and Lovers Point. Along the famed 17 Mile Drive, past the unnatural greens and sand traps of Pebble Beach. Into Point Lobos State Reserve, and back again. Sixty-four miles, with a challenging 2100 feet of climbing.

I am the antidoper. I had a pint of blood extracted this week. Not for my own benefit—not to boost my performance on a bicycle on some future ride, but to help save the lives of people I will never know. When my oxygen-starved muscles spiked my heart rate to 189 bpm climbing an unexpectedly steep hill in Carmel, I stepped off the bike and walked the last few yards.

We stopped for a treat at a French bakery, and it was a chance encounter that many of us will remember about this day. A beautiful elderly woman, impeccably dressed, stopped to chat with us. She was spry and quick-witted, and eager to encourage us to keep riding our bicycles. She talked about the freedom it brings, and shared fond memories of girlhood cycling adventures in the Black Forest. Some riders in our group soon engaged her in speaking German and French. We were speechless when she revealed that she is 96 years old.

Riding back to our starting point, I reflected on the cognitive advantages enjoyed by the multi-lingual. I thought about our freedom to ride. No entrance fees for bicycles on the 17 Mile Drive. No entrance fees for cyclists at Point Lobos. We coasted past a line of idling cars waiting for others to exit on an over-capacity day; no entry delay for bicycles.

I basked in the bright sunshine of a California winter's day—on my bicycle.

No Excuses

It is cold, not even 40F. The roads are slippery from a short, late-night downpour. The rear tire on my bike had gone flat. I am still a bit congested. My ride buddies shun the cold even more than I do; I bet they will stay home.

But, what if they don't? I suggested the route; I should not renege.

I bundled up: wool jersey, fleece-lined tights, serious winter cycling jacket, thick wool socks, booties. The roads will dry. The tire stayed inflated overnight. I tucked an extra package of tissues in my pocket.

Convinced I would end up riding alone, I signed in with the leader. Much to my delight, both ride partners materialized. We were all a bit dazed by the cold; the temperature never reached 50F. If that does not sound uncomfortable to you, you are not factoring in the effect of wind chill: self-generated, with an assist from Mother Nature.

We agreed to follow the most modest route, 35 miles with a mere 795 feet of climbing. My endurance was well-preserved, but my muscles are sore. (My last bike ride was 49 days ago!)

Oh, and about that flat tire. It had a slow leak, and the last time it went soft I was convinced it was punctured. The replacement tube (supplied by a fellow rider) also had a slow leak—a bad patch. Re-inflated, I could not find a leak in my original tube, which seemed willing to hold air again.

Still, there was a lesson to be learned about my tube. Specifically, about the Presta valve on that tube. It has a removable core. The next time I unscrewed the valve cap, the core came with it. [Accompanied by a rather dramatic release of the pressurized contents of the tube.]

The loose core explained the slow leak. Lesson learned: Know your valves. Make it a habit to point that thing at the ground, lest you unleash this pressurized little projectile in a most unfortunate direction.

[Like, your eye. Or, a roadside thicket, never to be found again.]

Disappointing December

Not a single bike ride during the month of December. Nada. Zilch. Not even one.

Regrettably, I talked myself out of biking to work on one fine morning.

The first weekend was rainy. I will admit it: I am a fair-weather cyclist.

The second weekend brought spectacular weather. A coworker brought me a slow-moving cold virus that benched me for the third weekend, as well.

The fourth weekend was devoted to family: Holiday time.

No problem—there are five weekends in December this year, and the club even scheduled a climb up Mt. Hamilton. Time for the December ascent!

On the fifth weekend of December, the temperature at the summit barely touched the freezing point. My throat was too sore to spend a winter's day outside.

On the long return flight from my family visit, it was my misfortune to have been sandwiched between a guy who was too wide for an airline seat and a sneezy woman with a non-stop runny nose.

For the year, I covered more than 2,960 miles and climbed more than 196,000 feet on my bicycles, including ten and a half ascents of Mt. Hamilton.

No complaints, really. I have a great job. I have a sound roof over my head. I have good health. I will ride again in 2013.

Beach-front homes in New Jersey
Post-Sandy

Short and Sweet

I had planned to join a group for an ambitious hilly ride; I knew I would quickly drift off the back, but the route was familiar and the weather was ideal.

That was the plan, until another ride popped up with the opportunity to ride (and climb) about half as much.

I left the choice to the friend who was planning to join me. We were of the same mind: A shorter ride meant getting half the day back!

