End of the Line

And now for something completely different: Today, I descended a hill more slowly than I climbed it. [Okay, I might be exaggerating ... but only slightly.]

How is this possible? Two words: chip seal.

Normally, I descend Wrights Station Road conservatively. It is steep, the pavement has been deteriorating for years, and sunlight filtering through the trees creates complex, shifting patterns of shadow and light. In the winter, the road can be slick and strewn with debris.

Evidently, the county has recently arrested the deterioration by chip sealing the roadway. Did someone really drive a roller up that road? The surface is still covered with loose gravel. One hairpin was particularly scary, with a deep pile in the outer radius of the turn.

Having made it safely to the bottom (Los Gatos Creek), my ride partner and I carried on with our plan to find the end of the road. There is a bit of the Wild West in the history of this land. The forest has reclaimed Wrights Station; the railway tunnel is hard to see, even if you know where to look.

The pavement ended abruptly. We kept going, sometimes on foot and sometimes on bike, to the end of the public road. Sadly, our only views of the elusive Lake Elsman will be satellite images.

Overall, a satisfying workout—18 miles, 1,865 feet of climbing—while managing to stay upright on the gravelly and rutted back roads of Santa Clara County.

BTWD Redux

One of the best things about Bike to Work Day each year is inspiring others to give commuting a try. When your route to work entails pedaling some 20 miles, that represents a real commitment.

Much to my chagrin, I have rarely made the trip myself this year. (Unlike a few colleagues who make the trip nearly every day.) With some of our converts seeking the support of a group commute, a semi-regular Bike to Work Friday ride was born.

How could I say no? Look at the grin on our chief instigator. Could you say no to that man? And how can anyone be so happy at 6:55 a.m.?

Chatting away, the miles do fly by. I did my best to maintain a respectable pace for our mixed group of seven. I knew I had succeeded when I was accused of riding for the Sisters of No Mercy.

Two guys joined me for the return ride at the end of the day, which we also completed at a brisk pace. [Well, brisk for me; more of a recovery pace, for them.]

Round trip: 41 miles, 890 feet of climbing. Maybe I will do this again next week, while I still remember how great I feel when I bike to work.

Local History Tour

The diversity and depth of our bike club was well-represented in our small group today: two Ph.D.s, one 71-year old (who outpaces me climbing hills), and a guy who will be riding Paris-Brest-Paris in another two weeks (for the fifth time). Having completed a century ride yesterday, he dropped everyone on today's climbs—including a friendly (and very fit) guy who works for Easton-Bell that we met along the way.

The Summit Store, our first stop, also reflected the diversity and depth of the local area. A natural stop for cyclists as well as mountain drivers, the parking lot was as colorful as ever: a cadre of motorcyclists, a small all-terrain-vehicle (not road legal, ahem), and a Bentley cabriolet.

Our ride leader kept a watchful eye on all of us, lest anyone go astray. Two members were well-versed in local lore and traded tales of Mountain Charlie, the ghost town of Patchen, the history of the submarine house, and so much more.

Alas, we did not spot the pet tortoise reported missing in the mountains (even at my sorry pace). Forty-four miles, 4,045 feet of climbing on a gorgeous late-summer day.

All Revved Up

With someplace to go: Lunch, and the special privilege to meet an icon of the automotive world, Sig. Valentino Balboni.

Getting to lunch involved a bit of driving (naturally), with two groups converging from the north and south. I find group driving a bit nerve-wracking, as I fret about being too slow for the cars behind and not as talented as the drivers ahead. My plan was to hang near the back, preferably in last place.

My plan was not to be.

As we prepared to leave, I learned that my casual conversation over breakfast about local roads had turned into a new route plan. Which involved me trading places with the leader at a designated spot.

Our timing could not have been better. The southbound cars arrived at the restaurant just as we did. We were a sight to behold, and I can tell you that we were much beheld.

The young guys from the two cars tailing me closely through the forest stepped out and approached me.

You are fast!

And I thought they had been hanging back out of politeness, or resignation.

I think there is an advantage to being in the lead, after all. My concentration was devoted strictly to the road and to controlling my vehicle; following cars have the additional burden of responding to the decisions of the drivers ahead (and in some cases, coping with unsolicited passenger input as well).

This is your car?

Sig. Balboni greeted me with a bemused smile. Yes, I replied. I love my car.

When I get behind the wheel, I don't want to stop driving.

He nodded, beaming.

