C is for ...

C is for Colma and cemeteries, the Centennial Way Trail and the Cold War. And, of course, cycling.

I was most excited about today's route, which promised a bona-fide adventure: I was unfamiliar with much of the area we'd be exploring.

We rode up Sneath Lane to reach a trail leading to Sweeney Ridge. Bikes are permitted, but squeezing through the tight angular gate was a challenge. I was toodling along just fine, wondering why the climb was much easier than our club's rated difficulty level, when it got steep. Heart-rate-180-bpm-steep.

What remains of the abandoned Cold War-era Nike missile control site was less interesting than I expected. The walls are a magnet for graffiti vandals; perhaps it would be better to tear them down. The views of the Pacific and of our next destination (San Bruno Mountain) were beautiful on this clear day, however.

Our leader took care to keep us together as we navigated city streets to connect with the Centennial Way Trail. We made our way through Colma, which naturally included passing through a cemetery. (Colma is renowned for having more dead than living residents.) This one had it all: ornate private mausoleums the size of small chapels, headstones, simple flush-mounted plaques. Which started me wondering about why ordinary people erected such grand monuments to themselves.

The view to the west from the top of San Bruno Mountain was more familiar now that I fully recognized the green fields of Colma dotted with marble and granite.

I had spent quality time with a map in advance, devising an alternate return route. Our leader's route back to Skyline was more direct, but followed some roads that I expected would be unpleasantly busy with traffic. The Colma Community Center turned out to be the perfect place for a rest stop. My ride buddy and I were quite happy with the route I devised; apart from the climbing, it was quite pleasant. But, well, getting back to Skyline unavoidably means going up.

We paused at the south end of San Andreas Lake to watch some very relaxed deer on the slope below us. After rounding the bend to continue south on the trail, I spotted a doe and her still-spotted fawn at close range. I imagine they're feeling the stress of our long drought, and perhaps becoming too comfortable with people. I slowed as I approached another cyclist who was about to resume pedaling; only then did I see the buck (!) to my left, on the paved trail, munching away. He seemed completely indifferent to people passing by, in both directions.

C is for the Crystal Springs Reservoir, where we began (and ended) today's journey: 48 miles, 4,440 feet of climbing.

Riding the Eastside

A simple club ride to ease back into normal life, to catch up with friends.

I hadn't visited these roads on the rural fringe of eastern San Jose in awhile; it was another warm day, when a short outing (with some shade) seemed just right.

The second climb was gradual, but longer than I'd remembered.

When we stopped for a snack, some of us were disappointed to find that the smoothie place was gone.

The GPS in my phone cut out, leaving me with a partial track to remember the 34 miles we covered. With only 2,080 feet of climbing, I was able to maintain a respectable pace. And a short ride left time to do other things in the afternoon.

Wait, there are other things to do besides cycling?

Don't Be Late

I almost missed the pancakes and fresh fruit salad at the club's annual July 4th breakfast. Note to self: Get moving earlier, next year.

The day was hot, and promising to get hotter. I convinced my ride buddies that we should skip the hard climbs we'd planned, substituting instead a leisurely trip into a well-shaded canyon alongside a creek. Feeling adventuresome, we continued into the Monte Bello Open Space Preserve at the end of the road, as far as our skinny-tire road bikes could sensibly carry us. By the end of the day, I had covered some 39 miles, climbing 1,840 feet to burn off those pancakes.

This year, I made it to my town's celebration in time to get a traditional burger for lunch. The party was in full swing at a local park: a wind symphony playing marches, kids running and playing in the fields, adults clustered in whatever small patches of shade they could find.

I learned that some famous marches were composed for newspapers. John Philip Sousa wrote one for the Chicago Tribune. He composed another, which I'll bet you've heard, for The Washington Post, for a ceremony celebrating award-winning essays by schoolchildren. ['Twas a different age, indeed.]

I found a spot along the fence next to the park's steam train, near the carousel. A family of four occupied a pair of benches, the two children oblivious to the festivities and attractions around them. They appeared to be about 7 or 8 years old, and were completely absorbed in playing games on their iPads. Completely. Absorbed.

