Melting on Montebello

The heatwave settled in for the long holiday weekend; summer really has arrived in the Bay Area. One local thoroughfare was so clogged with traffic yesterday that a motorist called out to me:

Is there a parade, or something?

Sort of. A parade of beach-bound cars cutting through town, hoping to save time by detouring off the clogged freeway. And that is why I walked to the farmers' market, and back home with a basket packed with fruits, salad fixings, and flowers.

Then I took a cue from my cat, and napped. When I donated blood earlier this week, my hemoglobin level was running somewhat lower than it has been—and my body balked at the deficit. Correlation? Probable. Uncontrolled experiment? Totally.

I was determined not to miss our club's traditional Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast today, followed by a traditional bike ride to burn off those calories. Despite the heat. Despite running low on red cells.

My goal: slowest time up Montebello Road, ever. With a watchful eye on my heart rate, I ascended at a snail's pace. I did not pass a single rider, but many passed me. Surely they thought I was pathetic. It is especially humbling when the guy riding his fixie passes you like you're standing still. On a good day, I climb the steepest sections in my lowest gear.

Satisfaction at the summit turned triumphant when a couple arrived in a white convertible and saluted us.

You ladies are amazing, biking up this hill!
I want your autographs!

Before crossing the five bridges deep into Stevens Canyon, I envied the families picnicking in the shade and the children splashing in the creek. Maybe I should sign up for How to Relax: Introductory Level. It probably does not entail climbing 3,370 feet on a 50-mile bike ride in 90-degree heat. [Just guessing.]

Time for Tam

Having climbed three of the four major peaks in the Bay Area (Diablo, Fremont, Hamilton), today I conquered the fourth: Mt. Tamalpais.

I was riding in the second annual San Francisco Cycle for Life event, raising funds for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. At registration, the number they assigned to me just happened to be the year of my birth (an auspicious sign).

This was a very small event—about 150 riders spread over two routes, 35 and 75 miles. I saw only three other women tackling the long route. (The woman in the leather shoes, knickers, and blouse evidently opted for the shorter route on her pink bicycle with the fenders, racks, and basket.)

Fast Freddie Rodiguez led us out, and what a good sport he was. Having learned the importance of starting near the front in an attempt to stay in contact with the pack, there I was, riding with Freddie.

Cruising past Crissy Field, Freddie fished his cell phone from his jersey pocket and drifted left. Phone call? No. He wanted to take pictures of us!

I can do this, I'm a professional.

We all laughed.

On my way up the mountain, an elderly passerby remarked:

You've got big ones.

In that compliment, he was referring to a particular anatomical part that I (of course) do not have. A sensitive part that some of the guys around me were complaining about, when they thought I was out of earshot, as we bounced along the rough and bumpy roads.

Alone with the fog and the towering trees on my slow ascent, I heard the loud buzz of engines approaching from the other side. It was a sound not pleasing to my ears. I switched off my video camera, expecting a string of motorcycles to fly past. In that, I was wrong. I switched the camera back on. Some were part of a group that is organizing to raise funds for a good cause, too. But my ears are tuned to a deeper roar.

Ostensibly doing this ride with a team from work, I wore my logo jersey. A cyclist from Wells Fargo started chatting with me.

I love Google Maps on my phone!

He stayed with me until we reached the summit road, then diverted to a restroom. I descended toward the coast.

In Stinson Beach I met a couple of cyclists from our club, heading south on the last leg of Sierra to the Sea. I knew I was having a great day, despite a fitful night's sleep, when I saw the road sign "Jenner: 45 miles" and thought "Hey, that's not so far ..." But, I stayed the course.

Biking up Mt. Tam at a recreational pace? Not difficult. Negotiating a safe route through busy little towns? Much more challenging. Farmers' markets. Tourists. People parallel-parking SUVs, more or less badly. In the tiny hamlet of Nicasio, I supplemented my rest stop fare with a cupcake from a bake sale benefiting the local fire department (our first responders), but left before seeing the bride and groom emerge from St. Mary's church.

