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.

Team Bike-to-Work Day

Today was Bike-to-Work Day in the Bay Area, and with a merry co-conspirator I led a group of co-workers on a 22-mile trek to work. It was a rousing success!

Our little peloton included some first-time bicycle commuters and a few very experienced cyclists, who graciously helped shepherd everyone along. My co-leader outfitted his bike rack with the mobile coffee-and-donuts rig featured in the photo. I tried to capture footage of coffee being dispensed on the go; sadly, my videography skills need work ... next year, a helmet-cam!

Our team swelled to two dozen riders as we meandered along the flattest, most traffic-free route I could concoct. One rider lives along the route; his family cheered our arrival as he rolled down his driveway to join us.

Our group included one woman who was so jazzed from riding with us last year that she has been riding more on her own. Success!

Another rider, reminding me about the pain I inflicted via Mountain Charlie Road last summer, forgave me and was willing to join us this morning. Success!

Along the way, one guy asked "Where does this road go? I grew up in this town, and I have never been here." Success!

Two strong riders on their own route to work made their way past us and gave me props for leading our crew. Success!

One woman told us she hasn't really ridden her bike in 20 years. Her husband made sure she had her cell phone, so he could come to her rescue. Not only did she go the full distance, she kept up a good pace. Success!

People were still smiling when we climbed off our bikes at work, and several exclaimed "I didn't expect this at all, but I feel great—and I thought I would feel pretty bad." Success!

Later, one of our new riders set up a mailing list and invited everyone to join. "Let's do this again, maybe we can ride to work together once a month." Success!

At the end of the day, five people joined me for the ride back home—another record turnout. Success!

Perfect weather, a mellow route, lots of happy camaraderie, turning people on to cycling. Unquestionable, Bike-to-Work Day success!

Room for a View

Having pedaled to the top of the highest peaks in the Bay Area counties of Santa Clara (Mt. Hamilton) and Contra Costa (Mt. Diablo), two remained to be conquered: Mt. Tamalpais (Marin) and Fremont Peak (Monterey).

Our local high points are best explored in the cool-weather seasons (spring or fall), as much of the climbing will be on a roadway that clings to the edge of the mountain, well exposed to the baking sun. Spring means green hillsides and colorful blooms, like the magenta petals of these sweet peas.

From John Summerson's excellent book, The Complete Guide to Climbing (by Bike) in California, I learned that the grade gets steeper over the 10+ mile climb to the top of Fremont Peak, including a mile exceeding 10%. One memorable switchback nearly did me in. Luckily, I took a break before continuing, because the next switchback was only slightly less challenging. When I reached the parking lot at the top, my legs were toast. Evidently the quadricep muscles that were taxed by yesterday's curling session are engaged when cycling uphill.

With a pair of cycling buddies, I covered over 47 miles of unfamiliar terrain in three counties (San Benito, Santa Cruz, Monterey), ascending 3,805 feet along the way. Our excursion started with a couple of miles on the shoulder of Highway 156. This turned out to be a divided 4-lane highway with a posted speed limit of 65 mph. Being passed by semi trucks hauling tandem trailers, just a few feet away, required nerves [or some other body part] of steel. Some drivers courteously slipped into the left lane; some did not.

The rest of the ride was more bucolic, despite a few wrong turns (easily recovered, given that two of us were carrying GPS-enabled smartphones). On Fremont Peak, the summit beckoned, but we elected not to hike the final 300 feet to the top; the view was a bit hazy and one member of our trio was pressed for time. Near the base of the hill, I was momentarily mesmerized by the grasses shimmering in the afternoon breeze. The dry season is rapidly approaching; these slopes will soon turn golden.

Cross-training

Before the obligatory safety warnings (Ice is slippery!), our coach encouraged us to stretch. You will be sore, you will feel it in your quads. Uh oh. I have a challenging bike ride tomorrow.

During my not-so-annual physical this week, my doctor reminded me that cross-training is a Good Idea. I know that, and he knows that I know that, but do I put that into practice?

Today I was treated to a play date with some co-workers at an ice rink, doing something I never imagined I would try: curling. Maybe you watched some curling a few months ago, when it was featured at the Olympics in Vancouver. Did you think: How hard can that be, sliding a chunk of granite across the ice? You want to call this cross-training?

