Primavera, Poached

The Calaveras Reservoir looked invitingly cool this morning, but today it was my lot to simmer in the heat. Yesterday I volunteered for the Tierra Bella, doing my fair turn to support my fellow cyclists. I congratulated a guy who completed his first century, and another who rode the event with clipless pedals for the first time. I watched two guys fall into a deep sleep despite the bustle around them, and chatted with many familiar faces as I handed out jerseys and t-shirts.

I wisely abandoned my plan to ride the century route for the Primavera today, much as I enjoyed it last year. I settled for the metric century (100 km) instead, given that my cold symptoms are lingering. Not to mention the heat advisory. With a later start and a more relaxed pace, I still finished with plenty of time to enjoy lunch at the end of the ride. 3515 feet of climbing, 63.5 miles.

I admired a red-tailed hawk that soared overhead, and was paced by the shadow of a turkey vulture that judged me an unsuitable meal. A pair of quail darted back into the brush as I approached, leaving me to wonder why do these birds prefer to walk, when they can fly?

Early in the day, more people were walking up the Calaveras “wall” than pedaling. If they could fly, they would not be walking. Late in the day, climbing Palomares seemed to take forever.

The summit is around that next bend, I'm sure of it.

Eager for some advantage, I swept past the clutch of cyclists huddled in the shade of the oak tree at the top to claim my reward: a cooling, rip-roaring descent. Palomares leads to Niles Canyon Road, which has an idyllic ring that Highway 84 lacks (sadly, they are one and the same). There may be some lovely vistas, but the traffic is too treacherous to notice them. With a narrow, shoulder-less underpass ahead, I had the good sense to check my rear-view mirror in time to see an enormous RV approaching. If ever there were a time to “take the lane,” this was it. I am riding as far to the right as practicable. At the moment, "practicable" means not giving that RV an opportunity to sideswipe me.

Tierra Bella Preview

It was so cold and gloomy for most of the morning that even the poppies were reluctant to unfurl. Forty-odd miles into the ride, the sun started to break through and I bravely peeled off my jacket.

Today's ride was a preview of the 100 kilometer route for one of our club's big events, the Tierra Bella. For those of us who provide the volunteer labor next Saturday, this was our chance to enjoy the route (and, verify the route markings along the way). A few of our fellow volunteers graciously staffed some rest stops for us, so we were not totally unsupported; at the end, we joined together for a celebratory barbecue.

This biking thing - it's really all about the food, you know. Oranges, cookies, strawberries, salty snacks, cantaloupe, peanut butter and jelly. Chocolate.

Cruising along Uvas Road, I was passed by a polite and orderly peloton of racers from the San Jose Bicycle Club (with some Plus 3 Network jerseys in the mix). The leader alerted me ("Peloton coming through") as they streamed by, single file. Of course, it's in their best interests to warn me, lest I move unpredictably and trigger a pile-up.

Resistance is futile. Must give chase. Pick up the pace. Stay with the boys. I expected to be dropped at the first uphill roller, but much to my surprise, I did not lose contact. It was hard work, but quite the thrill to hang on at 25+ mph. Having flown past my ride partner, he was now a distant speck in my rear view mirror. Time to slow down and take in the scenery.

One Weary Princess

The Cinderella Challenge route delivered a clear message to me in 2009: Work on Endurance.
Good thing they shortened the route somewhat this year (no more excursion through industrial parks on the way to Tracy). Good thing that we didn't have the fierce headwind we fought last year. Otherwise, I might not have made it back before nightfall. (No, just kidding, I wasn't that slow.)

The Cinderella is an annual gift from the Valley Spokesman Bicycle Touring Club to women cyclists. It is a rolling festival of women of all shapes, sizes, ages, and levels of ability - about 2500 of them. Most of us are creatively adorned - some in elaborate costumes. A couple of Cinderellas ago, some friends convinced me to join their theme and fasten a feather boa to my helmet. Shocking pink, no less. I didn't play around with stuff like that when I was a kid, and now . . . hey, what the heck? My outrageous headgear never fails to elicit compliments from passing motorists, kids shouting from playgrounds, and fellow Cinderellas with cameras at the ready. People smile at me all day long, and it's easy for my ride buddies to spot me in the crowd.

