Keepin' Score

Metrics are everywhere. Take, for example, a simple wooden sign nailed to a utility pole at a curve along today's route:

CAR 5

POLE 17

The paint looked fresh. Odds are that the pole's count merited the latest update.

One rider in our group was proud to show me his bare handlebar: no bike computer, no stats. Others compete to climb more hills or cover more distance than their peers. The rider at the top of our club's leaderboard for 2014 biked more than 10,000 miles and climbed over 836,000 feet—just on club rides. He often commutes by bike, as well.

We had a preview of summer at the coast today—cold and fog. Not that I'm complaining: I'm out here riding my bike through the redwood forest, while friends and family on the other coast suffer temperatures in the single digits and more snow than they'd like.

Creeks were flowing and the traffic was light.

58 miles, 4,860 feet of climbing. The fun factor is harder to measure.

One Cool Cat

You can be sure you're in Woodside when you get the traditional Woodside Welcome:

Go home and ride your bike in your own neighborhood!

A lady of the manor rolled down her window to shout at one of the women in our group, as if we were teenaged delinquents rampaging through town.

You should have replied “This is my neighborhood,” I suggested wryly.

We were climbing the steep section of a wide residential street, impeding no one on this sunny holiday. [Technically, we were in Portola Valley, but the animus is the same.]

We had already biked up (and down) Alpine. The group had traveled at a fast clip, intent as they were to reach the end of the road. Whereas I tend to meander, looking about. And, well, I have this knack for noticing things.

What I will remember most about this ride were the pawprints I spotted on the upper stretch of Alpine Road, which climbs gently alongside a creek. Still damp, in a line, claws retracted. The cat must have climbed up from the banks and then ... where? I considered stopping to snap a photo, but the prints had to be fairly fresh. Was the puma watching me? Wiser to keep moving and catch up with the group, ahead.

Enjoy the simple things: An invigorating ride with friends on a glorious day off (24 miles, 1,960 feet of climbing). Savor a sweet indulgence: A post-ride Linzer cookie from the Woodside Bakery. Embrace beauty.

Money doesn't buy happiness.

On Being Excessive

My thoughts wandered as I passed the towering redwoods on today's ride. The age of the trees, the age of the planet, the age of the universe, the age of the cyclist having these thoughts.

On a recent visit to the local library, I spied a copy of Half the Road on a rack and checked it out. A documentary I had meant to watch, then forgotten.

Not being a runner, I didn't know the story of K. V. Switzer, the first woman to register successfully and run the Boston Marathon. There were shots of the race manager physically accosting her, trying to pull off her race numbers—women were not allowed to run more than 800 meters, much less a marathon. In 1967. I remember 1967.

Our group was heading for a 65-mile ride with some 6,800 feet of climbing, and that was more than I wanted: more distance, more climbing. I hatched an alternate plan that would shave off some distance and elevation. My ride partner, working to rebuild endurance after a hiatus off the bike, trusted me.

The film also told the story of an angry letter from the chauvinistic UCI to the organizer of the Women's Challenge bicycle race, refusing to sanction the event because it included excessive climbing. Excessive stage distances. Excessive number of stages. Excessive duration of event. Women weren't allowed to climb that many feet, cycle those distances, ride that many days. In 1990. In 1990, 1967 was 23 years ago.

To say that I had miscalculated our alternate route would be ... an understatement. It was how far from the park's headquarters to Boulder Creek? [Uh-oh.] And I'd thought we'd climb just a couple of miles back to the intersection that had led us to the park. [It was nearly eight miles.]

The film was inspiring with stories of strong, determined women. And here we were: not racing, but headstrong and determined to finish. “Where's my chauffeur?” joked my ride buddy. “Send the limo!”

My ill-conceived route entailed 64 miles with 6,180 feet of climbing. I got home in time to return the DVD to the library. By bike.

Nano Climates

On with the insulated knee warmers at home; the air was decidedly brisk.

Off with the knee warmers 20 minutes later, stepping out of the car at the start.

Cruising along in the sunshine after the first climb, I considered peeling off my arm warmers.

Moments later, I passed through a pocket of chilled air. So it goes, in the Bay Area.

I was curious about today's climb to the end of the pavement on Mt. Madonna Road, with the usual trepidation of the unfamiliar. [It was fine.]