We looped our way along the eastern foothills of San Jose, spilling out onto the lower portion of Mt. Hamilton Road. It was such a beautiful day ... should I turn right and head for the summit?

I reminded myself that this was meant to be a short ride. I did not pack a lunch, or even a second water bottle.

I turned left. Shortly after our group began the descent, I was startled to hear a scraping noise behind me. Was someone crashing? Would he slide into me and take me down?

Surveying the scene in my rear view mirror, I was surprised at what I found. First, I saw what appeared to be a motorcycle helmet and tried not to panic. Then I saw that it was worn not by a skidding biker, but by a teenager on a skateboard. I tried not to panic, anew. He was upright, and being shadowed by the car that must have transported him up the hill. I was relieved to pull away from him. I hope never to see him, or his buddies, on this road again.

Low-Key Thanksgiving

Mount Hamilton on Thanksgiving Day. It is a tradition.

Thanks, Mother Nature, for such a beautiful, warm day.

Thanks, Lick Observatory, for access to the top of the mountain and your gracious hospitality.

I chose not to charge up the mountain at full speed on my bicycle; instead, I played photographer. I was thankful to avoid the suffering, and 143 cyclists were thankful for my support.

Thanks, Low-Key Hillclimbers, for sharing your energy, enthusiasm, and good will.

Rainy Day Rover

Knowing that there would be some familiar faces biking up a local trail, it was the perfect day for a low-key hike. Cross-training, as it were.

Sure, it was raining (more or less; sometimes more than less). Dig out the waterproof boots, pants, jacket.

If you have hiked the Kennedy Trail, you might wonder how it can be such a popular mountain-biking trail. [I certainly wonder that.] There are at least three "walls" on this trail, and I do not understand how a cyclist can maintain enough traction on the rocky, sandy surface to climb them. Just hiking up those segments is enough to elevate my heart rate; hiking down is a test of nerves, balance, and muscle.

To that challenge, add slippery wet leaves, slick wet rocks, and rivulets of runoff crisscrossing the trail. With all that water, the top few inches of the lower (flatter) section of the trail was thick with tire-sucking, boot-sucking mud.

I rather enjoyed hiking in the rain. I was warm, I was dry, I was enjoying the sights. I played roving photographer, much to the delight of the cyclists (and runners) who tackled the hill today. On the way down, a couple of them rode their brakes to match my pace and chat.

I cannot imagine that I would ever bike up the Kennedy Trail. Which reminds me that, not so long ago, I could not imagine biking up Kennedy Road. [Hmm.]

Pining for Panoche

I planned my weekend around the chance to ride in one of my favorite places, a stunningly beautiful (but remote) valley.

One reward for rising early was a clear view of Saturn and the rising crescent moon. I headed out the door at 6:40 a.m., right on schedule for the long drive to our starting point in Paicines. The temperature was less than 37F, but I was bundled up and ready.

If only I could say the same for my car. Yes, the car that was inspected two weeks ago when I brought it to the dealership for a minor recall repair and a routine oil change. The car which, most likely, has a battery on the wane. You would think they would have noticed that. And this is why I have spurned their service department for years.

Ride? Denied. I went back into the house to sulk.

Two of the great things about our bike club are the variety and abundance of scheduled rides. I was in luck—I could bike to the start of a ride that would take us to the Veterans Memorial in San Jose (and the pre-holiday parade).

Our small group assembled and started rolling; four and a half miles later, a rider had a flat tire. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I should check my own tires. If one rider has a flat, the odds are higher that another rider also has a flat.

San Jose, City of Broken Glass. My rear tire was soft. Nearly flat.

As for the memorial, I would characterize it as High Concept. Figures on glass panels [easy target for vandals] cast shadows at certain times of the day [not this morning]. White flags symbolize peace [not surrender?].

No parade for us; our leader could not linger.

I was grateful for the bike ride, but the urban-suburban route was no substitute for the doomed splendor of the Panoche Valley.

Peak Peek

What to do on an unseasonably warm November Sunday?

Climb Mt. Hamilton, of course!

[Last week was so ... October.]

I have not been looking forward to these late-season climbs, having descended the mountain more than once with chattering teeth and numb fingers. Not so today, with the high temperature at the summit approaching a balmy 68F.

This seems to be a banner year for acorn production. I thought my trees had gone nuts [so to speak] after being trimmed last fall, but acorns are bountiful on Mt. Hamilton, too. Happy squirrels; less-happy cyclists, who need to dodge slippery acorns as well as the usual loose rock on the roadway.