The route back to San Francisco snaked through one charming town after another, largely following Bike Route 20. Fairfax. Ross. San Anselmo. Larkspur. A passing cyclist greeted me:

Hey, I know you!

Not well enough to know my name, thankfully, since I was drawing a total blank on who he might be. In the population-dense Bay Area, what are the odds that you will cross paths with anyone you know on a bike ride, miles from home?

The greatest challenge of the day loomed ahead. Not the strong cross winds gusting off the Pacific. Not the short steep climb out of Sausalito. It was ... the bridge. The Golden Gate Bridge. The west sidewalk, reserved for cyclists, is presently closed during construction. Traversing the west side against the flow of wobbly tourists on Blazing Saddles bikes is hard enough. On the east side, add pedestrians to the mix, walking in every unpredictable direction and stopping randomly to snap photos. In picture-postcard weather, it would be best to dismount and walk.

The only turn I missed was the last one. I zig-zagged around buses, cars, and people to exit the parking lot at the other end of the bridge, but had to puzzle out the proper way back down the hill to our starting point.

Another beautiful bicycle ride. With the same amount of climbing as last Saturday's route (4,280), but spread over some 76 miles, I managed an average pace of 12 mph. Not too shabby.

From the Middle

Some leaders lead from the front, some from the back; today, I was somewhere in between. Faster riders were off the front, slower riders trailed at the back. With a group of 16, I could barely keep track of everyone (much less remember names). Luckily, familiar faces conferred some advantage. I was amazed when we all came back together at the final re-group point, especially given that some riders had bypassed the toughest climb of the day.

There were more vehicles and fewer cyclists on Old La Honda Road than usual. On narrow, twisty roads it can be wise to play traffic cop. I thrust out my left arm at a key moment to discourage a pickup from passing me as another vehicle approached from the opposite direction. Collision averted.

A collision was perhaps not averted somewhere to the south on Skyline, though. Heading north at 30+ MPH, I was focused on an SUV waiting to pull out from a side road. Did she see me? Could I stop? Just then, a pair of emergency vehicles sped past in the opposite lane, sirens wailing. When the third one appeared, the traffic ahead of me pulled over to stop and my braking skills were summarily tested. On a wet section of pavement, to add to the excitement.

Always follow at a safe distance. And do not panic.

Bear Gulch West was longer, but less daunting, than I remembered. Maybe it was the onshore breeze? No bears, but we did find longhorn cattle lounging among the redwoods; happily, they were on the other side of a fence.

4,280 feet of climbing over 46.7 miles on a gorgeous day for a bike ride. Maybe I can retire the down comforter, at long last; summer may be here soon.

Chillin' on Calaveras

What a relief to trade the hazy, hot, and humid northeast for cloudy, cool, California.

We headed straight for Old Calaveras Road, and without a warm-up I really struggled up the steep grade. Once I reached the top, the toughest challenge of the day was behind me; climbing the renowned "wall" of Calaveras Road was nothing in comparison to that.

The ups and downs, twists and turns of this route never fail to delight. No sign of the resident bald eagles, but I did see (and hear) a Western Meadowlark at close range, perched on a roadside fence post.

We also saw a freight train at close range, providing ample time for an impromptu re-group on our way to lunch in Pleasanton. Later, loading my gear into the car at the end of the ride, I would leave a curious dad speechless when I described our route for the day. If 48 miles sounded impossible to him, imagine what he thought of my response to his question about my longest ride.

In the end, the sun broke through and a fine time was had by all. My biggest smile of the day, though, was reserved for the electronic sign that registered my speed near the base of the last descent: 35 mph. That was precisely the speed limit, and I was oh-so-pleased to comply.

Predator, Prey

The waves were alive, with the splashing of fish. Which mandated that we chart a new course, post haste.

We had set out for a nice summer boat ride, with a plan to venture out of the river and into the Atlantic Ocean to watch the salvage of a fishing boat that had wrecked a month ago. Approaching the scene, we were surprised at the number of boats bobbing offshore on a Monday afternoon. Why were they paying little heed to the tall crane on the large barge that was lifting a ragged hull from the water?