Had the group not been waiting, I would have ventured up the first section of dirt to the bright sunshine ahead.

Instead I descended, with care. A technical descent, this one, steep and curvy. I had taken special note of one short slick section on the way up. Evidence of road repair suggests a chronic wetness, there.

Returning along Redwood Retreat, my pace slowed as I approached a knot of cyclists stopped off the road. No one I recognized; one guy timidly signaled for my attention. “Where are we?” They were looking for Uvas Road. Hard to imagine that in their group of six or eight, no one had a GPS device at the ready. “Where does this road go?” I set them straight, and encouraged them to check out the rest of Redwood Retreat and Mt. Madonna first.

The rest of the gang now having caught and passed me, I sought an additional challenge. They were headed into town for lunch; I had other plans. Being in the neighborhood, why not check out another unfamiliar climb?

The back side was mostly rural, with a sweeping view of pasture and green hills topped with an impressive oak tree. Dropping down the front side, I passed a cautionary sign for trucks: 15% grade. [Uh oh.] I made my u-turn in the residential section at the bottom; the houses got bigger the higher I climbed. This presented a healthy challenge, though I'd wager it didn't touch 15%. [I'm not complaining, mind you.]

My route deviated further from the group, as I opted for scenic rolling hills instead of a long slog into the wind along a busy thoroughfare—with the bonus option of my own little picnic at the Uvas Reservoir, and clear views of the familiar summits of both Mt. Hamilton and Mt. Umunhum along the way.

Having seen very little wildlife, I was charmed by a pair of western bluebirds darting along a fence line on Bailey Avenue. They were bluer than blue: Azure? Cerulean? The color of lapis lazuli, and too fast for any chance of a photo.

By the end of the day, I had unzipped my vest to flap in the wind, shed the arm warmers, and slathered on the sunscreen. 62 miles, 3200 feet of climbing—farewell, January!

As Luck Would Have It

The first bit of luck was an impromptu listing for a challenging ride with a local start, leading to our club's annual appreciation luncheon for last year's ride leaders. Of course, it would make more sense to take a flat route after yesterday's long, hilly ride—and that was my original plan. But I don't have enough sense for that.

I stopped at the base of Mt. Umunhum Road to congratulate myself for another successful climb up the west side of Hicks, and that was the second piece of luck. A long, loud stream of motorcycles roared past. They couldn't have been too far behind me. There were so many of them that I was glad not to be on the road at that moment.

I had mapped out a slightly longer route to the luncheon, avoiding the direct route along a busy expressway. Among the earliest arrivals, I claimed my raffle ticket and mingled before settling down with my plate near some faces familiar from last fall's rides in the Eastern Sierras. My raffle ticket was number 726. The guy to my left? Number 727. To his left? 728. We didn't ride together, but evidently we arrived sequentially, and then ended up sitting sequentially.

What are the odds?

I was happy with my prize, a water bottle from a local bike shop filled with goodies (patches, patch kit, and various sample packets). That being the most common prize, the ride leaders at our table raised our bottles in a mutual-admiration toast to our prowess. Our sequential trio had led a total of 43 rides in 2014.

Maybe, just maybe, I burned more calories than I consumed. 27 miles with 2,060 feet of climbing doesn't sound like much. But if you've climbed Hicks Road, you understand.

At the Edge

Seeking a sunny ride on a winter's day, a trip along Calaveras Road fit the bill.

Of course, I trailed the group; but I powered right up The Wall nonetheless.

The day was so warm I peeled off my knee warmers before we started; a vest and arm warmers were all I needed. [In January?]

Heading north, it was surprisingly windy—the gusts were strong enough to knock me about. Time for more aerodynamics and less sightseeing.

Near the southern edge of the reservoir I slowed to watch a hawk soar overhead, but there was no sign of the resident bald eagles. A little research revealed that, in recent years, they've moved their nest from atop one of the power transmission towers into nearby oak trees.

The viewing spectacle of the day was a veritable parade of recumbents—two-wheelers and trikes—heading south. One of our riders recognized the group and commented that he's probably been “excommunicated” (for the sin of riding a diamond frame?) since he hadn't seen an announcement for their outing. No small effort there, pedaling those heavy machines uphill.

After lunching in Sunol's local park, we headed back from whence we came. Now, with tailwind!

