Entitlement

Volunteering as a marshal at Turn 5 on the course for the Cat's Hill Criterium, my job today was all about safety. In other words, keep the bicycle racers and the general public from colliding. Adults. Children. Dogs. Adults with children. Children with balls. Adults with dogs. Adults with ... attitude.

This race has been held annually, in May, for 38 years. On the exact same streets, which are closed to vehicles for most of the day.

Most drivers, after turning onto the far end of our street, saw the barricade and people in bright safety vests [me, for example] and backtracked. Some did not.

One woman drove all the way to the barricade to share her indignation with us.

This is a residential neighborhood, not an athletic field!

She then proceeded to back into the bumper of a parked SUV. Bumper of said SUV being higher than the bumper of her car, she was now the proud driver of a dented BMW. After inspecting the damage, she simply drove away. All of this in full view of three people wearing bright safety vests, two of which were emblazoned with the word "POLICE." We made a note of her license plate number and shared it with the SUV owner. Misdemeanor hit and run?

Then there was the absolutely apoplectic woman in a Jaguar.

How many DAYS is this race going to last?

After turning her car around, she blew through the stop sign on the corner and nearly collided head-on with an approaching SUV. All of this in full view of three people wearing bright safety vests, two of which were emblazoned with the word "POLICE."

The evidence was abundant: Money can buy you a fancy car and a fancy house on a hillside with a view, but it does not buy you happiness.

I was happy, and I didn't spend a dime. Fast Freddie Rodriquez was happy, too; he won the final race of the day (Pro/1/2 Men).

Walking home, I paused to let a car turn in front of me. The wind was picking up with an advancing storm front, and I heard some loud rustling in a tree across the street. To my wide-eyed amazement, a large branch crashed down to the sidewalk and split into pieces. The sidewalk where I would have been at that moment, had I acted like an entitled pedestrian and forced that car to wait for me to cross the street.

Let me mention that part about being happy, again. Really happy.

Double the Fun

Every year around this time, employers reach out to the cyclists in their ranks for ideas that will encourage people to give bicycle commuting a try. There are plenty of practical perks that we all need at the office: a safe place to park the bicycle, a place to get cleaned up and change into a fresh set of clothes. Stepping it up a level, a guaranteed ride home (in case of emergency).

Bicycle commuters must fend for themselves 364 days a year. Bike-to-Work Day rolls around but once on the calendar, with ample opportunities to refuel along the way at Energizer Stations stocked with food. It's not every day that we arrive at work to roll under a balloon arch into a festival of cycling. That day was today.

If a sizable chunk of your employee population already cycles regularly to work, and you already reward them with generous benefits (food, a fully-equipped bicycle repair station, donations to charity earned for each commute), you might need to do a bit more to draw them out.

Breakfast burritos. Massages. Smoothies. Baristas brewing potent coffees. Travel-sized bottles of shampoo. Colorful "I biked to work!" stickers. And of course, some cool schwag. A nice touch this year were booths recruiting riders for upcoming charity cycling events. Since I will be riding for Best Buddies again, I wore my 2010 jersey to show my support.

There were plenty of grass-roots efforts leading up to this day. Experienced cyclists offered help with planning safe routes to work. One prepared a lunchtime talk to cover the basics and answer questions. Early in the week, experienced volunteers held a clinic where they performed simple repairs. Regular commuters planned friendly routes from towns near and far, leading "no rider left behind" groups to work. That's where I come in.

Along with a colleague, I guided 10 people on a 23-mile route to the office. Our group ran the gamut from first-time commuters to guys who would ordinarily leave me in the dust. Every year, some of those first-timers get hooked; at least two from last year's group have become more active cyclists (and bicycle commuters). Maybe we converted some this year, too.

Given the distance, some coworkers were surprised to learn that I would bike back home at the end of the day. What could be better than a nice bike ride? Two nice bike rides!

Green to Gold

Evidently the local BMW motor club decided to head up the mountain today. I parked my four wheels near the base instead and headed up on two. Given how reluctant I was to forgo a couple more hours of sleep for this morning's early start, I had a remarkably strong day. And eventful.

Not even one and half miles into the ride, my ride buddy for the day dropped out with a mechanical on her still-pretty-new bike: broken shifter. She turned back, I carried on.

Since I was a bit low on red blood cells [having donated just a few days ago], I needed a rev limiter. Anything higher than 160 beats per minute felt hard, so I rode at a comfortable pace.

Halfway up the hill, I chatted with a guy [who weighed a little more than two of me] riding on a very fancy bicycle [which cost four times as much as mine]. Already panting, he was disappointed when I assured him that Mt. Hamilton is not high enough for altitude to be a factor and turned his attention to a sprightly young woman who caught up to us. Accelerating to stay with her, he quickly ran out of steam. She vanished, he stopped, I carried on.

Around mile 14, I approached a cyclist at the side of the road. Broken frame, he said; his chain (and rear derailleur) drooped in defeat. Not an auspicious day for Specialized bicycles.

At the summit, I felt surprisingly ... fresh. I was not ready to be done, and it was a perfect day to venture down the back side of Mt. Hamilton. Soon it will be too warm for that approach to the summit, which is steeper and more exposed. Now, about that helicopter ...