After some basic instruction and practice, we played three ends. A tie score seemed certain: 0-0. When you release the stone, it needs to travel a long way. It needs to stay in bounds. It needs to stop inside a circular target. The odds seemed slim indeed that any of us would accomplish this.

Ha! Not only did our team win (5-0), I managed to score a point: the greenish yellow stone on the left in the photo was my stone, which not only stayed in bounds and stopped inside the circle — it knocked a competing blue one farther out! Never mind that my stone was supposed to stop short of the circle, to serve as a "guard" stone ...

Quadriceps? Sore, in a special new way. Groin muscles? Sore, as promised. Repeatedly sliding down the ice, knees bent, furiously brushing the ice ahead of a sliding chunk of granite with a broom? Cross-training, beyond any doubt.

Off to the Races

My heart rate was elevated, my quads were burning, and I was only halfway up the infamous Cat's Hill ... on foot. I found a gap in the spectators and planted myself on the sidewalk. Two women racers walked past, rolling their bikes and commenting:

This is harder than climbing it!

During a break in the action, another woman racer clipped in and rode to the top. A local police officer gave her a surprised look, and she also remarked:

It's easier than walking.

After volunteering at the registration desk for the 37th Annual Cat's Hill Criterium, I was free to watch the final race: the field of Pro/1/2 men. It was easy to recognize these guys as they approached the registration table: musculature straight out of an anatomy textbook and veins that resemble vines snaking up their arms and legs.

Remarkably, the field mostly stays together, though the repeated circuits take their toll. Drop your chain on the hill and your race is over. One guy rolled to the side and abandoned mid-hill in the penultimate lap.

One of these days, maybe I will find out if it truly is easier to ride my bike up Cat's Hill. Or maybe I will just take their word for it.

Taking It Slow

With a view like this, what's not to like about bicycle commuting? You might enjoy it equally well from the comfy seat of your car, you're thinking? Only as a passing glimpse.

With no shortage of excuses, somehow I have managed not to pedal to work even once in the past seven months. It has been cold ... dark ... wet ... windy. Oh, and I have been busy. Shameful. With Bike to Work Day fast approaching, it was time to refresh my commuting skills. I will be helping to lead a group of coworkers that day, some braving their first bicycle trip to the office. That would be the wrong day to discover some unpleasant new wrinkle along the route.

There are memorable moments in every commute, and today was no exception. In a residential neighborhood on the way home, I was stopped at a stop sign with my left arm extended to signal my turn. A young male in a sporty black VW arrived at the opposite stop sign, and I correctly predicted that he would not understand that I had the right-of-way. I chuckled when he interpreted my extended arm not as a left turn signal, but apparently as a gracious gesture that he should go first: as in, "Please, after you." As he turned, he swept out his right arm in return. Or maybe there is a new section in the California Driver Handbook I should study: Right-of-Way at an Intersection: Violating with Courtesy.

Whole Lotta Climbin'

At the beginning of March, my regular ride partner suggested an ambitious ride for late April (today, in fact): Four significant hill climbs over about 50 miles. Seemed like a good idea at the time ...

Within the first 300 yards this morning, my saddle notified me that I have not been spending enough time on the bicycle: I was still sore from last Sunday's ride. Our destination? Lunch, in Half Moon Bay.

After climbing up Kings Mountain Road and descending almost to the coast, we meandered back uphill for some more fun and a fast descent into town. Near the summit of Higgins Purisima Road, we were lucky to cross paths with some locals who pointed out a very active bees' nest at the base of a tree and likely kept us out of harm's way.

Having refueled at the Garden Deli Café, we found some fresh hills to climb on the way back to Tunitas Creek Road. I reflected on my ride partner's suggested translation for Lobitos ("crazy cyclists") as I became acquainted with Lobitos Creek Road. And then, there is Tunitas. In a few weeks we will miss seeing the pros tackle Tunitas Creek Road; the dense redwoods will block transmission of live video during the race. The trees are majestic; the road is unforgiving. After some 36 miles and 3600 feet of climbing, a mere six miles to the final summit. Just six miles ... and 1600 feet of climbing.

With 42 miles and 5,185 feet of climbing in my legs, I assure you that I earned my descent. From the top of Kings Mountain Road to the first stop sign: 9 minutes, 28 seconds. A car averaging 30 mph over the same distance would be about a minute faster; the road is twisty, so that is a tall order for most drivers. Which explains why I tend to catch them.

Pedaling to Panoche

The photo says it all: a curvy road, a downhill worthy of a warning, hillsides shimmering with California poppies. Paradise for cyclists.