A solid day, covering some
43 miles with 2,940 feet of climbing.

At the base of the hill, I kept it under the limit—lighting up the electronic sign at 34 mph. Just right.

Ramp It Up

Number of miles biked last week: Zero.

Number of miles biked the week before that: Zero.

And the week before that? Zero.

During the first two weeks of December, I managed to bike a whopping 31 miles. [That's just not normal.]

Having been off the bike for three weeks, it would seem prudent to increase my activity level gradually.

Biking to work on Monday felt good.

So did Tuesday.

Why not Wednesday?

Short on sleep, Thursday seemed unlikely. But then, I woke up at the usual time and felt adequately rested.

Friday was fine. A new co-worker was impressed; even more so when he heard how long my trip is. “You look normal,” he said. “Not like one of those emaciated 0%-body-fat types.”

[Chocolate. Dessert. Chocolate desserts.]

Which brings us to Saturday, a sixth consecutive cycling day. The perfect day for a loosely-organized club ride with a late morning start.

The first hill hit me hard. [Payback.] The rest? Not so much.

The sun broke through the clouds, there was enough water in the Chesbro Reservoir for a lone pelican, acorn woodpeckers flitted from tree to utility pole to tree, and a couple of hawks made an appearance.

For the day, 38 miles with 1,720 feet of climbing.

For the week? 3,740 feet of climbing over 148 miles.

Sunday is a day for rest.

Back to Work

Why bike to work?

My first commute of the year was chilly: 34°F when I rolled out this morning. On dark winter evenings, I close my eyes and escape with a podcast on a commuter shuttle—preferably an episode that will make me laugh and forgive the ridiculous amount of time it takes to get home. Tonight, there were a stunning 11 traffic accidents (and attendant backups) in the local area. Eleven. No mitigating circumstances, like rain or fog. Just the usual: A plague of bad drivers.

Rhinoviruses and rainy weather conspired to keep me off the bike for most of December, but 2014 was nonetheless a record year for commuting by bicycle. It was the year I found fewer and fewer excuses not to bike.

In all, I pedaled about 5,720 miles—over 3,600 miles biking to (and usually, from) the office. More than 300 incidental miles, mostly on my folding bike, traveling to and from the shuttle and between buildings on the campus. The rest? Recreational miles.

Oh, and I climbed up a few hills along the way. (241,000 feet, give or take.)

Piled High and Deep

Back in the old neighborhood for the holidays, I had a chance to check out the status of the post-Sandy work on a local institution, the Bay Head Yacht Club.

Last year, the main building had been lifted and shifted away from its foundation; pilings were slowly being pummeled down to bedrock, some 60 feet below the shallow waters of Barnegat Bay. One year later, it's open (for members) and grander than ever.

Seizing the opportunity to expand, the core of the original building was preserved and extended at both ends. An elevator supplements the staircases to ferry people between the dock level and the first floor.

The bay side has more window panes than I would want to count, which must ensure a spectacular view on days better suited to the cozy warmth of the hearth than the breezy porches.

Too bad I missed the open house, which preceded my visit. Poor planning on their part, don't you think?

Birds on the Wire

Crows are a common sight, but this pair put on an uncommon show this morning.

The crow on the right must be afflicted with something. (Mites, most likely.) The crow on the left was grooming the infested one, picking away at the back of the other bird's head.

When the helper bird turned and inched away, the itchy bird followed. Edging close, the crow bowed its head to ask for more. The helper was indulgent, for a little while longer, before winging to a higher perch.

The afflicted bird cawed noisily, in protest, before scratching and pecking under an extended wing.

We all try, in our way, to be free. But sometimes, we need a little help from our friends.

Eleven at Eleven

Do I know my fellow cyclists, or what?

The day after Thanksgiving is not for shopping; it's for burning off some of yesterday's calories. (Turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, veggies, pie.)


Six riders joined me for a little trip up Mt. Umunhum. We took the direct approach on Hicks Road from the west. The painful approach.

Surprisingly, it was a vest-and-arm-warmers kind of day; we're having a late (very late) November spell of warm weather. I expected little traffic on the back roads, but I was surprised to see no wildlife—especially after seeing so many deer just two weeks ago. Maybe they had the day off, too?