“There's a steam locomotive behind you,” I wanted to shout. “Look, they're spinning it around on a turntable.” What kid doesn't like trains?

The boy was so fixated he wouldn't even eat; his father repeatedly thrust a hot dog in his face and he'd swat it away. When he finally forced him to eat a few bites by taking away the iPad, the boy let forth an earsplitting wail.

I walked away. Why did you bother to come here, I wondered. Go home and play in your virtual world.

'Tis a different age, indeed.

Can't Go Home Again

As I made my way through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland over the past few weeks, I always found a church to light a candle in memory of Mom. She would have liked that.

Now it's time for one last visit to Mom's house, to help with sorting and sifting through the things she collected and treasured over a lifetime.

The finality is inescapable.

She downsized some 18 years ago, and I had not visited our old neighborhood since. Seeing our former home was as disheartening as I expected. The lawn and landscaping had been ripped out. The canopy of the once-towering silver maple tree had been lopped off, four feet of the dead trunk left standing.

On the spur of a moment, I visited the cemetery. Crabgrass has taken hold on the patch of bare earth above her.

Later, I honored our routine with Manhattan clam chowder for supper, tea and a black-and-white cookie. (Two delicacies uncommon on the West Coast.)

How I'd dreaded the day I would face this process: what to keep, what to toss, what to surrender forever to strangers in an estate sale. I think she'd be disappointed in my choices, for the things of highest value to me are sentimental.

I found a Mother's Day card I'd drawn for her, in pencil, maybe around age seven. The paper is folded in fourths, just so, like a regular greeting card.

But it's the P.P.S. that makes the card:

P.S. AGAIN
THIS IS THE RUFF COPIE.
I'M SORRY, BUT OUR CLASS DIDN'T BEHAVE.
SO WE DIDN'T HAVE ART.

I browsed through the albums she'd filled with photos and postcards from trips she'd taken with her friends. Lined up together on a bookshelf, it was sad to know that she hadn't opened them in years. I wish I'd pulled them out during a visit and helped her relive those moments.

Dad's been gone for 30 years, and it took some time for her to weather that loss. I found two newspaper clippings, carefully preserved: essays by widows on the topic of living alone. “Women can learn to like living alone,” published about two years after he died. “Gathering the courage to live your life” ... published 20 years after he died.

She didn't share her thoughts or feelings with me, and she didn't keep a journal. It broke my heart when I found two longer entries in her “birthday book,” a special datebook where she recorded the birth (and death) dates of friends and family:

My husband who I loved more than anyone else died at 9:00 PM, Age 58

Three days later:

Hon - Laid to rest as I watched with a broken heart and all my love.

She's gone, and I feel like I didn't fully know her.

Hers was always a world of worry. In the kitchen, where she would see it throughout the day, she had hung a framed quote I'd given her (attributed to Mark Twain):

I've had many problems in my life,
most of which have never happened.

“Be careful,” she'd tell me at the end of every phone call. “Be safe.”

Wish you were here, Mom.

Au Revoir, Switzerland

The rest of the group will cycle on without me for another week, as it's time for me to head back to the U.S. I'll miss the legendary cheese and chocolate; family obligations must prevail.

One of these days I'll post something about how (and what) to pack for a cycling trip. As you can see, I was traveling pretty light. The surprise hit for this trip was a 22-inch Dakine roller bag that I picked up at the last minute, wanting just a wee bit more room than my old Delsey carry-on. On a plane, that bag used to fit under the seat in front of me; now, its protruding handle makes it too long to be carried on at all. And these days you can barely fit a handbag under the seat in front of you.

Switzerland is the most beautiful country I've visited. I'm partial to rolling green hills and craggy peaks, waterfalls and wildflowers. And, of course, great chocolate.

Till next time ...

Gruyères

Another day to be on our way. Another ... rainy day.

Just as there were different philosophies of navigation among the members of our group, there were different attitudes about the weather.

The hardy contingent, indifferent to the conditions, were the first to depart. Just suit up and ride.

Next were the ones who preferred to look outside. “It's stopped raining, let's go!” [They got wet.]

Then there were the ones who looked at the forecast on their smartphones. “It will stop raining by 9:30 a.m., we'll leave then.” [They were delayed.]