Conversation helps the climb seem shorter, and I was pleased to be joined by two friends today.

Practice makes the descent seem smoother, and I was pleased to pass two guys on the way down today—even though I am still descending with an abundance of caution.

Saddle Up

It happened that a fellow cyclist was organizing a group ride today, to support his fundraising for a Light the Night walk. It happened that he chose to send the group up Mt. Hamilton. And it happened that I had not yet climbed the mountain this month.

I will admit some apprehension. The climb? No problem. It was the descent that was on my mind.

As I neared the summit, riders were already streaming down. I caught sight of a pair about a mile from the top and ... where were they? They should have passed me.

I rounded the corner, having just missed witnessing the crash. One rider was down, off the road in a shallow rock-strewn clearing carved out of the cliff. "I looked down," he said, regretfully. "On a curve." Lying on his right side, his hand repeatedly probed a couple of his left ribs. His buddy pulled out a cellphone, and I wished that I were a faster rider to reach the group at the top.

At the observatory, bikes were being loaded onto the SAG vehicle to head to the rescue. I briefed them on what they would find.

The air was clear enough for a rare sighting of the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. It was easy to linger in the warm sunshine on a perfect autumn day.

It was not so easy to banish the fresh image of a crash on the mountain.

How many more curves, how many more descents, will it take to get my groove back? More than 50,000 feet of climbing (and descending). More than 850 miles. More than all of that, to wipe out one single memory—fractions of a second long—the feel of my bike sliding out beneath me.

Six Wheels

As the mid-Atlantic coast battens down for a wicked hurricane-blended "Frankenstorm," out here on the Pacific coast we are enjoying some balmy late-fall days.

It was chilly when I dropped off my car for some minor service this morning, but I was prepared. As they busied themselves with paperwork, I busied myself with my bike and was ready to roll out by the time they were done.

Having thus boosted myself forward on four wheels, it was a short and flat 12 miles to the office. Commuting on my road bike has a very different—almost devious—feel. Riding to work is so strongly associated with the heavy feel of my loaded steel hybrid, and my nimble carbon road bike is associated with playful recreational outings.

One look at the wheels on that horse-drawn cart conjures a ride I would not envy. Today, it was just one element of the décor for our afternoon Halloween party. Some people spend the day in costume (and, in character), which leads to some unexpectedly entertaining meetings. Superheroes, video game characters, zombies, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz ... and one cyclist whose best effort involved colorful bike socks printed with ghosts and candy corn.

Progressive Dining

This being election season, I will first point out that a progressive dinner has nothing to do with politics.

Our bike club holds one of these events each fall, taking the aphorism "We bike to eat" seriously. Organized cycling events fuel us with rest stops every 15-20 miles; today's event was all about the food.

For the occasion, I actually cooked (rather than opting for my inherently lazy solution of selecting some creative salad from the take-out case at the local market). I found a well-reviewed recipe for Cranberry Couscous Salad, which I adapted slightly. The reviews were spot-on; it was a hit!

Having just returned from an ambitious cycling tour, the thought of driving to the start of today's route seemed, simply, wrong. It is surprising what can fit into one of those lightweight cinch bags—two 7-cup plastic containers holding a couple of pounds of couscous salad, for example. It would not have been difficult to carry them to the start of the ride (12 miles), but I took advantage of an offer by a nearby rider (5 miles) to drop off our food at her place (for transport by car).

Many of our rides take us into rural areas on remote roads, and wildlife encounters are not uncommon. Cruising the suburban neighborhoods of San Jose today, we were in for a few surprises. A hive of honeybees attached to an orange tree. Two dozen turkeys strutting their stuff.

We picked up route sheets at the first stop (which would also be last), and headed out for appetizers. The club set up bike racks at each home, and they were as full as I have seen at a typical bike event rest stop. Careful not to overeat early, we continued on our way to the next home for salads. At each stop, we enjoyed plenty of conversation and the chance to catch up with riders I have not seen for awhile. Then, streaming out onto the route to the next home, there were always groups to join or follow.

Fittingly, the main course included turkey.

The fourth, and most important course, was dessert. Apple pie. Lemon tart. Chocolate cupcakes. The disadvantage of biking to the start was that I could not afford to linger at the last stop, as the sun would soon be dropping behind the hills.

The advantage of biking to the start was that I could not afford to linger at the last stop.

