Bridging the Gap

My road bike, sadly, is still out of commission (awaiting parts). If I needed any additional motivation to bike to work, that was it. Bonus: it was a Spare the Air day. The cool morning air was refreshing; I was puzzled to see fellow riders sporting tights and jackets.

There would not be time to clean up before my first meeting at 9:00; ordinarily, I would not choose to bike in. To my advantage, my workplace is not ordinary. It is the sort of place where I can show up in my damp jersey and shorts, a bowl of fresh fruit in my left hand, a bowl of fresh yogurt and granola in my right hand, and have my VP open the conference room door for me.

The ride in was particularly smooth, my progress interrupted only twice by stoplights. Today was my first opportunity to introduce a new bike bridge to my route, one that grants direct access to the Stevens Creek Trail at its southernmost point.

First impression? We have a winner!

Riding the trail is always tricky, with the usual mix of pedestrians, joggers, cyclists, and suicidal squirrels. On the whole, though, it presented fewer challenges than my normal route. No stoplights. No right-hooking cars. No jockeying to stay out of the door zone. No waiting to cross the Caltrain or light rail tracks at grade. No need to merge across three lanes of traffic to slot into the left-turn lane at Central Expressway.

The trail was busier in the evening. To the mix, add oblivious dog-walkers and a woman on inline skates, with a jogging stroller, who planted herself smack in the middle of an uphill intersection.

Finally, this trail is is worth the trouble. What a difference a bridge makes.

Lesson Learned

Why is a good bicycle mechanic so hard to find?

After reading some good comments about the mechanic at a new independent shop, I headed there about a month ago. Shifting my rear dérailleur felt mushy, and the front dérailleur was over-shifting. I was ready to leave the bike with them, but they seemed eager to make some adjustments and send me on my way.

Had I ever replaced the cables? Yes, but I could not remember when. A good next question might have been "Have you put more than 3,000 (4,000? 5,000?) miles on the bike since then?"

With the bike clamped in their repair stand, the angle of the handlebar looked wrong to me. The mechanic had failed to notice that the stem's grip was not-quite-tight-enough, which had allowed the handlebar to rotate slightly, which affects the cable tension. Could that be the real problem?

They replaced the rear brake pads [it was time]. At home, I immediately saw that a pad dragged on one side of the rim. The mechanic had failed to notice that the wheel was slightly out of true.

Their dérailleur adjustments helped ... for a short time. The frayed cable finally snapped. With broken pieces embedded in the shifter, it will now be replaced; it is not designed to be disassembled.

The last time shifting felt mushy, a (better) mechanic at a different shop replaced the cables. Five years, and more than 10,000 miles ago.

Cables are cheap. Shifters are not. You have been warned.

Foiled on the Fourth

Bedecked in red, white, and blue, I headed for our club's traditional holiday pancake breakfast. Surveying the parking lot, you might expect that two dozen cyclists had turned out for this Fourth of July fest.

You would be wrong. Inside the courtyard, bicycles were stacked three and four deep. A small crowd sporting stars-and-stripes jerseys posed for a photo. Everyone pitched in to stack the tables and chairs before pedaling off the pancake poundage.

On the way to the first real climb of the day, there is one spot where I know to carry some speed to launch myself up the following short-but-steep bit. Halfway up, I start shifting. Rear dérailleur, down down down down. Front dérailleur, down. [Hmm, this still feels too hard.] Front dérailleur, down. [Shimano gave me gears and I will use them.] Why ... is ... it ... so ... hard ... to ... turn ... the ... pedals? [I am perilously close to stalling out and toppling over.] Almost there ... [Whew, just made it.]

Rear dérailleur, shift up. [Nothing happens.] Shift down. [Nothing happens.]

I muscled myself to the top of that hill with my gearing set at 30x12. My 52x21 would have been easier. [Not that I would try that. Ever.] My rear dérailleur cable had snapped; with no tension to hold it in place, the chain settled naturally on the smallest cog.

Game over. No more hills for me today. A mere 30 miles, 590 feet of climbing.