We reached mile 11 at 11:00 a.m., having already climbed some 1500 feet. I was especially proud at how well I'd climbed Hicks after two guys reported that they'd needed to stop on the way up. I remember trips up Hicks that required multiple stops. I remember weaving up the hill like a paperboy. I remember the first time I climbed it, when I asked a passing rider how much farther it was to the top and told him it was okay to lie to me. None of that, today; I pedaled right on up, keeping my heart rate in check. (Peaked at 178 bpm.)

Climbing Mt. Umunhum ... well, that's another story. I remembered not to be tricked by the first steep bit. There, anticipating more of the same around a sharp bend, I have often paused (prematurely). Just stay with it, the grade relents on the other side.

The next steep bit is longer—almost half a mile. I wimped out, pausing to get my heart rate back into a more comfortable zone. A passing rider encouraged me: “Good job!” he called out.

A couple of riders had been chided by a ranger for riding up to the White Line of Death. [Pshaw!] Really, there is nothing wrong with going that far—even more so now that we know that the true boundary is above it. I had expected to stop at the new boundary line today, but decided not to risk a contentious exchange with The Authorities.

I paid my respects at the line before dropping the short distance to the downhill side of the lower pair of “No trespassing” signs—shortly before said ranger reappeared. She couldn't fault us, but still felt compelled to warn us about respecting private property, the “rough” nature of the locals, etc., etc. She continued down the hill and stopped again, out of sight, evidently waiting to confirm that we were heading down (not up). She continued to hover, shadowing us to the gate and watching us leave.

We're not the vandals who spray graffiti on the pavement. We're not the criminals who cultivate weed in the hills. Hooligans in spandex, we are; riding our bikes up the crumbling pavement because ... we can.

Used about 1400 Calories climbing some 3,695 feet over thirty miles. There's another piece of apple pie with my name on it.

Urban Wilderness

Looking at this dreamscape, you wouldn't guess the view at your back: San Jose, the bay, all the way to San Francisco (and beyond). Following a rainy day, I expected the skies to be crystal clear—not magically misty.

Sierra Road ramps steeply at the start. Whose idea was this? [Oh, wait ... it was my idea.] It would be difficult enough without the visual intimidation factor.

We seemed to be the only cyclists climbing Sierra today; that's a first. Birds were chirping, cattle were lowing, sirens were wailing. Sirens? Evidently some emergency was unfolding in the urbanized world below us. I began to wonder if they were heading up the hill after us, they blared for such a long time.

Until you pass the summit, you don't really leave civilization behind. Roadside litter is ever present, and the scourge of graffiti is a vivid reminder: the vandals' marks have been blacked out on the pavement, so they tag the fenceposts. It was most disheartening to see the huge tree they scarred with paint.

Trails are marked at the top, now that there is a parking lot for the Sierra Vista Open Space Preserve. I snagged a brochure for a future hike. With names like “Upper Calaveras Fault Trail” and “Lower Calaveras Fault Trail,” it is easy to understand why the land is so rugged.

More than 2,100 feet of climbing over 17 miles: a tidy sum.

Stayin' Alive, Take Two

The first thing I noted about riding my trusty little Strida in the rain was that the fenders were less than effective. The rear fender's mud flap was lost some time ago, but tonight I was getting sprayed from the front. [Upon later inspection, it appears that the pliable plastic fender is somewhat warped to one side.]

I regretted not biking to work yesterday, when the threatened rain never quite made it over the coastal hills. Given that the roads were wet this morning, I opted to ride the commuter shuttle instead of making a mess of the commute bike. With a 50% chance of evening rain, I took a chance and chose the Strida over striding to the bus stop.

I lost the bet. [Ah, well. Once you're wet, you're wet.] It's only 1.6 miles.

I could shave the trip to 1.2 miles, but that requires biking on a busy local thoroughfare: mostly two lanes in each direction, separated by a median. The problem with that route are all the distractions. My bike is well-lit, but I'm a small fish swimming in a sea of bright lights: signs for businesses, traffic signals, pedestrian signals, street lights, vehicle lights.

The longer route is safer: it passes mostly through residential neighborhoods. In the darkness, I stand out: reflectors on wheels, pedals, and rear rack, reflective sidewalls on my tires, a reflective stripe down the front of the bike, reflective stripes on my messenger bag. Of course, none of that counts until some light source bounces back. So, I have a blinking white light on my handlebar. Two more blazing lights will encourage you to avert your gaze: a blinking red taillight (35 lumens) mounted on the rear rack, and a powerful headlight mounted on my helmet. Motorists give me a lot of space, at night. If they see me.

