Farewell to 2021

Wrapping up another year with a somewhat random assortment of little things, starting with some bright foliage on a winter's day.

This year I learned about the U.S. Postal Service's Operation Santa program when a colleague suggested we form a team to fulfill some wishes. As one of Santa's elves, I adopted letters from five children and spread some Christmas magic.

Strolling back from one of those trips to the post office, I was surprised to find several goats (and a dog) tethered to some lampposts. Their nomadic herdsman emerged from the library, a stopover on his way from place to place.

I'm still working from home (week 95), with occasional visits to the office (once that became possible). My hair is even longer, I've shed another pound, I've gotten vaccinated, boosted, and have managed to stay healthy. I lost a distant member of my extended family (who had serious pre-existing health issues) to Covid-19.

I developed a fairly regular cycling routine, which led to climbing more than 102,000 feet over more than 3,000 miles. I'd planned to climb up Bernal once a month, but fell short; my last climb was in May. Shorter days turned after-work rides to after-work hikes, until our timekeeping switched from daylight savings to standard.

For some variety, I finally explored a hilly neighborhood park that I'd long meant to visit.

A tomato plant sprouted unexpectedly in early May. It wasn't the variety I normally cultivate; maybe it was my reward for pressing a (spoiled) cherry tomato into that box?

Springtime gusts sent an empty bird's nest to the ground, and I was astonished see some of my own hair woven into it. A bit of lint, and hair, does escape the filter and make its way out of the clothes dryer's vent; I'm guessing that's how my avian friend scavenged it. I surely would have noticed if a bird had plucked (!) any strands from my head. [There's a newly-coined word for that: kleptotrichy.]

The Computer History Museum recognized Lillian Schwartz with a Fellow award (albeit without the fancy celebration that would have happened in the Before Times). Those of us who tuned in live had a creative opportunity to honor Lillian and her art by contributing to a word cloud.

Words of inspiration. Words to live by. In the year ahead, and thereafter.

Holiday Lights

Our club rides are normally daylight affairs (with the exception of some ambitious long-distance outings).

And the notable exception of an annual Christmas Lights Ride.

Times change, enthusiastic leaders move on, and this tradition fell by the wayside. In its heyday, I've heard that 60 or more members would turn out and celebrate with a post-ride spread of refreshments; this year's revival drew about two dozen riders.

I donned my finest reflective gear, adorned my down-tube with a colorful glow (in addition to head and tail lights, of course), and drove to the start.

When I arrived, I remembered why I had never joined this ride before: It was always scheduled on a weeknight, and I couldn't get home from work in time. On a Sunday evening, the streets were jammed with vehicles, the sidewalks with people, and I wasn't sure I'd find a place to park my car. Once the group got rolling, it was often easier to dismount and walk.

Solid bike-handling skills (and some luck) got us through the evening with no mishaps, but I think the best way to enjoy the lights would be on foot. It was too challenging to take it all in while being careful not to collide with other cyclists (or vehicles). There were carolers entertaining passers-by, a giant sleigh and several reindeer spanning multiple front lawns, and so much more.

After a slow, chilly four miles through the streets of Willow Glen, a steaming mug of hot chocolate was my recipe for recovery at home.

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.