The Metcalf Mauler

There is a weekly afternoon tradition of climbing Metcalf Road, and since I had the day off, I decided to join the party.

What's that, you say? You can think of better things to do on a day off than ride a bicycle up a steep hill? Ah, well, you're not me.

The downside of this ride (apart from the grade) is that the climb is almost entirely exposed—broiling hot on a sunny July day.

The upside of this ride is that there would be little traffic, mid-week, with the off-road vehicle park at the summit closed.

Grinding my way up the hill, sweat pouring off my body, I tried to hold that image of the serene blue water of Coyote Creek in my head. [Didn't help.] If only those kids with super-soakers who gleefully cooled us down during the LIVESTRONG ride were always here ...

I've climbed this hill a handful of times. Six times, before today. By way of contrast, our ride leader has climbed it more than 1,200 times. [That's not a typo.] It's been a few years since he took stock, and he's continued to climb it regularly, so it's more likely that he's biked up more than 1,300 times.

Who am I to complain? [Nobody. That's for sure.]

Lacking a power meter, my heart rate is a proxy for the effort it takes to get up the hill. It peaked at 178 bpm, and when it would occasionally drop to 176, or 174, that meant the road was a just a little bit less steep for a few moments.

To put that in perspective, that's just shy of 3 heartbeats per second. Which is pretty remarkable, if you think about it; and for some reason I hadn't really thought about it before this ride.

You might expect it's all downhill after reaching the top, and that would be true if you made a u-turn to return to the base. It's not true if you continue down the back side and loop around via San Felipe Road, which (of course) is what we did.

You also might expect to learn something new about this territory from someone who had climbed it so many times, and that was true. Our leader pointed out the remains of a private narrow-gauge railroad barely visible through a thicket of trees. It's neglected, these days, by the current landowner.

For the afternoon, about 17 miles with 1,780 feet of climbing.

Tick-tick-tick.

Party Poopers

The club hosts a pancake breakfast every Fourth of July, and I always look forward to the socializing (and the carbs). I don't look forward to getting there at the very beginning; 7:30 on a holiday morning is just too early, even with the promise of pancakes.

The post-pancakes rides don't start till 10 a.m. (or whenever clean-up is finished), so my regular ride buddy and I figured that rolling in at 9 a.m. seemed about right. We've done this before.

We were wrong. Or maybe we didn't get the memo. I arrived a couple of minutes past nine, and the chairs were already put away. The last tables were being clanged shut. The plates had been removed, the fruit was being bagged. I hurried to snag a (hot) pancake bursting with blueberries, which I rolled up and ate taco-style. I found a paper towel to serve as a napkin, and retrieved a couple of strawberries and an orange wedge. Having arrived at 8:55 a.m., my ride buddy had scored a plate but was eating while walking around—the table had been almost literally pulled out from under her.

What was the rush? Disappointed and annoyed, I didn't stick around to find out. Why wait till ten? We ate and ran.

I vaguely remembered that Arnerich Road had a section that was pretty steep. [Yup.] Heart-poppingly steep. 185 beats-per-minute steep. [Confirmed: I can still function at high heart rates.] After that, the remainder of the route was tame; although the climb to the top of Reynolds seemed longer. Right around that bend ... nope. Right around that next bend ... nope.

Persuaded to join me for our town's celebration in a local park, I gave my ride buddy a choice: stay flat or go over a hill. [Bet you can guess her choice. Birds of a feather, we are.]

The Lions Club runs a barbecue, so they got my support: hamburger and chips. We stood for the national anthem and watched some Boy Scouts raise the flag. After listening to the San Jose Wind Symphony play a few marches, we were on our way. Our timing was perfect to watch a Billy Jones Wildcat Railroad train chug past—the diesel locomotive, not the steam engine, today.

Burned off that pancake with 30 miles, 2,240 feet of climbing. Next year, I'll have to get an earlier start to the day. [Sigh.]

Blustery Black

Cycling up Black Road is hard. Because I don't make a habit of it, I tend to forget how hard. And how long. At my pace, there is plenty of time to gaze down the steep sides of the canyon, and up at the towering trees. Now that the John Nicholas trail is open, there are also a fair number of vehicles carrying hikers and mountain bikers up.