I watched the car heading through the church's parking lot, toward the exit. In self-defense, I slowed my pace and focused. I was the only moving thing on the street. In the bike lane.

She's not looking.

She's not looking.

She's not going to stop.

This is how cyclists die.

The driver pulled out directly across my path, making a left turn while staring exclusively to her right. She didn't even glance to her left until she was into the street, shocked [I can only imagine] by 400 lumens in her face. At close range.

Disc brakes, in the rain, for the win. They stopped the bike.

After I took a deep breath and resumed pedaling, I heard:

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.

She had stopped her car down the street and lowered the window to call out an apology.

I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry that the State of California saw fit to award you a driver's license.

Girlfriends

Some people prefer to bike with their club. Some people prefer to bike with their friends. [Do both, I say!]

The ride calendar offered many choices. Long rides. Fast rides. I needed a just-right ride.

I knew that one of my regular ride buddies would join me; beyond that, you never know who will show up.

Surprise! We had an unexpected five-girl outing.

“Don't wait for us, we may not go all the way to the top,” two of them cautioned. [They insist that I'm a fast rider.]

A Sunday morning ride can be especially quiet. We spotted a flock of turkeys in a field, then encountered a fine buck standing his ground in the middle of the road. He proved camera-shy when we stopped to admire him. The local does were more skittish.

Ten does, five women, 18 miles, and 1,900 feet of climbing. Everyone made it to the top, with cheers and congratulations.

101

Not the freeway (U.S. Highway 101).

Not an academic course number (though “Commuting 101” would fit).

Number of trips to the office by bicycle this year, as of today: 101.

Most trips involved returning home by bicycle, but since we reverted to Standard Time I rely on a commuter shuttle for most of the evening trip. [Less than two miles in the dark, versus twenty.]

Most trips are routine, but there have been some memorable moments in those 3,500 miles.

In the past few weeks, I surprised a covey of California quail crossing a road: one ran, the others actually took flight!

I have ridden from sunshine into ground fog so thick I couldn't see either end of a bridge from its center.

When I take the scenic morning route through the park, I can expect to thread my way through a flock of coots.

I had a close call with an idiot on a heavy electric bike who rounded a corner at speed into the bike lane. He didn't even glance to his left, much less heed the stop sign. [At the next traffic light, I gave him a piece of my mind.]

My Squirrel Scare Tactic elicited a “Nice trick!” compliment from a nearby cyclist. “Tsssss!” I hiss, loudly. This reliably sends the pesky rodent running, at warp speed, in the opposite direction. [Try it!]

For those increasingly common electrified pests ... an AirZound, perhaps?

WLOD

An historic day in the annals of Bay Area cycling: With permission, our Low-Key Hillclimbers finished at the highest accessible point on Mount Umunhum—the fabled White Line Of Death.

There are clear “No Trespassing” signs planted below the line, which marks a border between the Sierra Azul Open Space Preserve and private property. The “line” itself is a broad stripe across the pavement, plainly visible in satellite images. The white is aging to gray, but it's definitively edged in red.

I have climbed to the line before, but always felt uneasy about lingering. The view is better lower down, anyway. (The best view would be at the top, but we can't go there ... yet.) My volunteer post today was at the line, affording ample time for some amateur archaeology before the first cyclists arrived. Till now, I had never noticed the fading messages broadly stenciled in red on the white background.

The oldest warning was “NO TRESPASSING,” the paint now barely discernible. Subsequent additions included “NO HIKERS” and “NO BIKES,” accompanied by an image of a bicycle with a giant “X” through it. It takes some careful study to see all of that, but it's there. For now.

There is a brand-new parking lot (and pit toilets) at the trailhead for Bald Mountain, but the gate controlling access to the upper road is still in place. And locked. Except for today, when we were fortunate that a landowner opened it and granted the bicycles free passage up the road to The Line—no need for riders to dismount and thread through the narrow pedestrian opening.

It turns out that the area was recently re-surveyed, as work progresses toward opening the top of the mountain for public access, and the actual property line is a bit higher up the hill. [Bwa-ha-ha.] The signs will move, and perhaps a new white line will be painted. The original WLOD will disappear sooner (if they choose to black it out) or later (when they resurface the road, someday).

