Diablo Seco

Notices were posted: no water available until you reach the summit. Was there a contamination problem? A broken pipe?

Chalk it up to the drought. We learned that most of the water on Mt. Diablo is supplied by local springs, and they're dry.

“Thank you for stopping.” Despite his transaction with a car at the South Gate, the Ranger noticed and addressed me. As I pedaled forward, I was summarily passed by three cyclists who did not trouble themselves to stop. At the stop sign. Really, guys? It's not hard.

I had been looking forward to climbing Mt. Diablo one weekend last fall ... and then, it burned. A target shooter's stray bullet hit a rock on a hot day in a dry year. Six days, $4.5 million, and 3,100 charred acres later, the fire was contained. The enormous plume of smoke taught me that I could see Mt. Diablo across the bay, 28 miles away (in a straight line).

Six months later, we were riding through the burn zone. There were bare blackened trees next to the stone walls at the summit—the buildings had nearly been lost.

Thinking of the tower at the top of the mountain, this morning I donned a bike jersey featuring the tower on a far-away summit: Mont Ventoux. Not only was this a good conversation starter, it earned me some respect: not one patronizing comment about being “almost there” as I slowly made my way to the top.

I felt so good at the summit, I decided to descend the mountain to the North Gate and climb back up to the junction before returning through the South Gate. The rest of the group had made a longer loop, to Morgan Territory; I didn't have the stamina for that distance.

The north side was more exposed. The day was warm, and the sun higher in the sky. Long before I reached the gate, I began to wonder ... what had I been thinking? What might have been, simply, a lovely day would now be a suffer-fest. I should have topped off my water bottles at the summit.

I peeled off my knee warmers, slathered on another layer of sunscreen, and started climbing. Forty-four miles, some 5,600 feet of climbing. It was worth it.

How Green is the Valley?

You might think that there could be nothing new for me to discover on Mt. Hamilton (and you would be wrong). I have bicycled to the top more than two dozen times, and in all seasons. As the group prepared to depart, one rider remarked that he had no intention of including Kincaid today. He might do that once a year; he just didn't see the point. [Oh, what he's missing!]

I would not include Kincaid today, either; I am in no shape for that. I crawled my way to the top, where I was most grateful to put my feet up on the Reverend's patio and savor my luscious peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

On the climb, it is natural to focus on the road ahead and neglect the view behind. White clouds smudged the sky. Old trees were popping out the first leaves of another spring. San Francisco Bay glistened in the distance. From the summit, the snowy peaks of the Sierras were evident.

The buildings have seen a new coat of paint in the past year or so, and from my vantage point the detail on an external stairway caught my eye. How had I never noticed the curled ironwork, the stars in the railing?

The uphill interludes on the descent afford more leisurely sightseeing. A raucous pair of Steller's Jays caught my attention, and as I slowed to listen I noticed a proud wild turkey strutting his stuff. It's mating season! I was a few feet away from his flock of hens; some were foraging, others were taking dirt baths and possibly nesting. The dominant sound in the video clip is that of the noisy Jays. Listen for the turkeys; they made a sound like the resonant plink of a large drip of water hitting a pool.

Always something new to see, and to learn, on Mt. Hamilton.

Winter Break

Off to the Sierras with my colleagues for a two-day refresher course, Winter Fun 101.

After a whirlwind of spa mini-treatments, I set off on a short hike before dinner. Engineers had scattered, eager to check in (and log in). Equipped with a rudimentary paper map, I trudged down an old logging road and found the trail. Some landmarks were clear; others, not so much. When the U-shaped route returned to the road, I opted to retrace my path through the forest instead. The moon was high overhead, but there was enough daylight remaining.

With none of the white stuff at the lodge (elevation: 5300 feet), Friday's snowshoe hike was relocated to Yosemite. There was snow, albeit slushy, at the 7200-foot elevation of Badger Pass, one of California's earliest recreational ski areas.

Ranger Christine was our enthusiastic guide. Crunching uphill at altitude wasn't challenging enough for a couple of guys in our group: they took off at a run, racing each other to the top of the steepest hill we climbed.

The reward? A view across Yosemite to the snow-dusted highlights of the Clark Range.

The ranger invited me to join her in running down the hill, but with clumps of ice caked on my crampons, that would have ended badly.

