Mainau

Transition day: we left Ramsen and headed for our next home base, in Lindau, Germany. For this tour, we often have a choice of routes—short or long. As much as I might prefer the longer adventures, my pace dictates the shorter route.

The day started with a light drizzle of rain. The German border was marked on this back road with the traditional yellow and black sign featuring the Bundesadler.

“Look at that crane!” a rider called out. There was a giant construction crane in the distance, nothing remarkable about that ... but he was pointing to the nearby field. “Oh, it's a stork!” I explained.

Somehow I didn't get the memo that our leader had dictated yet a third route for today, which our group had marked on their paper map. When we reached a point of uncertainty, I would have continued on the originally planned route, but the others were intent on the new route. Once I was certain it would still lead us to the island of Mainau, I settled in.

Because I was certain that I would visit Mainau—with or without the others. There is a tension for me between being a team player (riding with the group) and fully enjoying the sights.

Before we reached the island, I politely mentioned (several times) that if the others didn't want to tour the gardens, I wouldn't mind; I would find my way to Lindau. Solo.

We would need to travel, by boat, across Lake Constance to reach Lindau. Those who preferred an afternoon on the lake to an afternoon on the bike could take the slow boat. Conveniently, we'd been told there were boats leaving directly from Mainau.

Inconveniently, we discovered that we could not take our bikes across the bridge to the island. Four people, four bikes, and one lock (mine). I was able to thread the cable through three of the frames so we could all warm up with treats in the café. And, much as I had expected, the others decided to skip the island and continued on their way.

I strolled through the gardens at a leisurely pace, covering about three miles. I never imagined that rose bushes could grow so large.

I watched children rafting around on a playground that would simply not exist in the US. [Can you say, “liability?”] There was also some unexpected history, a memorial for 35 French former prisoners of Dachau who died at a hospital here after being liberated from the concentration camp in 1945.

The timing for this visit was not optimal; spring flowers were being torn out, and the full effect of the more dramatic features was muted because the plantings were too new. I had a proper lunch, checked the boat schedule and ... uh oh, time to get moving.

I thought the slow boat option might be fun, and it would certainly eliminate the need to navigate alone to Lindau. Unfortunately, the slow boat would be ... really slow. It would take as much time, or more, as I'd need to bike it.

By now I had come to appreciate the ever-present directional signs on the trails. I knew I wasn't far from the harbor, and the arrow toward Konstanz included an icon of a boat.

I didn't know that the sign would lead me to the ferry terminal—the passenger boats docked elsewhere.

No problem. I could take the ferry to Meersburg and bike it. There would be bike route signs; I'd just need to follow the signs from one town to the next, until I reached Lindau.

Friedrichshafen, 19 km—that's the right direction. (And I could check my progress, and whereabouts, from time to time on my phone.)

After 54 miles and 1,142 feet of climbing, I rounded a corner and stepped off the road upon reaching Lindau Island. Now I could tap my phone to navigate to the hotel ... which, as it happened, was right across the street. [Dumb luck.]

Stein am Rhein

The summer sun sets late, this far north. At dinner, one of our hosts proposed a quick excursion to the nearby town of Stein am Rhein. Most of the group had explored the town the day we arrived in Ramsen, but two of us had missed the chance.

One of the guys in our group, when asked, had characterized it as “a cutesy town.” Which (seriously) does not do it justice.

With the shops closed and tourists dispersed, it was a rare opportunity to have the old town nearly to ourselves.

We learned that the deep red hue of the exposed beams in this style of building was originally a consequence of the oxblood used to preserve the wood (nowadays, they're painted).

The elaborate frescoes on the buildings depict the trades, or tell stories.

One could only wonder what inspired the panel showing Diogenes, in his ceramic jar, confronting Alexander the Great.

I would have regretted missing this historic place; I've never seen anything like it. And this visit, though brief, offered some consolation for the day's earlier disappointments.

Engen

There was a general plan for today's route, but some details were known only to our leader. A visit to the town of Engen. A steep climb to the what's left of a castle.

It was a long day.

We stopped at a café (Jägermühle an der Aachquelle) alongside the Aachtopf, where I was delighted to enjoy a slice of laktosefrei cheesecake. That's a treat I've not seen before, and something I certainly wouldn't expect to find in a small-town bakery/café. The Aachtopf feeds a tributary of the Rhine, the Radolfzeller Aach. I was fascinated by an adjacent covered bridge with some sort of apparatus for managing the water's flow.

