Rockin' the Castle

I remember the first Earth Day. I was just a kid, but I helped haul trash out of the marshy woodland near our school, former cranberry bogs gone native. I was inspired to haul more trash out of the wooded area near my home, too.

Spend any time on the road, especially on a bicycle, and the popular dumping grounds become all too familiar. In the local neighborhood, it's small scale: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappings, bottles and cans. Get out of town, though, and there is so much more. I think of one area along Sierra Road as “The Valley of the Appliances:” washers, dryers, you name it.

I can only wonder how it all got there. I mean, if you're hauling it in the first place, why don't you just haul it to the dump? [Yes, I know. Because then you'd have to pay a disposal fee.]

My assignment today was to lead a group of colleagues for a few workday hours in the wild: Hard labor in Castle Rock State Park, on behalf of the Portola and Castle Rock Foundation.

One group would stay in the parking lot and repaint the trim on the entrance kiosk. Light duty.

Another group would hike to the Castle Rock Falls overlook and paint the railing. Beautiful view.

The third, and largest, contingent was needed to haul junk out of the creek in a not-yet-opened section of the park.

Guess which group I joined? [Hint: I'm not much for painting.]

This new tract was formerly a Christmas tree farm. Oh, the allure of exploring non-public territory, legally!

Down the hill we tromped, past the stumps of logged redwoods and one particularly massive Douglas fir. Old growth.

Of course we went down the hill, because that's where you find a creek. [And poison oak. Though I managed to emerge unscathed.]

Down means we'd be hauling the junk back up the hill. Cardio workout!

Tires. There are always tires. That's easy to understand; they roll.

Pipes, tubes, rusted wire mesh, fence posts, orange plastic netting, a traffic cone. Three lengths of narrow PVC piping encasing three heavy-gauge insulated wires. A sealed bucket full of white paint.

Really, what is all this stuff? And why is it here?

The grand prize was an unwieldy corrugated metal panel, as big as a garage door, but heavier. Down an embankment. (Of course.)

I love engineers. How best to move that behemoth called for brains as well as brawn. Pipes and shovels were pressed into service as levers, and with coordinated effort (and coordinated grunting), the panel was heaved up the hill. About six inches at a time. More importantly, no one got hurt!

Someday I'll hike along these same trails, and I will see what others cannot: The ghost of Christmases past.

Sunday Friends

During June, my employer lays out a month-long smorgasbord of community volunteering, around the globe. Most of these opportunities are scheduled during the workday, and we are generously given the time to participate.

I signed up to lead a project for the fifth year in a row, and that will happen later this week.

Then my coworkers organized a group for a different project, so I doubled down (as a regular volunteer, also this week).

And then the word came out that a few projects were in jeopardy because no one had offered to lead them.

That, I could not abide. Our local non-profits are counting on us. I surveyed the list, and regrettably ruled out one after another.

With one exception: It would be a short drive from home, on a Sunday afternoon. I just didn't have a reason not to step up.

Thus I found myself leading a small group of colleagues, along with their friends and family, volunteering outside my comfort zone: in a room packed with children (and parents), families all struggling to meet their basic needs in our community.

The stated mission of Sunday Friends is to “empower families to break the generational cycle of poverty by fostering positive development in children while educating and guiding parents to support their children's life success.”

Their approach is well-honed after two decades of service. We stepped into a room buzzing with activity: crafts and educational tasks to engage the kids, cooking and thank-you letter writing for all. There were also classes for the adults: parenting, financial literacy, English as a second language.

Our group fanned out to help where needed: tutoring, Fourth of July decorations, red-white-and-blueberry yogurt parfaits. I joined the crew working on today's hot meal, chopping onions and mincing garlic for the potato-and-red-pepper hash. Families also bring pot-luck dishes to share with all.

This program runs with a special twist: Time spent on each activity earns tickets, which can be redeemed for products at the Sunday Friends store (or banked online for future use). The store is stocked with necessities we take for granted, like household and school supplies, health and beauty products. There is also a small stock of simple toys, like stuffed animals and games. At the end of the day, every family will also go home with a bag filled with fresh produce.

