The Finder of Lost Things

All aboard for a trip back in time with New Jersey Transit, to the era of train travel in which a conductor rapidly punched an inscrutable pattern of holes in a little slip of paper and tucked it under a clip on the seatback in front of you. Not as creatively as the conductor on the Polar Express, but nearly as quaint.

On the last afternoon of a brief family visit, I stopped at the local supermarket. Being more sports-car-than-minivan-experienced, I am uneasy driving the family Odyssey around. I found a distant, comfortably uncrowded section of the lot and parked without incident. On the way out of the store, something caught my eye: a small leather card sleeve on the pavement.

Last spring, I was biking to work when I spotted an iPhone face down on the street. I passed it before circling back. If that were my iPhone, I would want someone like me to find it, I reasoned. I picked it up; if I couldn't figure out who the owner was, I expected that an Apple Store could sort it out. At the office, I pulled out the phone. “Swipe to unlock.” [Really, people?] I passed the phone to a colleague with more iPhone savvy; the phone book was nearly empty, but within moments he found the owner's corporate email account. [She didn't even know that she'd dropped the phone.] Her husband presented me with a basket of kiwi fruit when he retrieved the phone later that evening.

I picked up the card sleeve. It was stuffed with credit cards and a transit pass, with an out-of-state driver's license on top. I thought about returning to the store and handing it in to customer service; but the owner might be long gone, having no idea where he managed to drop it.

Years ago, I found a credit card on the sidewalk in my town. It was issued by a Canadian bank, and all I could imagine was a much-inconvenienced (and panicked) tourist. I called the toll-free number printed on the back of the card and tried (in vain) to convince the bank to contact their customer so I could happily return the card. They would do nothing but cancel it. Now when I find a card, I don't bother calling; I just shred it.

This leather sleeve was different—with a driver's license, I had an address. Maybe I could get in touch with the nice-looking guy who lost it and return it. What an enormous pain it would be to replace his license and all those credit cards. If this were my wallet, I would want someone like me to find it.

Back at my laptop, I set to work. In the worst case, I would carry it back to the Bay Area in the morning and mail it. [At this point, anyone else would turn to Facebook. But I am not a Facebook-y type, so I turned to Google.] The name looked uncommon, but wasn't. Within a few minutes, I discovered that this handsome fella was not just anyone; he was a lacrosse player, with his own Wikipedia entry. There was his date of birth for all to see; it matched the one on his driver's license. I foraged for email addresses on websites where someone would plausibly know him. The first message paid off within 30 minutes; he was much relieved and came by to retrieve the goods.

He shared the story: He and his wife had just bought a house in a neighboring town. With his toddler in tow, he had wheeled a cart full of groceries to the cash register ... and couldn't pay. We shared a laugh.

“There are good, honest people in the world!” he thanked me. Could he give me something? I waved him off.

“Pay it forward.”

Little Pink Lady

Continuing with my theme of cool rides for hot summer days, we returned to Kings Mountain today to make a loop near the coast. As we descended into the marine layer on Tunitas Creek Road, I was oh-so-glad that I had brought my jacket for this ride. Long-fingered gloves would have helped. When would the Bike Hut come into view? The road seemed longer than ever.

A couple of our riders were grateful for the hot coffee brewing inside. [Supported by donations, on the honor system.] As we continued to Lobitos Creek, droplets of fog condensed on my face. Winding our way over the coastal hills back toward Tunitas, the transition always startles me. One moment you're admiring a vast open space of rolling hills; the next moment you've crossed into the deep shade of the redwood canyon through which Tunitas Creek flows.

Ferns were abundant on the banks of the creek, but there was not much creek to see. A few puddles of water, here and there; that's all.

In 33 miles, we climbed a respectable 4,300 feet. We began and finished our ride in the town of Woodside, which is renowned for being more accommodating to equestrians than cyclists. Much to the dismay of the residents, their town is a gateway to fantastic cycling routes in three directions.

One block before the end of our ride, we pass in front of a local market to stop at a busy intersection. Uncharacteristically, there were no vehicles ahead of us. I watched as a young girl on a shiny pink bike with streamers tried to start up, wobbled, toppled, and righted herself. A worried glance in my mirror assured me that she would be safe; uncharacteristically, there no vehicles behind us, either.

