Mission San José

It was a fine day for a bike ride, with a hospitably later start on a chilly morning. Destination: Mission San José (which is in ... Fremont, not San José).

Our route meandered through a few residential neighborhoods after passing through Milpitas. There was enough of a breeze to remind us that the Newby Island landfill was nearby (and, that our sense of smell was intact). This would not be a fun place to ride during the heat of summer.

While the rest of our group satisfied their coffee cravings, my ride buddy and I were more curious about the mission (founded in 1797). Today's buildings are restorations of the originals.

Our expedition turned out to be surprisingly hilly for a “flat” ride: 1,120 feet of climbing over 27 miles.

Lexington

Too chilly to ride, my biking buddy suggested a hike. We headed for the Flume trail alongside Los Gatos Creek, climbing up to St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve. A route with options along the way.

Game to continue, we passed the first turnaround point. The Jones trail gave us the choice to continue to the reservoir (less than a mile!), or head back.

Given our extended drought, the water level in the Lexington Reservoir is low—though not as low as it was in 2008, during a much-needed construction project.

Not low enough to expose what might remain of the old towns that were sacrificed to the water. Normally we pass by bike; today we explored a road that led to the shoreline.

Looks like plenty of water, until you consider where I was standing.

It was a decent walk across the gravel to reach the water's edge. Tangled in the rocks at my feet I found two lengths of fishing line; I tugged them loose and carried them out for disposal.

We opted for an easy (flat) return along the Los Gatos Creek Trail. In all, we covered about 7.5 miles—not bad for an impromptu hike!

Wintry Palette

Given how little I've been riding lately, I didn't expect a new personal record on the third climb of the day. [19 seconds faster.]

This traditional ride on the club calendar always draws a decent crowd (25 of us, today).

My ride buddy and I got our usual head start and were surprised when the pack didn't catch us on the first climb. Maybe folks were feeling mellow today; we were uncharacteristically in touch with the group for most of the ride.

In touch, that is, until I broke with tradition for the last couple of miles—taking advantage of a road that didn't exist when the original route was established. A road that is nicer, and quieter, than the old route. (I've shared my route, but ... tradition, I guess.)

I wasn't sure I was up for a long ride today, but it turned out just fine: 44 miles and 1,140 feet of climbing.

Not Too Proud to Walk

Summer treks to the coast have subsided with the cooler weather, and seasonal treks to the local Christmas tree farms have not yet ramped up. Seemed like an auspicious day to tackle another climb I haven't done in a while.

The steep pitches on Loma Prieta Way are exposed, which makes them even less appealing on a hot summer day. Another reason to ride here this time of year: With no marine layer, we were rewarded with a shimmering view of Monterey Bay.

As ever, the road is in a sorry state—a veritable patchwork quilt. Want to bet that it has never been repaved? Want to bet that it never will be repaved?

Truth be told, when the going got tough today, I got off the bike. Earlier in the season, when I was stronger, I could have gone the distance. Today my body said “Nope, not gonna happen.” Twenty-five miles, 2,960 feet of climbing, however you slice it.

It Takes a Village

I faced down two conflicting temptations: a challenging bike ride on Saturday, or a Covid-19 vaccine booster shot on Friday.

Taking it easy after getting the shot seemed prudent, so ... one or the other. [Decide.]

The booster won. Appointments were plentiful on Friday; next week, not so much.

A modest (5-mile) hike on Sunday seemed doable.

I wasn't the only one out for a stroll. A civilized “March Against Hate” drew a sizeable crowd, responding to a disturbing uptick of baseness in our community. Motorists idled patiently as the police escorted the flow of people toward town. Peace and Coexist signs. Hate has no home here.

I took my time, exploring occasional clearings alongside the trail. Some water still flows in the creek, released from the reservoir above.

Music interrupted the sounds of nature as a couple approached briskly from behind. I stepped aside to let them pass, wondering why the man was carrying a large white sack. I didn't notice the piece of litter at my feet until he paused to collect it (with his nifty trash-grabber gadget). The sack, of course, held the trash he'd picked up.

A kindred spirit! Years ago, my coworkers and I had a few favorite spots where we'd enjoy our lunch (weather permitting), and we would always pick up some trash left by others. I've removed countless nails and screws from the roadway, while biking; and last year I stashed a bag in my car to collect at least some of the litter I find in remote spots where we gather to ride.

I would later learn that what I thought were chestnuts were actually dangling from California Buckeyes, a reminder that it's a bad idea for amateurs (like me) to eat what you might forage. [They're toxic.]

Now, foraging for trash—that's something I can get behind. Strive to leave every place better than you found it.