Our little group was strung out as we approached Engen, each following the rider ahead, when somehow, somewhere, the number two rider lost sight of the leader. The rest of us followed blithely along—for miles—before stopping to admit that he was certainly not ahead of us. He must have taken a turn that he assumed we would take ... but we didn't.

The other folks in the group were veterans of these European tours, well-versed in navigating with paper maps. But a paper map can't tell you where you are, unless it's detailed enough and you're standing at some recognizable spot. I pulled out my phone, opened Ride with GPS, and pressed "Show My Location." A blue dot confirmed that we were well off the planned route, having continued too far along the bike path.

The next question was: what to do? My preference was to head back, re-join the route, and continue on our way. We had already lost a lot of time, and I was looking forward to exploring the remains of that medieval castle (Hohenhewen). Our leader didn't answer his phone.

The others kept trying to call. When we reached the turning point (so close to the castle!), they made contact with the leader's wife, who told us he was waiting for us in Engen, which we had passed many miles ago. The rest of the group wanted to find him. I reluctantly agreed, because it seemed better for us to stick together.

“He's waiting at the highest point in the town,” she said. [We didn't find him.] We waited there. We split up, scouring the old town on bike and on foot. [We didn't find him.] Not surprisingly, he had given up on us by then and had left.

Having lost too much time, we could not visit the promised castle. I studied the detailed map on my phone to find a sensible route back to Ramsen. [Thank you, Google Maps.] A complicated confluence of streets in Gottmadingen confused me and I led the group astray, but we were able to loop back and navigated it more successfully on the second try. [I was carefully upholding that tradition of getting lost.]

Hungry, we stopped at a market near Hilzingen. I picked up two rolls, a package of sliced salami, a peach, and a chocolate bar for €3.24. [That will be the cheapest meal of this trip.]

Several mistakes were made today. When he mentioned that we would stop at Engen, our leader assumed we understood that meant the old part of the town. This visit was not on the pre-planned route, so once we lost him, we couldn't guess where to find him. The critical error was that he made a turn without ensuring that we were still with him. Then we rode much too far before accepting that we had lost him.

I was disappointed to miss the main attraction, the ruins of the castle. Had I been alone, that's where I would have headed. Instead, I saw the hill only from a distance.

Still, it was a good day of riding (40 miles, with a scant 1,400 feet of climbing), with only a touch of rain.

Rheinfall / Blumberg

The church tower is right outside my hotel window and fortunately, the bell is silent at night. This morning, the ringing roused the roosters. No matter, we'd be getting an early start anyway. I've traveled with most of the folks in our group before, but there are a few faces new to me—including a couple who ride at my (slower) pace.

Accommodations for cyclists are not an afterthought, here; they are by design. If there is a bicycle lane on the roadway, you might find it only on the uphill side (which makes sense).

Separated, paved bike paths commonly parallel busier roads. The border between Switzerland and Germany is very irregular in this area, and often imperceptible on a bike. The rolling farmland reminded me of rural places in the Bay Area—except that, here, the hills are oh-so-green.

The first attraction on today's loop was the fast-moving waters of the Rheinfall. Splashing, misting, tumbling over rocks—water, cool, beautiful water. That did not remind me of the parched Bay Area, with our extended drought.

Our intermediate destination was the town of Weizen in Germany, where we would hop on a steam train (bicycles and all) for a scenic little trip. We followed a dirt trail alongside the tracks at the edge of the woodland to the station. The tracks appeared unused until we reached Weizen, where some incongruous corporate office buildings popped up seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

All aboard! We lifted our bikes into a separate car and found our places on the wooden seats. The train criss-crossed the valley, heading circuitously uphill to the town of Blumberg. We passed through an area where a tornado (?!) had leveled whole sections of the forest three weeks ago.

For this year's tour, our leader had shared the daily route plans in advance. Garmin aficionados had loaded them into their devices, and I had worked out a similar solution for my smartphone. A subscription to Ride with GPS allowed me to pre-load the routes and save them on the phone, along with all the underlying map details—perfect not only to minimize the use of cellular data, but to ensure I'd have it all even if my phone had no signal.