Today, it marked the finish for 119 cyclists tackling one of the toughest-rated hill climbs in the Bay Area.

Take a Hike

So many trails, so little time. Local parks, county parks, state parks, national parks, and open space preserves—oh, my! We grumble about Bay Area traffic and population density, but we are consoled with an abundance of wild land to visit. Each year, the acreage tends to expand when another generous landowner chooses preservation over development.

Biking on back roads, I pass the occasional remote trailhead begging to be explored. Some sites mock the would-be hiker, offering no nearby parking. Others might have space for one or two vehicles.

In the company of some well-seasoned trekkers, I was introduced to one of these special places along Black Road today—the John Nicholas Trail in Sanborn County Park, including a portion of its newest segment.

A Great Blue Heron ruled the Lake Ranch Reservoir—what was left of it, anyway. Signs that prohibit boating and swimming seemed, well ... beside the point. Above the reservoir, we climbed more switchbacks through the forest, turning back after 90 minutes to cover seven miles in our three allotted hours.

We didn't quite make it to some promised boulders and vistas. [I was slower than the main group. Big surprise.] Save it for another day.

My Buddy Cameron

October 18, 2014
The day that shall ever be known as:

The Day I Passed George Hincapie 

On a bicycle. At speed.

There was a price to be paid for this, and that was the price of a crash. [More about that in a bit.]

I had a special opportunity to ride a second time for Best Buddies this year, and so I found myself in Washington, D.C., staging with the rest of the pack near the base of the Washington Monument before dawn on a loaner Cannondale bicycle.

We rolled out and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, paced by a lead car at a nominal 12 mph. They told us that the roads would be closed for us for the first 10 miles. They didn't tell us that one of the first roads was under construction.

It was a small group, and the pack was spread out. I made a turn onto a surface that was prepared for paving, ground down and rough. The lane to my right was paved. In the pre-dawn light and pre-dawn brain fog, I decided to cut over to that lane.

Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea. The edge of the fresh pavement was too high and my angle of approach too shallow. My front wheel caught the lip and I was summarily slammed to the ground. Before I could get up, a second rider mirrored my mistake 20 yards ahead.

Shouts rang out. “Rider down! Rider down! Another one!”

As luck would have it, the Narrative Clip affixed to the back of my helmet captured the scene a few seconds before I crashed.

“Are you okay?” At least three guys stopped to help; a medic confirmed that I didn't need his attention. A tall rider in full Cannondale kit took charge (Cameron Wurf). My cell phone and water bottle having skittered away, it was the proverbial yard sale. My body cushioned the bike; apart from scuffing the tape at the end of the bar and dropping the chain, the bike was unscathed. My body fared less well: one shredded arm warmer and skinned elbow, a few scrapes, and ribs that would hurt more as the day progressed. Bruises would appear later, but nothing was broken.

I climbed back onto the bike. The pack was long out of sight. “They won't wait for us,” Cameron said. “Do you mind if I push you?” With his hand on my back, we were off in side-by-side tandem. I was pedaling moderately hard and he was hardly breathing. “I wish I had a power meter on this bike!” he said with a laugh. He related a story from a (fallen) European pro, who had said this is what it feels like to be on EPO. [Being pushed.] Wow. We were moving, soon reeling in the stragglers. When the back of the pack was in sight, I thanked Cameron, expecting him to pull off.

“I want to get you to the front,” he insisted. We passed some guys who knew him. “Hey! She's helping you! That's cheating!” they joked.

The closer we got to the front, the more tightly packed were the riders. I can ride in a pack, and Cameron has experience in the peleton, but these were riders of unknown provenance. “On your left!” I called out as we whirred past.

How did Cameron, who started the day at the front, end up behind me in the first place? [Evidently, he crashed, too.] And when he said he wanted to deliver me to the front, he meant The Front.

As we edged into the gap between the pace car and the lead riders, George Hincapie was at my right elbow and then ... he was somewhere behind me.

Those early miles through D.C. and along the eastern shore of the Potomac were a blur. I lost any advantage at the first rest stop when I visited the medical tent for some attention to my raw elbow.