The salvage operation was not the main event. There were thousands of fish around us, a massive school swirling and breaking the surface of the water. Which meant one thing: they were desperate to evade something bigger, something that was driving them toward the shoreline.

We sprang into action. Fishing poles and net were pulled from the cabin. Tackle boxes were liberated from a cabinet. No need for bait: Cast a line into the swarm and enlist a live one.

The next plan that changed was dinner. Main course: Striped Bass in Agrodolce Sauce. The recipe calls for farm-raised fish, for which we happily substituted our fine wild specimen. Approximately 28 inches in length, it weighed in at 28 pounds.

The local newspaper featured a story about fraud in the fishing industry, where inexpensive species are deliberately mislabeled and marketed as higher-priced, more desirable types. These days, it is a rare privilege to look your food in the eye. I know what I ate.

Attitude Adjustment

What could be better than a three-day holiday weekend? A five-day holiday weekend, perhaps?

This stroke of brilliance was late in coming, which made the time off even more delicious.

Joining some club members this morning, I had the opportunity for a rare weekday bicycle trip up Highway 9. It was less peaceful than I had hoped, but still far from the typical weekend speedway. A third of a mile from the summit, two Damsels-Not-in-Distress [that would be me, and my ride partner] came to the aid of a Not-So-Charming-Prince behind the wheel of a dead school bus. Having missed his turn, he kept flogging the poor yellow beast up the hill in search of a place to turn around, until it finally gave out. Valiantly, we emerged from the fearsome canyon into which no cellular signal dares penetrate and made a call on his behalf. [No thanks to AT&T, I might add: "No coverage" for me at the summit.]

No cell phone coverage yesterday, either. Visitors from a land without limits could be hard to impress. Two drivers, two passengers, two cars. Four ecstatic grins.

When the working day is done, girls just wanna have fun.

View→

Has it been a full year since I last biked up Sierra Road? It does not get easier.

The pro riders climbed it at a considerably faster pace on Wednesday, racing in the Tour of California. The road was still chalked with encouragement for the racers. Svein Tuft, in particular, had some devoted fans. My favorite marking was a well-placed "VIEW→" pointing west. On their way to the finish line at the summit, I suspect that few could afford a moment's glance at the valley floor, carpeted with homes and the towers of downtown San Jose. The cows are jaded.

After reaching the summit on Sierra, today's ride descended the back side and then returned to the top. Having climbed 3,240 feet in less than 17 miles, I was not sure I was in any shape to complete the extended route (another 2,525 feet and 27 miles). But it was a lovely day and I was keen to identify the curve on Mt. Hamilton that some of the pros had misjudged on Wednesday's descent, running off the road onto an unpaved shoulder. And so, I pedaled on; what's the worst that could happen? I could always turn back.

After suffering up Sierra, the mild grade on the lower half of Mt. Hamilton made for a surprisingly pleasant spin. Generally, one can count on seeing more cyclists than vehicles on the mountain. Noteworthy today was a helmet-less guy heading up on a carbon fiber road bike outfitted with platform pedals, wearing a polo shirt, cargo shorts, and a backpack. He would power past me, run out of steam, and stop to recover. Continuing ever upward at my doddering-but-steady pace, I would then pass him. After two rounds of tortoise and hare, I detoured up a side road [for yet more climbing] and left him behind.

On the climb, I spotted an odd-looking snake near the edge of the road: bulging, the tip of its tail almost diaphanous. I assumed it had met with some misfortune and been crushed. Nonetheless, I gave it a wide berth. At the time, I was clueless that I was looking at a young rattlesnake, engorged with a recent meal.

On Wednesday, it was a privilege to see aerial footage of the familiar trip down the mountain. The pros descended Mt. Hamilton with care, and veteran cycling broadcaster Phil Liggett repeatedly described the road as a very technical descent. I complete the descent in about one hour; the pros needed 40 minutes. Of course, they were free to use the full width of the road [which was closed], without a care for the rocks and gravel that litter the corners [which had been swept]. They are also faster than me on the three miles of climbing that interrupt the descent. [Okay, faster on the pure descent, too.]

