Social Climbing

Today was the club's annual Ice Cream Social, conveniently celebrated about five miles from home. Translation: Find some hills and earn those calories.

I have been itching to head up Hicks, the hard way, and eager to explore Mt. Umunhum Road. The latter is an out-and-back that I do not feel comfortable riding alone. The former is, well, just plain hard - physically and mentally. Before today I had only climbed it non-stop on one occasion.

The weather did not disappoint: hot enough to make Hicks harder. I am a seated climber, and the grade is steep enough that I lifted my front wheel off the pavement a few times as I pulled on the handlebars. When I started to feel sorry for myself, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and focused on turning the pedals instead of stopping for a break.

Non-stop, for the second time in my life. My power-to-weight ratio has clearly improved.

Mt. Umunhum Road is no picnic, but after Hicks it seems ... merely uphill. I continued for a stretch beyond the first gate, but turned around to re-join my ride partner before reaching gate number two.

Did I earn my chocolate ice cream? Beyond any doubt.

Driving Range

No offense, but I have to admit that I don't "get" golf. I did spend today on a golf course, and it did involve driving: in two fundamentally heretical ways. The first involved driving exotic cars onto the greens. The second involved driving exotic cars ... period. Our guess was that 10% or fewer of the owners actually drive their machines, which is the real heresy.

Nine Lamborghinis, all in a row ... you do the math. There were many more, including a tractor and an LM002. But not nearly as many as there were Ferarris, which overflowed their (larger) assigned area into two additional spillover sectors. To the early birds go the prime exhibition spots.

After strolling around at Concorso Italiano to check out hundreds of fabulous cars (you'd think they were a dime-a-dozen, or something), we found a shady spot where we could comfortably enjoy some people-watching. As we watched a guy entertaining two blondes near the shiny black car, I joked that he must be claiming the car as his own. This led instantly to a bet that I wouldn't stroll down the hill, key in hand, and nonchalantly raise the carbon-fiber rear panel to expose the engine. Guess who won that bet. [Admittedly, only after being goaded mercilessly for a solid 20 minutes. The release lever is where?]

A long day in the company of fine fast cars can have only one natural conclusion. Our drive passed through some areas dense with smoke from the Lockheed fire burning in the Santa Cruz Mountains, which had sent ash raining down far south onto the cars in Monterey. The drifting plume was visible above the Calero Reservoir, at sunset.

Blue Balls

With public art as playful as this, who couldn't forgive calling this "Blue Balls" Park? For the record, the official name is Anna Jean Cummings Park.

My ride partner suggested that we preview a route we plan to lead for the club next month, and so we headed into the redwood forest on a sort of junior Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge.

Up Old Santa Cruz Highway. Down Soquel-San Jose Road. One of my favorite descents - no need to touch your brakes unless you catch a car. Up Rodeo Gulch. Down Branciforte. Up Granite Creek. Down (and up) Bean Creek. There's a beautiful road, lulling you along through the redwoods until ... wham! It gets steep enough to hurt, signaling that you have almost reached the end. And finally, the pièce de résistance: Up Mountain Charlie Road.

The last time we led a group up Mountain Charlie, two of the riders thought the day's 45-mile route was a tad short and planned to extend it. By the time they reached the top, they had changed their minds.

Did I ride hard, or take it easy? I had a good time climbing Mountain Charlie. (There's a sentence I never thought I would write). I was riding without stats today (unthinkable!). My Polar receiver's battery was almost fully drained by the time I noticed, last weekend; hopefully the service center will return it next week. MyTracks balked and could not be coaxed to record any data. Just pedal. And breathe.

Misty Marin

My real cycling education commenced in the summer of 2003, on the back seat of a recumbent tandem. One of the most important lessons I learned was:

If the bicycle starts making an unusual noise, stop immediately and identify the cause.

This likely saved us from an unfortunate crash on the Tour of Napa in 2004, when a thump thump thump from the rear wheel signaled the imminent failure of the rim, which was separating at the weld.

A natural corollary to the above maxim might be:

If something feels unusual, stop immediately and identify the cause.

In retrospect, it is obvious that the slippery feeling on my right pedal meant that my cleat was no longer in a fixed position on the sole of my shoe. I was enjoying the scenery and my cycling companions; rather than inspect my shoe, I chose to ignore the unusual sensation.

Around mile 48, the vivid blue reflection of a pond compelled me to stop for a photo. I frowned as I yanked my foot out of that right pedal. Remounting the bike and continuing uphill, I could not clip in. I pulled into a farm driveway and, finally, looked at my shoe. The cleat was dangling by one bolt.

I backtracked to look for the wayward bolt, but it was likely lost on the road long before I stopped to snap that photo. With more than 50 (hilly) miles ahead, it seemed that my ride was over. Now, where was that red Porsche convertible SAG vehicle I had seen earlier in the day?