For me, this was an extraordinary experience. I was apprehensive that I would be met with suspicion and resentment; instead, I found warmth and acceptance. Volunteers and families worked happily together. The room bustled with children eager (and equipped) to help with every task—even food prep. It's about pride: Pride of accomplishment. Pride of contributing to the community.

The organization's executive director (Ali) was onsite and had given our group a tour. The main room had emptied out, and I wondered if the families normally trickled away after the meal.

Not at all.

They had assembled outside to sing “Happy Birthday” to Ali; the kids had crafted a tall party hat for him. With much cheering and clapping, the crowd followed with a second joyful song, in Spanish.

I can think of no better testimonial, than that.

Remembering Bill Davis

I opened the email message and burst into tears. My heart raced, my stomach knotted. I felt sick.

The life of my friend and colleague, Bill Davis, had been ended by a reckless (likely impaired) driver.

Bill was riding his bicycle with a friend on this sunny summer Saturday in Boulder, Colorado when a woman swerved her multi-ton SUV into the bike lane and killed him.

She then fled. But she was caught. Reportedly, she has been guilty twice before: injuring someone while driving carelessly and driving while impaired. Fines, community service, and probation didn't dissuade her from doing it again.

It is unspeakably horrific to see the photo of Bill's twisted and shattered bicycle. I cannot begin to imagine this experience for his family. His three children have lost their daddy, his wife has lost the love of her life, his parents have lost their son, his siblings have lost their brother. All of us have lost a friend.

For the love of humanity, for the love of daughters and sons, wives and husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers:

Don't drive drunk.

Don't drive if you're impaired in any way, shape, or form.

If you see someone who shouldn't get behind the wheel, don't look the other way. Take their keys. Get them a ride home.

Bill Davis in his signature floppy hat, volunteering his wrenching skills for Bike to Work Day in 2008.

My Way

The gang was headed out on a long ride today, and I just couldn't get excited about it.

First, because it would be too much like my bike commute—too much riding on busy roads, though bracketed by a couple of pretty climbs.

Second, because it would be much too hot. At home this afternoon, the thermometer peaked over 95F ... in the shade. I know what it's like to feel the pavement radiating heat from below, while the sun radiates heat from above.

Why fry when I could find a cool place to ride?

Having gotten a head start, I waited for the group to arrive at the summit of the second climb. After a brief chat, my usual ride buddy saw the wisdom of my way and ditched the group to join me.

We were surprised by heavy construction deep along Stevens Canyon Road; on a Saturday, no less! One by one, they seem to be replacing all the bridges over the creek. Which kind of amazes me, for a dead-end road dotted with few homes, given the overall state of road infrastructure in the county. Just one wood-plank-topped bridge left, and probably not for long.

For our return, we had a choice to make. Direct, shaded, and steep? Or roundabout, exposed, and mellow?

Of course, we went up Redwood Gulch. For one reason or another, I haven't tackled that climb in a while. Because one can always find a reason.

My track for the day is incomplete; evidently the electronics in my phone shuddered in fear at the base of Redwood Gulch and shut down. Truth is, I covered 26 miles and climbed 2,265 feet.

As (bad) luck would have it, a motorcycle caught up to me at the first steep hairpin. I couldn't swing as wide as I wanted (oh, the pain!), but I figured he understood why I wasn't hugging the inside of that particular curve.

I paused a couple of times to get my heart rate down; I've got nothing to prove. Getting up that beast is enough. Enough.

Descending Highway 9, an SUV caught up to me. He seemed content to hang back, maybe because passing me would have involved exceeding the posted speed limit. [Seriously.]

The way home involved mixing it up with beach-bound traffic. The road to the coast isn't getting any wider, and there are so many cars. So many cars. Driven by people who believe they can save time by cutting through town, which makes it impossible for residents to get anywhere near town on hot summer weekends. Once, as I walked home from the farmers' market, a frustrated driver making slow progress called out to me. “What's happening, is there a parade?” No, I replied; the freeway is backed up, so people cut through town. Just like you. [Okay, I kept that last part to myself.]

