Picturing Panoche

“Don't Frack San Benito,” the sign read. I couldn't agree more.

Our well-timed ride was slotted between a pair of storms, giving us dramatic lighting and clean air.

The Aermotor was spinning fast at the Summit Ranch. With a dual assist from gravity and the wind, I plummeted down the backside toward the Inn.

Another rider thought the road had more patches. “How could you tell?” I asked. It's best to ride that stretch with a light grip on the handlebars—or wind up with an aching head and some loose fillings.

Look at that view! Look at it again. Picture it paved with solar panels, because that is the future for this land—some 4,000 acres of solar panels and power lines.

More than 20 miles out on Panoche Road, an approaching car slowed to a stop. A wayward European visitor was looking for the National Park (Pinnacles). I set him straight.

The wind is a constant. You can count on a headwind for the return; on unlucky days, there can be a headwind in both directions. Which means more time to admire the scenery.

A mere 2,750 feet of climbing, with 54 miles of scenery.

Enjoy it now.

Springtime for Hollister

When the Bay Area forecast reads “Partly Cloudy,” the morning will be gray and gloomy.

That's the cloudy part. The rest of the day will be glorious.

After a poor night's sleep, I was semi-conscious when the alarm went off. I desperately wanted more sleep. If I bailed now, would my ride partner see the email? The ride start was not local. Drive an hour, bike 50 hilly miles, drive an hour back. I needed more sleep.

It is a perfect day for this route. It will still be (somewhat) green. Soon it will be too hot to bike down there.

I pulled myself together. I could further shorten the route, maybe just tackle the first (and longest) hill.

But the second hill is one of my favorites.

With so many back roads to explore, I saw no merit in returning on busy Highway 25. Having pored over the map, I had a better idea.

Instead of being buzzed by speeding SUVs and pickup trucks, I had John Smith Road to myself. (Two vehicles passed me, heading in opposite directions.) The birds told me how little traffic uses this road. I startled a hawk into seeking a higher perch; moments later, it comfortably swooped to my left along the road before veering over the rolling hills. To the right a small flock of birds escorted me, rising and falling to match my slow pace.

I turned into a residential neighborhood. “Not a Through Street,” warned a sign. It had looked so enticing on the map.

Strategically-placed barricades blocked vehicles from passing through ... but not bicycles!

For the day, 54 miles with some 4,830 feet of climbing. I'll sleep in tomorrow.

Side by Side

Tucked into the belly of the bus, a study in black and white.

This morning I needed to catch the first shuttle to arrive at the office in time for my earliest meeting. This is not my routine, and I hardly expected to find another bike already loaded when I lifted the door to the first compartment (before sunrise).

I definitely did not expect to see another Strida. Now I understand why I have only seen the black bike when I catch an early shuttle home.

These folding bikes are ideal for our short (flat) little trips to and from the shuttle stop. For me, the distance is a little more than a mile (studded with five traffic signals). Driving that distance would be, in a word, ridiculous. It would also take as much time, if not more. Having the bike for quick trips on campus is mighty convenient, too.

With enough daylight remaining, I opt for a longer route home. Each trip seems insignificant, but the miles add up: about 43 miles this month, alone.

Best time? Door-to-door, with no red lights: 6 minutes, 33 seconds.

Make It a Double

Today was the day.

Daylight Savings Time took effect a couple of weeks ago, but my first attempt to enjoy a round-trip commute had been thwarted by a late meeting.

I am not a big fan of DST; waking up in the dark is a struggle. I wish we could just leave the clocks alone. But now that we have sprung forward, there is ample daylight for my long ride home. My headlight and its battery pack have been stowed away for the season, and I treated the oft-neglected commute bike to a thorough cleaning and fresh lube over the weekend.

In celebration, I climbed a familiar gratuitous hill this evening and spotted a doe trotting down the middle of the street, heading for the open area at the end.

This morning, my ears were cold and my legs were leaden; even though I rode home at a slower pace, I felt stronger. For the day, the usual 39 miles and 980 feet of climbing.

Just the way I like it.

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.