It is the same for me, even after 40 years.

Revolutionary Thoughts

One advantage of my chosen route today was that it afforded variations on a theme. Just the thing for someone with commitment issues.

The theme: Mt. Diablo, from the South Gate. I thought I might just make a u-turn at the top, expecting all sorts of adversity. I could be too tired. The weather could be too hot. The rest of the group could be too fast and I would not want to ride alone. The whole enchilada was a route of about 64 miles that looped around the mountain (after climbing it, of course) via Morgan Territory Road.

The climb was surprisingly comfortable. The weather was cooler than expected, and there was barely a breeze at the summit. I conceded that it would be a fine day for the full loop, after all. Once I stopped shaking, that is.

Oh, that dreaded final hundred yards to the summit! From the bottom, it looked less intimidating than I remembered; it hurt as it always does. I rode straight up the middle. Seated, as is my wont. [Yes, that is possible.] My heart rate peaked at 186 bpm, a good six beats lower than I remember. The driver of a large white pick-up truck trailing me was completely gracious. Not only did he never honk or crowd me, I'm pretty sure he put the truck in neutral and waited patiently for half a minute or so.

The fastest members of our group were long gone. Not wanting to hold up the remaining riders, I plummeted solo down the hill to gain some time and took a quick lunch break near charming downtown Clayton. My timing was nearly perfect, as the first rider from the group caught me about a mile short of the summit on Morgan Territory Road.

The group got well ahead of me again after I paid a surprise visit to some friends who live along the route. Far from home, I faced the headwinds and braved the last 15 miles of the loop alone. How radical! For the day, 64 miles and a healthy 6,305 feet of climbing.

Bloomin' Gilroy

See the ripples on the surface of Uvas Reservoir? See the direction of travel? Embrace the headwind. Today's route was uncharacteristically flat, climbing a scant 2,220 feet over 66 miles. The wind made up for that. [By the way, if climbing some 2000 feet does not sound flat to you, well ... you're not from around here, are you?]

Heading up Croy Road, the aftermath of last winter's massive slide was still in evidence. While there is no imminent danger now that the hillside is dry, it did look quite menacing.

Given the modest amount of climbing, I was able to sustain a pace that kept me from straggling too far behind the group—despite the occasional photographic indulgence.

Our route also included a stretch of Hecker Pass Highway (aiyeee!). The highlight of that segment—apart from living to tell the tale—was a most colorful flower farm.

Training Buddies

Anticipating that a mellow recovery ride would be just the thing for today, I had volunteered to help with a training ride for the upcoming Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge. Thanks to the generous sponsorship of Audi and support from the Woodside Bakery, cyclists and other patrons were happily surprised to find that coffee was on us: we were working to recruit new riders.

Our plan included a 20-mile training route for registered and prospective riders; this being Bicycle Sunday, I presumed we would head for Cañada Road. [Wrong. But I did head there later, for good measure.]

Being familiar with the area, the staff appointed me leader of the pack. We had a range of abilities, they noted. I surveyed the crowd. About two dozen riders, some from Team Tibco. [Yikes.] I looked at the tiny scrap of paper that described the route. It didn't make sense.

Oh, the first turn is wrong. It's fine after that. With the exception of the second turn, which was also wrong. But I got the gist: we were meant to do the Portola Loop.

We streamed out of the parking lot, heading gently uphill. I pushed the pace and they were right with me. Recovery ride? What a quaint idea. I did manage to split the pack, but I wasn't concerned because a staff member was riding sweep. A buddy riding with us was thrilled when he caught up to me and stayed on my wheel for awhile, the other riders cheering him on and dubbing him "Speedy."

The first real climb on the route, a foothill near the bottom of Page Mill, loomed large. My legs begged for mercy. I waved everyone past, then easily caught them on the descent. [Whew.]

As we waited for a green arrow to turn left onto Junipero Serra, we were confused by a vehicle to our right. Despite having a green light, the vehicle had stopped and the left turn signal was flashing. The driver was not responding to us. I walked over, motioning to roll down the window. Politely, I pointed out that it was a straight-through lane, and that one could not turn left from there. No response. Your left turn signal is on, I added. I know, said the driver.

The arrow turned green. We turned left. The driver turned left, too, nearly running into left-turning cars from the opposite direction. We stayed safe. Most egregiously, this was a car-for-hire that was transporting a passenger. That company, and the CHP, will hear from me soon. I have a photograph to share.