The town is experimenting with methods to discourage this cut-through traffic, and today they closed some roads. They announced it. They posted messages on electronic signs. They made sure the closure was registered in advance with Waze.

And traffic was backed up for miles, on all the main roads heading toward town, and along the cut-through route all those drivers were certain they could still take. Instead, they found themselves parading slowly through town, looping back to the freeway they should not have left, or to the ramp they should have taken in the first place.

I'm not sure this experiment was a success. In addition to clogging all the downtown streets, traffic clogged all the feeder roads. Not that I cared—I was on my bicycle. Even walking was faster.

My way, or the highway.

High Rent Hills

Sometimes a short ride is just enough. Sometimes I actually spend a Saturday afternoon not biking. [Imagine that.]

Our little social group set out to climb into the hills above town. Before tackling the main attraction, our peerless leader took us on a couple of warm-up loops (which involved climbing, of course).

Some years ago, I visited the Testarossa Winery to hear the ever-entertaining Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen at a fund-raising event for junior cyclists. Then, unlike today, we did not cycle up to the (former) Novitiate.

Foster Road was our third climb of the day, and the most challenging. I remembered some impressive views, but had forgotten the steep price to be paid. By the homeowners, for that exclusive neighborhood. By my legs, for a short visit. I gained ground on two folks in our group, but with insufficient clearance to pass them I was forced to stop, to open enough of a gap to prevent our wheels from touching as we wobbled up the steep grade.

We tackled two more hills for good measure; after Foster, I found it surprisingly easy to reach their summits. The hard work behind us, we retired to a café where one rider regaled us with her tales of meeting the indomitable Jens Voigt.

For the day, 15 miles, 1,785 feet of climbing. Shut up, legs.

No Words

This might have been a story about another beautiful day spent cycling with friends.

A story about my uncertainty about being able to bike 53 miles and climb 5,400 feet, with tired legs and woozy head. Insufficient calories, or feeling the effects of Tuesday's blood donation?

About the friendly cyclists who chatted with me as we climbed Old La Honda.

The fox that darted across Pescadero Creek Road.

The Arcangeli Bakery that is so welcoming to cyclists they've installed a Fixit station behind their shop.

The clear view to the coast from Stage Road.

The welcome sound of water flowing again in Tunitas Creek.

The riders who will crowd this route tomorrow for a charity event.

The exuberance of young redwoods.

Normally, there is little traffic on Tunitas Creek Road. After being passed by one Highway Patrol car and two San Mateo Sheriff SUVs, I was concerned.

One of the Sheriff SUVs came back down, slowly, lights flashing. Only to turn around and return, slowly, lights flashing.

Were they searching for a fugitive? Were we in danger?

Someone has marked the road to indicate distance to the top. 10km, 9km, 8km ...

I rounded a bend and there were so many emergency vehicles it was hard to make sense of the scene.

Paramedics. Two ambulances. SUVs. Patrol cars. Many officers standing in the road.

A bicycle resting on the ground, a rider's helmet placed carefully on top.

A cyclist who, like me, had set out to enjoy a challenging ride on a beautiful day.

My thoughts turned to a poem by W. H. Auden, Musée des Beaux Arts: “ ... the sun shone as it had to ... ”

I dismounted and passed with head bowed and a heavy heart.

Before I reached Skyline, a black van eased its way down the hill.

Before I reached Skyline, there were suddenly sirens. A Sheriff SUV had flown up the hill, lights flashing. At the top, a chaotic scene. Paramedics busy with a motorcyclist on the ground.

I chose a gap and picked my way through the debris. Before crossing Skyline, I looked carefully in both directions. Then, I looked again. And again.

There are no words for a day like this.

The Newest Grads

Another school year has drawn to a close, and has traditionally been the case, the all-night party would coincide with a heat wave. Facing what was bound to be a miserable night's sleep, the solution was obvious. Run away!

