The Adventure Begins

What kind of sports equipment? Is it ... a bicycle?

The Lufthansa agent did not hold my attempt to dodge the $200 bike fee against me. She switched me from a middle seat to an aisle, in a center row with just one other passenger. Consequently, I was able to curl up (more or less) comfortably across two seats and sleep through much of the long flight. There are some advantages to being small.

My first language encounter came before I even took my seat, as an older gentleman stepped aside for me. Prego, he said. Grazie, I replied (more or less). Like most Americans, I am fluent only in English.

I was seated behind an Italian family with two young boys, and one of them (watching cartoons) delighted me with the purest laugh I have ever heard. In the rearmost section of the cabin, it was easy to forget the enormity of an Airbus 380 (more than 600 passengers on board, and yet some seats were empty). Luckily, I failed to discover the three cameras mounted on the jet's exterior until the flight was nearly over [else, I would not have gotten the sleep I needed].

In Frankfurt, I chuckled at a fellow countryman who balked at forking over $10 for his sandwich at the airport, and began to feel less ignorant for having successfully coaxed some euros from a Deutsche Bank ATM.

In Milano, I was overjoyed to collect mia bicicletta (though the guy at the oversized baggage door was happy to exercise his English). I must have been quite the sight: a tiny gray-haired signorina with a backpack, tiny rolling suitcase, and a huge bag—almost as big as she is—slung cross-wise over her shoulders.

Next hurdle: renting a car and then ... driving it. The rear seats in my (pre-dented) Citroën C3 folded down, my bags fit, and off I went. The clerks at Auto Europa were friendly and helpful, and likely highly amused at the tiny gray-haired American signorina (see above), traveling alone, who rented a car with a manual transmission. Trust me, this is not something they see every day.

I headed for the autostrade to find my hotel on the outskirts of the city. My strategy: fall in line with the traffic in the right lane, decipher the road signs, and try to stay out of trouble. First observation: Italian truck drivers change lanes whenever they please, give them plenty of space. There were no attended lanes when I reached the toll booths at my exit; I managed to pay without irritating any drivers behind me. [Whew.]

The hotel, on a major thoroughfare, was clean and economical. Next to a bar, a pizzeria, and an adult store—not the best part of town. I failed at my next two challenges: finding a place to recharge the Italian SIM card I had acquired in advance, to get data service on my phone; and finding dinner. No data service = no Google Maps. No Google Maps = no Navigation. After driving more or less in circles for an hour or so on my quest, I did manage to find my hotel again. The nearest restaurant was closed: summer holidays.

Thus begins the story of my first solo international trip.

Summertime

And the trees are dripping.

When the wind woke me this morning, slapping the blinds against the window frame, I knew. Such turbulence is a sure sign of a dense marine layer whipping over the Santa Cruz Mountains, and that is where our ride was headed. Time to bundle up.

As we climbed, the windshield wipers of approaching vehicles were running intermittently. For the droplets on my glasses, there was no such amenity. On the edges, the fog roils like steam rising from a pot of boiling water. [Except, of course, that the fog is cold.] In the midst of it, tiny droplets prick your face and ping off your jacket. In the thick of it, big drops condense from the towering trees and pelt you like rain.

There was little point to the sunscreen I applied, out of habit. The occasional fuzzy shadow cast by the weak light was an ironic contrast to the sharp contours I saw by the light of last weekend's full moon, deep in an isolated valley.

It was a beautiful ride nonetheless, despite wishing for long-fingered gloves and toe covers. Thirty-eight miles with about 3100 feet of climbing—the incentive, to stay warm.

Over Hill and Cloverdale

When I heard the locals remarking about the weather—sunshine is not normal at 9:15 a.m.—I knew we were in for a splendid day. One reward for arriving well in advance of our planned start time was a warm cinnamon roll at the country market. Other rewards included watching a doe and her fawn wander through town, and one much-beloved dog enjoying his trip on an ATV.

Riding for the third consecutive day (why not?), I soon found myself out in front of the group. We came together again for a lunch break, but my schedule for the day left little room to dawdle. Now and again, there is a story that needs few words. This is one of those.

A field of flowers along the Butano Cut-Off.

Cloverdale Road, from a summit.

Gazos Creek spills into the Pacific Ocean.

The lighthouse at Pigeon Point.

A route of stunning beauty, just under 50 miles with 3200 feet of climbing.

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.