I took the uphill route home, since that was most direct. For the day, 59 miles and 1,750 feet of climbing.

Bike to eat. Eat to bike.

Hard Pressed

You can find the strangest things on the road.

Black Road seemed steeper than I had remembered; was that the aftermath of yesterday's trip up Montebello, or the influence of so many gentle grades in Corsica?

It was on one of the steeper pitches that a long, shiny piece of metal caught my eye. Not good for somebody's tire, I thought, as I passed.

Be the change you want to see. Even when that's inconvenient.

I stopped, walked back, and tossed it off the road. [What, you expected me to pack it out?] It was a sturdy, pointed skewer from a rotisserie—a good 15 inches long. How did it land in the uphill lane of Black Road?

There were more helping hands at the cider party this year. Ravenous when I arrived, I sampled many of the snacks that we had all contributed before taking my place at the table, trimming apples for the crusher. The crusher kept ahead of the press, and the slicers kept ahead of the crusher. Plenty of cider, all around.

Just as the rest of our little group reached the top of Black for our descent, a truck turned onto the road. They went ahead; I gave the truck a five-minute head start, not wanting to ride his bumper all the way down.

Halfway down the hill, I found our ride leader on her cell phone at the side of the road. A car was parked nearby; the driver and his son had corralled a stray dog. Evidently I had seen his buddy, a skittish black Lab, weaving up the hill. At that point, I was more concerned about being chased than I was about attempting a dog rescue in the redwood forest, and I did not intervene.

Dog number two had a collar, but no tags. Damp and muddy from playing in the creek, he was also trembling a bit. He was well-fed and well-behaved, wagging his tail enthusiastically in response to "Good dog!" After many phone calls ("Animal control doesn't work on Sundays." "That's not in our jurisdiction."), it seemed the county sheriff might dispatch someone to pick up the dog. Eventually. They were kind of busy.

And so we waited. Our leader hiked up the road a bit, checking to see if anyone knew the dog. One woman had seen them in her yard earlier in the day (but called no one). A passing motorist delivered an unflattering opinion of the sheriff and suggested we let the dog run free.

The sheriff did not let us down. He called a county park ranger, who made the long trip on back roads to find us. Ranger Flint was a kind and friendly man; he would take the dog back to the park, where they have a couple of kennels and even some dry dog food.

Be the change you want to see.

Even when that's inconvenient.

Monte Bello

What attire could be more fitting for the first Low-Key Hillclimb of the season than my newest jersey, Mont Ventoux?

The last time I set out to climb Montebello, my rear derailleur cable snapped. New cables stretch, they say; these have stretched, and stretched, and stretched some more. The net result was that I had few usable gears (again); I fiddled with the barrel adjusters as best I could, to ensure that my lowest gears were attainable. I need to enroll in Bicycle Mechanics 101.

Over the years, I have accepted that the best way for me to support the Low-Key Hillclimbs is in a volunteer capacity. I was persuaded, though, to ride today. My bicycle was delivered earlier this week, with plenty of time to reassemble it. No excuses.

The only rider I caught and passed was a guy on a mountain bike who was not part of our event. [Sigh.] My finicky front derailleur would not shift onto the big chainring, which meant I could not use the less-steep segments of the climb to full advantage.

Coming out of the initial steep section, a rider in a team kit passed me and commented "Wow, you could pop a wheelie on that!" With my heart rate at 182 bpm, I was breathing too hard to emit even one syllable in response; he laughed. "I'll take that as a yes!"

Why am I doing this, again?

Nearing the summit, I enjoyed a steady stream of encouragement from descending riders. Some recognized me and called out my name; at least a dozen cheered me on. "Good job!" "Bravo!" "Well done!"

That is why I am doing this, again.

The Low-Key crowd includes some of the finest people you would ever want to meet.

pep-smith

There are some things I had never considered doing—until I did them.

Visiting Corsica, for instance. It is a place I had simply never thought about.

Or, pounding hot steel on an anvil. I have seen demonstrations, but never imagined that one day I would get some hands-on experience.

With some colleagues, I had a lesson in blacksmithing at a place called The Crucible. There, you can learn to create all sorts of things. I had been hoping for the class on neon, but that was not to be.

And so it was that I applied myself to the fabrication of a wall hook, with a decorative twist.

For the brute-force elements of this project, I was disadvantaged on two fronts. First, I lack serious upper-body strength. Second, even a small amount of hammering will aggravate an old injury to my right arm; being right-handed, blows delivered with my left arm hit the mark only approximately.