The coast was foggy and cool; I found sanctuary—peace and quiet—in a hotel. Better still, on Saturday morning I would be mere minutes from the start of a special club ride: a supported metric century for the graduates of the club's “academy” for new riders. This is an impressive achievement: that after 12 weeks of instruction and progressively longer rides, these folks were ready to ride 100 km.

Although I had never joined this ride in the past, the route was familiar; much of it overlapped with the traditional Strawberry Fields Forever route (in reverse: clockwise). The first rest stop refueled us with apple strudel and strawberries before we embarked on the gentle climb along Hazel Dell. Point-and-shoot cameras struggle with the dynamic range of the redwood forest, but hopefully you get the picture.

Our next stop was Gizdich Ranch; without the crowds, we gathered in the picnic area—where I found (you guessed it!) an Aermotor that had heretofore escaped my notice. The freshly-baked olallieberry pie was still warm!

By the time I reached Elkhorn, there were no riders on my tail. That made it easy to pause for a photo of the bright-orange pickleweed in the upper reaches of the slough, a shot I'd passed up a couple of weeks ago. Our next rest stop featured fresh cherries.

I motored along toward our final rest stop, at the beach. In this direction, of course, we faced headwinds. Along the way I chatted with one of the instructors (club member volunteers, all), who told me that the students had done a 55-mile ride last week. Impressive. (But I repeat myself.) Here we were treated to homemade snickerdoodles. And more strawberries.

I was uncertain about a turn near the end of the route, which led to an extra mile for me before I backtracked; in all,
64 miles, 2650 feet of climbing.

A waffle for breakfast, strudel for lunch, pie for dinner, fresh fruit for a snack, and cookies for dessert. Not to mention good company, beautiful scenery, and cool temperatures. What a day! What a club!

Feel the Burn

It was time to get serious, to double down, to get more fit.

Time to stop finding excuses, get on the bike, and go. Thus, I have biked eight of the past nine days (five in a row): some 319 miles, with about 12,230 feet of climbing.

It's paying off; my legs are stronger. And with this week's heat wave, there was no better time to be on the bike. The early morning hours are cool, and the temperature is dropping nicely during the evening ride home.

I've been mixing it up a bit on the return trip, having invented a new game I call “Trail Roulette.”

It's so convenient to start out on the trail, but it's also so risky. My game goes like this: Stay on the trail until I meet a Bicyclist Behaving Badly ... then, exit.

In the first few rounds, I've been exiting at the same place—the first real exit, after passing under the freeway.

Today, I didn't follow the rules; I stayed on the trail after a pair of cyclists approached and passed me while riding side-by-side, one over center line. It's Friday, the trail isn't crowded ... As I started onto the second overcrossing, an officer on a motorcycle approached. Motorcycle. Followed by three more. At least they had the sense to ride single file.

I took the next exit.

On Tuesday, taking the first exit wasn't enough to skirt stupidity: A cyclist was blocking the opening to the street, rolling to and fro in a trackstand.

Distracted, I missed the left turn I needed. Calculating new route ... oh, look, the next street is a “bike boulevard.” Let's see where that takes me.

Right back to the trail. [Sigh.] So, that's where that trail exit leads. Time to surrender to my fate. Clearly I was meant to use the trail today.

As I neared the final overcrossing at the end of the trail, a car horn sounded on the adjacent freeway. Traffic was flowing at the usual crawl, was there a bit of road rage brewing?

Then I looked up at the bridge. Two people were standing above the southbound lanes, displaying signs. “HONK! IF U ♥ BERNIE”

Brrng-brrng.

Cat Tracks!

There was some trepidation about today's ride—the leaders regretted not calling for an earlier start, as we worried that heavy traffic would make us late for our rendezvous. And, when patience ran low on the crawl over the hill to the beach, how many drivers would cut away from the freeway and compete for the lane on the narrow back roads we planned to ride?

My ride buddy and I got a head start on the group, the better to reduce our interaction with motorized traffic. This also meant entering the redwood forest earlier, the better to enjoy its fresh morning fragrance and cool shade.