Winter. Fun. Exercise. Education.

And then, back to work.

Beautiful Noise

A slippery rainy day is not the sort of day to trot out the exotic automotive plumage.

But this was not an ordinary rainy day. It was a rainy day during a Bay Area visit by the legendary Valentino Balboni.

Signore Balboni led the train up the rain-slicked roads, down to the coast and into the city. Navigating through San Francisco, with its hills, potholes, and close-packed traffic, was less nerve-wracking than I had feared.

Early in the drive, a muddy hillside released a soccer-ball-sized rock that oh-so-luckily came to rest at the edge of the road. It was still settling into place as I passed. Most drivers skillfully dodged the debris that the latest storm had thrown our way. One vehicle flatted a rear tire, providing a useful demonstration for a few of us on how not to use a tire repair kit.

On the road, the train was interrupted by the occasional minivan or compact. Most had the courtesy to pull aside, with the notable exception of a seemingly clueless motorhome from Arizona. Leaving our lunch stop, I yielded (not without a sigh) to a Tesla sedan. To his credit, he moved to the shoulder when he had the chance.

“Your car is beautiful.” High praise indeed, in this rarefied atmosphere of Diablos and Murcielagos, Gallardos and Aventadors. There were a couple of fast red cars in our midst, too.

One by one, we filed into the garage at our endpoint. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a sound to behold.

Achy Brakey Bike Ride

I warned the group that I would be even slower than usual, since I had been off the bike for four weeks. As it happens, I miscounted: it had been five weeks.

First, a seasonal cold virus took me down (for two weeks). Next, I staffed registration and the finish line for the annual Mega-Monster Enduro; the following day, it rained. Then I made a quick trip to the other coast for a family celebration over the long holiday weekend. After packing eight bicycle commutes into the first half of January, wet weather and fog dissuaded me in February.

Which brings me to today, warm and dry and sunny: a taste of spring before the month ends. My cranky legs complained within the first fifty yards, and I wondered if I would cut the ride short. Maybe skip the last, most challenging hill?

Of course, that didn't happen. I plodded along, last to roll up at every regroup (except the finish, despite being a bit more conservative with the brakes than usual). Technically, those five weeks did include some time on a bike (33 flat miles or so)—mostly trips to and from the shuttle bus. Three to five miles a day? Rounding error, essentially.

We racked up some 2,820 feet of climbing along our 24-mile route. The end of Aldercroft Heights Road is about a mile from the base of Wrights Station Road, but the connecting dirt road is strictly off-limits (razor wire courtesy of the San Jose Water Company). With so much of the rest of the watershed fully accessible, one can only wonder what makes that one mile so special. We peered down at Los Gatos Creek from the bridge at Wrights Station; one rider remarked “That little thing fills the Lexington Reservoir?” Yes; but this year, not so much.

The forecasters tell us more rain is on the way, and that is a very good thing. Though for biking, not so much.

Land of Ice and Snow

Between storms, I managed to slip in a quick visit to the east coast for a family celebration.

The gold medal goes to Virgin America, a class act from start (clever safety video) to finish (AC power and USB charging outlets at every seat), including a pre-flight plug for the upcoming Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge on every seat-back entertainment system. Not to mention the email they sent a few days before the trip, warning of possible weather problems and offering the opportunity to re-book without penalty. Get out in front of the problem, before it snowballs (so to speak)—unlike the travel nightmare mismanaged by Continental a few years back.

In contrast, NJ Transit was not only off the podium—they barely managed to finish in last place. My experience pales in comparison to the recent Super Bowl debacle, but I am gratified to learn that the executive director resigned this week.

I have taken trains in Italy and France without difficulty, despite my fluency in one language (English). I have taken the train in Alaska, where it snows (a lot). On the day after yet-another-snowstorm in a modern civilized nation, the train seemed like an ideal way to transport myself from Newark Airport to the Jersey Shore.

A trip that should have taken a little over two hours stretched well over four.

The train for the first leg of my journey was canceled, a fact not reflected on the large color flat-panel display. 5:55 P.M., the schedule read. Luckily I caught the audio announcement. Now, what?

