Half is Not Enough

When we reached the turn-around point at Grant Ranch Park, the summit of Mt. Hamilton was so alluring that I could not resist. How could I climb only halfway up the mountain today?

I continued with the rest of our little group on our planned route along the easy eastern approach to the summit of Quimby Road before dropping back down to resume my climb to Lick Observatory. It was a spectacular day to head up the mountain—cool and breezy, with little traffic.

Most of the traffic was well-behaved, with the notable exception of one driver who crossed the double yellow line completely into the opposite lane on a blind curve to pass me. Knowing it was not safe for a car to pass, I had moved to the center of our lane to send a clear message: Do Not Pass Me. Had there been a cyclist or vehicle coming downhill in the other lane, I would have been collateral damage. I saw the Sheriff three times before that, but he missed this moment of stupendously dangerous driving.

I did not set out this morning to climb all the way to the summit. Cool day? One water bottle. Not much distance? Eat a sandwich after the ride. I consumed everything I had stuffed in my pockets: one Balance Bare bar, one molten PowerBar, a dozen peanut butter-filled pretzel nuggets, and three Clif Shot Bloks. Plus a few cherries shared by a fellow rider, and the best energy bargain in the observatory's vending machine, a Nature Valley Sweet and Salty Peanut bar. Intake: 876 Calories. Burned: 2040 Calories.

Free to be a tourist, I enjoyed the wildflowers and lingered at the top. Along the way, I pocketed a shiny nickel that caught my eye, saw my first skink, and watched a pair of acorn woodpeckers for awhile. A friendly biker (of the motorized sort) offered to take a picture of me ("to prove you were here!"), before confessing that they had "cheated" (driving, rather than pedaling, to the top).

Just yesterday a friend commented that he does not enjoy descending Mt. Hamilton. What's not to like?! So long as you respect the gravelly curves where the hillside is chronically crumbling, and keep an eye out for the suicidal squirrels ... His hands hurt, he explained. You're braking too much, I replied.

A fabulous day on the bike: 42 miles, 5,635 feet of climbing, maximum speed 35.3 mph.

Oxymorons on Hicks

There are a couple of approaches to this view at the summit of Hicks Road, which was particularly striking in the warm glow of early evening. The climb from the Los Gatos side is painfully steep, and I was grateful that we were not taking that route. Instead, we were taking the easier route, climbing Hicks from the San Jose side. Which is ... painfully steep. From The Complete Guide to Climbing (By Bike) in California:

After a shallow start, this side of Hicks Road contains one of the steepest miles in the state.

I had the uncommon opportunity to be home from work early enough to join one of the club's regular after-work rides. With the summer solstice just a few days away, tonight's ride could be a long one. Facing that tough climb, I had some doubts about whether I could pedal fast enough to stay with the group and finish before the sun set. When I lost them on the flats, I would catch them at a traffic light. When they regrouped at a key intersection, I would keep pedaling for a head start on the next hill. I used every downhill to pull ahead, so the group would not have to wait too long for me at the top of the next hill.

I managed to cover 27.8 miles, ascending 2,170 feet along the way. My maximum downhill speed was 39.3 mph, while my minimum uphill speed was ... well, let's not go there. [Okay, okay ... 3.2 mph.] All in a day's work.

Some is Better than None

Another view from a bridge—this week, of a solo rower on the Lexington Reservoir.

This morning, the spirit was willing; the body ... not so much. Had I not committed to meet up with a ride partner, I simply would have stayed at home. I considered showing up in street clothes to explain and apologize.

My original plan for the day was to ride up and over the Santa Cruz Mountains to the coast with a group, have lunch at the beach, and then head back up and over the mountains. The climb to the summit is gentle, and I guessed that I could make it that far today no matter how crummy I felt.

Spinning uphill in the redwood forest felt better than I expected, but I did take it easy. The descent was so smooth I was almost lured into repeating the climb just to glide back down. I did the prudent thing instead, and climbed back into my car. Ten miles of cycling (half of it uphill) was far better than sitting at home feeling sick and sorry.

View from a Bridge

By the time I reached the summit of Metcalf Road on this blue-sky morning, I was soaking wet. Was it only two weeks ago that I was clad in wool and long tights? At the end of our ride, the still-broad expanse of Coyote Creek looked very inviting.

When the ride's original leader sent word that she needed a substitute today, I stepped forward. It turned out that my job was particularly easy: among the six cyclists who joined me were two members who had also volunteered to lead the ride. What a vibrant bike club!

Our amiable bunch required little management on my part. We naturally climb and descend at varying paces, and everyone waited willingly at key points for all to reassemble.

Despite the county park's wealth of warnings about mountain lions, wild pigs, rattlesnakes, ticks, and poison oak, coyote scat was the only hint of wildlife I saw. It was so quiet in the San José outback, though, that I could hear the cattle munching.

Somewhere along the way, my air-cooled speed peaked at 41.9 mph. The steep hairpins near the base of Metcalf command my full respect. The heat of the day and the end of a stressful week commanded a late-afternoon nap.

Eagle Eyes

The crisp morning air suggested this would be a lovely fall day ... except that we are really nearing the end of the month of May. The outside temperature was less than 43F when I started getting ready for today's biking adventure. I dug out my wool jersey and some full-length tights, and never regretted my choice.

Our route passed the base of Sierra Road ... that was so three days ago. Today we tackled Old Calaveras Road on the way to Calaveras Road proper. After the brutal start of Old Calaveras, the vaunted Calaveras "wall" was a piece of cake.