It was a picture-perfect day, not a trace of a cloud in the sky. It was a tad cold (38 degrees F) when we started, but I learned it is possible to shift gears with stiff, numb fingers by leveraging them like sticks. Braking was more of a problem.

We were cruising along Concannon Blvd in Livermore when a bunch of official vehicles, including animal control, stopped on the opposite side of the road and started crossing toward us. Puzzled, I looked to my right and immediately wished I hadn't. I would later learn that a car had collided with a stray horse early that morning.

An elderly gentleman in robe and pajamas snapped photos of us from his driveway. A cheering section greeted us at the summit of Patterson Pass, and other supporters had chalked messages for their friends along the way and offered us water. I faded after lunch and dropped back (see above, endurance work needed). Stopping and re-starting at every. traffic. light. along. Alcosta Blvd. in San Ramon took its toll on me. I acknowledged to myself that I was Officially Tired and looked at my bike computer - 72 miles. I told myself I only had another eight miles to go, but reality was closer to 14.

Nearing the finish, it took a lot of determination to stop at every stop sign that other riders were blithely rolling through. I glanced in my mirror to check for traffic behind me as I started moving at one of these, just in time to see a police car turn on its lights. Had I stopped long enough? Were other riders getting busted? The car wasn't moving. Then it dawned on me: We were getting a free pass! The officer was blocking the cross street and waving riders through. When she got ahead of me and blocked another intersection, confused (and somewhat panicked) cyclists ground to a halt. "It's okay," I told them. "She's blocking traffic for us!" Smiles and abundant thanks from a pack of weary princesses.

In the Right, Seeing Red

The privilege of turning right on a red light is certainly convenient, but on the whole I'm not sure it's entirely a good thing. Not that anyone is asking my opinion.

To many drivers, it seems to mean "I can turn right whenever I want." Take the woman in the beige sedan for example, who nearly ran me down on Foothill Expressway today. I was turning left, with a green left-turn arrow. Her goal was to turn right, from the opposite side of the road. As far as I can tell, she never noticed the left-turning traffic; she saw no cars approaching on Foothill and turned right on red, directly into my path. Inches from her left front bumper, I held my breath, swerved, and hit the brakes. She continued on her merry, oblivious way. Given her lack of reaction I will bet that she never even saw me, the cyclist in the neon yellow jacket. Had I been driving, our cars would have collided.

Otherwise, it was a pleasant day with a few excursions into the hills. Coming up the second sharp switchback on Lancaster, a woman descending in an SUV smiled and called out "Ow! That hurt!" Moments later, another descending motorist waved enthusiastically. I meandered along to my destination near the top of Ojai, and realized that my legs might not have the strength to propel me up the final steep pitch. Whew! I didn't fall over. Mindful of the "Private Property" sign near the top, I turned around.

It was a day for turning around at unwelcome signs. Being in the neighborhood, I couldn't resist a spin up Cañon Drive, a peaceful country lane adjacent to San Tomas Aquinas Creek. Cañon is a through road, partially maintained by the county - up to a point, which is now prominently marked with a yellow sign. Dare to follow the switchback, and you will find the signage featured above. What lies beyond? Some beautiful homes, with beautiful views, and at least one ugly resident.

A few years ago, cyclists were being accosted when passing through. After studying the California Motor Vehicle Code and chatting with the local sheriff's office, it appeared that the Private Road designation applies to vehicles. Not to pedestrians. Not to cyclists. A "No Trespassing" sign, however, is a different matter. After some cyclists kindly educated said resident, he saw to it that the signage was enhanced. Cycle through, no more.

Hill Repeats

One training strategy is to repeat a climb, over and over and over again. I suppose I should try that sometime. What could be more demoralizing than getting progressively slower on each ascent?

My strategy instead is to climb, climb, climb three different hills. My variation of today's club ride amounted to just that: Kings Mountain, Native Son, Starr Hill, and the aptly named Swett. Native Son and Starr Hill are lovely, mellow climbs deep in the redwood forest. Clinging to the side of the canyon, strewn with tree debris, you wonder why these roads exist at all - until you reach the gate at the bottom.

