Ladies Who Hike

Every now and then, it's time for a day off. This one happened to align with a hike planned by some of my cycling friends. Monday, Monday ... sometimes it just turns out that way.

I was happy to discover how compatible we were—our pace, as well as our interests.

We explored some of the Sierra Vista Open Space Preserve, terrain that I have previously surveyed only from the road (on my bike). We had the place pretty much to ourselves.

Poppies!

And a mystery flower. Lindley's blazingstar, perhaps?

Scenic vistas, good conversation, and eight-ish miles with more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain—forgetting to unpause my GPS tracking after we stopped for a break, along with another apparent hiccup, conveys our approximate route. We stayed on the trails, of course.

I could get used to this.

A New Twist on an Old Fave

A succession of members have kept the tradition of this club ride alive after the closing of its namesake (Bici) bike shop, first moving the start to a nearby park and now to another neighborhood in response to heavy construction at the park. The new location is a winner! (Let's keep it!)

It's still a bit early for wildflowers, but there were some lupines in bloom near the Chesbro Reservoir.

Once upon a time, this region was known as the Valley Of Heart's Delight. Now we can only imagine acres upon acres of orchards in bloom, stretching as far as the eye could see. A few remain, their trees dusting us with white petals like spring snowflakes.

We made good time heading north on the Coyote Creek Trail before I led my chief biking buddy off the “official” route with my own wee tweak, near the end.

The faster riders had caught us this morning, of course, despite our usual head start—but later than expected. Perhaps they were tardier than usual. We enjoyed a solid 45 miles and 1,380 feet of climbing.

Cookie Monsters

Cookies? Did you say, cookies?

But first, some cycling. One must earn those cookies. (By riding uphill, of course.)

We started with a brief foray up a dead-end road I think I've visited only once before, waving to some familiar faces (club members) working in their yard, before continuing to the summit of Sierra Road. (The “easy” way—up the backside.)

The point of our little cookie party today was to recruit more volunteers for our club's upcoming big event. As it turned out, the crowd was mostly members who had already signed up—in some cases, for more than one role.

After 19 miles with a tough 2,700 feet of climbing (and a sandwich), I did my best to shrink the supply of cookies. (And brownie bites.)

Remembering

For me it seems that February is the cruellest month, having claimed the lives of two of our club members: Ellen this year, and Jon four years ago.

Today we traveled to honor Jon on our bikes.

Knowing the main road would be busier later, I headed first to visit Jon's ghost bike. I was disappointed when most of our group set off directly on the route to the Panoche Inn; would they make time for this leg later, when they were fatigued and eager to head home? (I hope so.)

Considering the rutted condition of the last miles leading to the Inn, I opted to turn around at the summit. That was better suited to my fitness level, anyway, this early in the season (42 miles and some 2,400 feet of climbing).

Fortuitous timing and placement gifted me with a two-for-one special: an Aermotor ringed by a solar halo.

Searching the airwaves on the drive to Paicines this morning, it took me a moment to flip back when I recognized a familiar voice. A tiny regional station was broadcasting a particular song that has been reverberating in my head over the past few weeks. In this case, a live performance of The Circle Game recorded nearly 56 years ago and released on Joni Mitchell's Archives - Volume I.

And the seasons, they go round and round

We can't return, but we can look back and remember our friends.

A Very Special Place

A long-planned, much-needed day off. A day for a visit to the seashore, the place where I find peace.

I puttered about, made a sandwich, and left the house at no particular time. Inching along when traffic backed up unexpectedly, I wondered if the trip would be worth it after all. Was the drive adding stress to my day?

I settled onto a bench and realized how quickly I might lose my lunch, in a moment of inattention, to a pair of determined ground squirrels (or a crafty seagull).

The skies cleared as I ambled along the coastal trail, in fits and starts, detouring onto the beach or taking a seat to gaze out to sea.

I snapped photos. I picked up litter (especially dismayed by a plastic spoon left beneath a scenically-situated bench).

The giant aloe plants had sent up red spikes; the flowers were fading, but I hoped to frame a good view.

The trail was busier than I'd expected for a weekday in the off-season; the sea, nonetheless, was working its magic.

Families, couples, singles walked and jogged in both directions. A young woman passed as I eyed the view between a pair of aloes, and suddenly turned back.

“A friend of mine is a Buddhist monk,” she said to me. “He comes here, in his orange robes, to meditate. He built a little altar, it's right here.”

She led me along a tight path between two of the giant plants. “He sits there,” she said, pointing to a flat rock. Tucked into the base of the plant was the altar.

She turned toward the water, sweeping her arm across the view. “This is a very special place,” she said. I took a deep breath.

“It is amazing to me that you are telling me this,” I said. “I have just lost a Buddhist friend, we just had services for her.” Her face froze.

I added “She was a cyclist, and she was struck by a vehicle.”

Her face contorted with grief. “I have to go now, I'm ... I'm doing a virtual race,” she stammered.

“I will stay here for a while,” I replied.

And so I did. Seated on the rock, contemplating the sea and the altar, the confluence of all the unplanned moments of my day (and hers) that brought us together at that spot, at that time. Wondering at whatever led her to single me out, to turn back, to address me. Taking in the very existence of this altar.

Thinking of Ellen and meditating, in my own primitive way, on a spiritual journey.

Flat-out Social

A girl needs a day off, now and then. Like today.

A social ride on our club's calendar fit the bill. Our leader has a regular following, but since she focuses on weekday rides her routes are often new to me.

Without a cue sheet or map, we trail along like good little ducklings. These outings typically (always?) involve a coffee stop, and today was no exception. [Except, I'm not a coffee person.]

Heading back, there were sudden calls to stop. “Why do I always get a flat on your rides?!” one guy exclaimed.

We chatted some more as we waited for the necessary repair to be completed, mostly not overseeing the operation. [No pressure.]

I could have returned via a more direct (shorter) route, but that wouldn't have been very social of me, now, would it?

In all, 32 miles and (maybe) 700 feet of climbing. Plus, a little adventure.

Remembering Ellen

The chapel was filled with Ellen's family and friends and colleagues. They shared stories and memories of a woman who was involved with her community, warm and friendly and generous and kind, a strong and accomplished athlete.

Monks chanted and sounded bells in a Buddhist ceremony before leading a procession to say our last farewells, each of us tucking a white rose beside her.

Ellen's broad smile radiated from every photo on display. Another cyclist pointed out details I would have missed in a large poster that we'd seen at Sunday's memorial ride: The photographer reflected in her sunglasses. The lacy pink shoes on her feet. She would often forget her cycling shoes but do the ride nonetheless, he explained. [Note for non-cyclists: that's quite challenging, our pedals are not designed for that.]

A dozen or so of us cyclists assembled at the rear of the funeral procession. Our spirits were lifted when one remarked “Ellen would have loved this, that we were sending her off on our bikes.”

I regret that I'd never met her; I nearly turned out for a ride she led a few weeks ago, but the group was doing a long training ride and realistically I wouldn't be able to ride at their pace.

In the final ceremony before Ellen's cremation, the bells seemed to fall into the rhythm of a heartbeat. A beat that grew slower, and slower, and then ... silence.

This line from a poem by Mary Oliver echoes in my head:

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one and precious life?

While we have the chance, let's (all of us) do more.