That's how I knew our leader had not shared a plan for returning to our hotel in Ramsen. But I also knew that somehow, it would work out. The faster cyclists relied on their Garmin devices to plot a route. The slow pokes stayed with the leader (and, took turns making sure no one was dropped). For much of the return, we followed the river Biber; as we approached Ramsen, I recognized some of the territory I'd explored on my test ride.

Country roads here are often unmarked; when there is a sign, it typically points to the next town (and maybe includes the distance). The roads can also be quite narrow, and it's not surprising to meet the occasional farmer on a tractor. At one point, I assumed we were on a bike trail when ... along came a bus (!) in the opposite direction.

We biked 51 miles, climbing more than 1,800 feet along our route. Having been off the bike for essentially the past two months, I have a lot of catching up to do. [Literally.]

Ramsen

Our tour begins in the town of Ramsen, where we're staying at a “velohotel.”

What is a velohotel, you ask?

It's a hotel that understands what cyclists need, and accommodates us. Typically that means a safe place to stash our bikes, maybe with a floor pump and some basic tools. Here, we have a bonus: A backyard with a clothesline, outfitted with clips. Post-ride laundry will dry in no time!

Some cyclists of note have preceded us at the Hotel Hirschen Ramsen. Team Leopard Trek stayed here in June, 2011 during the Tour de Suisse—including two pros I regard highly, Jens Voigt and Swiss champion Fabian Cancellara. A framed, hand-written thank you letter hangs in a hallway, and I recognized all the names, primarily from watching Le Tour de France.

First order of business today was to reassemble my bicycle. With time to explore the town on foot, I learned that the church dates back to 1796, but the congregation was established in the 13th century. The graves in the churchyard were carpeted with flowers and so well tended that one neglected plot made me feel sad; I couldn't walk away without pulling the weeds.

Next order of business: a test ride. In my street clothes, I blended right in with the locals. I didn't plan to to venture far, especially in the heat (88F degrees). Once I was on the bike, of course, I didn't want to stop.

The German border was just a couple of blocks away, but I headed out through the fields and skirted through some woodland, nearly to the banks of the Rhine. Exploring the unmarked local roads without a map, I was careful to note landmarks along the way. The tower of the town's church would guide the way home.

I turned back to darkening skies; the wind picked up just as I rolled into town, but the storms passed us by.

Zürich

Traveling with a bicycle, it's generally advisable to arrive a day or two before you expect to start riding. I've been fortunate in that (so far) my bike has not been delayed. Taking a direct flight also reduces chances for your bike to go astray.

Staying in a hotel near Zürich International, I was surprised to discover signs pointing cyclists (and inline skaters, and pedestrians) on a route to the airport. Things are different, here.

Other than visiting colleagues at the office for lunch and a tour, I had no real plan for the day.

Even though I don't speak German (sadly, not even a little bit), I wasn't concerned. Past excursions in Europe have built my confidence; you can get by pretty well with gestures and a smile, help from Google Translate, and ... lots of Europeans know some English (and are accustomed to mono-languaged tourists).

Google Maps helped me navigate by train (and foot) to the office. At last, I met some people I'd only seen on video screens. They were excited to recommend sights to see, and the sweeping view from an upper-floor lounge helped orient me.

I wandered off to explore the old part of town, generally surprised by the amount of construction everywhere. And cigarette smokers (everywhere). And, bicycles! Everywhere! The Velostation at the main train station offers secure bike parking and minor services. There were so many bikes on the racks alongside the station that I couldn't capture them in a single photo. (And there were more parked around the corner, in front of the station.)

Two passions in one picture: Am I a magnet, or what?

There were too many options for me to explore in one day, especially with jet lag creeping over me. I managed to cover more than seven miles, on foot. I figured out the routine at the post office, and a friendly clerk found pretty stamps for my cards.

I stumbled upon Predigerkirche at a lucky time: the massive pipe organ was getting a workout—it was almost too loud. What sound! I visited the Wasserkirche, strolled down to the lake and crossed the Limmat for another view of the Wasserkirche and the iconic towers of the Grossmünster.

The Zeughauskeller had been recommended for dinner, along with a less-touristy option. I went with the former, uncertain how I would fare at a smaller place without speaking German. Normally I would have tried to master some basics before the trip, but the past couple of months just didn't allow that.

At the train station, I was too weak to pass the Sprüngli shop ... nothing that chocolate couldn't cure, of course. The box itself was an engineering marvel, perfectly designed to hold my treat just so.