Stop. Keep Out. No Trespassing.

Swett Road connects Starr Hill to Skyline, and the first bit is wicked steep. What were they thinking? Hey, let's make a shortcut right here - might as well go straight up. A homeowner waited politely in his driveway as I suffered, cheering me on:

You're almost there, that's the worst part!

I was grateful for his understanding and encouragement. I had been a little worried about whether I'd be able to get up that nasty little pitch today, having donated a unit of blood a few days ago. Yes, that's right - disgraced pro cyclists have been busted for blood doping (boosting their red blood cell count), and here I am siphoning it away. This depresses my performance, but just might save a life - more than a reasonable trade-off, in my book.

We began and ended our ride in Woodside, where there are more hitching posts than bicycle racks. In fact, I'm not sure there are any bicycle racks. Much to the dismay of some residents, their town is at the crossroads of many popular bike routes. This being a truly lovely spring day, the town was swarming with people bedecked in colorful jerseys. Refueling at Roberts Market. Lunching at the Woodside Bakery. Not just passing through, clogging the roads and startling the horses.

A Hard Rain

Raindrops pelting your face at 30+ mph feel like little projectiles. Or was it hail?

Rain, rain, go away; come again another day.

Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday when I'm sitting at an office desk. I'm not picky. Really.

Most of today's fun was not spoiled by rain, which came down in earnest just after I had finished loading my gear back into the car and prepared to pull away.

We climbed Old La Honda Road, east and west; not feeling frisky, I settled into a leisurely pace. A friendly racer on a shiny Cérvelo with fancy Zipp wheels encouraged me upward.

Racer: You're almost there!
Slug: No, I'm not. Nice try. Thanks anyway.
Racer: [To the riders just ahead of me] Are you gonna give me guff, too?

Speaking of slugs, I saw a few (squished) banana slugs and dodged a small newt. The car that followed soon afterward may not have treated him so well.

On the other side of the hill, away from the perpetual rain of the redwoods, Indian Paintbrush brightened my day. As did the racer I shamelessly drafted for the last couple of miles back to the start. Enough hard work for the day, I earned that.

A Rather Long Day

When you plan to spend three and a half hours of your evening on your feet, deftly threading your way through a dense crowd at a benefit gala while carrying champagne flutes on a silver tray, how should you spend the early part of your day? Surely not ... lying abed!

Various factors conspired to keep me off the bike last weekend, so I was determined to be back in the saddle today. A club ride started early, nearby, and I figured I could complete the ride with enough time to get cleaned up and report for volunteer duty at Denim to Diamonds, an annual fund-raiser for Ronald McDonald House at Stanford.

We climbed up and over the Santa Cruz mountains, through Soquel and Aptos to Corralitos, and then back up and over the mountains to return (54 miles, 4440 feet of climbing). We passed through the edge of the burn area from last year's Summit fire, climbing Eureka Canyon Road alongside Corralitos Creek. This was the first time I have traveled this route during the winter season, and I realized that the creek offers hints about the grade of the road (in case your quads are too powerful to notice). Vigorous splashing sounds = steep. Smooth silent flow = flat. And there are daffodils blooming along Summit Road!

I admit there was a certain charm to the sign that greeted us the last time we visited Highland Way:

THIS ROAD IS CLOSED by the order of the county road commissioner. Barricades blocking the road have been placed by the county. If the barricades are not in place, they were moved illegally. Your use of this road is at your OWN RISK. The county will not be responsible for your property damage, injuries or DEATH.

We were delighted to discover that the repairs have been completed on Highland Way, allowing us to ride (rather than hike) through. One can only wonder how long the road will remain passable, given the rather ominous slide area to the south and other nearby sections where one lane has already migrated downhill. It is, shall we say, a dynamic landscape.

It seems most fitting to close with this photo from last fall, as I prepared to hike through the rubble wearing a Waves to Wine Champagne Club jersey.

[Photo Composition 101: Choose an angle that doesn't make it appear that a sign post is growing out of your subject's head.]