After pitching in as a volunteer for our club's annual event yesterday (the Tierra Bella), today it was my turn to enjoy our beautiful land. I was unsure whether I could pull myself together for a ride that started some 60 miles away at 8:30 a.m., but I managed. The early-morning sacrifice was well worth it.

For the Mega-Monster Enduro, I have spent the better part of two days sitting at the western end of Panoche Road. Until today, I had never ventured any farther. No maps or route sheets are needed: keep pedaling until you reach the Panoche Inn, 27.5 miles down the road. Eat lunch, turn around, and keep pedaling until you find the car you left 27.5 miles away in Paicines. Elevation gain for the day: 2,775 feet.

Some think an out-and-back route is boring, but I relished the chance to take in this scenery a second time. As I remarked to one of my ride companions, I don't have the urge to travel afar for a bike tour when this is virtually in my backyard.

No Princes Charming

Today was the day for that local lighthearted annual celebration of cycling known as the Cinderella. The precious invitation had been secured in February. The car was ready to be loaded with the bicycle. The bicycle was ready for its princess and her gear, carefully chosen in shades of pink and laid out the night before.

The colors in that Five-Pass Finisher's jersey from the 2009 Death Ride look smashing with the pink feather boa that traditionally bedecks her bike helmet.

But alas, the princess was awakened at 4 a.m. No, her sleep was not disturbed by a pea hidden beneath the mattress - it was the shrieking, howling wind. A powerful storm front is approaching; was it arriving earlier than forecast?

I first rode the Cinderella route in 2005, and have returned every year. In 2006, a crosswind nearly knocked me into a ditch descending Cross Road. The skies opened up just as we prepared to leave the lunch stop; we sheltered briefly under a flatbed truck in the parking lot before ultimately finishing the ride. In 2007, the longer Challenge route was introduced, and I was able to move faster into the headwind on the Altamont Pass than as part of a semi-disorganized paceline. In 2008, it was so windy at the top of Patterson Pass that it was a challenge to mount the bike for the descent. Driven by a massive tailwind, I attained my still unsurpassed maximum speed of 50.7 miles per hour. I gave my ride companions a quick lesson in how to execute a rotating paceline and we sliced through the headwind on Altamont without wearing ourselves out. Last year, conditions were nearly perfect (less so, my condition).

By 4:30 a.m., I turned to the Internet. Weather Underground made it all too clear: sustained winds at 21 mph with gusts to 43 mph, at a weather station less than two miles from my house.

Been there, done that. There are so many lovely days to ride a bicycle, and today was not one of them. Today was a day for climbing back under the comforter and sleeping in.

Hazy Hills of Hollister

What a difference 60 degrees makes. Spring, it seems, is a good time to ride in the Hollister area.

All the hills were green, and the sky was gray ...

Those among us who love the outdoors are blessed with an embarrassment of riches in northern California. Consider today's cycling destination - a National Monument, no less: Pinnacles.

My regular ride partner chose to do only the first part of the route. Slower than most but faster than some, I rode solo on Highway 25 for miles. The irony was not lost on me that while I have been reticent to drive this route alone, instead I am out there on my bicycle. [Well, in most cases, I can fix the bicycle if it breaks down. But, still ...]

I worried briefly that I lacked the power to outpace a yappy little dog that gave chase, but was saved by a second yappy little dog that distracted the first one. Arriving at the Pinnacles visitor center, a hiker recognized my Plus 3 vest. He smiled - Making it count!

All too soon it was time to head back to Hollister. One of the joys of being part of a bike club is having other members who are there for you. Facing 30 miles of stiff headwind, a fellow club member paired up with me. In the tiny town of Tres Pinos, three spectators (motorcyclists) applauded and cheered us on. I took a few turns at the front, but my partner graciously did most of the work (think 25 miles or more). He even slowed for me to catch up whenever I lost his wheel on a hill. Thanks, Dennis! If not for you, the return trip would have easily taken me twice as much time. As it was, I burned approximately 2,277 calories on the bike (65.6 miles, 2,955 feet of climbing), and was voraciously hungry when I got back to my car.

Along the way, I encountered wildflowers, wild turkeys, Longhorn cattle and buffalo (happily, on the other side of barbed-wire fencing), ravens, magpies, red-winged blackbirds, and possibly a female yellow-headed blackbird. Not to mention the giant inflatable pink Easter Bunny on a rusted old tractor. No wild boar, though.

