Avant le Déluge

Sipping hot chocolate while gazing absently out my kitchen window, I saw a car drive past with its windshield wipers on. Only then did I notice the rain. I had been home from today's ride for (at most) ten minutes.

It was a short, social ride with a big turnout. Most of us shared the same thought: Get out there before we are house-bound by the coming week (or more) of rain. Choose a shorter ride in case the weather arrives early. Our first re-group came at mile 4.5, having pedaled for a mere 25 minutes. That seemed impossible - had my cycle computer stopped recording data for awhile? But no, we really did spend almost as much time waiting as riding today.

The sun peeked through early in the day, but was ultimately smothered by gray clouds. With two French teachers in our midst and stories from a fellow rider who led a tour through the French Alps last summer, what could be more fitting than lunch at Le Boulanger? Good fortune for hungry cyclists: They were handing out a free demi-baguette with every purchase. I was well-equipped to carry mine home.

An easy day: 21 miles, 1830 feet of climbing.

Orange is the New Red

The day will arrive when the car of your dreams becomes the car in your driveway.

That was the tag line in a Chrysler commercial I saw during the holiday season. Automakers saturated the airwaves, desperate to reduce their end-of-year inventory. Does anyone really buy a new car in December, stick a giant bow on top and surprise someone with a gift that doesn't fit under the Christmas tree?

My first car did have a bow attached, a totally unexpected gift from my parents on the occasion of my 18th birthday. It was red, with a black plastic interior. A few years later, with not-too-many miles on it, it would routinely stall at idle; no one could diagnose the problem. The car of my dreams was a Honda Accord with a manual transmission. I couldn't take one for a test drive, though, because I didn't know how to drive it.

My second car was the color of cream, with a matching interior and cloth-covered seats that were well-suited to hot summer days. Buying a foreign car was anathema to my father, but he loaned me the money and taught me how to drive a stick shift. Those cars were assembled with a precision unknown to Detroit at the time, and although he could not admit it, he was impressed. A few years later, he replaced my mom's car with ... a Honda Accord. (Automatic transmission, of course.)

For the next several years, a page torn from the Sunday New York Times Magazine graced the windowless wall over my desk at work. The background was a luminous rosy sunset. The foreground featured a silver Ferrari, shot from the side. This was my new dream. Unattainable.

Some 130,000 miles later, it was time for my next car. It was a toss-up between the Accord and its new cousin, the Acura Integra. The salesman who accompanied me on the Honda test drive looked to be the dealer's son, home from college for the summer. Gripping the door on a curvy back road, he exclaimed:

I see you like to drive!

At the time, the Accord and the Integra seemed indistinguishable to me; I went with the lower-priced Integra. I preferred the car in dark blue, but its electric blue interior was - in a word - hideous.

My third car was silver, with a black interior. Within a week I had a severe case of buyer's remorse. I hated the way it handled. Too pragmatic to take a loss on it, I soldiered on.

A few years later, I consoled myself by picking up a second car from a friend. Before he bought one of the first Miatas to reach our shores, his collection included a Jaguar sedan and two other convertibles, a Fiat and an Alfa Romeo. (And yes, he would need the occasional ride when all three of those were out of commission.) When he acquired a fiancée with long, wavy tresses that were incompatible with convertibles, I acquired that red Miata.

The Integra was stubbornly reliable. After enduring it for some 148,000 miles, I was more than ready to move on. But, what next? I wanted a car that would be safe, reliable, and fun to drive. A hatchback would be convenient; Honda no longer offered one. I took an Acura RSX for a test drive on a curvy mountain road and couldn't return it to the dealer soon enough.

A friend suggested BMW. "Too much snob appeal," I countered. "Ah, but have you driven one?," he asked. My test drive at the local dealer was essentially a loop around the block, a mile (at most) through a suburban residential neighborhood. Based on that, they expected me to spend how much on this car? I found another dealer where BMW was showcasing a traveling fleet of assorted models. Each test drive raised funds for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. They handed you a key and a route map, and sent you on your way. I merged smoothly into the northbound traffic on the highway, glanced at the speedometer and ... whoa, I'm traveling how fast?

