Mines at Last

Approaching Robert Livermore Park in the early morning, the temperature outside the car was rapidly plummeting ... 32 ... 30 ... 28 degrees F. It was supposed to warm up to 60F today; I was seriously not prepared for sub-freezing temperatures. And if cycling sounds crazy, what do you think of the people headed for the open-air lap pool in their terrycloth robes?

What would pull me away from a nice warm house at 7:00 a.m.? Rising early enough to catch the full lunar eclipse was merely a bonus. The main event: Morning on Mines. I have enjoyed many four-wheeled excursions along this route; today I would study it at (comparatively) a snail's pace. Somehow I persuaded a friend to join me for the out-and-back journey through this isolated canyon. Well-matched, we were—two women with frozen fingers and sluggish brains.

Defrosted by a five-mile warm-up, we were both cheerful and chatty when we reached the other riders gathered at the starting point. Still, I would not have predicted that I would comfortably shed my jacket later in the day.

Along the way, one wandering calf affirmed the validity of a posted Range Cattle sign. One distinctive "no trespassing" sign warned Danger: Stay Alive By Staying Out. In full view of the road, a group of men included one sighting a rifle up the adjacent hillside. Local traffic passed with generous clearance. A motorcyclist at the Junction café was impressed that we were out there. Their secret? Heated grips. [Hmm ...]

In all, 3,825 feet of climbing over 59 miles. The longest ride I have taken in quite some time, my legs would have you know.

Then We Were Five

The first rider dropped out around mile four, at the first hill.With the strong headwind, I am not sure he would have been any less challenged on the flatter section of the route.

As hilly routes go, today's was meant to be mellow. Studying her Garmin to validate her suffering, one rider exclaimed: Fifteen percent! [Really? Not.] Another rider shrugged. Felt more like 10%. [Spot on.] My post-ride data show a steady gradient of 9.8% for slightly more than a quarter of a mile. For an accurate reading on the bike, try an inclinometer.

The second hill claimed rider number two. Riders three and four demurred in favor of a social engagement along the route. A fifth rider had a greater interest in extending her mileage than climbing hills and headed yonder. Our sociable little group of ten had been whittled down to a stalwart core of five.

Oh, what a day it was! Warm enough for a vest and arm warmers (in December!), under an extraordinary sky (a gift of the wind). 35 miles and a mere 1,870 feet of climbing.

Extra Helping of Hicks

As if it were not enough to climb Hicks once in the past month (or past year, for that matter) ... what was I doing out there today?

Let me tell you, there is nothing like an extra helping of Hicks to compensate for an extra helping of Thanksgiving dinner.

We warmed up on Harwood—which is, technically, steeper (for short stretches)—before making our way to Hicks. The recent rains had induced a small landslide, mostly plowed off the road and studded with orange cones.

When the group at the top showed signs of restlessness to descend, I took my cue. Following some idle talk of descending speeds, I wanted no one trailing me. On separate occasions, two guys have crashed in my wake. Maybe they were not trying to stay with me. Or maybe they were. A little head start gets me out of sight, and I prefer it that way.

One block from the end of our group ride, my heart rate suddenly spiked: I turned a corner to find a wrong-way cyclist headed straight at me. [On a mountain bike, wearing no helmet, of course.] I braked, I shouted, I swerved toward the curb. Perhaps predictably, so did he. Preparing for impact, I jerked my bike to the left and missed his rear wheel by a couple of inches. You're on the wrong side of the road, I called out. Did he even understand? [Doubtful.]

For the day, 29 miles and 2,110 feet of climbing. Hicks hurts.

Cloud Computing

For the 10 days leading up to today, the forecast was dire. Would the Thanksgiving Day Low-Key Mt. Hamilton Hillclimb be canceled for the first time in history?

Fair weather or foul, I was prepared to volunteer for this one. At my current pace, the volunteer crew would be lucky to make it home in time for dessert.

I would bet that I was not the only one hoping for rain this morning. The roads in my neighborhood were dry when the call was made at 6 a.m.: The climb is ON!