Conversational Climbing

Today's cycling excursion included Old La Honda Road on both sides of Skyline. Each segment is beautiful in its own way, whether snaking upward through the redwoods or offering a panorama of green hills rolling to the Pacific Ocean. I indulged myself by heading uphill at a relaxed pace, taking in the sights. On Old La Honda? This is just Not Done, and so I was passed by many panting cyclists.

If you know where to look, you can see the west side of Old La Honda Road angling upward along the base of the cliff in my photo. (If you have not been there, you may have to accept this on faith.)

My last ascent involved quite a bit more horsepower. On that occasion, I could not resist the temptation to introduce my co-conspirator to a road he had never traveled. Barely more than one lane wide, with little reason for any vehicle to take that route, I calculated (correctly) that I would have the road to myself; no sane driver would descend this twisty, wet road in the dark. I would not enjoy driving down it in full daylight (see "cliff," above). But, I digress.

After lunch, we followed Kings Mountain Road back to civilization. The pros will take this route on Stage 3 of this year's Amgen Tour of California, and one of my ride buddies wondered how my time would compare with theirs. My descent: 15:31, averaging 22.4 mph over 5.8 miles. I did not get stuck behind any cars today, but I had to slow down before I could safely pass a pair of cyclists I caught. The pros will have another advantage: the road will be closed, allowing them full use of both lanes. They will be faster. Quite a bit faster.

A Cake from Carlo's

I confess: I am woefully (blissfully) ignorant in most matters of popular culture. My favorite supermarket does not display, or even sell, tabloids. I was never much of a TV watcher. The only (so-called) reality show I have seen was a single episode of The Amazing Race. The camera work left me feeling nauseated, and the contestants fulfilled all my expectations: People I would not want to know, behaving badly.

The stage was thus set for me not to grasp the significance of the guy striding into the dining room at Saturday's party, delivering an elaborate cake. A minor celebrity, as it turned out, bearing a three-tiered confection from Carlo's City Hall Bake Shop in Hoboken, New Jersey. The guest of honor shrieked in delighted disbelief, and I learned about the phenomenon known as the Cake Boss.

Some bakery in Hoboken? On TLC?

Later that night, my family furthered my education by replaying a series of episodes they had recorded. Creative? Yes. Talented? Without a doubt. People behaving badly? In abundance. Amazing cakes, though.

Dear Imprudence

I arrived on the east coast and Hertz did not seem to have the mid-sized car I had reserved.

How about an SUV?

[An upgrade, in some minds.]

No, that's too big for me.

It's a small one.

[I would take a downgrade, but not at the same price.]

No.

With considerable frowning and lots of typing, the agent came up with a set of keys. In this round of the rental car lottery, I won ... a shiny black car, with tinted rear windows. A big bad ... Chevrolet HHR? The antithesis of aerodynamic.

I turned the key in the ignition and wondered ... is the engine running? Is this a hybrid or something? Tentatively, I pressed the accelerator. All four cylinders were indeed firing - the car moved forward.

The view through the rear view mirror was reminiscent of a porthole. I have some experience with limited rear visibility (haha). But this vehicle has no rear camera.

I'm not used to sitting Way Up High Off The Ground. Or driving a vehicle whose accelerator feels like ... a sponge.

I visited one of my (very) old haunts for dinner. It looked like the next generation was in charge now, but little else had changed. The fortune in my cookie:

Prudence keeps life safe, but does not often make it happy.

How did they know?

Bike to Eat

I can tell you that it is a bad sign when you check the weather forecast online and instead of something mundane like "Sunny" or "Partly Cloudy," you see Windy. I had been warned that the wind on the Solvang Century could be a fearsome force, and in that sense, I was not disappointed. I was relieved when most of our biking gang opted for the more modest 50-mile route, with 1700 feet of climbing.

We rode from Solvang to Lompoc, straight into headwinds estimated at 17-20 mph. Although this segment was principally downhill, my speed averaged a mere 12.9 mph. I experimented with new aerodynamic angles on the bicycle in order to stay upright; crosswinds made it difficult to hold a straight line on the road.