An especially generous club member, known for his epic all-day adventures, brought a small tray of blueberry strudel to share. [Yum!] He worked our short route into his long plan for the day, much to our delight.

Deep in the forest, I noticed lush patches of redwood sorrel in bloom. Reluctant to stop mid-climb, I nonetheless regretted not pausing for a photo. Certain I would see more, I kept scanning the roadside. I found some on both sides of the road before climbing up to sunnier terrain, and stopped near a small stream.

Years ago I tried to recruit a fellow cyclist to join me for some after-work rides near the reservoir. She declined, for fear that we would be attacked by a mountain lion. It's true that they roam the hills, but they're generally not keen to mix with humans. If you hike in this area, it's not likely that you have seen one. It is commonly said, however, that you have likely been seen.

I turned to walk back to my bike and discovered something far more interesting than the flowers that had drawn me to stop here. Paw prints. Wet paw prints. Fresh wet paw prints. The cat had come out of the stream and sauntered briefly along the road. Closest to the stream, the blotches were indistinct—too much water being shed. But after those first couple of steps, they were unmistakable.

“It's worth stopping!” I called out in vain as the rest of the group cycled past.

They stopped instead to admire a local collection of primeval creatures. The pterodactyl was now frozen in flight, teasing the T. rex to catch it.

I wasn't sure I'd have the legs for the last climb on our route, but decided to go for it. I was surprised that we were being tailed down the hill by a pair of vehicles; any driver that could hold that pace had to be intimately familiar with this twisty road—a local. And locals who choose to live in remote pockets of the Santa Cruz Mountains are often less than friendly. Anyone who drops down a steep dead-end road is surely up to no good. Just to turn around and climb back up, on a bicycle? How ridiculous!

I imagine that she was none-too-pleased with us, but she lavished her attention on the folks in the other car that had driven down the hill. She would have them believe that they were trespassing. They were seeking to explore the abandoned train tunnel at Wrights Station. We later explained that there were no issues with them being on the road, but crossing the barbed wire fence (and poison oak) would indeed entail trespassing.

Prudence carried the day; they flashed me a peace sign as they drove past, climbing out.

A cool 32 miles with 3,170 feet of climbing. More importantly, I am pleased to proclaim that pep was not pounced upon by a puma. (Today.)

In-Croy-Able

It seemed like a good idea at the time ... ride to (and from) the start of today's club ride. Sure, it would add a pair of hills and some miles, but it would be about as fast as loading the bike in the car, driving there, and unloading it.

There were two problems, as it turned out: Too much heat and too few calories. Nothing to be done about the first; the second was simply my own fault. There I was at mile 40-something, feeling the bonk and estimating how many more miles till the top of the last hill. From there, the last couple of (downhill) miles would be free. At home there would be a nice cold It's It bar to revive me.

I was particularly not enjoying the ride on McKean/Uvas. So much traffic! Trucks, on a long holiday weekend? Where were all these people going? And in such a hurry? No one was doing the speed limit. Not even close. No one.

An over-sized white pickup truck passed me with mere inches to spare. As in, maybe a foot of clearance. Thankfully his side-view mirror was well above me, because I bet it would have clipped me. That close.

Approaching the intersection with Bailey Road, paramedics and an ambulance were on the scene. An officer was controlling the flow of traffic, reduced to one lane. Always a dreaded sight, even more so when you know that most of your cycling buddies were ahead of you. In this case, the crash involved only cars. Which, considering the way people were driving out there, was not a surprise. Not at all.

And their behavior regressed as soon as they rounded a bend, out of the officers' sight.

At the end of Croy Road, Uvas Canyon County Park was as refreshing as ever; what's not to like about enjoying your lunch at a picnic table tucked amongst the redwoods?

There was some beauty to be found along the G8 speedway, for those traveling at a humane pace: patches of Clarkia rubicunda tinting the hillsides pink. These were new to me; although I have cycled along this stretch of road many times, I haven't caught them flowering till now. Their common name offers a clue: Farewell to spring.