It was surprisingly windy as we approached the top. Expecting a hot day, I had chosen this route for some shade; I didn't expect it to be, actually, chilly. [I was happy to be chilled.]

The temperature shift was evident as we circled back toward Lexington Reservoir, despite the wind. We were descending, but our thermometers were rising.

Years ago I visited famously windy Wanaka, with its namesake lake. The whitecaps on the reservoir didn't rival that, but they were remarkable for Lexington. I had never seen our reservoir like this. The ripples approaching the shoreline made sense; the wind was pushing the water toward us. What I don't understand were the series of streaks crossing them.

Short and simple, 20 miles with 2,610 feet of climbing.

Chop, Chop

Fortunately it had been a relatively quiet week at work, with many folks adding an early extension to the upcoming July 4th holiday. Because somehow, my volunteering stints were all packed into the last week of our month-long community service extravaganza.

Since I've worked at the same company for a while, chances were that my projects would include some folks I knew; and that was true for both projects earlier this week (Sunday Friends and Castle Rock). Today's project was led by someone from our organization, and several of us joined in: Go, team!

The chefs for Loaves and Fishes Family Kitchen set us up with aprons, gloves, cutting boards, and sharp tools. Then we got to work.

One group would cut and season chickens. A lot of chickens. Another would prepare meatloaf. A third group cooked enchiladas. Somehow, trays of salad were prepared. I joined the crew prepping vegetables for a stew.

At the office, teams can sign up for sessions in an onsite “teaching kitchen.” It's a fully glass-enclosed space, and I admit that I often chuckle at my colleagues inside, many of whom have that deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces. [It's okay, that would be me, too.]

Anticipating the inefficiency our lack of experience would entail, a chef showed us this one weird trick for chopping off the broccoli florets: Hold the head upside down, by the stalk, and then whack-whack-whack the florets off with the knife. It takes a few seconds. [Wow.] Three of us could fill a large aluminum pan within a couple of minutes. Cauliflower was a bit more work; after removing the leaves and base, the best approach was to break off the florets by hand.

After we exhausted multiple cases of cruciferous veggies, we joined the rest of the crew working on potatoes (easy) and carrots (hard).

After we helped with cleanup, they estimated the number of meals we'd prepared, by type. Altogether: Five thousand. Five thousand? That's a lot of meals.

But there are so many people who need them.

Rockin' the Castle

I remember the first Earth Day. I was just a kid, but I helped haul trash out of the marshy woodland near our school, former cranberry bogs gone native. I was inspired to haul more trash out of the wooded area near my home, too.

Spend any time on the road, especially on a bicycle, and the popular dumping grounds become all too familiar. In the local neighborhood, it's small scale: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappings, bottles and cans. Get out of town, though, and there is so much more. I think of one area along Sierra Road as “The Valley of the Appliances:” washers, dryers, you name it.

I can only wonder how it all got there. I mean, if you're hauling it in the first place, why don't you just haul it to the dump? [Yes, I know. Because then you'd have to pay a disposal fee.]

My assignment today was to lead a group of colleagues for a few workday hours in the wild: Hard labor in Castle Rock State Park, on behalf of the Portola and Castle Rock Foundation.

One group would stay in the parking lot and repaint the trim on the entrance kiosk. Light duty.

Another group would hike to the Castle Rock Falls overlook and paint the railing. Beautiful view.

The third, and largest, contingent was needed to haul junk out of the creek in a not-yet-opened section of the park.

Guess which group I joined? [Hint: I'm not much for painting.]

This new tract was formerly a Christmas tree farm. Oh, the allure of exploring non-public territory, legally!

Down the hill we tromped, past the stumps of logged redwoods and one particularly massive Douglas fir. Old growth.

Of course we went down the hill, because that's where you find a creek. [And poison oak. Though I managed to emerge unscathed.]

Down means we'd be hauling the junk back up the hill. Cardio workout!

Tires. There are always tires. That's easy to understand; they roll.

Pipes, tubes, rusted wire mesh, fence posts, orange plastic netting, a traffic cone. Three lengths of narrow PVC piping encasing three heavy-gauge insulated wires. A sealed bucket full of white paint.