I pulled up the njtransit.com trip planner on my smartphone, which sent me to a different platform to head for Newark Penn Station. Many trains were running late; we arrived at 6:09 P.M. I dashed down and up the stairs to the next platform for my connecting train. It had departed on time, at 6:08 P.M. Now, what?

Catch the 6:40 P.M. train from yet-another-platform? Or catch an earlier connecting train at 6:18 P.M., from this very platform? The overhead schedule listed that as Train 3273, and the number glowed on the engine as it pulled up. I boarded; the LED banner in my car displayed Train 3510. [Have I entered the Twilight Zone?] Another passenger confirmed that the train would indeed stop in Long Branch, where I would wait for that 6:40 P.M train to catch up.

Except that the 6:40 P.M. train developed a mechanical problem and was canceled. We would have to wait for the next train, scheduled to arrive an hour later. Which turned into an hour and a half, due to some other delay.

There is a word that succinctly captures this public sector fiasco. [I'll leave that to your imagination.]

The party was wonderful, and the next snowstorm failed to thwart my escape back to the west coast.

I took advantage of a single sunny day to re-visit a post-Sandy reconstruction site. The pilings are in, the cranes are gone, and the massive building has been shifted to its new perch at the water's edge: modern engineering finesse in the private sector.

Turkeys

Passing the Upper Ranch entrance to the Hollister Hills State Vehicular Recreation Area, I noticed a driver standing beside one of three (large) pickup trucks.

“Stay on the right side of the road!” he shouted.

Interesting, what drama did I miss?

“Don't ride in the center of the road! You almost caused an accident back there!”

Oh, he is addressing ME.

“I wasn't riding in the center of the road,” I called back. (Nor did I ride on the wrong side of the road.) With that much adrenaline flowing, I was glad he was taking it off-road.

What prompted his angry tirade?

Heading uphill on a shoulder-less stretch of rural Cienega Road, I passed a cyclist standing next to his bike. Before doing so, I checked my rear-view mirror for approaching traffic. I saw the white pickup truck. There was ample distance for me to pass the cyclist before the truck would overtake us, and there was another vehicle approaching in the opposite lane, in plain sight.

The pickup driver chose to pass me as I was passing the cyclist. The oncoming driver tooted his horn.

Mr. White Pickup: I didn't almost cause an accident—YOU almost caused an accident, by passing unsafely. This maneuver saved you, what, five seconds?

What might I have done differently? I should have signaled with my left arm, instead of assuming that the driver would reasonably expect me to pass the stationary cyclist in my path. (Honestly, I doubt this would have made a difference. Nonetheless.) I suspect he was so focused on the cyclists (target fixation) that he failed to look at the opposite lane.

Something crashed through the underbrush near the road. I slowed and scanned the woods. Sure enough, a deer. The first time I biked this road, a deer sprang across the pavement in front of me. This one darted back through the trees.

Our destination was the Pinnacles, now a National Park (though the sign still reads National Monument). The pool at the visitor center looked so inviting (in January?), but it was closed; the high temperature for the day was 79F (in January!). I was pleased to average 12 mph on our 66-mile route, with its modest amount of climbing (2,895 feet) on a rare day with no headwind.

Saw some wild turkeys on Cienega, too.

Rattlin' Roads

We got our share of gloomy clouds, but no rain. We need rain.

The Lexington Reservoir has fallen to 31% of its capacity. A great egret and great blue heron joined a crowd of ducks foraging in the shallows. The retreating water leaves puddles in the mud.

Climbing through the redwoods, five deer boldly watched me from the side of the road. When I made eye contact, they turned tail and fled into the forest.

No matter how familiar the route, I always notice something new. Broken glass, remnants of flares, and melted pavement where some car recently crashed on Old Santa Cruz Highway. Power lines attached to a conveniently-situated tree. Dual-purpose bike racks. [Hipster mountain bikers.]

Landslides continue to exact their toll on the mountain roads. It took years to repair one section of Highland Way; the guardrail has already been mostly ripped away. In places, the pavement is broken into pieces that fit together like a crude jigsaw puzzle. The combined weight of me and my bicycle is enough to rattle the loose pieces as I ride over them; imagine the effect of the SUVs and trucks that frequent these roads. [Trust me, I'm lighter.]

The jackrabbits in the group headed down to the coast. I was content to admire Monterey Bay from the ridge. Forty-three miles, 3,895 feet of climbing. It was nice to come home to a hot bowl of soup.