Not a hard route (52 miles, 2,740 feet of climbing), if adequately fueled. Note to self: Always bring more than you think you'll eat. Always.

That It's It bar helped. So did a session of low-power mode—about 45 minutes, stretched out on the floor. Farewell to spring.

Berry Berry Nice

Strawberry Fields Forever is one of my favorite local cycling events. When a few riders today asked me how many times I've ridden it, I honestly didn't know. [Seven.]

Calfee shares their space with us for the first rest stop, where we traditionally find Italian fare (including espresso machines) and a view of Monterey Bay. But no strawberries.

The course passes through agricultural fields of greens (and strawberries). Acres and acres of strawberries. It's a humbling sight, at scale; appreciate the human effort that brings these to your table.

In the first few miles I worked to get some separation from a pair of boys (and their well-meaning parents). I applaud them for tackling a 100 km route, but their road and bike-handling skills were dodgy (at best). By the time I reached the Elkhorn Slough, I was riding in near solitude.

Extended climbs took their toll on unprepared riders, especially leading up to the lunch stop. Some walked. A few were sprawled, napping, on the lawn. I was disappointed at lunch this year. Note to all event organizers: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches should be prepared by people who eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because they will actually put peanut butter and jelly on the bread. Luckily, I knew that the next rest stop, at Gizdich Ranch, would feed me well. No crêpes this year (sadly), but plenty of apple pie and fresh-squeezed lemonade and apple juice.

The strawberries (with chocolate ganache and freshly whipped cream) are last. It's important not to gorge at the post-ride meal, to save room for the berries. Lots of berries. Big beautiful red-ripe berries.

Pajaro Valley High School was built at the edge of the wetlands. Cliff swallows have established themselves in the eaves of most buildings. They're fascinating (but, messy). When I paused to observe their comings and goings, closer than they would have liked, most of the community took flight—swooping and swerving, at high speed, all around me.

This being the usual route, I cycled some 61 miles with 2,865 feet of climbing. I aimed to complete the course in under five hours (not including breaks, of course)—and I did. In fact, I finished in the second-shortest time of my seven rides, much to my surprise.

It was fitting, somehow, to tackle this ride without a ride buddy today. In addition to the seven rides I've completed, there were four I didn't start. Two were rainy days, and well, I just don't feel compelled to ride in the rain. But on this ride, I will always reflect on the losses that kept me away last year, and the year before. Forever.

Pedal Power

“You need new shifters,” the Bike Doctor told me last year. I gave him a puzzled look. “You're used to it, so you don't notice.”

He was right, of course. Lately I was indeed struggling to shift onto the big ring, so I caught up with him. “Should I source the parts, or do you want to source the parts?” I asked. I had decided on SRAM. He smiled. “I have the parts. Bring it by tomorrow.”

I'd have the bike with me; it would be [today] Bike-to-Work Day.

A long train of riders followed me ... I didn't drop a single one. Which was good, because I was Mother Goose and they were my goslings. Including a pair of co-conspirators on a tandem this year, upping the game: instead of the usual self-serve, the stoker/barista dispensed the coffee and doughnut bites.

The drill is routine now. Get everyone to arrive 15 minutes before we want to start rolling, because there will be Issues. Guaranteed. Helmets that need adjustments (two of them). One tire with a slow leak, needing a tube swap. One rider who mounted his front wheel backward (quick-release skewer reversed) and who couldn't re-rig his front brake. One rider whose bike “wouldn't go;” front reflector and brake pads jammed against the rim.

Having resolved all problems, mysterious and not, we set off nearly on schedule. Our friends on the tandem led a smaller group to meet us, and after picking up a few more colleagues en route, I set a gentle pace for a record 33-odd riders. Some were making the trip for the very first time.

I gave the usual morning pep talk: ride single file, give each other enough space (especially, the tandem), and don't take chances—if we don't all make it through a green light, we'll wait for you. Then, when I have their full attention, I tell them the most important rule of all: Have fun!

This year, the Cupertino Energizer station was prepared: there were enough musette bags for all. “It's like a swarm of locusts!” they exclaimed, as we finished off their strawberries and gobbled Hobee's famous blueberry coffeecake.