Now, about that tricky curve (hereby marked on my map). The pavement is smooth, the grade is gentle, and the curves leading up to it have mellowed out. Those who misjudged it were not expecting an S-curve: having set up the wrong line, they missed the apex of the sharp bend to the left and went straight. Into the dirt.

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?

Hello Sunshine

Like flowers popping up after a spring shower, so were the joggers, dog walkers, and cyclists up with the dawn of our first dry day in more than a week.

Our numbers swelled as we made our way along a relatively easy route, intercepted by riders who knew where to find us. Muscles that had gone slack over these past two weeks were [somewhat reluctantly] recruited to carry me uphill.

It was not a day to linger alongside steep, sodden hillsides. For the most part, only the vestiges of slides stained the roads. Most of us chose to portage our bicycles through a thick patch of slippery mud in a low dip of a trail; those who gamely rode through chuckled at our abundant caution.

Gray clouds blanketed the sky by the time we were done, but we were so happy to be outside (dry!) that our post-ride coffee stop lasted longer than the ride itself.

Trains, Planes, and Bicycles

All aboard! For a Saturday morning, the bike car was busy (and our party accounted for only four bicycles).

Destination: San Bruno Mountain, on the other side of the tracks.

Conditions: Some haze, no fog. What a view from the top of the hill! The Pacific Ocean, San Francisco, the Bay, Oakland.

One of my favorite segments on this route is cycling along the perimeter access roads for San Francisco International Airport. [Now marked with "Share the Road" and "Bike Route" signs, I might add.] Skirting the far end of the runway, we are guaranteed to enjoy a few jumbo jets taking off at close range.

While picnicking at the beach, I met a woman who wistfully remembered digging clams out of the mud around the bend at Coyote Point, some 40 years ago; a feast for the shore birds, today.

We booked it south along the water's edge before heading west for some gratuitous hill-climbing, passing through the campus of Stanford University to return to the train station—with ample time to savor a treat from the local bakery.

A train ride, urban cycling, a hill climb, an international airport, lunch at the beach, a bayshore bike path, a university of world renown ... all in a day's ride.

To the Sea

Well, not quite to the sea. To views of the sea. With only the morning set aside for cycling, there was not enough time for me to bike to the coast and back. [Sierra to the Sea is a popular ride that our club runs every summer.]

After tiring an entirely different set of muscles on skis in the Sierra, I jumped on my bike and headed for a high point in the Santa Cruz mountains. We ascended Mt. Bache Road to reach Loma Prieta and marveled at the wide expanse of agricultural fields below us, stretching all the way to Monterey Bay. The only sound up there was the occasional tumble of small rocks from the crumbling hillside.

The road named Loma Prieta approaches the (inaccessible) peak named Loma Prieta, a few miles from the epicenter of the Loma Prieta earthquake. Evidently Mt. Bache is an alternative name for the same peak, in honor of Alexander Dallas Bache.

I distracted myself from the pain of the climb by attempting to derive a correct pronunciation of Bache, for which I have found little local agreement. Should it rhyme with cache? I am influenced by the securities firm formerly known as Prudential Bache, which I recall involving "a" as in "ate" and "ch" as in "church". Oddly, the original Bache & Co. was named for Jules Bache, who was German, suggesting something more akin to the composer "Bach" with a second syllable for the trailing "e." Alexander, however, was of English descent.

Where does that leave us? Ach, my head aches.

From the Sierra

Is it really a penny slot machine if you can't insert an actual penny? I had a penny, I was willing to take a chance with it. Not one of those blinking machines accepted coins.

The casino hotel may have been just across the street (and, the state line) from the ski resort, but the ambiance was a world away. Stateline, Nevada is the closest I have been to Las Vegas.