Before mile 20, the bike's bottom bracket was making a racket. It sounded like a loose ball bearing clattering inside with every turn of the crank. [Ugh.] Would I have to abandon? I wasn't confident that a quick repair was possible, and the time lost would force me to be sagged forward. I soldiered on, and for much of the ride the errant ball settled into some happy place and fell silent.

By mile 30, the wind became a factor. It was blowing hard from the west—the general direction for today's adventure. My ribs hurt on the side that took the impact. I had been nonchalant about this century, which involved less climbing than September's. What was I thinking? The prospect of another 70 miles of rolling hills suddenly seemed daunting. I kept going.

Without a cycle computer, I had no way to judge my speed. Without a route map, I had only the yellow signs along the course to follow. My sole reference points were placards at each 10-mile mark, and the rest stops. I calibrated my effort by my heart rate and cursed the headwind. I couldn't drink while riding—the impact of the crash had shattered the hard plastic lid of my water bottle.

By mile 50, I calculated that I was flirting with the edge of the ride's 4 p.m. cut-off time. If you were still on the course at that time, the broom wagon would sweep you up (and drop you off near the finish, so you could ride ceremoniously across the line).

The course rolled along back roads through the woods of Maryland and Virginia. Autumn was changing the color of some leaves, but the theme of the day was green—an unfamiliar sight for those of us visiting from parched California. There were vast green lawns, meticulously trimmed in patterns by men on riding mowers. You don't see acreage like that in the West unless it's a ranch.

By mile 70, I was winning the endurance game. Few riders had chosen the 100-mile route, and they were mostly the fast guys. There weren't many fading riders on the course for me to catch, but I did pass some. A couple of ride officials trailed me at a courteous distance, but I got a gap when one flatted. SAG vehicles cruised by, some loaded with bikes and riders.

When I reached the W&OD trail around mile 89, I knew I was golden. I would follow this for some 10 miles, turning off close to the finish. The broom wagon couldn't touch me now! I relaxed.

I crossed the line at Morven Park around 4:30 p.m. The announcer was there to greet me. “She crashed in the first mile,” he explained to the people standing nearby. “Where's my buddy Cameron?” I asked. “He's been worried about you. I'll find him for you. You need a hot shower. Right now!” he commanded, assessing the chilled bare skin alongside my knee.

101 miles and some 4,560 feet of climbing, approximately 3500 Calories burned (and fewer consumed).

My buddy, I expect, had left the party hours before I arrived.

Thanks, Cameron, for one of my top ten moments on a bicycle.

DC

Where in the world is pep?

Not California—someplace green. A city with mass transit that works: Minutes from the airport to my hotel downtown. A city surprisingly popular with cyclists, with a robust bike-sharing program. A city with walk signals timed to allow a full 60 seconds to cross a street.

A city of monuments: Our nation's capitol, Washington, D.C.

Given the opportunity to bike another 100 miles for Best Buddies, I packed my bags and headed east. I spotted the staging area from the air as our plane descended past the Washington Monument. From the hotel, it was a comfortable walk to check in and get fitted on the loaner Cannondale I'd ride tomorrow.

In the late afternoon light, the walls of the Smithsonian's Castle were redder than red. I haven't visited D.C. in more than a decade, and now I regretted that I didn't have some time to be a tourist.

Hunting and Gathering

It wasn't all about the bike today. Instead, we were on a treasure hunt of sorts—traveling from one spot to another for a multi-course meal. Each rider contributed a dish: appetizer, salad/side, or dessert. The club provided an assortment of dishes for the main course: ham, turkey, lasagne, green beans, corn.

The route for this annual progressive dinner changes a bit each year. After dropping off your contribution at a central location, you pick up a route sheet and pedal on to reach each location at the right time.

Turnout seemed a bit lower this year, perhaps because it was another hot day. Those who normally stick to the flat routes were surprised by a bit of a climb to earn their salads. Perched high on the hillside, we could peer down through the trees to a popular trail along the creek and the busy highway below us.

The last stop always presents a challenge. The desserts are set out in waves: If you're too eager about the first wave, you might not have room for something special from the next ... like the cake with burnt almond frosting emblazoned with the name of our club.

I covered 38 miles with a scant 1000 feet of climbing—about the same as a normal round-trip commute day. Unlike a normal commute day, I was not calorie-neutral ... not even close. [Yum.]