As I descended, a steady stream of Team in Training cyclists warned me about an accident ahead, cyclist down in the middle of the road. More than 20 twisty mountain miles from the edge of San Jose, medical support out there is not straightforward. [Hence, the helicopter.] The first responder (sheriff) passed me. Passersby had stopped a car in each lane to protect the injured rider. I dismounted and walked slowly along the edge of the road, dismayed to recognize a guy who had passed me on the long climb to the top. Very fit, very capable, wearing the team kit of one of the regional racing clubs. Feeling rattled, and unsure where the hovering helicopter might land, I carried on.

The climb back up was less difficult than I had remembered; perhaps, because the temperature today was cooler. Reverend Hamilton's sunny courtyard was mine to enjoy in solitude, allowing me to relax for the long descent. For the day, 7,100 feet of climbing over 50.6 miles. I should feel tired.

Along the way, I stopped and tossed off the road: one foot-long strip of metal, one super-sized pine cone, one substantial D-shaped iron ring, and one large nasty nail. I did not, however, stop to study the small snake curled in a divot on the center line.

Angry Bird

It was a breezy day, but the ride was not a breeze. For such a short route, our leader packed in the climbs (2,255 feet uphill over 25.6 miles).

Grinding up the steep grade on Harwood Road, I talked myself out of pausing for a break. I made it. I knew I could make it.

The switchback on Sheldon Lane? Well, not so much. Prudence prevailed. The first visit is always the hardest, especially when you cannot see what lies around each bend. Next time, I will know.

Along the way, some small rocks suddenly cascaded down the slope next to me. Unstable hillside, pedal faster? Wild creature, pedal even faster? The joke was on me—nothing more than a mischievous scrub jay. In life as in art, the angry bird gets the last laugh.

Redwood Gulp

I can think of several ways to describe a 17% grade. Landslide, for one. Or lunacy—there's another L word. Our route for the day included Redwood Gulch, which gains 690 feet in altitude over 1.3 miles.

I will never forget the first time I tackled this climb. I felt like the proverbial lamb being led to the slaughter. My heart rate peaked at 199 beats per minute on the steepest pitch. Plug that into the common formula for estimating maximum heart rate:

199 = 220 - (age, in years)

Ah, if only that were true! It was no more true today, when I took a short break at 186 bpm. I could see that the brutal grade was about to relent, but I felt perilously close to stalling out. I should be less of a wimp; I could have made it.

After Redwood Gulch, the rest of the climb to Saratoga Gap felt like a piece of cake. Our reward was the sheer delight of descending Highway 9. The authorities recently reduced the speed limit to 30 mph, which was just as awkward for the silver F430 heading up as it was for my silver Trek heading down. I averaged 29.7 mph—close enough, okay?

Speaking of cake, we proceeded to The Prolific Oven for lunch ... where they serve not chips, but a wedge of cake (!) with each sandwich. Output, some 1400 kcal; intake, turkey sandwich on a fresh croissant and chocolate cake. Works for me.

Roue de Secours

There should have been a tailwind. Heading south on Santa Teresa, there is always a tailwind. My ride partner was having an off day; anticipating that tailwind could only help.

But no, the winds were cross today—huffing and puffing with sideways gusts that thrust me toward the traffic lane.

What happens if you get a flat tire?

I fix it, I replied. The question had come from an elderly uncle some time ago, though the answer made no more sense to him than anything else he can imagine about my time on a bicycle.

What happens if you get two flat tires?

The odds are low, unless you did a poor job fixing the first one.

Low, but not zero. At that point, you rely on your patch kit. [Or your ride buddy.] When he flatted a second time, I gladly proffered my spare tube. What are the odds of three flat tires? Even lower, provided your route is not strewn with sharp pointy things. My mind drifted back to a vintage game ... The Increvable card, that's what we need!

Next Saturday is the Tierra Bella; today, volunteers rode the course to look for trouble spots. [And, evidently, to collect sharp pointy things in our tires so our guests will have a better time.]

No mille bornes for us today; a mere 100 km, instead.

Whirring Wind Farm

On my last outing, the post-ride conversation turned to wind power and why it seems that the turbine blades are stationary more often than spinning on the hills outside Livermore.

Today, they were spinning. The headwind channeling through the Altamont Pass was not the worst I have faced, but it was substantial. This is, after all, why they planted a wind farm there.

The 35th annual Cinderella ride [my sixth] was arguably the best yet.

We were underway before 7:20 a.m., which is no mean feat given that sign-in opens precisely at 7:00 a.m. Coordinating a small group is always a challenge; invariably, someone needs to return to her car for some critical piece of forgotten gear, or someone can't be found. Three of us took off; rider number four gave up on our missing Cinderella and later caught up.

An early start is a good thing on this ride, to be well ahead of the main pack of less-experienced riders. Off the front of a small group, I missed a turn when I was distracted by a bad driver making a sloppy u-turn (into the bike lane) at that very intersection. That added an extra mile to my day, but the real penalty was the contingent of less-predictable riders into which I merged.

This being my longest ride (by far) in more than six months, I expected to suffer. I thought about not following the Challenge loop, but the Classic route alone is no longer interesting. With ten miles or so to go, I overheard a nearby rider:

Follow those two, they know what they're doing.

Now the gantlet was down—we had a reputation to uphold! We hammered along at the head of the pack for a few miles before we found an opportunity to back off gracefully.

Overall, I averaged 12.9 mph over 82 miles with a modest 3,545 feet of climbing. I can't think of anything good to say about riding into the wind, other than ... it builds character?