As I rolled to a stop at the intersection, two adults with bicycles appeared. It was not clear whether they planned to walk or ride their bikes across the street; the safest thing for me to do was simply to wait.

When they started shouting at the little girl with the pink bike (their daughter, evidently), my heart sank. “Hurry up! Get out of the road!” Her parents were completely unaware that she was struggling. My ride buddy wryly observed that their parenting license should be revoked. I deeply regretted not stopping to help the child. This intersection, with its four-way stop normally clogged with impatient drivers, is no place for a tentative youngster on a bicycle.

Wild Kingdom by the Bay

It started out like any other summer lunchtime. My colleagues had commandeered a nice set of tables in the shade.

I'm not really a tie-dye sort of person, but this week I thought I would try to drum up some action for the bi-monthly blood drive on campus. Each day I have sported a different Grateful Life Tour t-shirt—an annual gift from the Stanford Blood Center for mid-summer blood donors. Monday was blue, Tuesday green, today was orange.

Starlings know a good gig when they find one, and a bunch have taken up residence. A female hunting for some fallout caught my eye. A dried-out fragment of a redwood branch was stuck to her left foot, maybe tangled with some string. Her right foot was missing altogether. She hopped around awkwardly, and a few of us wished we could do something to free her left foot, but didn't think we could safely nab her.

The story gets better.

She hopped closer and closer to our table, and then we saw her eye on the prize: A praying mantis. Not just any praying mantis, but a white praying mantis. When she got close enough to peck at it, it reared up and spread its wings, Transformer-like. (Whoa.) The startled bird backed off. After nearly being crushed by an ill-placed footfall, the mantis headed for our table and perched on an engineer's jeans. We dispatched him to the grassy area, which encouraged the creature to move on. (Apparently they are white after they molt.)

It gets better still.

That's when a large bug buzzed my way: A HUGE green beetle, which seemed very interested in my bright orange shirt. I held still; it landed on my hand and proceeded to inspect my arm as it slowly crawled toward my elbow. It was a handsome creature, green with black legs. I'd say it was a June bug, but I don't think there are June bugs in California. [I believe it was a Figeater beetle.]

The story gets even better.

A couple of guys at the far end of the table were completely unnerved. They were ten feet away and ready to bolt. “I can't believe you're letting it walk on you!” It's not a stinging insect, it's not going to bite, I replied. “And most snakes aren't poisonous, either!” they exclaimed. The beetle lost interest in my arm and hovered near my shirt again. When it buzzed into my face, I swatted it away.

I was, after all, just trying to eat my lunch. Burger, not beetle.

Down There

With more warm weather in the forecast, I hatched a plan to seek more shady redwoods. Meeting some shady people is often part of that bargain.

Climbing up Native Sons, a woman heading down in a large pickup stopped next to me. “Did you come from down there?” she asked. Which, on the face of it, is a patently stupid question. I gave her a friendly “yes” and continued on my way.

“Down there” is a gate at the end of the public road. The gate happened to be open today, but we respect private property. I should have replied “We came down from the top and made a u-turn at the gate,” which might have allayed her suspicion that we had somehow trespassed “down there” on our way to Skyline. Or maybe not, since none of us are Native Sons of the Golden West.

It is easy to forget that, to a hefty person driving a beefy pickup truck, it is inconceivable that anyone would deliberately ride a bicycle downhill on a dead-end road just to turn around and ride back up. Today we did that not once, but twice: first on Native Sons, then on Star Hill. Having first climbed Kings Mountain, we climbed some 3,500 feet on our little 25-mile excursion.

These narrow back roads might leave you wondering why they exist, until you pass the decaying stumps of huge redwoods. It is a good guess that these were once logging roads; most of the towering trees are second-growth, but a few are large enough to suggest they were spared (back in the day).

The descents were—dare I say—cold. And that was oh-so-refreshing.

Extreme Commuting

July was a banner month. With the exception of one day (when, sadly, I needed my car), I commuted by bicycle on every day that I worked: 18 days, in all.