Neon! Secondhand smoke. Flashing lights! A windowless basement restaurant bedecked with fake trees, fake rocks, fake babbling brooks, and real flat panel screens running a continuous game of keno (cards on every table). A TV set in every bathroom! A vast dinner buffet with exactly one vegetable offering: "steamed" broccoli and cauliflower (drenched in cheese sauce).

One of the challenges of skiing at Heavenly is to stay focused on the task at hand (sliding rapidly downhill on a pair of narrow waxed boards) and not become transfixed by the intense blue depths of Lake Tahoe in the distance.

Another challenge includes deciphering a terrain-challenged trail map (look for the upward arrows that point some of the trails downhill). Or taking a chance that a named trail not shown on the map is precisely the one you have been trying to find. Wait, I get it! You gamble on the slopes as well.

After day one, it was easier to identify the muscles that were not sore. [Hamstrings. Everything else hurt.] Suited and booted, I enjoyed day two without injury, despite being grazed by a careless snowboarder. Two days at Heavenly may comprise my entire ski season. I miss Alta.

Top Speed

I didn't mean to do it. Honest. It just turned out that way.

Smooth pavement. Wide and straight. Deserted. Clear view in all directions. No side streets. Some tricky crosswind gusts, but good aerodynamics contribute to good handling. Tires? In good condition. Brakes? In good working order.

This was no contest; that would be dangerous. I launched before any challenger might think to pursue me. I will not feel responsible for anyone else's lapse of judgment.

To get to the top of that hill, it was worth sustaining a heart rate of 173-178 bpm for a solid seven minutes.

The temperature was cold enough to keep me from overheating in my fleece-lined winter tights, even on the climbs. The promised snow had not fallen at our lower elevations overnight. We played it safe and climbed no higher than 820 feet. In our group of nine, only one rider begged for more. Tempting as it was to turn onto Mt. Hamilton Road, we passed it. The driver snapping photos of the sign at the bottom would discover soon enough that the road was closed at Joseph Grant County Park, well below the snow level.

Thirty-one miles, 2,670 feet of climbing, and a new top speed.
On a bicycle, that is.

Road Hazard

A good user interface is one that you take for granted. Consider, for example, the automobile. When you step into an unfamiliar car, the gas pedal is on the right, the brake pedal on the left, and you turn the wheel in the direction you wish to travel. Do you need to think about it? No. You insert the key into the ignition, put your foot on the brake, turn the key to start the engine, put it into gear, and drive away. Simple.

Unless the car is a Prius. Then, it is ... well, complicated.

Whatever would possess me to drive a Prius? Needless to say, this car is not on my short list.

I needed to run a daytime errand, and I did not drive to work. In this case, I could borrow a car: The Toyota Prius.

I have been a driver for quite some time. Various makes and models. American, British, German, Italian, Japanese, and Swedish. Manual transmission? I prefer it. Put me behind the wheel of a Trabant, and I'm told I wouldn't know what to do. The Prius? Not without reviewing my notes.

There is no key. Look for a little cubbyhole in the dash, insert the plastic not-a-key-fob into that slot.

The brake pedal is in the right place. [Whew]. Put your right foot there. [Normal.]

The parking brake is operated by a pedal on the far left; press that down with your left foot to release it. [This style of parking brake is still manufactured?]

The "shift" lever is in the middle position, which appears to be Neutral.

Press the Power button. Various elements on the dashboard light up. Adjust the mirrors. [Can you say, limited rear view?]

Move the "shift" lever to the "D" position (Drive). It snaps back to the center. [Huh?] Do not be misled by the position of the lever; the car is now in gear.

Or maybe not. You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice.[Huh?] Doesn't that mean you're turning it off? Maybe. Maybe not.

The gas pedal is in the right place. The steering wheel behaves as expected. Drive.

Uh oh. The heat is set to some high temperature and the fans are blowing full blast. Reach for the knob.

There is no knob. No buttons. No lever to slide. No apparent controls of any kind.