Mines, All Mine

I started ahead of the group, knowing they would all pass me. Once I held the rear position, I had the road to myself.

The hills should be green, in winter. We need rainy days, not days with cloudless blue skies and temperatures in the mid-60s. It is January, for goodness' sake!

Might as well make the best of it by riding Mines Road to the Junction. Is a 60-mile ride unwise after being off the bike for a couple of weeks, through the holidays? Biking to work the past two days felt fine. The route is out-and-back, I could turn around at any point. [Right ...]

After passing me twice, an amiable fellow matched my pace and chatted for a few miles. He had been dropped by the rest of his group and was uneasy about riding out there alone. “You're not alone,” I pointed out. His plan was to turn around at the county line; he needed to get back into cell phone range to reserve a tennis court at noon. [Life is complicated.] The Alameda county line is around mile marker 20, I learned. Crossing into Santa Clara County, the count flips because mile marker 0 is at the summit of Mt. Hamilton.

When you travel at a human pace, you take in all the sights. With bales of hay, pumpkins, corn stalks, and reindeer, this ranch had the fall harvest and Christmas covered. “Our Neck of the Woods,” the sign reads—adorned with a cowboy hat.

Arriving at the Junction, we were dismayed to find the gates leading to the café locked: Temporarily closed, under new management. Renegades that we are, we slipped around the gates and hiked up the hill to their picnic tables. Fortunately, my lunch was in my jersey pockets; but I had been looking forward to a nice chocolate cookie. [And their restroom.]

They were working on the place, and the new manager came out to chat with us. There are good things ahead! He plans to stock some things that cyclists need: bananas, oranges, energy bars, CO2 cartridges. [Yes!] With some advance notice, they would prepare barbecue—pulled pork sandwiches!

Heading back toward Livermore, I hardly noticed the early climbs as I scouted for some privacy. Barbed wire fencing. Steep drops at the edge of the road. Flat spots were always near residential access roads. Just as I climbed out of some bushes, I heard a motorbike approach, pass, round a bend ... slow down ... and return. He came back to check on me! Proof: on this remote stretch of road, you're not alone.

Back at the start, some people were chatting around a nearby car. “Nellie! What are you doing? Come back here, that's not your car!” I looked up to see a slow bulldog eying my passenger seat. Were it not for the heap of bike gear, I think she would have hopped right in.

First club ride of the year: 59 miles, 3,765 feet of climbing. My endurance endures.

Lane Spotting

Can you spot the bike lane in this photo? (This is not a trick question.)

Improving bicycle and pedestrian safety in this corridor was a multi-year, $3.5 million project.

Last year, the city of Monte Sereno paved sidewalks along the highway—four-foot-wide sidewalks. They formed curbs and paved those sidewalks right on top of the bike lane, and erected signs citing the ordinance that forbids bicycling on sidewalks.

Four-foot-wide sidewalks. Two-foot-wide bike lanes, where we pedal alongside traffic traveling in excess of 35-45 mph.

We need fewer self-congratulatory ribbon cuttings and more municipal officials on bicycles. In the bike lane. Especially on trash collection day.

Reset

A new year has begun: time for the traditional resetting of the bicycle computer.

Some new personal records in 2013: I covered more than 3,835 miles by bicycle, including some 1,895 miles commuting to (and usually from) work and at least 200 miles on my Strida.

The hills add up: I climbed more than 191,000 feet. (That's not a record; clearly, I'm slacking off.)

The dollars add up, too: I raised more than $300 for charity just by riding my bike (through a company-sponsored program to encourage “self-powered commuting,” and through Plus 3 Network).

In 2014, I can do better.

Raise High the Floor Boards

Many shades of gray, a winter's day along the bay.

This Old House has run a series on the rebuilding process at the Jersey Shore. After watching an episode where they ever-so-slowly used hydraulic jacks to lift a home above its foundation, I had the opportunity to take a close look at a similar (but grander) project.

The Bay Head Yacht Club building was built a long time ago, at the water's edge (naturally). Hurricane Sandy was not kind to the structure, which now must be raised. But wait, you say: that building is at least a hundred yards from the water.

Not only did they lift that massive building, with its two brick fireplaces and chimneys—they shifted it north, onto the (former) tennis courts.