It was impressive to watch how quickly our instructor fashioned his hook. A few whacks with a hammer and the point of his hook was tapered. Many whacks with a hammer and the point of my hook showed some evidence of deformation.

How did our Bronze and Iron Age ancestors figure out how to do any of this?

I had help with the brute-force parts, but had no trouble executing the finer tasks—curling the tip, forming the curve of the hook, twisting the shaft.

I am proud to report that no body parts were harmed in the process: no smashed fingers, no bruises, no burns. I am even more proud of my finished product!

Responsibility for planning our next outing falls on me. Where should I take the guys? [I have threatened them with a quilting bee.]

Back to Work

After a multi-week cycling adventure, what is the best way to return to work?

Why, on a bicycle, of course! Is there a better way to catch the setting, almost-full moon in the early morning sky?

It has been a bit disconcerting to come home and find that things are not as I left them. Leaves are changing color and falling off the trees, and an autumn heat wave is blasting us.

Still in thrall to jet lag, last night I only half-heartedly prepared for a regular morning commute. Would I be wide awake at 4 a.m., again?

Jet lag, be gone! I woke up at a normal, but still dark, hour. On the road, after a month away, I even remembered some of my latest route optimizations.

Upon arriving, my breakfast choice would have been all-too-familiar to my fellow cyclo-tourists: yogurt with honey and granola, croissants with strawberry jam.

I did not expect to see my road bike before Thursday; FedEx delivered it before noon. Should I reassemble it and ride it home? I could ride the commute bike home on another day.

The temptation was great, but I resisted. There was work to be done.

Fini

Our tour ended, perhaps not surprisingly, with a touch of chaos. Somehow, the post-ferry logistics for meeting up with our host (and our luggage) had been left to chance.

Standing at the curb in front of the passenger terminal in Marseille, our group watched our distracted host turn left half a block away ... never to return.

It took a couple of hours to sort things out. I had allowed myself more than five hours to catch my flight, and that turned out to be sufficient. The rest of the group, seasoned travelers all, had wisely booked flights for the following day. They were more concerned about my flight than I was. From my perspective, missing my flight would just present the next problem to solve.

The greater source of anxiety for me was not my seat on a plane; it was how to get my bicycle back home.

When you plan to fly with your bicycle, the airline advises that you contact them within 24 hours of booking your ticket, to let them know. I did not do that. I thought they just wanted me to pay the (exorbitant) bicycle fee, and there was plenty of time to give them my credit card number.

Waiting was my second mistake. My first mistake was booking a flight out of Marseille on a "regional jet."

When I did call the airline, the agent reviewed my itinerary and told me that the regional jet could not take a bicycle. Her response to every question I asked was the same: the jet could not take a bicycle. No, they could not put it on another plane, my luggage has to travel with me. [Except when they fail to transfer it to your connecting flight?] "What I am I supposed to do?" "The jet cannot take a bicycle," she repeated.

At that point, changing my flight would require a hefty change fee, plus the (higher) cost of the new ticket. To fly on a large jet, I would need to leave the following day; so, add the cost of a hotel room and food. Not to mention the 200€ fee for flying with a bicycle. Shipping it would actually be cheaper.

Before the trip, I had contacted shipbikes.com. After an uninterruptible lecture on why it would cost less to take the bike with me, I finally got a word in to explain my predicament. When I told them I needed to ship it from Marseille, they said they had no broker there and could not help me. (Their website lists France as one of the international destinations they service.)

I had better luck with bikeflights.com, eventually. Via email, they confirmed that they could help me. Trying to set up the reservation was difficult, until I realized that I had to fall back on Internet Explorer; their forms do not work in safer browsers (i.e., Chrome, Firefox).

bikeflights.com had not been my first choice, after reading comments on the web that described their process: Your shipping labels would arrive via email shortly before your shipping date. That gave me pause: How would I find a place to print the documents, overseas?

This was a nail-biter almost to the last moment. Despite repeated, somewhat panicked, email messages to bikeflights.com, they did not send my shipping documents before I boarded the ferry in Corsica. When the ferry docked the next morning, it was an immense relief to find the documents in my inbox.

Now, how would I print them?

When I reached the airport, I was lucky to be paired with a really nice taxi driver. I handed him the address for the Federal Express depot (near the airport, of course), and he agreed to wait for me, avec plaisir.