Not to worry, I'll burn off those calories in the next few days.

Tomorrow, I'll join the rest of the group in the countryside.

One Hill to Climb

It's been a topsy-turvy couple of months, with little time for cycling. A couple of bike commutes, that's all.

The more I thought about today's club ride, the more I admitted that I needed to scale it back. Way back. Not just due to lack of fitness, but to conserve a most precious resource: time. In a few days, with mixed emotions, I will be on a jet bound for Zürich and a long-planned summer cycling trip. A trip that had been off-again, on-again so many times over the past two months.

My ride partner and I started our route near the new elementary school in the hills. The site is virtually on the San Andreas fault, and when the town said it was too costly to renovate (or rebuild) to modern safety standards, the mountain residents raised a ruckus. And got the new school they deserved.

Just one hill, nothing more or less. Up through the redwoods, and back. Ten miles, 1,080 feet of climbing.

Remembering Mom

The inevitable day comes, when mother and child must part forever.

Two months ago, Mom was tottering about independently at home. Her memory was spotty and the family was wary, but she was determined to live her life on her terms (and frightened of the alternatives).

None of us had a clue that really, she was terribly ill.

One month ago, she was in sub-acute care and we were exploring those alternatives. Assisted living ... with memory care now, or in the future?

Two weeks ago, she was in the hospital and we were preparing to move her to a nursing home (her worst nightmare). She was upset that her fingernails were a mess—she loved her manicures. I did my best to trim and file them.

Four days ago, we placed her in hospice care. I did my best to hold her when she cried, and not to break down at the same time. Once, she managed to lift an arm, reaching to comfort me back. How not to break down, then?

This afternoon, I was standing over her when she suddenly opened her blue eyes wide. Could she know, then, that she wasn't alone?

Tonight, I was stroking her hair when she took her last breath.

I regret not having more photos of the two of us, sharing good times.

Of carefree days at the beach: Dad would meet us there, after work. He'd wear his bathing trunks under his suit and pick up a barbecued chicken for a picnic supper.


Of Scrabble games: Mom couldn't keep score last December and tired after two games, but she still played some darned good words. The words—not the numbers—were the challenge, for us. How many hundreds of boards did we fill, over all these years of my life? She never minded that I outscored her virtually every time.

Of trips we took together: Florida. California. Thanksgiving weekend in Manhattan. England. There was such joy in her smile.

If you don't have an advance directive or a living will—or whatever it's called where you live—you should. (Mom did.) She didn't want to live with dementia, or to linger in a nursing home for years. Her last days were not without suffering, but that time was mercifully short.

Now, there are only memories.

In the Moment

A day of reflection was needed, and at such times I'm drawn to the sea.

The overcast sky suited my frame of mind. I would spend much of the day outdoors, but first headed to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I normally visit for member events, when the crowds will be sparse. On this Sunday morning, the place was bustling with families and I enjoyed that more than I expected. The kids put every interactive exhibit through its paces, and then some. I pointed out some of the well-camouflaged creatures tucked away in tanks that jaded adults concluded were empty. I learned that the residents of the aviary are all rescued and rehabilitated shore birds that can no longer survive in the wild.

I noticed a panel featuring a quote attributed to Francis Bacon:

We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand—and melting like a snowflake.

I ambled slowly southward through Pacific Grove, along the promenade. Harbor seals lounged on a beach, some nursing their pups. One hapless little one would advance a few feet from the water's edge, only to be rolled and pulled back by the next wave's advance.

I read about the signature “magic carpet,” Drosoanthemum floribundum, in glorious trailside bloom. It's an ice plant native to South Africa, tended here by volunteers, and a legacy of the first volunteer, a curious adventurer named Hayes Perkins, who planted it. The promenade passes through the eponymous Perkins Park, dotted with benches dedicated to others who found solace in this place.

Later, I would find the preamble to Bacon's quote.

Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity.

Movin'

Last year was The Year of the Dog; this, The Year of the Turkey Vulture. The bird was occupied with some delectable piece of carrion and none too concerned with us. It was pure chance that my ride buddies and I had stopped nearby.

This was the coldest Tierra Bella pre-ride I can remember. I regretted not having insulated my head and toes. “If the Tierra Bella is next week, why are you all riding today?“ asked a cyclist on the opposite side of the road. When we explained that we ride the course to check the markings and look for any problems, he thanked us. With any luck, we'll get that spray of broken glass and pulverized bits of car on the shoulder of Highway 152 cleaned up.