With an enormous crane and drill, engineers are driving helical piles into the ground to create a new (higher) footing for the clubhouse.

Man may win this battle, but one day the sea will prevail.

Hazy Shade of Winter

Leaves are brown, no patch of snow on the ground. No patches of ice, either, though we were on high alert—especially when crossing the occasional wet streak across the road. Some higher stretches of pavement were white, as if they had been salted. Could it be?

Atmospheric conditions have been unfavorable for air quality over the past week; today was our seventh consecutive Spare the Air Day. Wood burning is prohibited, to keep the airborne particulate count down.

A handful of riders turned out for today's adventure, which was designed to be short and not-too-challenging. My day was carefully orchestrated: bike, donate blood, and complete a bunch of holiday-related errands with adequate time to get spruced up for a holiday party in San Francisco.

The frosty air warmed quickly to a more hospitable temperature. Climbing Moody Road was less painful than I remembered, and my body did not balk when my heart rate hovered around 180 bpm for an extended spell. The real treat was Altamont, which afforded a sweeping view of a small valley from the top. Although it runs nearly parallel to Moody, the road is completely different in character.

For the day, a short 20 miles with some 2,100 feet of climbing. Just enough.

Red Letter Day

On some forgotten day this year, I decided that a goal for 2013 should be to beat my previous record for number of bicycle commutes (34, in 2007). In the past three years, I had gotten lazy; most days, it is oh-so-easy to find a reason not to get up early and climb on the bike.

The more often I rode, the easier it became. It was habit-forming. There were a few weeks when I managed to bicycle-commute four days out of five, which helped to offset three months of slothfulness (not even one ride to work during the months of January, February, and March).

The least palatable way to get to work is to drive. In heavy traffic, driving can take nearly as long (or longer) as biking it.

Most days, I rely on a commuter shuttle bus. Door-to-door, that trip also takes nearly as much time as biking it; but it allows me to extend my day by getting some work done en route.

Today was a special day, and not only because I discovered hand-made woolen scarves adorning the California Quail statues.

Today marked my 52nd bicycle commute of the year. Some 1,895 miles pedaling to (and usually, from) the office.

'Tis the Season

Winter in the Bay Area hardly conjures up visions of Frosty the Snowman. For the past week, however, we have been in the icy grip of an Alaskan air mass. Pipes are bursting, delicate plants are turning to mush, and self-generated wind chill on a bicycle holds little appeal.

With the thermometer registering below the freezing mark, it would be an ideal morning to snuggle under a warm comforter. Except that I had gamely volunteered to lead a ride for the club.

Who would show up on such a morning? Perhaps no one, in which case I might simply declare victory after the first hill, and skip the next four.

Oh, me of little faith. Six people turned out for my ride; two left home early enough to bike to the start. In the land of palm trees and surfboards, there are some hardy Californians. Okay, it's not Minnesota ... but the weather is freezing and we all dug into our stashes of cycling gear for the heavy-duty stuff.

It was a day not to head for the Santa Cruz mountains, where the Christmas tree farms are bustling. I chose to head across the valley to the eastern foothills, for roads that were mostly well-exposed to the sun. We tackled the steepest climb first, followed by a series of mellow (mostly short) hills.

I was apprehensive about the cold; I have to admit, though, that it was really a pleasant day to ride. I have certainly been colder, on the bike. Whenever we stopped to regroup, my dark side chilled down fast. (Nothing that couldn't be fixed by a judicious pivot toward the sun.)

The little hills added up. It did not feel like I had climbed 4,215 feet over 36 miles. Cold therapy is good for muscle recovery.

Welcome to Our World

It was a day to escape the bustle of civilization, to climb out of the valley and connect with the natural world. Below the mist, downtown San Jose was less than 10 miles away. I spend my weekdays overconnecting with technology; this is how I spend my weekends.

We headed straight up Old Calaveras Road. [And I do mean straight up.] The chilly air burned our lungs and our hearts pumped hard to warm up our muscles. Instead of the traditional right turn at the road's end, we took a left to explore some new terrain. Everyone agreed that Sandy Wool Lake was a scenic reward for that tough climb, and a much nicer place to regroup. Alison taught us about the origin of hang gliders as we watched fliers hauling their wings up the slope. Challenge: find a paraglider in that photo.