I threw myself on the mercy of FedEx. I held up my smartphone, displaying the image of the shipping label. The representative graciously had me forward the message to his email address (and printed them for me).

The next time I travel with a bicycle, I will take care to book myself on jumbo jets.

The next time I travel with a bicycle, I will call the airline within 24 hours after I book my reservation (when it might be changed without penalty).

The next time I travel with a bicycle, I will stay an extra day after a tour ends.

This trip had more than its share of rocky moments, but I still had a wonderful time.

Ajaccio

There are so many beautiful places left to explore, but the time has come for us to leave Corsica for the mainland (and ultimately, to return home).

To catch the ferry in Ajaccio, the group was evenly divided between two routes. One group preferred to retrace the route that led us to Calzola; the other group relished the idea of seeing new terrain along the coast. The inland-route group was certain that the coastal route offered no less climbing. The coastal-route group shrugged.

I cast my lot with the coastal group. There, the rolling terrain would give me some downhills to compensate for my slow climbs. The inland route would start with a sustained climb; I would fall behind long before reaching the top, and the rest of my journey would be solo.

Ironically, as we wended our way toward the coast, we found the steepest climbs of our time on Corsica. "Ow," my legs protested.

The views, and the cheers, were worth the pain. Passing through small towns, we were greeted with:

Bravo!
Allez, allez, allez!

The locals are getting ready for next summer: For the first time in its history, Le Tour de France will visit Corsica, where the race will open with three stages. Banette will be an official supplier—as we all know, cyclists need their carbohydrates.

We stopped for lunch in Porticcio, my last chance to enjoy a savory galette, followed by a Nutella-choco crêpe. Here, we hoped to catch a small ferry to the harbor in Ajaccio—and thus avoid a trip on the unpleasant national road.

Alas, the ferry had shut down for the season. There was no alternative route. When the rest of the group headed straight onto the divided section of the highway, I hesitated. Now I understood the signs, and I understood the frontage road bypass. If they did not see me follow, would they worry?

I crossed my fingers, hoped for the best, and ... took the bypass. Imagine my surprise when I popped back onto the main route and saw the rest of the group ... behind me!

Despite some poor coordination, we found our leader (and our bike cases). The harbor at Ajaccio is a much less intimidating place than the port at Marseille.

We unclipped for the last time, having covered 40 miles and climbed some 2,285 feet. Now it was time to pull out the tools, to break down and pack our bicycles for the journey home.

Over the course of this adventure, I biked more than 550 miles and climbed nearly 43,000 feet. Yet, there is so much of this island that we did not see.

Corsica is a cycling paradise, as the world will soon discover when Le Tour arrives next July.

Filitosa

As we prepared to head off on our bicycles for the day, one of the other hotel guests was curious about our itinerary. Another rider was trying to explain where we had ridden yesterday. "A Aullène," I interjected. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his hand at a steep angle, acknowledging the climb. I smiled, "Oui."

The group was divided today. Rather than following our leader on an expedition to Grosseto, I opted for the mellow group that planned to stay local. We were eager to visit the prehistoric site of Filitosa, where evidence of human habitation dates back more than 8,000 years.

We turned left out of the inn, looking for a side road that we never found. Which meant, of course, some extra-credit climbing.

It was not hard to find Filitosa; the tour buses gave it away. That is one way to see a foreign land, and it beats sitting at home on the sofa. But there is so much that the pre-packaged bus riders will never experience.

Filitosa is a significant archaeological site, in private hands—embellished with a somewhat tourist-y feel. Nonetheless, it is impressive (and eerie) to amble over the same rocky fields and duck into the same rock shelters that provided cover for inhabitants during the Bronze Age. We learned about menhirs, and enjoyed the opportunity to examine the imposing, carved monoliths at close range.

Much to my surprise, I spotted a woman who had to be from the Bay Area—she was wearing a Beat the Clock bicycle jersey, which surely meant that we had a mutual friend. Was this the same woman I saw on the road yesterday, in an Alto Velo jersey? [Yes!] Chasing after my group, I was disappointed not to catch her yesterday. We chatted and posed for a picture together—which I promptly sent off to our astonished friend.

Not to be outdone, two of the other people in our little group met someone from their home town; many years ago, they had attended the same high school—a year apart.

Really, what are the odds?!

Porto Pollo is the nearest town, so we headed there for lunch before returning to the inn. For the day, we traveled a comfortable 23 miles, with 1,325 feet of climbing.