After making a circuit through the streets of Lompoc, we were looking forward to the tailwind we had earned for our return trip to Solvang. Mysteriously, the tailwinds were as fleeting as the headwinds were fierce. On an extended, but modest, downhill I settled low on the bike and pedaled furiously to attain my maximum speed for the day, 42.2 mph. Satisfied at having demonstrated my superior aerodynamics to the two guys I overtook, I sat up and rolled into town at a more relaxed pace.

Enjoying a sandwich at the cyclist-mecca Bulldog Cafe, I was entertained by the exploits of some local racers who cut the century route short to escape the ridiculous wind. (Ha! The winds were abnormally strong.) After enjoying another decadent double chocolate cookie confection from Mortensen's Danish Bakery, we tidied up and headed out to explore Santa Barbara, where we celebrated with a fabulous meal at Seagrass.

Ride to eat, eat to live, live to bike.

Easiest Route

Along the ridge at the top of Squaw Valley's Emigrant chair lift, I pointed a couple of snowboarders in the right direction.

Yes, that really is the easiest route - just drop down around the rock.

With wide eyes, they sought clarification.

The BIG ROCK, or the little rock?

Keep in mind that easiest is a relative term, not to be confused with easy.

I had the great good fortune to spend the past two days exploring Squaw, with fresh snow on the slopes. I can only imagine that my talented (past) ski instructors would cringe if they saw me now, as I dredged up their valuable lessons from the dim recesses of my mind. No abrupt turns in powder returned with the jolt that landed my backside on the hill.

Having committed myself at the top of Red Dog face before realizing that I meant to drop in at a lower point, I found myself in a steep field of moderately-sized moguls.

I don't belong here.
There is no escape route.
There is only one way, and that is ... down.

Coaching words from long ago echoed in my head. You can do this. Relax. It wasn't pretty, but I stayed upright and was more exhilarated than relieved when I reached the bottom.

Squaw is different from other areas where I have skied, in that there are few trail markings (or named trails). A tram, a gondola, and many chairlifts are scattered around the mountain, and those are rated according to the general difficulty of the terrain they serve. Hop off at the top and point your skis downhill. Even the extreme skiers agree, though, that some bits are not skiable.

After spending most of today working on technique, I was happy to avoid following the crowd down "the road" to the base, choosing instead to ski the short pitches. Approaching a wide, relatively flat field, I recognized that I needed to take it at speed (or risk slowing to a complete stop). At the time, I focused on being relaxed, lest I catch an edge and wipe out; I knew I was moving pretty fast. In fact, I attained a new personal land-speed-record-on-skis: 38.6 mph.

❤ MTN RDS

There were few cars on Black Road this morning, but clever license plates ruled the day. A Mini Cooper with a European-style plate on the front: UPHILL. Then, 4 BLK RD: a local resident, perhaps? My personal favorite:
❤ MTN RDS. Kindred spirits, all.

This was my second time biking up Black Road, and I must have repressed any memory of the steep bits. Four days at high altitude in Utah evidently had no beneficial effect on my hemoglobin, as I struggled with my first climb of the day. The runoff from yesterday's rains sent small streams across the road in places (hint: in the steep places), which made it all the more exciting when my front wheel would pull up off the pavement. Climbing out of the saddle on the slick road was not a sensible alternative.

Of the three hills on today's route sheet, I set out to do two. Once I reached the top of Black Road, my choice was clear. Soda Springs would be longer, with more vertical ascent, but less steep than Montevina. The climb was as interminable as ever, but at this time of year the hillsides were green with mosses and ferns, and the sound of running water was constant. Rocks had tumbled onto the road in a few places, but there were no fresh mudslides.

I managed to ride 28.7 miles and climb 5,060 feet. (Yikes!) No wonder I was so slow. When you consider that this route meant climbing and descending the same hills, that means I really climbed 5,060 feet in 14.35 miles. Even I will admit that this might be just a tad crazy. (Just a tad.)

With a nod to my kindred automotive spirits, I recovered later in the afternoon with a fine Sunday drive: right back up Black Road, along the ridge, down to the coast, and back home through the redwoods. I ❤ MTN RDS.

Slippery Slope

Somehow, for the past several winters, my calendar has filled early with other distractions that have conspired to keep me off the ski slopes. I forgot the simple joys of gliding down the side of a mountain. Could it be that I also forgot how to glide down the side of a mountain?