The trail presented a fresh challenge today: a large, fallen tree. The city was surprisingly accommodating, with workers to warn us and cones to guide us. They waited for the bike traffic to subside before closing the trail to clear it.

Not only was every rider still smiling when we arrived at work, 18 or more miles from the start, but a record number expressed interest in the end-of-day return trip. Hopefully, I would have a working bicycle on which to lead them.

I delivered my bike to the Doctor at noon. An hour later, it was ready to ride: new shifters, new chain, brakes adjusted, freshly lubed. The ride home seemed so effortless, I repeatedly checked my gearing. I can't explain it; the gearing, of course, was completely unchanged. I needed to slow down, and sometimes to wait, for the end of our evening train: a record-breaking nine riders were following me home.

Our mischief-makers on the tandem threw down the gantlet: on a flat straightaway, they cranked it up to some 29 mph, the strongest rider in our group giving chase with a stream of colorful words in his wake.

The group—still smiling—dwindled as riders split off onto their own direct routes home. But not before one of them quizzed me about how often I ride to work. [I try for at least one day per week, often more, and sometimes all five—round-trip.] “This was easier than I expected,” he said, “I think I could do this once a week.”

One tired, but proud, leader rolled home: 44 miles and 1,020 feet of climbing for me.

Ladies and gentlemen, another successful Bike-to-Work Day!

Mostly Monterey

Our team had an overnight getaway to a most familiar area, Monterey. I passed on stand-up paddleboarding or biking; although I have paddled around in kayaks, I had never kayaked in the bay.

My partner had no experience, but he did have one valuable qualification: upper body strength. The outfitter set us up with waterproof pants and life vests; I had chosen the right shirt (quick-drying, long-sleeved) but was reluctant about going barefoot. It was a gloomy day; luckily my feet didn't get too cold.

The skies were ominous, but the rain held off until just after we returned to shore.

It was also a windy day. Two people managed to tip their kayak; unable to climb back on, they clung to it and were towed back to the beach.

Our guides tried to keep us near the shore; the wind was determined to push us out to sea. We got rather close to the pair of yellow buoys that mark the seawater intake for the Monterey Bay Aquarium—which, when viewed from land ... are quite a ways out there.

We saw an otter with her pup, lots of seagulls and cormorants, the occasional pelican, seals and sea lions both curious and indifferent. Like otters, we used the kelp to anchor oursselves.

On Friday morning, I persuaded a couple of co-workers to take a stroll before the group would head back to the (other) Bay Area. I spotted a curlew and an otter, and we peered from above at the sea lions we'd observed from the water yesterday. Eager to get back to the hotel on time, an Uber driver was summoned. Not only did he give us a ride, he dispensed souvenirs: original labels from the Hovden Cannery (site of the Monterey Bay Aquarium). I was tagging along on my first Uber ride, and they told me this souvenir thing is not typical. Not at all. But it was sweet.

My plan was to stay one more night. How should I spend the rest of my day?

I could bike, having brought my bike along.

The whale-watching boats were enticing.

Another colleague planned to hike at Point Lobos.

The afternoon, however, was more wet than not. I decided to drive over to Carmel Valley, to scout the unfamiliar part of the route I planned to ride tomorrow (weather permitting). The terrain was steeper and more remote than I had anticipated. Perhaps the rainy forecast was doing me a favor ...

I finished the day with a short visit to the Aquarium, bustling on this weekday with students on field trips and tourists alike. Nonetheless, at the end of the day it was possible to find a few quiet galleries for peaceful reflection.

A Golden Ticket

Last week, when I had the privilege to see the Solar Impulse 2 up close, I was thrilled. Absolutely, thrilled.

Maybe, just maybe, I could see it fly. There would be a good view, I expected, from the Stevens Creek Trail. With enough advance warning, it seemed possible. Not likely, perhaps, but possible.

The best view? From the tarmac.

And that is just where I was, from about 2:40 a.m. until shortly 5 a.m.