There were three courses on today's menu, 4,400 feet of climbing (and descending) densely packed into 28 miles. One rider's appetite was sated by the appetizer, Old Calaveras. Four riders had their fill after the soup course, Felter. The rest completed the main course, Sierra; a few had time for salad (assorted sections of Calaveras). Still hungry, two riders tackled Welch Creek for dessert.

Assembling at the start, one rider remarked that there were no flat sections on today's ride. True, I admitted; but there are downhills. One rider was apprehensive about descending Sierra, and thought it was silly to turn right around and climb back up. Well, there you are, right in the neighborhood, I replied. How could you not climb Sierra?

As it happened, a few of us were in the right place at the right moment on Sierra. However compelling the view, it is rare [exceedingly rare] for me to stop on a descent. At 22 mph, something very special came into view with enough space for me to come safely to a stop.

The smallest calf I had ever seen was right next to the fence. Mom watched me, but was unconcerned. The newborn was as fascinated with me as I was with him. Mom had already cleaned him up, but he was clearly hours old—unsteady on his feet, with a trace of umbilical cord still dangling. Welcome to our world, little one.

Take a Peak

On the long climb, I was passed by a cyclist with a catchy phrase on the back of his jersey. Emblazoned with the symbol for California State Route 89, the encouraging words were “Take a Peak.” That would make a fine slogan for next year's Low-Key Hillclimbs, I thought. Clear skies gave us clear views of three regional peaks: west to Mt. Umunhum, northwest to Mt. Hamilton, and south to Fremont Peak. Today's destination was Henry Coe State Park, a ridgetop undistinguished by name, near the Calaveras Fault. This is California's largest state park, but exploring it takes commitment: the Visitor Center is at the western edge. The rest is wild land.

The road to the park is wild enough. I spotted an acorn woodpecker inexplicably tapping at a cable splice case, a small covey of California quail, and a bevy of peafowl encircling a pickup truck in someone's driveway. Deer scampered away as I approached, but I nearly overlooked the sly young coyote trotting alongside the roadway. He rounded a bend ahead of me and vanished.

My evening was devoted to a different sort of peek: for the first time, the local Fantasy of Lights was opened for a one-night-only walking tour. People have requested this access for years, and the county parks department decided to give it a try. As a volunteer, my role was to keep people safe: on the paved road, off the dark trails, and away from the lighting displays. Bundled up for the chilly five-and-a-half hour shift, I began to regret my decision to help.

The parks department had no idea what to expect, though some 500 people had purchased tickets in advance.

There were couples strolling hand-in-hand. Multi-generational families. Children in strollers and wagons, including one three-car Choo Choo Wagon, complete with lights. A couple spontaneously waltzing to a Christmas song.

“Hi, sweetie. I know it's really hard, the lights are so pretty, but please don't touch them, okay?” That line worked well. The dad looked at his toddler and laughed. “Busted!” he told her. “She's going to tell you that you can't go that way,” another dad told his son. I smiled, “Right, you can't take the trail tonight.” [Parenting by proxy is popular.]

I chose one of the less glamorous zones; only two of us volunteered to staff it. One hour in, I thought “this is going to be a lo-o-ong night.”

The bridge was a busy spot for photos. It reminded some of fireworks; others, of a counter filled with colorful bins of candy. What surprised me most was the popularity of another display: The American Flag. Here I am, stationed next to a symbol unrelated to the holidays. There are tunnels of light, trains and snowmen, animated gingerbread cookies jumping rope, toy soldiers and elves and penguins, even dinosaurs. The flag seemed out of place.

I was wrong.

“The American flag!” kids squealed as they ran toward it. At least two of them put their hands over their hearts and launched into the Pledge of Allegiance. “Take a picture of the flag with grandpa!”

We are a nation of immigrants. Tonight I was reminded that this symbol has a deep significance to many. Five and a half hours well-spent.

The Old Stage Road

Five minutes. Five minutes till the next loaf of Artichoke Garlic Herb bread comes out of Arcangeli's oven. My fellow rider and I finished our PB&J sandwiches. He looked at me. “I think it's been five minutes, now?” and returned with a steaming loaf for all of us to share.

Bliss.