While stopped at the first traffic light, study the dash more closely. The display screen is flanked on both sides by rectangular buttons. Press Climate. The display switches to a busy array of icons to control the fans and temperature. The display is a touch screen? Were the designers out of their minds? If the windshield fogs up, do they expect me to pull over and stop the car first, or just stop watching the road to play this little video game?

Pull into a parking space. Keep your right foot on the brake. The "shift" lever has no position for Park. Find the button on the dash labeled "P" (Park); press that. Engage the parking brake. Press the Power button to turn off the car. Slide the not-a-key-fob out of the dash.

It won't budge. [What did I miss? Can't that fancy display in the dash give me a hint?]

Confirm that the parking brake is engaged. Depress the brake pedal. Move the "shift" lever horizontally to confirm it's in Neutral. No joy.

Sigh. Feel defeated. Scratch head. Press the Power button again. Bingo!

You need to press the Power button once, maybe twice. It's right there, in my notes. In case I ever need to drive a Prius again.

Social Sunday

Having devoted my Saturday to the Mega-Monster Enduro, I slept in and joined a leisurely Sunday ride. With winter weather forecast to return to the Bay Area this week, a warm sunny day was not one to squander.

Biking to the start warmed me up, and with a slight downhill advantage I was immediately off the front. I backed off the pace to keep more of the group in sight, and by the time we reached the base of our climb for the day, we were all back together.

Our destination was the upper reaches of Bernal Road, which pitches up uncomfortably two or three times before the public road ends at the gate marking the boundary of IBM's private property. Across the valley to the east, the white domes of Lick Observatory were gleaming atop Mount Hamilton. Our vantage point also afforded a clear view of the highest peak to the west, Mt. Umunhum, clearly distinguishable by its monolithic relic of the Cold War.

After last week's private Enduro on Mt. Hamilton, this route was oh-so-tame. The hills I climbed on the way to and from the start were actually responsible for most of the day's vertical accumulation (1,655 feet, 31 miles).

Tonight, the winds that are the harbinger of the approaching storm front have arrived. Rainy week ahead.

Divertissement

Kincaid is a long lonely road that forks off Mt. Hamilton Road about five miles from the summit. Years ago, my first ride with the club included the upper half of Mt. Hamilton and Kincaid. I had little solo cycling experience at that point, and I remember how unnerved I felt out there. The road descends to Isabel Creek and then climbs again, with public access ending at a cattle guard and gate. Separated from the fastest (and slowest) riders, I was edgy.

Today I explored this isolated canyon with fresh eyes and more confidence. Still, I would hesitate to ride it alone: a twisty six-mile dead-end road, with spotty cell phone coverage and a few gated dirt roads leading to cattle ranches. Getting there is not easy: by the time I reached the intersection with Mt. Hamilton Road, I had already traveled more than 14 miles and climbed 2,790 feet.

Unlike my first visit, I was not eager to return from the solitude of the canyon. As I drew closer, Mt. Hamilton Road sounded like a motor speedway. This unseasonably warm and sunny day in February drew a veritable parade of motorcycles and sports cars to the mountain.

The summit was little more than five miles away; it would be wrong to head downhill. The wind up there was a steady 23 mph, with roaring gusts to 42 mph. Needless to say, this added to the challenge of controlling the bicycle and making forward progress—but was well worth the effort.

A young couple greeted me with a thumbs-up and praise for biking up the mountain. I shared the sunny courtyard with a fellow cyclist and the toddler he had hauled up the hill in a trailer (filled with toys and other necessities). An elderly couple emerged from a back door at the observatory and slowly climbed inside their late model black Mustang. A stout rider with a wild gray beard and a head scarf (no helmet) caught up to me on his bike with tri-spoke carbon wheels, easily matching me turn-for-turn as I rocketed down the descent. Our pace slowed by an ungainly Ford Expedition, he pulled out and passed us both, never to be seen again.

Fifty-one miles, 6,965 feet of climbing, some 2700 Calories burned. Followed by a delectable six-course dinner prepared by friends, I still managed to end the day at a caloric deficit.

Casting About

The forecast for the day: Overcast.

