Poppy Rocks

Ride 100 km on a warm spring day? It's a job. Someone's got to do it.

Next week is one of our club's main events, when approximately 1800 cyclists will visit to ride on some of our favorite roads. Supporting all those folks would not be possible without the volunteer labor of hundreds of club members (before, during, and after the event). Some volunteers can ride that day, but most of us will be busy at our stations.

Volunteers, instead, are invited to ride the course a week in advance, and today was that day. A couple of rest stops are set up for us with water and snacks, finishing with a barbecue lunch. [We miss out on the famous nut breads and wraps. Of course, we could make those anytime.]

Back to the job: We're looking for potential problems to fix before next Saturday. For my part, I called attention to a potentially troublesome pothole and a spot where some arrows on the pavement might help.

The biggest problem of the day had four legs and a collar. I saw the loose dog. He was intently watching something on the other side of a fence.

Then he saw me.

How fast can a dog run? [Pretty darned fast.] How fast can I sprint? [Not that fast.] In a matter of seconds, I accelerated from 11 to 21 mph and my heart rate spiked from 145 to 175 bpm. The snarling, barking menace was keeping pace, inches away. I had visions of his fangs shredding my left calf.

That stretch of road was level, with a slight downhill advantage yards ahead. Primarily, I got lucky—I could not out-sprint the little monster.

Recent rains have turned the hills green and coaxed out the wildflowers, but not relieved the drought. There was precious little water to see on our “reservoir loop;” by summer's end, there may be none.

For the day, 66 miles with just a little climbing (2,420 feet). I hope our guests will enjoy a day as picture-perfect as today.

Picturing Panoche

“Don't Frack San Benito,” the sign read. I couldn't agree more.

Our well-timed ride was slotted between a pair of storms, giving us dramatic lighting and clean air.

The Aermotor was spinning fast at the Summit Ranch. With a dual assist from gravity and the wind, I plummeted down the backside toward the Inn.

Another rider thought the road had more patches. “How could you tell?” I asked. It's best to ride that stretch with a light grip on the handlebars—or wind up with an aching head and some loose fillings.

Look at that view! Look at it again. Picture it paved with solar panels, because that is the future for this land—some 4,000 acres of solar panels and power lines.

More than 20 miles out on Panoche Road, an approaching car slowed to a stop. A wayward European visitor was looking for the National Park (Pinnacles). I set him straight.

The wind is a constant. You can count on a headwind for the return; on unlucky days, there can be a headwind in both directions. Which means more time to admire the scenery.

A mere 2,750 feet of climbing, with 54 miles of scenery.

Enjoy it now.

Springtime for Hollister

When the Bay Area forecast reads “Partly Cloudy,” the morning will be gray and gloomy.

That's the cloudy part. The rest of the day will be glorious.

After a poor night's sleep, I was semi-conscious when the alarm went off. I desperately wanted more sleep. If I bailed now, would my ride partner see the email? The ride start was not local. Drive an hour, bike 50 hilly miles, drive an hour back. I needed more sleep.

It is a perfect day for this route. It will still be (somewhat) green. Soon it will be too hot to bike down there.

I pulled myself together. I could further shorten the route, maybe just tackle the first (and longest) hill.

But the second hill is one of my favorites.

With so many back roads to explore, I saw no merit in returning on busy Highway 25. Having pored over the map, I had a better idea.

Instead of being buzzed by speeding SUVs and pickup trucks, I had John Smith Road to myself. (Two vehicles passed me, heading in opposite directions.) The birds told me how little traffic uses this road. I startled a hawk into seeking a higher perch; moments later, it comfortably swooped to my left along the road before veering over the rolling hills. To the right a small flock of birds escorted me, rising and falling to match my slow pace.

I turned into a residential neighborhood. “Not a Through Street,” warned a sign. It had looked so enticing on the map.

Strategically-placed barricades blocked vehicles from passing through ... but not bicycles!

For the day, 54 miles with some 4,830 feet of climbing. I'll sleep in tomorrow.

Side by Side

Tucked into the belly of the bus, a study in black and white.

This morning I needed to catch the first shuttle to arrive at the office in time for my earliest meeting. This is not my routine, and I hardly expected to find another bike already loaded when I lifted the door to the first compartment (before sunrise).

I definitely did not expect to see another Strida. Now I understand why I have only seen the black bike when I catch an early shuttle home.