Rays of Autumn

I wasn't expecting a party.

I've been reluctant to start my cycling day with a long drive, especially because it means rising extra early. I've never been a morning person, and dark mornings are extra challenging.

Today's ride was appealing, though; I haven't dragged myself up Patterson Pass in ages, and the rest of our route would be more mellow.  The sun will rise, the hills are greening, and there would be moments where the lighting is just right.

There had been some mention of a pot-luck, which I figured I'd simply bypass.

When I managed to find the group (parked in a large field at a sports complex), the location made sense. This was more than a usual club ride—it was a thank-you for volunteers who had supported a double century a few months ago.

We were in the mix with a large crew of very strong riders. I was confused when I overheard one guy ask another if he planned to ride to the marina, which conjured up images of San Francisco Bay. That there is a “marina” at Lake Del Valle didn't occur to me, until the route led me there.

I tried to dodge the post-ride feast, having done nothing to earn my share, but our gracious host would simply not allow that.

Thirty-two miles, 2,620 feet of climbing and a little chow fun.

Rainy Day Woman

The traditional Hearst Castle Challenge was infeasible this year (again), but Best Buddies still counts on our fundraising to support their operations. And we all miss the opportunity to come together. Thus, the California Challenge was born: one route (100 km), with a heftier fundraising commitment. Or, a do-it-yourself ride (like last year), with no fundraising commitment.

And so I found myself self-administering my very first Covid test (in my car, parked in a field, before dawn). [This would have been a fumble-fest had I not watched an instructional video the night before.] Not only was vaccination a pre-requisite for participating—a negative test result was required to walk out of the parking lot.

And so I found myself welcomed with an unexpected and enthusiastic hug at the sign-in table—the first actual physical human touch I've had since The Before Times. I think of myself as just another face in the crowd, but after so many years ... they know me. And not just because I'm always one of the last riders across the finish line.

I wasn't sure what to expect. Domestiques (in their bright pink jerseys) would support three groups of riders, the slowest of which would finish the ride in four hours. (Four hours?!) I worried about how this would play out; I knew I could not sustain a pace in excess of 15 mph over this route, and hoped they wouldn't nudge me to climb into a SAG vehicle.

The heavy hitters (20 mph pace group) flew ahead, supported by pro cyclists ... including four-time Tour de France winner Chris Froome. Child's play, for them.

We started out with a rude climb, vaguely familiar from the Marin Century—and just as misty. This would not be a day for snapping scenic photos; I had to keep pedaling at a good clip. But the glassy surface of Laguna Lake was too compelling to pass up.

I'm accustomed to solo efforts on long rides—I'm too slow to hang with the jackrabbits, but faster than the slowest folks. After catching up to me, the indomitable Richard Fries was my domestique for a short stretch. Sitting on his wheel for a mile or two made such a difference! And sure, I understand that advantage ... it's just not part of my routine cycling experience.

There was a chance of rain today, on the order of 30% or so ... the odds seemed in our favor. Mist ... turned to drizzle ... turned to rain, calling for prudence on otherwise fast descents. It had been chilly enough that I'd opted to wear a jacket and long-fingered gloves [good call]; many riders had nothing more than jerseys and arm warmers.

At the second (and last) rest stop, some onlookers asked if I was going to continue. [Silly question.] Of course. Once you're wet, you're wet. And fortunately, it wasn't cold.

I didn't think much of it when the ride's medical support pulled out behind me when I started rolling. The road kicked up and they patiently hung back as crawled up the hill at my pathetic pace (as slow as 5 mph, at times). Once there was a clear line of sight, I waved and expected them to pass me.

But ... they didn't.

With 23 miles to go, they had evidently been assigned to be my escort. While domestiques hung back with the slowest riders, I had my own personal ambulance metering vehicular traffic. Once there were four or five cars stacked up behind, they'd slip slightly onto the shoulder and let them pass. I stopped at a pull-out at the top of a hill to take in some much-needed calories; there was also a police cruiser there, and I thought they might park there for a spell.

Nope.

At one point they even activated the flashing lights; maybe there were some antsy drivers behind them, as my uphill pace dropped below 5 mph. Of course, there were some downhill sections, so I managed to average 12.8 mph over the last 23 miles. But still. Imagine tailing a (slow) cyclist for ... nearly ... two ... hours.

I didn't get a chance to find them and thank them at the end of the ride, but I did get to deliver a long-overdue thank-you to Cam Wurf for his memorable assist seven years ago.

After 64 slippery miles and 3,560 feet of climbing, a warm shower and lunch fortified me for the long drive home. My 15th year of pedaling (and raising funds) for Best Buddies delivered another ride to remember!