Along the way, I crossed paths with three cyclists I know. One ride buddy went out of her way to join me on the morning commute, just for fun.

I rode in my first green bike lane, which popped up this week on a busy, freshly-repaved thoroughfare.

I saw deer and bunnies, and so many birds—including the low-flying Canada geese that barely cleared my head tonight.

I discovered the namesake memorial to fallen soldiers at a community park, and watched some scouts learning to handle the American flag.

I smiled and said “Good morning!” to lots of solo walkers, and paused to wave to the engineer running a beloved steam locomotive through a local park.

I swept up broken glass, alerted maintenance crews to graffiti and spent firecrackers, and reported the occasional wayward gbike that had left the Google campus.

I wore out the rear tire on my commute bike, down to the threads, after some 7,900 miles over 7 years. The front tire carries less weight and is still going strong. (Continental Sport Contact, if you were wondering).

I realized that a shadow cast by the rail on our soaring bike bridge is a sundial, of sorts. The days are unmistakably growing shorter.

I burned an estimated 28,000 Calories, which I offset with pancakes, French toast, bacon, and plenty of dark chocolate. (OK, yogurt and fresh fruit, too.)

Factoring in some recreational excursions, I managed a 7-day streak of daily rides totaling 219 miles.

Counting all rides, I tallied 239 miles in my best calendar week. For the month: 902 miles, with more than 27,000 feet of climbing.

I spent about 77 hours bicycling. Sure beats sitting in traffic.

The Broom Wagon

Years ago, on the other coast, my co-workers and I would enjoy lunch al fresco during the warmer months. We had our favorite places: a magnolia-rimmed plaza with a huge fountain, a tree-shaded lawn, even the local cemetery. We would always leave a place cleaner than we found it—removing litter that had been thoughtlessly tossed by others.

As I climbed the ramp to the second bike/pedestrian bridge on my route on Monday, a wide swath of shattered glass glistened in the morning sun. There was no way to ride around it. [Lovely.]

I meant to alert the town's Public Works Department, but that slipped my mind until I faced my second trip through the field of glass on my way home. After picking a half-dozen fragments out of my tires, I filled out their online form.

I meant to pack a small broom on Tuesday morning, but forgot. I grimaced on my third trip through the glass. The Public Works folks dispatched a crew to sweep up, and I was relieved that I would have a clean ride home. [Not.]

In sweeping the ramp, they managed to disperse the glass over a wider area (and remove little or none of it).

On Wednesday morning, I tucked a well-worn whisk broom under my cargo net (a recent acquisition). I parked my bike on the ramp and proceeded to sweep both sides of the path, from the center line to the edge. Shards of clear glass were scattered over some 15 feet of the ramp.

Five passing cyclists thanked me.

You're a very good person!

One pedestrian was impressed and stopped to chat.

It was a slow, tedious job with my little broom, but my calculation had been more selfish than selfless. Spend 20 minutes to sweep the bridge once, or spend time every day picking glass out of my tires (or worse). Dealing with just one punctured tube would take more time.

I remembered to send some polite feedback to the Public Works Department. They needed to know that their clean-up attempt was not only ineffective—it made matters worse. And I wanted to make sure they didn't re-distribute the glass the next time they swept the bridge.

They got the memo. On my way home, the glass was gone, gone, gone!

Up on the Ridge

Where would you like to be on a hot summer day? (Hint: A swimming pool is not an option.)

On the ridge, it's peaceful as can be

And there, the world below can't bother me

Some of our club members headed for Henry Coe State Park. Such a long, exposed climb was not enticing; a frolic in the redwoods sounded much more appealing.

Our convivial band of riders hung together pretty well, with faster riders doubling back at times to check on the slower folk.

There was no drippy fog to cool us, but ample shade as we headed into the Santa Cruz Mountains. We dipped over the summit before returning to the ridge, and found a bit of a breeze as we traced our way south. Heading back, we looked down at a freeway clogged with cars heading toward the beach. Descending toward the valley, our last mile felt like riding toward a blast furnace.

At a comfortable pace, we climbed some 3,205 feet over 39 miles. My backyard thermometer topped out above 98F. Nothing that a bowl of ice cream and a cool shower couldn't fix.