I guess they don't expect to sell many cars at those events. The salespeople were so busy chatting and munching on hors d'oeuvres that no one paid me any mind when I walked into the showroom. I remember announcing:

Excuse me - I would actually like to buy a car.

Then, last summer, a friend indulged his dream.

The first time he turned the key in that shiny black car and I heard that engine roar to life, a new dream was formed.

Once I took the wheel, my fate was sealed.

The day has arrived when the car of my dreams has become the car in my driveway.

It isn't a Chrysler.

Cranky Sunday

I woke up cranky, with a headache. This should not have been a surprise, because I went to bed cranky, with a headache.

Due to a combination of being busy and lazy (same thing, really), I have not been on my bicycle in five weeks. I thought I might head out on an easy club ride this morning, and the sky was clear (and dark) when I woke. I knew that riding would make me feel better (see Spark, by John Ratey), but I surrendered to being cranky and disabled the alarm clock.

Luckily, my regular ride partner sent me a note later in the morning, and I agreed to a short afternoon ride. The thing about riding a bike is, as they say, "It's just like riding a bike." You get on, start pedaling, and it is as though you never took a break. Well, except for the quads that started aching within the first 30 seconds of pedaling uphill.

I started a new year of riding in my spiffy new Plus 3 vest. They awarded this prize to one lucky rider (me!) who logged his or her Low-Key Hillclimbs on the Plus 3 Network site to raise money for charity. I started logging all my rides back in 2008. What could be easier? I ride my bike, a designated sponsor donates money to a charity.

Ah, January in California: the camellias are in bloom. The streams were flowing, the hillsides were green, the sky was brooding, the temperature was comfortable. Along the way, some fine exemplars of the subspecies Young American Male in a passing pick-up truck shouted "Go, Lance!" How clever. How original. I take comfort in the knowledge that they will have difficulty reproducing if they cannot distinguish me from Lance Armstrong. There is yet hope for our species.

White Christmas

As luck would have it, I flew east for the traditional family visit the day after a record-breaking snow dump. A powerful nor'easter deposited more than two feet of snow near the coast, and I spent the first night of my visit with my brother's family because my mom's was impassable.

There was more than the usual chaos outside the terminal at the airport, with nary a traffic cop in sight. This was not a surprise to my brother, who wryly observed that it was cold, and Sunday night. The cops were somewhere warm and dry, leaving the SUVs and taxis to create gridlock as they battled for position at the curb.

With low temperatures of 17F for several days, the snow lingered. I had ample opportunity to shovel it and to refresh my ice and snow driving skills. "Mom's car doesn't have anti-lock brakes," cautioned my brother. No traction control, either. A worrisome crunching sound in a parking lot was simply thick ice that snapped when I rolled over it, not the hallmark of some inexplicable low-speed collision. (Whew.)

Warm rain dissolved most of the snow before my stay was over, leaving nothing of a giant snowman other than his boots and his skeletal twig-arms. All too soon, the visit was over.

And it seems that all too soon, another year is over. A record-breaking year for me, too, having cycled some 3,762 miles and climbed more than 234,985 feet along the way. Not to mention the achievement of which I am most proud, completing all five passes of The Death Ride.

What is my next big goal? Stay tuned to see what 2010 will bring.

I Feel It in My Fingers

I feel it in my fingers,
I feel it in my toes.
Cold fog is all around me,
And so the tingling grows.

(Apologies to The Troggs.)

The Low-Key Hillclimb season is over, whatever will I do with myself on a chilly December Saturday morning? [If you have to ask ...]

With my regular ride partner, I led a small group uphill to Henry Coe State Park. I recall my first trip up this road (in a car). It looked steep at the time, and I was astonished to see cyclists.

That was then, this is now. We transitioned into the lower wisps of the marine layer at 1400 feet, but it would not burn off quickly enough to unveil the views we expected. As I climbed, some fellow Low-Keyers from Team Spike were descending. Someone recognized me and cheered me on!