Now, that depends upon your point of view, doesn't it? If you are gazing down from the window of an airplane, for example, would it be Undercast? What would you call it if you were in the midst of the cloud layer?

I can answer that: Wet. As we rose toward the base of the final (and easiest) climb on our route today, the winds picked up and the clouds descended to meet us.

We had already shed three of our twelve riders. Of the remaining nine, six were experienced ride leaders for the club. All but one were ready to declare victory and return to the start. (We twisted his arm.) Having tackled the climbs according to decreasing level of difficulty, no one felt shortchanged. Thirty-three miles, 2,650 feet of climbing, max heart rate 185 bpm (on Olive Tree Lane). If there are any olive trees up there, somehow I always fail to notice.

On the drive home, my windshield wipers engaged.

B-Blogging

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter "B," in honor of

... the black crows scavenging for breakfast,

... the sleek Bentley that passed me by,

... the bunny rabbit that bounded across the road,

... my fellow bicyclists [24 of them], and last-but-not-least,

... buttermilk almond pancakes studded with chocolate chips, my second breakfast.

The body must be refueled after biking 19 miles to work. Besides, what could be more motivating than pancakes?

Yet, last year I managed to bike to work [insert drum roll here] ... three times. First, a warm-up to prepare for leading a group on Bike to Work Day. Then, of course, Bike to Work Day itself. Finally, on some other random day. Pathetic.

The price of such laziness is fading fitness, and I am none too pleased with that. The sun is rising early enough, the temperature was a comfortable 43F: no excuses! Dust off the sturdy commute bike, pump up the tires, and get moving.

As I labored up the hills that mark the beginning of my route, I was reminded that the heavy commute bike makes for good cross-training. At my first key checkpoint, three miles into the ride, my pace was slower by a full minute.

Approaching a stop sign, I spotted a sheriff on his motorcycle. Rear view mirrors are indispensable. I know that particular stop sign is a notorious enforcement spot. I would have come to a Full Stop anyway. Really.

I was encouraged to see some trees already in bloom, and imagined their petals falling like snowflakes in a few short weeks. Then I remembered that heavy snow was falling on the east coast at that very moment, for the seventh time this season.

I don't live there any more.

Redwoods and Ridgelines

January in California. Back east, they are preparing to plow more snow off the roads. Up on the ridge, we passed mounds of rock and dirt that had been plowed off the roads. Both tend to wreak havoc with the pavement.

I was much happier with today's route, climbing a mere 2,465 feet over 31 miles, in contrast with last week's 52 miles and 3,910 feet. Nonetheless, I was the caboose on the climbs.

On a day like this, it was a struggle to remember that spring is still two months away. We followed the ridgeline, with sweeping views of the canyons of The Forest of Nisene Marks State Park, and passed through the watershed of Soquel Creek.

It was a day to enjoy blue skies with wispy clouds, rushing creeks with little waterfalls, and biking (of course) with good friends.

Tomorrow

I discovered the Low-Key Hillclimbs when the series resumed in 2006, curious to see whether they really meant that everyone was welcome. (They did.) In 2007, I rode most of the climbs, and served as a volunteer for those I dared not attempt. On the final steep curve near the top of Welch Creek, I snapped this photo of Thomas Novikoff. A gifted Category 2 racer, he finished third overall in the series that year.

From my position near the tail end of the field, I would naturally see little of the guys at the front. I would still be climbing the hill after they had finished and begun descending; many would cheer me on as they whizzed past.

I last saw Thomas on Thanksgiving Day. The interior of his car was packed, from the floor to the bottoms of the windows, with cycling gear that he would haul to the top of Mt. Hamilton for our fellow Low-Keyers. Just as he was about to pull away, I dashed up to the car with one more bag ... he snatched it through the window, mock exasperation on his face.

Waiting for cyclists to cross the line at the snowy summit, that's Thomas striking a "thumbs up" pose in this photo by Bill Bushnell:

Our vantage point afforded a preview of the finishers. We expected Ryan Sherlock to be first across the line, but were surprised to see another rider on his wheel. How was that possible? "Who is that?" I asked. Thomas knew: "Eric Wohlberg."