You see, somehow, I scored a golden ticket.

The air was still, the sky was dark, the plane was lit. A crescent moon glowed orange as it rose above the horizon.

The invitation welcomed us starting at 2 a.m., with take-off planned for 5 a.m. I pulled up at Moffett's main gate at 1:57 a.m., right behind the satellite van for KPIX, San Francisco's CBS affiliate.

It would be a while before they led us out to the viewing area, but I strode ahead of most of the pack and planted myself in a prime position. From which I would not budge for the next few hours.

I had a front-row ticket that money couldn't buy.

Ground crew members were stationed beneath each wing, to support it with a pole until the plane lifts off the ground. The cockpit door was loaded onto a pickup truck, to be affixed later, after the plane was positioned on the runway.

Human handlers “taxi” the plane. Most of the inflatable hangar had already been taken down. The ground crew pulled the plane out, turned it around, and brought it close. The pilots spoke to us, then took questions from the media before getting on with flight preparations.

Electric bicycles are used to keep pace with the plane, especially during landings. One was strategically parked to prevent anyone from damaging (or being damaged by) the spear-like projection on the plane's nose. (Antenna? Sensors?)

The plane would not take off any earlier than 5 a.m.; its batteries were fully charged, but it would be important to maximize solar exposure during the next leg of its journey (to Phoenix, Arizona). The inflatable hangar is made of a special material that allows the solar panels to charge, and sunshine had been abundant during its sojourn at Moffett. The plan was to land with fully-charged batteries, as the panels would not be exposed to the sun in Phoenix.

Little had I understood, when I originally hoped to watch the plane from the nearby trail, that it would take off before dawn.

The tower at Moffett crackled alive at 4 a.m. Precisely. We were able to follow along, thanks to a spectator near me who tuned in to the tower's radio frequency. Solar Impulse 2 would head straight out over the bay, turn toward the east and climb to 3,000 feet.

And so we waited. We could see a strip of lights down the runway; the wings remained lit. The pilot was ready at 5 a.m., but air traffic control announced a hold.

Once cleared for take-off, there was no more waiting. The wings went dark, then lit up like a bright string of pearls and started advancing. Even in the darkness, it was evident that the plane started lifting almost immediately. The propellers whirred softly as it passed us, aloft, and the crowd sent if off with a cheer.

Pilot André Borschberg thanked the tower for Moffett's hospitality, and the pearls vanished into the morning fog.

Bravo!

Onegin

The first time I saw Onegin performed by the San Francisco Ballet, a few years ago, I recognized that his full name (Евге́ний Оне́гин) was featured on an inner curtain in script, as if he had signed it. I didn't notice, then, the faint writing that covered the whole panel. Pushkin's verse, no doubt.

It was “show-and-tell” at the ballet today, with tutus and footwear in the lobby for all to admire (and, touch). The bodices are sewn with rows of hook-and-eye fasteners to make them easy to fit to different bodies. How anyone can balance, leap, and twirl in toe shoes baffles (and awes) me.

I feel a kinship with the young Tatiana, more interested in reading than in the shallow distractions around her. How often was I admonished, growing up: “Get your nose out of that book!” [More times than I can count.]

Onegin was so imperious, it was hard to see her smitten with him and to watch her struggle with her feelings when he returns. After she spurns him in the end, as harshly as he had treated her, the crowd roared—as much for Tatiana, I think, as for Yuan Yuan Tan's performance.

Another magical season drew to a close, and we stepped out into the reality of 2016.

To crazy street people in tatters, getting by somehow. Why do we treat stray animals with more care than stray people?

To a mass transit system that's rapidly deteriorating. I'm sure there are older subway cars in service in Manhattan than BART cars in San Francisco. A 10-car train pulled into the station, fully packed with riders gripping straps and bars to stay upright. Then came the announcement that they were taking it out of service for “mechanical issues;” everyone had to exit the train and join us in waiting for the next train. Which would need to accommodate three trains' worth of passengers.

One of the wealthiest cities in the U.S. Seriously.