Luckily, I was within a mile of rest stop #2, and it wasn't that challenging to get there under my own power. There, the Wheel Peddler saved my ride. He was busy lacing spokes into a wheel for another rider, but promptly provided a suitable replacement bolt (and refused payment). Should you have the opportunity, give this guy some business.

The weather was perfect (thanks to the cool fog), the route was beautiful, and the ride was well-supported by the Marin Cyclists. I am always tense about riding on Highway 1, but perhaps the fog kept the tourists away. On that seven-mile stretch, we encountered only a handful of cars.

Our group of five hung together pretty well - largely because the two guys were willing to ride at a more relaxed pace, or wait for us. I was surprised to run into several people I know, including one colleague from work who was riding her first century. Congratulations, Maire!

I averaged 13.2 mph over 106 miles with 6,400 feet of climbing - not bad. A few people were surprised that I was riding a century just three weeks after the Death Ride, but honestly, I felt fine. In the end, I even tackled the steepest climb of the day: a nasty-but-short wall back to the hotel, where I had left my car. [Initial segment: 21% grade, average 16.6%. Ow.]

Stanford History Tour

The bicycle is the ideal vehicle for exploring the Stanford University campus, and today I joined two alums on a short history tour. We visited the resting place of the university's namesake, Leland Stanford Jr., and his parents; compared the inner quad to photos of buildings that collapsed during the 1906 earthquake; and visited the archaeological site of the original gymnasium, also a casualty of The Great Quake. I learned about the Burghers of Calais when we visited the Rodin sculptures, and one alum learned about the cactus garden she had never before visited. Did I mention how large the campus is? Having been schooled on urban campuses, I remember my first impression of Stanford many years ago: It looked like a country club, and I marveled that students could stay focused on their studies.

A ride just isn't complete without some significant hill climbing, and so we ascended a pair of them before meandering around the campus. Reaching a top speed of 47 mph on the descent suggests that one of these hills was, shall we say, steep.

Trains, Planes, and Bicycles

Seven riders joined us for today's excursion, one of my favorite local adventures. Our trip started with a train ride to San Francisco. Years ago, I had an aunt and uncle who would head for their Florida vacation on the Auto Train. You guessed it: the car gets loaded onto the train and travels with you. On this coast, Caltrain offers at least one bicycle car on every train. Some transit officials scoff at providing this service - please note that more cyclists boarded the 3:21 p.m. train in Palo Alto this afternoon than passengers on foot.

Having disembarked at the southern edge of San Francisco, we quickly fled the urban outskirts to climb San Bruno Mountain. This being summertime, the top was dipped in fog this morning. It was neither cold nor windy, so we lingered while the sun teased us with glimpses of blue sky, but we were ultimately denied our views of the Pacific, San Francisco, and the bay. Our route headed east to the sunny shoreline of San Franciso Bay as we returned south.

Trains, sure; but what about these planes, you say? Ah, well, our route happens to pass through San Francisco International airport. This sounds intimidating, so I try to keep that a surprise for the riders who join us. It really is an easy ride, and with any luck we pass the end of the runways just as some jumbo jet starts accelerating for take-off. [Have you noticed this fondness I have for big engines and fast speeds?]

During lunch at Coyote Point, we gazed wistfully at the Mountain (now in the clear), and tried identifying the airliners approaching SFO to land. The windsurfers were out, but the most unusual sight included a crowd on the shore bearing witness to a Pentecostal baptism in the bay. Expect the unexpected.

It's Just a Car

A mini-van pulls into the turnout along the Avenue of the Giants, and we hear an adolescent male voice:

Whoa, take a picture of that!

That was not the towering behemoth of a tree, of which there were many awe-inspiring specimens in sight. That was a rather uncommon automobile.

With no biking plans for the weekend, how could I pass up another opportunity for a road trip on four wheels? Destination north, away from the baking Bay Area.

At first sight of the shiny black car last Friday, one of my friends asked:

Can I take out a life insurance policy on you?

But as the car's owner is prone to remark,

It's just a car.

Well, yes. And no.

It's not the average car that induces a guy in a pick-up truck to pull a screeching u-turn and jump out (in his socks) for a close look after spotting it in his rear view mirror. We were admiring the trees.

And I can't say that I have ever had another driver pull alongside and roll down the window so his passenger could lean across and snap a photo. The flash went off; I wonder how that turned out? I smiled and waved.

A car is meant to be driven, and this car is rarely meant to be driven on the shortest path between two points. A navigation system turns out to be unexpectedly useful for spotting the most exquisitely twisted route in the vicinity.

Sitting in the passenger seat does not feel like I'm just along for the ride. It has been a surprisingly intimate experience. Is it because I'm so low to the ground, and the road is in my face? Is it the way it handles, or because I anticipate how the driver will take every curve?

Being a passenger feels almost like driving the car.

Did I drive the car?

Well, what do you think?