When I reached the top, I had to hunt for the rest of my group. How can you not see a bunch of people clad in neon yellow jackets? Mystery solved: They had taken shelter in the gift shop, which (thankfully) was open and warm. We fortified ourselves with hot beverages (25 cents?!), and browsed. A thin book about ticks, a thick book about mushrooms, and some fine specimens of the local fauna. I am quite certain I have never before seen a badger, and let me tell you, those claws look pretty fierce.

The next dilemma: descend at speed (very cold), or more conservatively (prolonged and cold)? [If you have to ask ...] On the wide sweeping pavement leading into town, I was passed by a speeding pickup truck. Dude! The limit is 40 mph and I'm cruising at ... uh ... 43.

Mycological Wonderland

Having indulged in a deserved rest day after Thursday's climb, Saturday was reserved for a fresh hiking adventure.

Six of us set out from the Rancho del Oso trailhead at Big Basin Redwoods State Park. I have happy memories of many excursions to Big Basin's waterfalls along this less-traveled route, but today's group deemed that destination too ambitious. Our shorter "eight-mile" hike turned out to be even longer (13 miles). [Ahem.] Although we did not quite make it to the overlook we sought (the summit of Mt. McAbee at 1,730 feet), the ridge delivered impressive wind gusts and grand views of steep, tree-lined canyons all the way to the shimmering Pacific.

Undeterred by a sign warning that the bridge over Waddell Creek had been removed for the winter, we followed the scenic bypass rather than the wide, flat fire road that forms this end of the Skyline-to-the-Sea Trail. Now I understand why my regular hiking companion has always insisted that we stay on the fire road. Up, up, up goes the bypass, until it goes down, down, down to the creek. The water level was low in spite of Friday's rain showers, so it was straightforward to ford the rocky creek bed without getting more than the soles of our boots wet.

The base of the McCrary Ridge Trail is marked with this sign. Need I say more? We headed straight up. Overall elevation gain for the day was somewhere between 2,000 and 3,000 feet.

On the trails, we crossed paths with only one fellow hiker. Along the way were banana slugs, a newt, and more varieties of mushroom than I have ever seen.


If there are any muscles in my legs, ankles, or feet that aren't sore now, I am not sure they have a purpose.

Okay, so what did you expect me to do? Go shopping?

Thanks for the Suffering

As we battled challenging conditions on a ride a year or two ago, one of my cycling buddies asked:

Do you have any children?

No, I replied, giving her a quizzical look.

Oh, I asked because I figure you would have declined the epidural.

Thanksgiving Day, chock-full of tradition. Parades, calorie-laden feasts, bicycling at maximum speed to the top of one of the highest peaks in the Bay Area. The finish line for the Low-Key Hillclimb season is at the top of Mt. Hamilton.

We are never alone on the mountain; plenty of cyclists climb it to offset those second helpings of stuffing later in the day, albeit at a more comfortable pace. Along the way, a helpful pair of them suggested that I should get a bike fitting (have had one) and try a shorter stem (he wanted to fit me with a longer one). They probably thought I was rude for barely responding to them, but I was not riding at a conversational pace. Another woman was impressed by my "fan club," as fellow Low-Keyers at the summit or on the descent recognized me and cheered me by name.

Thanks to an inversion layer, at 6:30 a.m. the temperature at the summit was already 10 degrees warmer than at my house, some 4000 feet below. No need for multiple layers or long-fingered gloves to keep my teeth from chattering on the long descent.

The conditions were ideal, but my power was not. Much to my dismay, I was a full 10 minutes slower this year than last. Did I go out too fast, drop into my lowest gear too often, or pay the price for cycling less over the past two months? I did manage to sustain an average heart rate of 174 beats per minute for two and a half hours, and burn more than 1900 calories overall to make room for the amazing six-course dinner (plus two desserts) that my friends served me later.

Will I give it another try in 2010? Less than a year before I decide to ride. No pressure.