Sit-down Sunday

With yesterday's climbing behind me, sitting around on Sunday seemed like just the right thing. I could certainly enjoy watching some coverage of day two of Le Tour de France, for example.

The marine layer gave us a cool, gray-sky morning. Hmm, I do know a sure way to find the sun. And after all, the calendar had turned another page today. Can you guess where I am headed?

Why not complete the July ascent of Mt. Hamilton on the first day of the month!

Yes, I spent a good part of the day sitting (on a bicycle saddle, while spinning the pedals) around.

My cycling buddy graciously slowed her pace to match mine, allowing plenty of time for us to chat our way to the top. The marine layer evaporated above us, but lingered over some valleys to the north—the distinctive peak of Mt. Diablo rose above it.

The cooler temperature helped boost my climbing speed by 10%, getting me to the top some 18 minutes sooner than on my last trip. With no automotive obstacles, I can also answer the open question from my last visit to the mountain: What is my average speed on the tripartite descent, factoring out the two intermediate climbs? Survey says: 21.4 mph, 22.4 mph, 24.3 mph.

Over the weekend, I managed to climb more than 10,000 feet. More significantly, with this ride I have climbed more than 100,000 feet this year. You might think I am training for the Death Ride or something.

[Not this year.]

Deep Blue Sea

The coastal waters of the Pacific never looked so blue. [I was not alone in this observation.]

Five of us opted for a head start on the rest of the group; we knew they would catch us, but were surprised that we did not see them again until we had passed the half-way point. On a route that included roads with names like Smith Grade, Empire Grade, Ice Cream Grade ... you are probably not surprised that we did a fair bit of climbing (5,410 feet).

We paused for lunch in the tiny town of Davenport; with little else along the Pacific Coast Highway for miles, this is a popular rest stop—complete with a roadhouse.

Although we lounged on a patio a few doors away from the roadhouse, the town is steeped in its spirit: We chatted with a couple of women who were biking home to Half Moon Bay, having spent Friday night in Capitola. A curious young woman from Prunedale, with the mien of a lost soul, approached us to learn more about cycling.

But it was the three guys from San Francisco who made the biggest impression. They were on their way to Santa Cruz, having left the city on Thursday. On skateboards.

Musical Moonrise

Even a familiar route can play host to a surprise or two. The seasons bring out the blooms on different trees and wildflowers. On every ride, we will surely see a few animals (of both the domesticated and wild varieties). Tonight we expected to see both horses and deer, and we were not disappointed.

We did not, however, expect to hear (and see) a bagpiper—but there he was, facing the waters of the Guadalupe Reservoir near the middle of the dam, his music reverberating through the canyon.

There are occasional rewards for being a sluggish hill climber.

On a Clear Day

We couldn't see forever, but we could see the new tower on the eastern span of the Bay Bridge, and Mt. Diablo, and Mt. Tamalpais. The sharp-eyed among us spotted the campanile at UC Berkeley. The surface of the bay shimmered in the bright sunshine.

One of our riders had never seen the views from the top of San Bruno Mountain—until today. I have biked up this hill in fog so thick I could not see the edges of the road. On another day, I could see the Farallon Islands from the summit. When I offered to lead this ride for the club many weeks ago, there was no way to anticipate what the conditions might be on June 23.

Another rider, new to this route, inquired about the title of the ride listing (Trains, Planes, and Bicycles). "I understand that you started by taking the train," she said, "but where do planes fit in?" You will see, I replied. One of the things I enjoy most about this route is the element of surprise.

After leaving the mountain, we take a road that appears to head straight for the freeway: 101 South to the left, 101 North to the right? Surprise! The right turn heads south on a narrow strip of land between the freeway and a small body of water backed by hills.

For most riders, the biggest surprise is biking through the airport (San Francisco International). That might sound intimidating, and perhaps a bit crazy. But, we stay on a perimeter road, several levels below the approach to the terminals, and usually manage to enjoy at least one jumbo jet take-off at close range.

Following a picnic along the shore of the bay, we travel south for miles on a paved trail at the water's edge. There are only a few sections, near residential neighborhoods, where we need to cope with people who move unpredictably. I actually enjoy riding this trail. [The brisk tailwind helps.]