Left to my own devices, I would have retreated to the comfort of a modest beginner trail for my first run. With some apprehension, I climbed into a gondola with my expert skier friends and headed for the top of the mountain. Luckily, my skills were no rustier than my skis, and I managed to carve and skid my way down the trail. It was not a pretty sight as I sped along, trying to remember how to ski while not losing sight of our little group in unfamiliar terrain at Snowbasin. The clouds rolled in, the light went flat, I lost my nerve and was more than ready to call it a day. I stuck it out for one more run and the sun peeked through to reassure me.

I was relieved to spend the next two days on my own, honing my skills on familiar ground at Alta. Every ride on the chairlift offers fresh faces and conversation. Locals, visitors from other states, French Canadians. A guy in his seventies who skis every day. A guy who proudly earned his free season pass this year (prerequisite: 80th birthday).

My most entertaining companions, though, didn't even acknowledge me. They were busy talking about a mutual friend - cyclist, skier, triathlete - who sounded most intriguing. The conversation turned to his car, a Porsche Carrera GT, which he had wrecked (circumstances, unclear).

Why would you want such a car? It does 80 mph in first gear. You might as well have a Formula 1 car, what can you do with it?

I smiled. The temptation to comment was strong. I resisted. They were oblivious to my presence.

It's like marrying a supermodel and then not being able to [deleted].

In the annals of memorable chairlift conversations, this one rises to the top.

After my first run on day three, I was ready for a challenge. I knew just where to find one.

Beyond this gate is some of the most difficult terrain at Alta ...

Max speed on days two and three: 33 mph. Some day I will return to Snowbasin and ski the women's downhill course (2002 Olympics). At less than half speed, if I really push it.

Slowing Traffic

Today it was my turn to pedal, having devoted my first weekend day (dawn till dusk) to the Mega-Monster Enduro. Once all the riders departed on Saturday, it was time to sit back and savor the sights in Paicines. I caught a good look at one low-flying bald eagle, yet somehow failed to notice the shiny black car when he passed through town. I must have been focused on approaching cyclists and their finishing times, or something.

I took advantage of the extra weekend day to join a club ride that was headed for San Francisco, though I planned to cover roughly the first half of the route. Descending from the patch of clear sunny skies into the valley's dense fog this morning, I regretted leaving my blinkie tail light at home. Once we started rolling, I placed myself strategically in the middle of our group and held tight until they outpaced me up the first hill (and out of the fog).

Our early start meant that I had plenty of time this afternoon to rinse away the ravages of my Sunday drive. Given the attention we had drawn at a roadside parking lot, I was unsure whether I was truly prepared for The Spectacle of Washing the Car.

Much to my surprise, only one person approached me. To her credit, she recognized the (base) model. Her fiancé, she said, is looking to buy one; might I be interested in selling mine? Now, that is the most amusing question I have gotten, to date. [By the way, he must not be looking very hard.] I noted that our local dealer has one for sale.

Curiously, drivers seemed to obey the speed limit this afternoon on our busy street. Are my neighbors disturbed by the sound of my engine? Ha! Rather, they will thank me for succeeding where the authorities have failed.

Life is Like a Song

Will you drive it in the rain?

So far, it has been my destiny to drive it in the rain. Even today, some raindrops sprinkled down.

At last, the skies above are blue. At long last, it was time for a proper drive.

You would never suspect how many people are cruising about on the freeway with cameras at the ready until you cruise about in an unusual vehicle. And if seeing one of these on the road is unusual, you might imagine that seeing a pair of them would be a memorable experience.

Consider the surprised travelers in a small sedan that merged onto the freeway behind the shiny black car. In front of ... an orange one, just like it. The passengers in the rear seat didn't know which way to look. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Or the guy in a mightily mud-splattered off-road vehicle who threw open the passenger door to deliver an enthusiastic "Bonita!" as they passed. Following a similarly muddied Jeep, they were friends out for a good day's fun - just like we were - but ... different.

And then there was the vehicle in my rear view mirror, on an isolated rural road. It was SUV-like, maybe it had some antennas. The driver was clearly familiar with the road, as he had caught up to us. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it until we had negotiated a particularly curvy stretch and I checked my mirrors ... he was right on my tail. Just as I calculated that this was probably Not A Good Sign, the grille lit up with all manner of flashing red and blue lights, a siren wailed, and I saw "Sheriff" on the door as he pulled around me and stopped the shiny black car.

Turns out that he just wanted to warn us to keep an eye out for the free-roaming wild boar and remind us that it's pretty desolate out there, no emergency services nearby. When he was done chatting with the shiny black car, he gave me a wave as he climbed back into his vehicle. And we all continued on our way.