And there was pep, who likes the animated weather map on her phone. “After that next band of showers, we'll be good to go.” [For those who waited with me, only the roads were wet.]

This being a Sunday, there was very little traffic. It also meant that most businesses were closed, including cafés.

For the last ride of my trip, I was all for a scenic route. With some hills, of course.

There was one minor problem with that: The bike was balking at shifting into my granny gear. And when the going gets steep, I shift. Down. All the way down.

There was one tricky turn that our host worried we would miss. He pointed at the map; there was a distinctive hairpin outside of Saanen, which (if we saw it) meant that we had gone too far. I found the spot on Google Maps and zoomed in, switching to satellite mode. “Ah,” I said. “Before the turn, there is a hotel on the left. There are diagonal lines painted in the center of the road. Shortly after that, there will be more diagonal lines in the median, and that's where we turn right onto the Unterbortstrasse.” When we got there, it was clear. “Next turn,“ I called out, signaling to the right.

Our route took us along some isolated roads, skirting the edge of the Gruyère Pays-d’Enhaut Regional Nature Park as we moved east into the French-speaking area of Switzerland. We enjoyed a narrow winding road alongside a stream, Le Ruisseau des Fenils. The banks were edged with a plant whose leaves were enormous—bigger than my head. Bigger than a bicycle wheel.

The long grade was a slow uphill grind without my lowest gears, but it was doable. To a point. Periodically I would tap the lever for the recalcitrant shifter, to no avail.

Then, finally, it clicked into place. Oh, the joy! Just in time, for soon the climb got steep. If that's not clear to your legs and lungs, it's clear to your eyes when you meet local cyclists training on it. A strong woman cruised past me with apparent ease, but it wasn't long before I caught sight of her again ... walking. It turns out that the grade was >10% for a couple of miles.

The road over the last summit passed through fields where cattle were free to roam; “Bovi Stop” signs were placed near the cattle guards. As a few started across the road, saw me approaching from one side and a car approaching from the other ... what would they do? They looked nervous. I stopped and waited for them to sort themselves out.

Our hotel in Gruyères was at the edge of the old town. Here's the thing: the oldest parts of European towns are typically on a hill, the better to defend against unwanted visitors long ago. “Yes,” I assured the others; “we go up.”

After dinner, we strolled through the town and around the outside of its 13th-century château. I was told it would be a travesty to say I'd visited Gruyères and not had double cream, so I joined my hosts for a bowl of framboises à la crème double. [Mmm.] And well earned, after climbing 4,000 feet over 42 miles.

AlpRundweg Leiterli / Simmenfälle

Everybody was ready for a rest day. Which, of course, means: Let's go hiking!

With summertime passes for the ski gondolas, we headed for the top of the mountain. I was so distracted by the world around me that I was halfway through our hike before I remembered to start recording a track; and later, I was already heading down on the gondola when I remembered to stop recording.

As if the wildflowers and mountain peaks were not enough, a few added features brought smiles.

On a lift tower near the top, strikers were mounted to play a tune whenever cowbells (attached to the cable) came by. [Clever.]

Hand-carved posts were placed at intervals along the AlpRundweg Leiterli trail, each depicting a local activity and telling a story.

After lunch, and (you guessed it) another lovely pastry, I wandered about Lenk. If I'd had a plan, it wouldn't have included retiring to my hotel room.

The River Simme runs through town, with a wanderweg alongside. I started walking upstream, toward the mountains. A trail sign pointed toward Simmenfälle, which I recognized would be a waterfall. With an eye on the time, I kept hiking. As with many trail signs here, no distance was given.

I followed a Helsana trail, sometimes crossing the river, noting landmarks to guide my return trip. One kilometer from the falls, a sign finally revealed the distance.

I know it's the age of the selfie (and the obnoxious “selfie stick”), but I'm of the generation that would rather engage with my fellow humans. “Would you like a photo, together?” I asked. [Of course!] Mom, dad, toddler, and the dog in front of the waterfall. In exchange, the family happily returned the favor.

My afternoon hike was longer than the morning's, some six miles along the river. With time to appreciate the wildflowers, I returned in time for dinner.