Several riders were tentative. They had ordered big sandwiches. “Try some,” we insisted. [I was not disappointed to eat more than my fair share.]

Among the notices posted in the picnic area behind the market was a thank-you to their customers: bicyclists, motorcyclists, and whale watchers—all are welcome.

The ride had been colder than I expected, and the marine layer seemed too stubborn to burn off. For the first time, I had noticed the historic plaque (courtesy of the Clampers) next to a ramshackle building across from the General Store in San Gregorio. As we were traveling along a portion of the old Stage Road, it was not surprising to find that this had been a stage coach stop. Formerly an inn, built in 1865 and rebuilt in 1902, it is now private.

The marine layer finally retreated as we headed for Haskins Hill. Earlier, a rider had asked whether the climb would be steep. “No,” I said. Then I thought to ask what she considered steep. Some shot ahead on the flats, later to dismount and walk up the last stretch of Haskins (average grade of 7% over 2 1/4 miles). I thought back to the first time I had climbed this hill, with a different club. Abandoned by the leaders, a few of us had retraced our path to the start when we learned that the planned route was blocked by downed wires. The climb was a struggle for me, that day.

It was easier than I remembered. Thirty-one miles with some 2,300 feet of climbing. I should ride this loop more often—for the bread, alone.

How Cold?

It was 42F (5.5C) degrees when I left home this morning. I could see my breath, exhaled in great billowing clouds, with the effort to climb the first hills. The most uncomfortable body parts were my fingers, which started to warm up after 4 miles or so. Maybe preheating my gloves would help? Sometimes I miss steam radiators.

Egrets, herons, and ducks are a common sight near the bay. When they are close to the trail along Stevens Creek, they quickly take flight as people approach.

I rounded a bend and stopped. I was no more than 15 feet away from a Great Egret. The bird was nonplussed. I fished my phone out of my bag. The bird looked away. I felt lucky to capture a single photo. The bird did not move. I dared to draw its attention, hoping for a nice profile. Other cyclists passed. I snapped more photos, stashed the phone and continued on my way. The bird remained still, conserving energy on a chilly morning, watching the creek for breakfast.

“How cold does it have to get for you not to ride in?” asked a co-worker this week.

In the Bay Area, not cold enough.

Leaves Are Falling

Dry leaves crunched under my skinny tires. I felt strong enough to add Kincaid to my Mt. Hamilton ascent, and the diversion was well worth it. This should be a staple of fall climbing for the colors alone. No match for New England, but better than I thought possible without traveling to the Sierras.

There were fewer cars than bicycles on Mt. Hamilton today (once the Mini Cooper club buzzed by). Perhaps the valley haze discouraged people from making the trek. Perhaps they were out hunting pumpkins. No complaints from this cyclist.

Two cycling clubs chose this route today. I overheard a conversation about two crashes on the other club's ride last weekend, which bolstered my resolve to avoid their rides. A mile after making the u-turn at the end of Kincaid, I found a lone rider fixing a flat. The rest of their group was long gone. We were five miles from the main road, ten miles from the summit. I was out there alone, too, but that was my choice. My ride partners would not have deserted me. In fact, on the way up a fellow club member had stopped to show me a better way to get my dropped chain back into place—a perfect demonstration of the difference between these two clubs.

I know myself well enough to tackle Kincaid on the way to the summit. On the way down, I would never convince myself to turn off the main road for an extra dozen miles worth of climbing. After finishing Kincaid, there is always the option to turn right and head down the mountain.

I turned left. Five more miles to the top.

The people who shout encouragement crack me up. I have lost track of how many times I have climbed Mt. Hamilton. (Ten and a half times, last year alone.) One of these riders was making his annual trip up the mountain. The story gets better: He lives near the base of the climb and bought the house specifically for the hill.

I stretched out on Jeanne's bench to enjoy my lunch (and the view) in the warm sunshine.

Fifty-one miles, 6800 feet of climbing. If I lived at the base of this hill, you couldn't keep me off it.

Low Ceiling

My saddle is wet before I finish loading up the bike. I can see the tiny pinpoints of moisture in the beam of my headlight. I will climb farther into the base of the marine layer before descending below it.