Really, what is all this stuff? And why is it here?

The grand prize was an unwieldy corrugated metal panel, as big as a garage door, but heavier. Down an embankment. (Of course.)

I love engineers. How best to move that behemoth called for brains as well as brawn. Pipes and shovels were pressed into service as levers, and with coordinated effort (and coordinated grunting), the panel was heaved up the hill. About six inches at a time. More importantly, no one got hurt!

Someday I'll hike along these same trails, and I will see what others cannot: The ghost of Christmases past.

Sunday Friends

During June, my employer lays out a month-long smorgasbord of community volunteering, around the globe. Most of these opportunities are scheduled during the workday, and we are generously given the time to participate.

I signed up to lead a project for the fifth year in a row, and that will happen later this week.

Then my coworkers organized a group for a different project, so I doubled down (as a regular volunteer, also this week).

And then the word came out that a few projects were in jeopardy because no one had offered to lead them.

That, I could not abide. Our local non-profits are counting on us. I surveyed the list, and regrettably ruled out one after another.

With one exception: It would be a short drive from home, on a Sunday afternoon. I just didn't have a reason not to step up.

Thus I found myself leading a small group of colleagues, along with their friends and family, volunteering outside my comfort zone: in a room packed with children (and parents), families all struggling to meet their basic needs in our community.

The stated mission of Sunday Friends is to “empower families to break the generational cycle of poverty by fostering positive development in children while educating and guiding parents to support their children's life success.”

Their approach is well-honed after two decades of service. We stepped into a room buzzing with activity: crafts and educational tasks to engage the kids, cooking and thank-you letter writing for all. There were also classes for the adults: parenting, financial literacy, English as a second language.

Our group fanned out to help where needed: tutoring, Fourth of July decorations, red-white-and-blueberry yogurt parfaits. I joined the crew working on today's hot meal, chopping onions and mincing garlic for the potato-and-red-pepper hash. Families also bring pot-luck dishes to share with all.

This program runs with a special twist: Time spent on each activity earns tickets, which can be redeemed for products at the Sunday Friends store (or banked online for future use). The store is stocked with necessities we take for granted, like household and school supplies, health and beauty products. There is also a small stock of simple toys, like stuffed animals and games. At the end of the day, every family will also go home with a bag filled with fresh produce.

For me, this was an extraordinary experience. I was apprehensive that I would be met with suspicion and resentment; instead, I found warmth and acceptance. Volunteers and families worked happily together. The room bustled with children eager (and equipped) to help with every task—even food prep. It's about pride: Pride of accomplishment. Pride of contributing to the community.

The organization's executive director (Ali) was onsite and had given our group a tour. The main room had emptied out, and I wondered if the families normally trickled away after the meal.

Not at all.

They had assembled outside to sing “Happy Birthday” to Ali; the kids had crafted a tall party hat for him. With much cheering and clapping, the crowd followed with a second joyful song, in Spanish.

I can think of no better testimonial, than that.

Remembering Bill Davis

I opened the email message and burst into tears. My heart raced, my stomach knotted. I felt sick.

The life of my friend and colleague, Bill Davis, had been ended by a reckless (likely impaired) driver.

Bill was riding his bicycle with a friend on this sunny summer Saturday in Boulder, Colorado when a woman swerved her multi-ton SUV into the bike lane and killed him.

She then fled. But she was caught. Reportedly, she has been guilty twice before: injuring someone while driving carelessly and driving while impaired. Fines, community service, and probation didn't dissuade her from doing it again.

It is unspeakably horrific to see the photo of Bill's twisted and shattered bicycle. I cannot begin to imagine this experience for his family. His three children have lost their daddy, his wife has lost the love of her life, his parents have lost their son, his siblings have lost their brother. All of us have lost a friend.

For the love of humanity, for the love of daughters and sons, wives and husbands, mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers:

Don't drive drunk.

Don't drive if you're impaired in any way, shape, or form.

If you see someone who shouldn't get behind the wheel, don't look the other way. Take their keys. Get them a ride home.

Bill Davis in his signature floppy hat, volunteering his wrenching skills for Bike to Work Day in 2008.