The roads at the base of Mt. Hamilton were not dry, but the clouds teased us with glimpses of blue sky (once or twice). More than 100 riders signed in. Crazy people.

I was so glad not to be suffering on the bike today. I cannot imagine spending more than two hours riding up the hill in a cold drizzle, and that is what it would have taken to get me to the top. (Two hours and forty minutes for the next-to-last finisher in my photo above.)

Instead, I spent more than two hours standing inside the cloud at the top, collecting finishing times. A cold drizzle, in other words. Crazy person.

My fellow Low-Keyers, I salute you!

Up to You

There were some new faces at today's Low-Key Hillclimb. When I reached the top of Kings Mountain, I caught a snippet of conversation.

I wouldn't call that low-key!

I smiled. It's as low-key as you want it to be.

The road was wet, the air was cold, the trees were dripping. Along the way, the sun cast a spotlight on some moss-covered boulders; no time for a photo. When I heard a toddler's voice behind me, I knew that I was about to be passed by the racer towing his daughter in a Burley trailer.

The women started the climb together; I took my place at the back and watched them pull away. As the pack thinned, I passed one rider; she did not give chase. The gap between us began to stretch, and before long she had dropped out of sight. When she arrived at the top, I congratulated her with a high-five. That was hard, she said.

Yes, it was. A relatively short climb, I vowed to push harder this week. For more than 45 minutes, I sustained an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute, peaking at 179. Still, not as hard as I pushed the last time we tackled this climb, and the result speaks for itself.

Next year, I should train for the series. Or, give it up?

Nine, Plus Five

Would I be faster? The weather was dreary and cold; it seemed certain that we would ride into the cloud. Had I vanquished the virus that attacked my body this week? I felt less tired, but still drained. I am five years older and two pounds heavier.

I was most eager to tackle Highway 9 this year. In 2006, this was my first Low-Key Hillclimb. Back then, I wondered: Did they really mean that anyone could participate?

My leg started hurting before I reached the top. Over thousands of miles of cycling, my legs have cramped on exactly one occasion. Did I pull a muscle? I was going hard up the hill, but I had not done anything unusual. Both legs were sore. Really sore.

My chiropractor's words bubbled up into my consciousness.

You are much improved, I was able to start working on your muscles.

Evidently I was not using those long-dormant adductors before he released them. Evidently a relatively short hillclimb of modest grade will tax them.

I had been excited to reach the half-way point in less than 26 minutes. Although I lost sight of the riders ahead, surely I was climbing for a new personal best.

It was convenient to forget that the first two miles of the climb are mellow; at the half-way point, you have ascended roughly 835 feet. There are some 1280 feet up ahead, and that makes all the difference.

Slower by four minutes, I was nonetheless proud of the pink stripe left by the finish-line chalk on my front tire.

Ghost Wave

Halloween. Ghosts. Waves? Big, scary waves.

As a cyclist, I can fully appreciate the chasm that separates my performance from that of the pros. I can attack the same hill ... at less than half their speed. I can ski, but you won't find me rocketing down some narrow double-black-diamond chute or dropping out of a helicopter in the back country. I have never tried to surf, but I can extrapolate that a similar gap would separate me from the titans of big wave surfing.

I grew up near the sea. I am comfortable bobbing in the swells and ducking under breaking waves, even body-surfing my way toward the shore. Stand up on a board and ride the face of a breaking wave? No way. Get close to a towering avalanche of water? Absolutely, positively no way.

An armchair adventurer, I relish tales of athletes who thrive on challenges that I would not dream of attempting. Ghost Wave is a fascinating new story that I am finding hard to put down. And I enjoyed a special treat recently when author Chris Dixon visited the Bay Area to talk about the book; a treat that was magnified five-fold by the legendary guys who tagged along.

They completely upended my image of surfers as easy-going, laid-back types. It took me more than half the day to unwind after spending just a couple of hours around those guys. See for yourself ...



You should try paddleboarding, Skindog suggested. [Uh-oh.]