Low Maintenance

People pass me along the multi-use trail on every commute. I'm used to that. One day last week, I spied a very capable rider in my rear view mirror, sitting on my wheel. Drafting me at 15 mph is so not worth it. Was he angling to flirt with me? He looked age-appropriate.

It was my bicycle that he was ogling. “Your bike is a classic!” he said. “Great for commuting,” I replied. Then he sped off.

A good bicycle can last a lifetime. Some parts will wear out and need to be replaced, but even a neglected bike will transport its rider from point A to point B for years. I spotted this vintage machine on a rack at the office recently. I'd wager that most of those parts are original, from the plastic bar grips to the rust-speckled brake levers and wheel rims. The drive train, however, was well-lubricated—that's key.

My classic bike, a Trek 720 “hybrid” circa 1992, has had an easy life. I racked up a few miles (very few) before moving to the west coast. I had its fossilized brake pads replaced in 2002 and rode the short course in the Tour of Napa—its most ambitious outing to that point. When I started cycling in earnest in 2005, I quickly realized I needed a lighter-weight road bike to stay with the pack on club rides.

I dusted off the hybrid in 2006 when I began to dabble in bicycle commuting. I swapped its (original) knobby tires for slicks in 2007. Sometimes it would occur to me to wipe down the frame and lubricate its chain ... once a year, maybe. Last year, I treated it to its first service since 2002. I watched the Bike Doctor measure the chain for wear; it wasn't due.

One year and more than 2,000 miles later, the chain would occasionally slip. My chain tool found the links within spec. The Bike Doctor's chain tool found the links (just barely) within spec. “It's time,” I said. He was not convinced. “It's the original chain,” I told him. He did not believe me. “The bike has upwards of 8,000 miles on it.” I know how improbable that sounds. But I have no record of replacing the chain. I have racked up more than 8,000 miles commuting to my current workplace, and the bike was serviced only once during that time.

He humored me. “You won't get 8,000 miles out of this chain,” he joked. “That's okay,” I smiled.

What a workhorse.

Stayin' Alive

Today was the sort of day that keeps my non-cycling friends, and even some non-roadie friends, off the roads.

Years ago, I observed the day-by-day antics of a small brood of mallards at a sheltered little pond in an office park. One day, Mama Duck swam to the edge of the pond and climbed up the rocky bank, a line of ducklings trailing behind. Save one. Said duckling turned around to find an empty pond; much panicked quacking ensued. The size of the brood dwindled over time. Did the aforementioned duckling survive? [Doubtful.]

I allowed myself a later start this morning; this being a holiday week, traffic has been lighter. Unfortunately, the Stupid People also get a later start.

Either that, or I failed to get the memo that today was Right Hook Day. I thought I would illustrate this post with one of the many images provided to cyclists about the hazards of the right hook, but they are all crafted to teach the cyclist how to avoid this crash by not hugging the curb at an intersection.

At 8:12 a.m., I was approaching an intersection where the road widens into two lanes. Two or three cars were already stopped; the traffic signal was red. Since I would be going straight, I abandoned the bike lane for the center of the road, staying to the left of the right-turn lane. This is exactly where I needed to be to avoid the dreaded right hook—which happens when a vehicle turns right in front of a cyclist who is proceeding straight.

Twenty yards from the intersection, a multi-ton truck from a local lumber yard overtook me on the left. But he was not lining up to make a left turn, or even to go straight. His right turn signal was flashing. I was able to stop safely and let the stupidity unfold. He crossed in front of me—into the right-turn lane—and made his turn.

What might I do differently, in the future? Tough call. I could move farther left, to take the full lane for straight-through traffic; but that would likely aggravate any drivers headed that way.

The next bit of stupidity was a dog-walker on a multi-use path. The ill-trained dog was wandering back and forth across the trail. “Brring brring!” went my bell. The dog, at the end of his leash strung across the path, turned around; the owner did not. Anticipating trouble, I had ample time to stop. But not without making a deliberate impression on the human: my mis-aligned brake pads generated a loud, exaggerated screech. That got the human's attention. He even apologized.