Much to our surprise, we rolled onto the course of a bike race as we neared Sunol. This brought to mind a comical video from a few years back, in which a bunch of racers rolled out of a rental truck onto a bike path. They would charge down the path at full speed to stage a finish just behind some innocent (and confused) recreational rider who would be hailed as the race winner.

Today we encountered the Calaveras Individual Time Trial, and it was a humbling experience to be out there with the athletes in full time trial regalia—aero helmets, skinsuits, full disc wheels. No surprises about being overtaken with the trademark sound of those machines at full power (whomp whomp whomp). I spotted three racers I knew and had a chance to chat while our group took a break in Sunol.

On our return trip, we had some good luck and found one of the resident bald eagles perched on the tower above its nest. I was not hauling five pounds of camera gear on my back today, but the nest is clearly visible in the photo above. And if you look closely, you will find one distinctive white-headed bird, too.

Anticlimax on Sierra

I merged into the morning commute on Highway 17, but the office was not my destination today. There was something unusual about this traffic pattern ... a string of white rental vans ... ooh, it's the fleet supporting the Amgen Tour of California, heading over the hill from Santa Cruz! I tucked in behind #6 until they all ended up in the wrong lane; they would have done better to follow me, but how could they know?

Our paths diverged when they headed for downtown San José; I was headed to stake out some turf along Sierra Road.

I started my ascent less than a minute before they released the local field competing in the San Jose Cycling Classic KOM Ride. After passing a few who had stopped along the side of the road, I realized that I might have finished well today; but I was more relieved not to be racing it. Instead, I was pedaling at a leisurely pace (with five or more pounds of camera gear in my backpack).

Cyclists rarely use the words "leisurely" and "Sierra Road" in the same sentence. As I worked my way up the hill, I was buoyed by the cheers of spectators already lining the road. My regrets about suffering up Sierra rapidly evaporated once I rolled across the King-of-the-Mountain line at the top. Four and a half miles, 1,830 feet of climbing, some 524 calories burned. I surveyed the crowd for familiar faces before dropping down to an uphill stretch just below the summit, where I joined a couple of friends who had claimed the same spot I chose last year.

Much to our surprise, a group of breakaway riders had already established a gap of three and a half minutes by the time the pros came around the bend. A few of them would hang on to that lead until the closing minutes of the race, when the teams of the sprinters would advance to turn the spotlight on their men.

The peloton was essentially intact when the riders passed us. This made for a rather anticlimactic viewing experience, with the startling exception of being eye-to-eye with Lance Armstrong as he passed less than a foot away from me. The racers were not racing, which I am sure was the strategic thing to do so early in the stage. For race leader Dave Zabriskie, the Garmin team was setting the tempo at the front—probably at least twice the speed I can generate on that stretch of road. Looking at their faces, it was gratifying to see some discomfort nonetheless.

And then ... they were gone. A handful of stragglers were off the back, mixing it up with the team cars. The broom wagon passed, I chatted with some more friends until the crowd dispersed, and coasted back down the hill to join a party at the home of some club members who live near the base of the climb. Their hospitality has become an annual tradition for this race, and while I would regret missing the party, next year I may seek a place closer to a finish line, where the riders should be more strung out.

Fifteen Pies

There are many metrics by which to measure a fun bicycle outing, and I learned a new one today. Fifteen pies. That is the answer to the question: How many pies are consumed by a hungry horde of cyclists, per hour? In this case, we sampled petite wedges of the fine apple pies at Gizdich Ranch—the better to leave room for luscious crêpes, turned right out of the pan onto our plates. This year, I had enough patience to avoid burning my fingers in my eagerness to devour my treat.

When is the last time you enjoyed a fresh crêpe as an essential element of sustenance on an organized bicycle ride?

Before I met up with my cycling buddies for the day, I ran across five other cyclists I knew (some faster, some slower). At the end of the day, I met yet another. Strawberry Fields Forever is that kind of ride: enjoyed by bicycle commuters, recreational cyclists, denizens of the Death Ride, and bicycle racers alike.

We negotiated some rolling hills in drizzly fog on our way to the coast and cruised through fields of strawberries, lettuce, and raspberries throughout the day. In some places the fields stretch as far as the eye can see; harvesting them, manually, seems like an impossible task. This image returns whenever I eat strawberries, these days.

Less strong this year, I dreaded the steep grade I would face on Tustin Road. Fortunately, there were few cyclists when I reached the hill, and auto traffic in the opposing lane kept people from tacking widely from side to side. Riding close to another woman traveling at my pace, the only real path was ... straight up. Highest heart rate: 187 beats per minute, yet still able to pedal. Less fit this year. At the top, one guy remarked to his companion: That was the big hill? [Sigh.]

We saw some dappled sunlight as we made our way through the primeval forest of Hazel Dell Road, shaded by towering redwoods along a creek. I was certain that the sunshine had finally dissolved the cloud layer above us, until we descended back into the gray. I did not expect that the highest point of Hazel Dell was all that high. It is a gentle climb; I had forgotten that the approach on the lower portion of Mt. Madonna Road was more challenging than Hazel Dell itself. This is not flat, chided one of my buddies. As we veered onto Hazel Dell, I pointed to the start of the real Mt. Madonna climb.

Each cyclist has his or her own breaking point. Back in the parking lot at the finish, I overheard a woman bemoaning the "three-mile climb" (Mt. Madonna/Hazel Dell). Indeed, I had passed a couple of cyclists who were done in by that climb, pausing for a break. I can climb for miles and miles ... if the grade is not too steep. Something like Tustin Road, on the other hand, approaches my breaking point.