These folding bikes are ideal for our short (flat) little trips to and from the shuttle stop. For me, the distance is a little more than a mile (studded with five traffic signals). Driving that distance would be, in a word, ridiculous. It would also take as much time, if not more. Having the bike for quick trips on campus is mighty convenient, too.

With enough daylight remaining, I opt for a longer route home. Each trip seems insignificant, but the miles add up: about 43 miles this month, alone.

Best time? Door-to-door, with no red lights: 6 minutes, 33 seconds.

Make It a Double

Today was the day.

Daylight Savings Time took effect a couple of weeks ago, but my first attempt to enjoy a round-trip commute had been thwarted by a late meeting.

I am not a big fan of DST; waking up in the dark is a struggle. I wish we could just leave the clocks alone. But now that we have sprung forward, there is ample daylight for my long ride home. My headlight and its battery pack have been stowed away for the season, and I treated the oft-neglected commute bike to a thorough cleaning and fresh lube over the weekend.

In celebration, I climbed a familiar gratuitous hill this evening and spotted a doe trotting down the middle of the street, heading for the open area at the end.

This morning, my ears were cold and my legs were leaden; even though I rode home at a slower pace, I felt stronger. For the day, the usual 39 miles and 980 feet of climbing.

Just the way I like it.

Diablo Seco

Notices were posted: no water available until you reach the summit. Was there a contamination problem? A broken pipe?

Chalk it up to the drought. We learned that most of the water on Mt. Diablo is supplied by local springs, and they're dry.

“Thank you for stopping.” Despite his transaction with a car at the South Gate, the Ranger noticed and addressed me. As I pedaled forward, I was summarily passed by three cyclists who did not trouble themselves to stop. At the stop sign. Really, guys? It's not hard.

I had been looking forward to climbing Mt. Diablo one weekend last fall ... and then, it burned. A target shooter's stray bullet hit a rock on a hot day in a dry year. Six days, $4.5 million, and 3,100 charred acres later, the fire was contained. The enormous plume of smoke taught me that I could see Mt. Diablo across the bay, 28 miles away (in a straight line).

Six months later, we were riding through the burn zone. There were bare blackened trees next to the stone walls at the summit—the buildings had nearly been lost.

Thinking of the tower at the top of the mountain, this morning I donned a bike jersey featuring the tower on a far-away summit: Mont Ventoux. Not only was this a good conversation starter, it earned me some respect: not one patronizing comment about being “almost there” as I slowly made my way to the top.

I felt so good at the summit, I decided to descend the mountain to the North Gate and climb back up to the junction before returning through the South Gate. The rest of the group had made a longer loop, to Morgan Territory; I didn't have the stamina for that distance.

The north side was more exposed. The day was warm, and the sun higher in the sky. Long before I reached the gate, I began to wonder ... what had I been thinking? What might have been, simply, a lovely day would now be a suffer-fest. I should have topped off my water bottles at the summit.

I peeled off my knee warmers, slathered on another layer of sunscreen, and started climbing. Forty-four miles, some 5,600 feet of climbing. It was worth it.

How Green is the Valley?

You might think that there could be nothing new for me to discover on Mt. Hamilton (and you would be wrong). I have bicycled to the top more than two dozen times, and in all seasons. As the group prepared to depart, one rider remarked that he had no intention of including Kincaid today. He might do that once a year; he just didn't see the point. [Oh, what he's missing!]

I would not include Kincaid today, either; I am in no shape for that. I crawled my way to the top, where I was most grateful to put my feet up on the Reverend's patio and savor my luscious peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

On the climb, it is natural to focus on the road ahead and neglect the view behind. White clouds smudged the sky. Old trees were popping out the first leaves of another spring. San Francisco Bay glistened in the distance. From the summit, the snowy peaks of the Sierras were evident.

The buildings have seen a new coat of paint in the past year or so, and from my vantage point the detail on an external stairway caught my eye. How had I never noticed the curled ironwork, the stars in the railing?

The uphill interludes on the descent afford more leisurely sightseeing. A raucous pair of Steller's Jays caught my attention, and as I slowed to listen I noticed a proud wild turkey strutting his stuff. It's mating season! I was a few feet away from his flock of hens; some were foraging, others were taking dirt baths and possibly nesting. The dominant sound in the video clip is that of the noisy Jays. Listen for the turkeys; they made a sound like the resonant plink of a large drip of water hitting a pool.

Always something new to see, and to learn, on Mt. Hamilton.