A couple of weeks later, Thomas was hospitalized. A bicycle crash? An inattentive driver? No. He was gravely ill. Most of us had no idea.

He had raced up Portola Park in the third week of the series. I dragged my sorry self up East Dunne Avenue yesterday in the warm sunshine; in far less time, he had climbed it on a wet, miserable day in October. He had been eager to see Palomares on the Low-Key calendar in 2011.

Thomas kept living his life with the conviction that tomorrow would come. Racing up mountainsides. Spending Thanksgiving morning on a freezing mountaintop, cheering at the finish line.

Today there was a memorial service for Thomas at the top of Mount Tantalus in his native Honolulu. On his blog, he had quoted T.S. Eliot:

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

Thomas, you deserved to go so much farther.

A Crushing Coe

It has been a while since I set out on a long bike ride. Quite a while. Look back three months on the calendar, to Levi's King Ridge GranFondo.

Why, then, did I think a 52-mile route with an extended climb would be a good idea today? Quite simply: I wasn't thinking.

The first time I ascended East Dunne Avenue to reach Henry Coe State Park, I was a passenger in a car. A budding cyclist, I knew this was a popular route. I quickly recognized that it was beyond my ability.

The first time I climbed it on a bicycle, I had raced up Mt. Hamilton the day before. I took it easy that day, but it was not a struggle.

Not so, today. My fitness has withered, and I could have used those red blood cells I donated ten days ago. The steepest pitch is uphill of the lone cattle guard on this route. On the downhill approach, I gave it my all. I flew over the metal rails and made it most of the way up the steep grade. (Most. Not all.) I dismounted. I looked at the hill. I did not want to pedal one more meter uphill.

What remained was not so steep. With a few minutes to recover, I certainly could have remounted and continued. I ... just ... didn't ... want to.

Suddenly it seemed like a lovely day for a stroll, and I did something I have not done on a bicycle outing in years. I walked.

Dream, dream, drive

Approaching the pumps, my gaze was magnetically drawn to one vehicle in particular. An unexpected rendezvous with the shiny black car?! Headed in opposite directions, imagine the odds that we would both turn up to refuel at the same place at the same time. My Sunday drive was coming to a close; his was just getting underway. The rest of the pumps were occupied by assorted models from Mercedes Benz.

I almost bought one, I thought about buying one.

Surprisingly, not an uncommon comment. [Right. But you bought that Mercedes station wagon, instead.]

Not that there is anything wrong with that. If I needed to haul kids around, a station wagon or a minivan would be just right. If I needed to haul stuff around, a pickup truck would do nicely. If I wanted to drive to the slopes, a small SUV with four wheel drive would be a fine choice.

What kind of mileage do you get?

Another common question. “That depends entirely on how I drive it,” I smile. “Yeah, I guess that's not the point,” he observed. [Hardly.]

From the driver of the very nice Mercedes behind me:

Your car is beautiful.

The Silicon Valley International Auto Show was wrapping up today, and the local section of the newspaper featured an article from the esteemed Mr. Roadshow:
“Why buy a car when you can dream for free?”

I can assure you of this: dreaming is not driving.

Not Gonna Happen

In the last week of December, after dropping off some post-blizzard groceries and shoveling some snow for my elderly uncle, his parting words to me were:

Stay off that bicycle!

Seems like "thank you" would have been more appropriate.

Back on the west coast, January means it is time to reset that odometer before setting out on the first ride of the year. This one was damp and cold, with the cloud layer hanging just above our heads. (We could have climbed into it, had we wanted to get wet, but we opted for a lower elevation.)

Despite my cold-weather gear, I traveled a full six miles before I could feel my fingers. Later on the ride, I found that a sustained heart rate of 172 or more would bring them back to life. My toes, however, were a lost cause. When I returned home, I took my cue from the cat and cozied up to one of the heating vents.

Thirty-five chilly miles, 1,165 feet of climbing.

Stay off the bicycle? Not gonna happen.