I saw a pair of coyotes on a hillside pause and turn to watch me pass. No wild boar, though.

I put more miles on the car today than it had accumulated in the preceding 10 months, and I loved every inch of it. When I got home, I cleaned away the splattered bugs (no mud for me, today).

Yes, Scott. I will drive it in the rain. The wipers work.

More

More riding. More climbing. The view from the top of More Avenue.

Some friends were planning a route through my neighborhood and invited me to join them. Feeling better than expected after yesterday's outing, why not?

Needless to say, these three guys are stronger than I am. We took turns waiting for each other: They would wait for me at the top of the hill, I would wait for them at the bottom of the hill.

Did you watch pep descend?
Uh ... sort of ... until she was out of sight.

I split off to head back when we hit the flatlands, leaving my companions to explore a more distant hill. I could not resist a few gratuitous climbs on the way home, including that little bit of brutality at the top of More. Such a view! (If you survive.)

Parking downtown is often frustratingly scarce, especially with the Farmers' Market on Sundays. Here is where a bicycle truly excels, for simple errands.

Viewing the Countryside

From the top of Bernal Road, we could almost spy our challenging destination for the day: the summit of Country View Drive lies just beyond the tree-studded hillside left of center. Our group of eleven included three of the four friends who joined me on a scouting party up Country View last August. (The Canadian judge sent her regrets. Gleefully, I might add.)

Following that successful expedition, I nominated this route to become one of our bike club's recognized hill climbs - and was honored to have it accepted. Well, perhaps more pained than honored. It is one tough climb, and if I nominated it, I should certainly be prepared to lead fellow club members to the top. This early in the season, I thought I might be hiking more of it than biking. Throughout the week, I desperately hoped that rain would arrive to cancel the ride. This morning the streets were wet, but the sky was clear.

What sort of challenge does Country View present? Two riders elected to wait for us at the base of the hill. After making the initial turn onto the road, an unprepared rider was forced to circle back in order to shift into a lower gear. On the second and most relentlessly steep section, one rider stopped for a break and toppled over (laughing). He expected to put his foot down, but on that sort of grade, “down” is a bit farther down. Two strong riders (with double cranksets) were similarly inspired to take a break. Another rider took a turn that sent him off the route onto an unplanned steep diversion.

Ultimately, nine of us reached the top. We were obliged to dismount and step over a firehose near the summit. There were a dozen or more vehicles up there, having transported firefighters for an apparent training exercise; that accounted for the smoke I had noticed earlier on the ride. One of them kindly warned us about the abundant broken glass at the summit, but it was actually cleaner than last time.

A great climb on a glorious winter day. In all, I covered 33 miles and climbed 2300 feet, with a peak speed of 39.6 mph. Hmm, guess where that was ... Of course, my bicycle was no match for the Ferrari F40 that passed us in the opposite direction as we returned to our starting point. But that fed a passion of a different sort.

Attractive Nuisance

That's what snow is, in the Bay Area: an attractive nuisance. The raindrops that sprinkled us as we climbed the lower portion of Mt. Hamilton Road were also a nuisance, but luckily, nothing more.

Normally there would be little traffic heading up the mountain on a gloomy Sunday morning, but today we were passed by a steady stream of minivans and four-wheel-drive vehicles [see "attractive nuisance," above]. Undeterred by the sign warning that the road was closed four miles ahead, they would eventually be surprised to meet the sheriff.

Our first destination was Joseph Grant County Park, which is the only convenient place for all those disappointed snow tourists to turn around. Yes, ma'am, unless your driver's license shows that you live up the mountain, follow the orange cones and head back down the hill.

The largest flock of wild turkeys I have ever seen was sauntering past the restrooms in the park. Spooked by a pair of cars approaching from opposite directions, they hustled their tail feathers across the road and up the hill, gobbling loudly in protest.

Signs warned of slides on Quimby Road, but the sheriff assured us it was passable. We faced more traffic here, too; at one point on the climb I had to stop and dismount behind two uphill vehicles that stopped to let two downhill vehicles pass. A sedan filled with snow tourists stopped to chat at the summit; they were clearly determined to reach the top of Mt. Hamilton, and I doubt they believed my story about the road being closed.

And that is why the sheriff works his shift in the chilly dampness. Yes, ma'am, follow those orange cones and turn right around.

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.