Given our extended drought, I have been surprised at the abundant wildflowers this spring. It was a banner year for the oaks to produce acorns, too.

Canada Road offers a swift descent to the valley, with some care. One sweeping arc, in particular, tends to catch some cyclists unprepared. I tapped the brakes to keep the new bike from getting carried away. My rear-view mirror allowed me to keep an eye on a wide SUV that was trailing me at a distance. The gap would shrink whenever the road tilted up or straightened out, but once we hit the curves I had the advantage. Reaching a long straight stretch, I sat up and slowed to let it pass.

The driver pulled even with me and matched my speed. Mountain bikes on the rear rack, windows down. “You were movin'!” the passenger exclaimed. “Yes,” I smiled. “It's fast.” Curious about where we were headed, I told them about the upcoming Tierra Bella.

Starting and finishing at the site of our post-ride barbecue, we cut the 100k route a bit short: 55 miles, with 2,260 feet of climbing.

Flat, essentially.

Coe Coasting

Not too hot. Not too cold. Not too windy. Green hills and wildflowers in abundance. Thomas Grade seemed steeper, and the steep grade on East Dunne seemed shorter.

My ride buddy turned back at some point on the hill below me, so I talked to the deer and cattle along the way. Hawks soared overhead and a lone turkey ambled across the road, in no particular hurry.

Other riders from the group were enjoying Henry Coe's picnic tables by the time I got there. Our club members are phenomenal. One guy pulled a full sack of fresh oranges from his pack. He'd stopped at a roadside stand and hauled them up the hill to share with all of us! He was out for an epic 100-mile day (or more), whereas I  had shortened the ride a bit (29 miles with 3,500 feet of climbing).

I was looking forward to the descent. With its wide, smooth pavement and no cross streets, I would be able to let the new bike roll in the final stretch. My peak speed there has been constant over the years.

Until today, when I was 10% faster.

Drive the Track

Strolling back to the car, past the trailers and canopies and motorheads in the paddock, I overheard a couple of guys remarking about the “gray-haired old lady at track day.”

There were quite a few groups at the racetrack; in our group, I was the only woman. [Whatever.] I work in high-tech, I'm used to it. The assumptions that greet gray hair are less familiar. The local grocery store started giving me the senior discount almost six years ago—which I found highly amusing, that being the year I completed all five passes in the Death Ride. (And I still don't qualify for that discount.)

The ‘A’ group (beginners) started the day with an orientation about flags and protocols, then moved to the parking lot and executed some drills. Accelerate and brake hard. Really hard. Accelerate, brake hard, and turn. Trace a tight figure-eight through a course marked by cones. Pretty impressive what the car can do, when pushed. Hard.

Our coaches drove the first two laps around the track, pointing out the flag stations and other highlights. Then we traded seats. I had made the right call two weeks ago, to bike Laguna Seca first.

At the end of the day, I told my coach I couldn't do what he did—be a passenger in a car being driven (fast) by a complete stranger who has no prior track experience.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

Whenever you drive, there's a lot going on, and you cope without conscious thought much of the time. On the track, little is familiar: flags to understand (and watch for), passing zones and protocols, tricky curves—all that, plus the concentration needed to snake your way around the course. At whatever speed you find comfortable.

In the morning, for me, that speed was not particularly fast. When I'd get to a straight section, I was so relieved to have negotiated the previous turns without incident that I would just ... relax. I got plenty of practice doing “point-bys”—signaling to drivers behind me that they could pass.

After lunch, I was treated to a demo ride in a coach's car. It could not have been more fitting that it was a red 1990 Mazda Miata. (Until a few years ago, I owned one.) Those three laps were a rip-roaring good time. And then, I got it:

Just because I'm in a designated passing zone doesn't mean I have to surrender.

Photo credit: Dito Milian, gotbluemilk.com

On my first lap after lunch, I rounded Turn 11, downshifted, and let the car to do what it was engineered to do. [Go fast. Really fast.] “Where did my ‘A’ driver go?” laughed my coach. It was my turn to do some passing. Keeping my lead on the straights compensated for my imperfect line on the curves; by the time the others were on my tail, we were approaching Turn 11 again ... and they didn't stand a chance.

Jan and Dean, they got it.