The most dangerous incident would unfold on my return commute, a few miles from home. I made eye contact with the guy in an SUV on a side street; he would not pull out in front of me. A sedan was approaching from the opposite direction, its left turn signal flashing. I was wearing a bright orange jersey, a bright flashing white light mounted on my handlebar. [Always assume you are invisible.] I slowed my pace. The driver, a white-haired elderly woman, turned left onto the side street without even slowing down. This hazard is known as the Left Cross. I still needed to brake, but gently. The guy in the SUV shook his head at the stupidity.

Having had much more than the usual commuting excitement, I looked forward to the serenity of the county park. I passed through the side gate and started down the hill. I saw the white SUV heading out of the parking area to my left. I guessed, correctly, that the driver would pull out without looking to her right. I calculated, correctly, that I had sufficient speed to stay clear. And I predicted, correctly, that I would make a vivid impression when I flew through her field of vision. She stayed far, far behind me after that.

Don't be that duckling.

The Golden State

We gathered today to bid farewell to a club member who is moving back to the Pacific Northwest. There could be no better send-off than a group ride (and, of course, lunch). My ride buddies and I got a head start; the rest of the group caught us at the top of the first significant climb. Lagging behind after that, we managed to arrive in time to catch the lunch party winding down.

More often than not, I have seen deer in the brush as we pass from Sveadal into Uvas Canyon County Park. Today's encounter was exceptional: a multi-point buck and his doe stopped to study us as they crossed the road. Fortunately I have only met them while climbing this stretch.

The water level in the Chesbro Reservoir is at 4.8% of its capacity. If the people who drench their lawns with drinking water saw this, would they finally let their grass turn brown?

Fresh arrows on the road and a red silhouette of the Statue of Liberty suggested that an organized event was underway. We met three riders following the course of the Morgan Hill Freedom Fest Bike Classic. “The guy at the rest stop said this just kind of rolls,” one complained at the top of Willow Springs. I smiled and reassured them that they had ascended the easier side and could look forward to a nice downhill. (Before climbing Llagas. I didn't mention that.)

Whereas we were (not) looking forward to the stiff headwind we would face on our return to San José. It is ever so. Relentless. Eleven miles. A truck hauling tandem trailers stacked high with bales of hay briefly sucked me toward the lane of traffic as it passed, and I caught an unexpected taste as stray pieces swirled around me.

Some 51 miles with a modest 2,085 feet of climbing through the redwoods and golden hills of summer. I would not want to relocate.

Laurels

Years ago, when I was relatively new to cycling, I sought out a bike fitter to address worsening knee pain. He made the proper adjustments and asked about my riding habits. When I told him that I biked only on weekends, he explained that I was essentially starting over (fitness-wise) every week.

Not being an early bird, I could not imagine rising before the sun for a workout before heading to the office. And it would be so easy to talk myself out of an after-work ride. My best option was clear: ride my bike to work. I typically made the effort a couple of times per month, which did pay fitness dividends.

Last year I set a personal record for bicycle-commuting to work by averaging one ride per week. This year I decided to up my game.

What if ... what if my preferred method for commuting to (and from) work was bicycling? I am a fair-weather rider, but in the Bay Area we are blessed with an abundance of fair weather.

Which brings me to today: rounding out 1,825 miles of bicycle commuting with trip number 52. Halfway through the year.

Time to rest on my laurels? (I think not.)

Six-Pack

Last year, I set a new personal record for the number of times I commuted to work by bicycle. New year, new goals.

In the morning, I can bike to a shuttle bus and step off in front of my office (door-to-door, typically 60-65 minutes). Or I can simply bike the whole distance (typically 85-90 minutes). Don't get me wrong—I am extremely grateful for that shuttle. But I rather like being on my bicycle more.

In anticipation of a hard ride each Saturday, it was my habit to “save my legs” by riding the bus on Fridays. Until I reached a certain level of fitness [thanks to all that cycling], and realized that a Friday ride really didn't set me back.

A steady breeze and high thin layer of clouds made for a perfect day to head for Henry Coe State Park. I remember visiting this park for a hike many years ago, and thinking that cycling up there from the valley was crazy, or impossible, or both.

Which leads me to today: my sixth consecutive day of cycling. Up Thomas Grade. Up Dunne Avenue. Fourteen miles to the picnic table at the visitor center.