I remember to watch for the car of a club member who often sees me on her way to work, but my attention naturally shifts to the drivers who can potentially cut me off. One resident retracts into his driveway, clearing the bike lane for me to pass. The neon green jacket, along with the bright headlight and the bright white blinking light on my collar, combine to make me noticeable. [Not to mention the blinking red rear lights, one on my helmet and one on the bike.]

The fog condenses on my glasses and helmet, dripping onto my cheeks. No need to tap into the water bottle this morning; just breathe it in. My brakes squeal on wet rims. With little to see, I make good time to the office. Warmed by an hour and 25 minutes of biking, I overheat the instant I step inside the building—it's that time of year, now.

The fog lingered all day in the valley. On the way home, I can barely see the Diablo Range, but I find a splash of sunshine on the California Quail statues. (Their topknots have long since been lost to vandals.) I pass a black Bentley Continental GT once, and miss catching it a second time by a car length. Bicycle trumps V8 in stop-and-go traffic.

I time my uphill approach to a red light to arrive as it turns green. I draw even with a Prius, wondering why the car is not moving. The passenger window is rolled down. They greet me with “Hi, pep!” and pull away. [Co-workers.]

Motivated to arrive home before the sky is truly dark, I make good time—averaging 12 mph over 20 miles, with 620 feet of climbing. Good time for me, that is, at the end of the day.

Fall Food Fest

After donating blood, some recommendations for the first 24 hours include:

• Drink plenty of fluids.
• No strenuous activity or exercise.
• Do not skip any meals.

That last one is my favorite part.

The second point is less clear. No exercise, or no strenuous exercise? How about a (relatively) flat bike ride after 21 hours, at a leisurely pace?

The purpose of said ride was to EAT: our club's annual progressive dinner. Each rider brings a dish; fellow club members transport them to our hosts along the route.

Appetizers at mile 8, salads at mile 19, main course at mile 27, desserts at mile 35.

Although fewer people turned out this year, we did a better job of staying together. Good friends, good food, good conversations, and a spectacular day to meander through some new neighborhoods.

Thanks to my fellow club members for sharing their beautiful backyards with us and volunteering their help with this signature event.

Full Moon Rising

Technically, not-quite-full moon rising. The timing would not work out as well on Friday.

It is mighty hard (for me) to get up in the dark and onto the bike. Rooting around for toe covers delayed my morning departure enough to align conveniently with sunrise, without also making me tardy for my first meeting.

It is chilly enough in the morning for a jacket, warm enough in the evening for a short-sleeved jersey. As the end of daylight savings time approaches, darkness closes in before I finish the ride home.

That ride home? Well, just look at that view—and appreciate that the photo doesn't do it justice.

No View for You

The top of Sutro Tower poked through the fog layered over San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge did not.

We made our way above Oakland and Berkeley, perched on the ridge above the Hayward Fault. The next time that ruptures, I would not want to be here. Fortunately, today was not that day.

Today was a day to ride with friends, to be led along this route by a club member who has more than two decades on me, to make new discoveries.

Our turnaround point was the Summit Reservoir, originally built in the 1890s. The water is not visible, and although the area is completely covered, it was designed with layers and textures to suggest a natural surface—complete with stylized birds taking flight. It will look very different next year, when construction gets underway to replace the reservoir with a large tank.

The highlight of the day was Pinehurst Road, an unfamiliar gem that I look forward to visiting again. In the late afternoon, it was chilly and dark. This is the type of road that often leaves me wondering why it exists; the map shows a route to the neighboring town of Moraga. Pinehurst passes through an eclectic little community, aptly named Canyon, complete with its own Post Office.

A long day, with a healthy dose of climbing: some 4,700 feet over 51 miles.

The High Point

I was uncharacteristically awake early this morning. Early enough to start my wheels rolling some 13 minutes before sunrise.

My timing was fortunate indeed, because a major intersection was still shut down; the utility company that was supposed to wrap up their overnight construction work by 5:00 a.m. did not. Traffic chaos would surely ensue within the next half-hour, with frazzled and impatient motorists forced on a circuitous tour of the neighborhood. The workers were disinclined to let even a bicycle pass through, so I headed for an alternate route.

I kept an eye on the sky as it grew lighter. There were low clouds along the Diablo Range ... I just might have a shot. I raced the rising sun to the high point of my morning commute, a well-placed gratuitous hill, and won.

A serene start to a busy day.