From out of the hills would come the peace of one's soul and food for the power of thought.

Sada Coe Robinson donated the ranch to Santa Clara County, for a park. A few years later, it became a state park.

I earned that view, with some 3,400 feet of climbing over 28 miles (out and back). Wrapping up the week with 12 bike rides, covering 225 miles with 8,250 feet of climbing.

Thank you, Sada. Admiring your beloved hills from Pine Ridge does bring peace to my soul, every time.

Look and Listen

Driving to the start of today's ride, I passed a pair of vagabonds pushing carts stuffed with their belongings. It was hard to imagine the route they must have followed to reach that point near the highway. A few minutes later, we were startled to see that they had continued their trek down to the highway and were heading south. On one of California's most dangerous roads.

Anticipating that this journey was likely not to end well, I was about to call the highway patrol when a motorist stopped and began to load them and their stuff into his car. The highway patrol appeared in short order, offering some measure of safety with the cruiser's flashing lights.

As our group assembled, a large bird soared overhead. A bird with a distinctive white head and tail. “Eagle,” I exclaimed. “It's a bald eagle!” People were busy chattering away. No one looked up.

We regrouped at a popular park. As one of my ride buddies sat on the ground to apply more sunscreen, a toddler came along and was transfixed. She seems to have some magical effect on men, having shared one improbable tale after another. [Talk about robbing the cradle!] Mom had to drag the little tyke away.

Climbing Rodeo Gulch, I saw a plant that I had first seen near the coast last week, a tall green stalk bearing large yellow flowers. I vowed to stop for a photo of the next one ... and, there were none. The summit afforded a view clear to Monterey Bay.

Overwhelmed, the blue-haired millennial at our lunch stop could not take our orders (much less our money) as fast as the sandwich maker could produce them. A couple of guys started asking about the history of Mountain Charlie.“We'll pass his cabin near the summit,” I explained. They didn't hear me, as they chattered about the 19th century bear fight and the plate in his head.

As we climbed along Bean Creek, I spotted a turkey perched on a fence. The bird was so still I mistook it for a statue at first. My ride companions were chattering away, but they did turn their heads in the direction I pointed.

Two unexpected sights awaited me on Mountain Charlie. As I rounded a bend, there were the vagabonds, with their dog and their carts, heading down the hill! They could never have guessed that our paths were crossing for the second time today. And at the summit, I found the whole group waiting patiently for me, despite their head start after lunch (not to mention their speediness). They were, not surprisingly, chattering away.

For the day, 51 miles with 4,520 feet of climbing, with so many sights unshared. Till now.

The Valley Formerly Known As

Once upon a time, the fertile acres of the Santa Clara Valley were dubbed the Valley of Heart's Delight. But like so many others, it was Silicon Valley that drew me here. Our industry has transformed the world, leaving scant traces of the valley's rural past.

My bicycle has taken me through the less developed land of nearby counties: Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, Monterey, San Mateo, Alameda, Marin, Napa, Sonoma, Stanislaus, San Benito, San Luis Obispo. [I get around.]

The back roads meander through wild land, with deer and coyotes, turkeys and towering redwoods. They also cross farmland, with horses and cattle, fields of berries and grapes, lettuce and cabbage. There aren't many orchards left.

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum

Schoolchildren make field trips to plots that are kept for historical purposes. A few plots remain in family hands, barely enough to sustain the occasional roadside stand. Much of the “local” produce at our farmers' markets travels here from California's Central Valley.

My bike route to (and from) work varies little; for the past two years, the final stretch to the office is a 4-mile segment of a multi-use trail. By now, I have passed the sights along the trail more than 150 times, and learned to identify some of the native flora. Dazzled by the trailside Matilija poppies and California flannel bushes, three or four gnarled and stubby trees were easy to overlook.

Here, between the right-of-way for high voltage transmission lines and the freeway, are the remains of an orchard. A couple of trees, abandoned and neglected for decades, are studded with tiny apricots. Intensely flavorful tiny apricots. (I couldn't resist sampling some.) There is very little flesh around the stone, unlike the (mostly flavorless) variety we find in the grocery store.

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot