Slow Motion

The force [of laziness] is strong in this one.

I feel tired.

You got plenty of sleep, it is time to get up.

I don't want to.

It is so easy, you laid out everything last night.

It's 39 degrees!

Wear wool.

After two consecutive rainy weekends, if I did not bike to work today it seemed doubtful that I could complete the Cinderella Classic next Saturday. Now, how silly would that be? It is sad enough that I am not in shape for the Challenge course.

By the time I failed to talk myself out of riding today, I was running 30 minutes behind schedule. Which means contending with more rush-hour traffic.

It was a good ride nonetheless. Slow, but good. Breakfast was still feasible when I arrived, but the biggest surprise was the shower upgrade. Two stalls! Plus, two private unisex stalls. [I know what you're thinking ... keep it clean.] As you might imagine, one shower stall for all the women in a four-story building was less than adequate.

Then again, on the east coast I last worked in a building designed with women's restrooms on every other floor. (Decades later, they repurposed some of the men's restrooms when scientists came to outnumber secretaries.) How times have changed.

At the end of the day, my ride home was the . slowest . ever. It wasn't enough that my fitness has eroded, or that I was tired, or that the ride home is all uphill? Noooo. The weather is changing, and the approaching storm front blasted me with headwind. At times it felt like I was pedaling just enough to keep from moving backward.

When I paused to admire the wildflowers near the Mary Avenue Bicycle Bridge, a passing cyclist asked if I needed anything. [Turn off the wind? Slow down and let me draft you? Better yet, tow me home?] "No, I'm okay."

For the day, 39 miles and about 965 feet of climbing. Sixty-plus miles on Saturday? Er, sure, no problem ...

Recovery Ride

The post-op instructions suggested that I could return to my normal activities after 3-5 days.

Define normal.

Bike up Mt. Hamilton? Somehow ... I think not.

I waited, well, almost two weeks. And I started with a more modest outing.

This image is remarkable—not for the drab scenery—but for capturing five modes of human transport in a single frame. From left to right: VTA Light Rail (Tamien Station), California State Highway 87, the Highway 87 Bikeway, Caltrain (Tamien Station), and a jet approaching San Jose International Airport.

I chose a ride that I would normally avoid—mostly on paved trails. Charging up a hill for my first time back on the saddle did not seem like a sensible plan, so I followed a "flat" route to the starting point [N.B., a mere 125 feet of vertical gain].

My chief concern was running out of energy. After a week of lolling about the house, followed by a week of work, I still needed more sleep than usual. On the bike, would I bonk?

We navigated through a veritable maze, alongside Highway 87 and the Guadalupe River in San Jose. These trails may be a boon for bike commuters; without the guidance of our local experts, we surely would have strayed off course. On a dreary Sunday morning, we shared the trails with very few recreational visitors.

The ride satisfied my curiosity on two fronts: What was it like to ride these trails? What did it feel like to be back on the bike?

The route was confusing, with trails often dumping out onto city streets with no advance warning. I was glad to be traveling in a group when we passed the homeless encampments, and dismayed at the graffiti, roadside trash, and broken glass we encountered. There is only so much a city can do, and San Jose is not in the best financial health. One of our riders proudly showed us a segment of the trail that our club maintains; he hauls water (by bicycle) to sustain the fledgling native plants our members dug into the slope, and a small group regularly blots out the latest graffiti and sweeps up. We ventured as far as the airport; with some riders reluctant to continue along the next stretch of packed gravel, we turned back.

After returning to the start, I was ready for the direct route home.

Up the hill!

For the day, some 37 miles and 1,060 feet of climbing. It feels great to be back on the bike.

One Lone Leader

Daffodils. Blossoming trees. Has Spring arrived?

The brisk wind reminded us that the proper season is Winter.

When leading rides for the club, I prefer to share the duties with a co-leader. (Having two responsible adults is a good thing.) As fate would have it, I was forced to miss our last ride and my co-leader was forced to miss our next one. [Today.]

Our modest route drew quite a crowd, with a plurality of strong riders. Content to bring up the rear, I looked after one who was new to the club. I hope he was not expecting a flat ride ...

Twenty-one miles, with a bit more climbing than I had guessed (2,695 feet). The ridge line we cruised under a clear blue sky is forecast to see a dusting of snow, a few days hence.

In the Misty Morning Fog

With our hearts a-thumpin'; and me, a brown-eyed girl.

On such an overcast day, it takes a leap of faith to leave my warm bed behind. Faith that, if I climb high enough, I will find the sun.

The lower portion of Mt. Hamilton road was as wet as if it had rained. Eyeing the slippery tar snakes, feeling the chill air on the first brief descent ... I questioned my quest. A rainbow sheen of oil coated the downhill lane of one sharp bend. I could only hope that the rest of the group noticed it, too. I was confident that I could avoid it on the return, because I know this road so well.

At 1,875 feet I met the floor of the cloud layer. Happily, it was not as cold or wet as I expected. Many miles later, I would find the ceiling (around 2,300 feet). Inside the cloud, the sound of everything but the birds was dampened and the landscape was transformed.

Approaching the summit ... what, ho! The remnants of Monday's cold storm lingered on the north-facing edges. Sheltered on the observatory's sunny patio, with snow in the shadows, I enjoyed my lunch in quiet solitude.

Quick as a wink, the winds whipped up and I was awestruck as we were enveloped in a turbulent cloud. It was time to make a hasty retreat down the mountain, with teeth a-chattering and fingers a-stiffening.

I reached the Quimby intersection just as a Caltrans driver blocked the road with his truck. Uh oh. I knew there had been an accident yesterday, but they were supposed to retrieve the vehicle this morning. I was not eager to detour onto Quimby. Reluctantly, he allowed me to squirm past.

About a mile later, a vehicle was backing up. [Literally.] Beep, beep, beep ... on twisty Mt. Hamilton Road, an enormous tow truck was comin' round the bend—in reverse. I immediately dismounted and got off the road.

The real action was ahead, and here is where my riding buddy will regret bailing out at mile 5.7 this morning. Look at that equipment! ["No, silly," she would say. "That's not the equipment I'm looking at."] The guys were happy to answer questions, and not upset that a cyclist had slipped through the roadblock.

Some idiot [let me guess, taking that bend too fast] had forced a Caltrans truck off the road—and didn't even stop. [Coward.] The truck tumbled down a steep embankment, overturning a few times, through the trees. Fortunately, a UPS driver did stop. [Hero.] Did I say, steep? As in, pretty much straight down. I can't imagine how he climbed down to help the driver, without ropes.

The guys reported that the driver is okay—pretty sore, with bumps and bruises. Winching had dragged the truck into view, but it was still some 30 feet below the road surface.

Carrying my bike, I tiptoed behind the tow truck, along the very edge of the ravine.

"Have a safe ride," the guys called out.

Rainy Day Woman

Chocolate milk, over by the rabbit!

There was a family-friendly athletic festival at the park where we gathered to start our ride today. Momentarily stumped for a meaningful connection between bunnies and milk products, I found the answer quickly [pun intended]: it was a branded rabbit.

Here is my collected wisdom about riding in the rain:

Once you're wet, you're wet.

Profound, huh? What I mean is that it just doesn't matter any more, once you're wet.

We did not set out to ride in the rain. The radar images were clear; the skies were not. The closer we got to the base of our planned climb, the bigger were the drops pelting us. Low clouds bump into hills, rain comes down.

Agreeing that it was a bad idea to climb (or descend) steep, slippery hills, we reluctantly cut our ride short. Twenty miles were sufficient to hone our wet-road-riding skills: Stay clear of the slippery bits (painted road markings, metal grates and utility covers). Cross railroad tracks with extreme care. Brake early, to squeegee the water off your rims before the pads can get a grip. Plan to clean and re-lube your bike.

The best part: peeling off the grimy, clammy layers when you get home and indulging in a long, hot shower.

How many gallons does my hot water heater hold?

Just enough.

Bike and Hike

After last weekend, being out on my bike felt like a celebration (with overtones of rebellion). I hope to enjoy a few more weeks before I will necessarily take a break from my routine.

Two friends joined me for a club ride—giving me a sense of having my own private escort. The ride leader was surprised by an unusually high turnout; amidst the chaos, we slipped away to get a lead on the late-starting group.

The main attraction was Regnart Road, a climb that is new to the club. The upper section includes an extended steep pitch (a quarter of a mile at a grade >16%, as it turns out). After repeatedly lifting my front wheel off the pavement, I did the sensible thing: I dismounted and walked it.

The end of the public road offered a new perspective on another popular climb, Montebello Road. Not to mention the gray blotch of the quarry and cement plant that mar the hillside. With that, and the reverberating gunfire from the local rod and gun club, I surely do not envy those hilltop mansions.

The Lost Weekend

Being in rather fine health, I had been fortunate not to spend a single night in a hospital since I was a toddler. Until now.

I know my body pretty well, and on Friday afternoon I knew that something was wrong. Cardiac symptoms in women can be unusual, and I knew it was imprudent to ignore my discomfort. At the end of the day, I got a ride home, and drove myself to the local hospital emergency room.

Having done this drill with a friend a year or so ago, I expected a similar outcome: they would do an EKG, blood tests, chest x-ray, reassure me that my heart was fine, and send me home.

Little could I know that I was about to become a hostage.

EKG. Blood drawn. Chest x-ray. Nitroglycerin? [Hmm.] Morphine? [Whoa, the pain is not that severe.] Routine, the nurse explains; it helps to dilate your blood vessels.

Enter Dr. 1, test results in hand. Recognizing my phone, he chatters on about the pros and cons of Androids and iPhones, and problems with local carriers. Drug-induced haze or not, this was surreal. After ten minutes, he turns to my EKG results, in which he sees something unfamiliar that he thinks the cardiologist should review. [Uh oh.]

Enter Dr. 2, the Admitting Physician. In his introductory monologue, he announces that he had written Chapter 1 in some medical text or other, about triage. [This is playing out like a David Lynch movie.] He is sure the cardiologist will want to do a stress test. He is sure that will be a waste of time and show nothing. [Flash back to the Stelvio Pass last summer, as I peppered the cardiologist in our group with questions. What you just did was much harder than any stress test we could administer. You are fine.]

Meet Roommate 1, upstairs on the cardiac floor. Elderly stroke survivor, gravely ill, relocated to cardiac intensive care the next morning. With all manner of truly horrifying sounds, beeping equipment, and a horde of people attending to her, I might have gotten an hour of sleep.

Lesson 1: Get that Advance Health Care Directive done. Years down the road, I must not be the woman on the other side of that curtain.

Enter Dr. 3, the Cardiologist. When I describe my symptoms, he is visibly annoyed. Evidently I am wasting his time with my non-classic symptoms. He orders a CT scan to check my aorta before we attempt a stress test.

Enter Nurse, one of many. Time to take your meds. What meds, I ask? She rattles off a list of five or more, all of which I challenge. My blood pressure is normal [quite healthy, in fact]; why would you give me medication to lower it? All prescribed by Dr. 2; she checks with Dr. 3, who agrees none of the meds are needed.

Lesson 2: Ask questions before you swallow. You can refuse medication.

That CT scan was quite fortuitous, as it revealed the likely source of Friday's pain. My aorta, and my heart, are fine. The stress test was boring; they stopped it at 173 bpm (ha!), considering that "104% of normal" for my age. [Don't get me started.]

Now you would think: it is time to go home. There is no reason why I should still be hooked to a cardiac monitor and intravenous saline drip.

Dr. 2 appears, spreading FUD [fear, uncertainty, and doubt]. You need to talk to the surgeon before we can release you. Poking and prodding, he is perplexed that I don't even wince.

Dr. 3 proclaims the the health of my cardiovascular system. Cleared for surgery.

I want to go home, I say. That's up to Dr. 2, he wants you to talk to the surgeon.

Enter Dr. 4, the Surgeon. [More pain-free poking and prodding.] Yes, I believe what the CT scan found. No, I do not want surgery today. No, I do not want surgery tomorrow. I want to schedule it. [More FUD.] I will not procrastinate.

Dr. 4 fails to inform Dr. 2 that we have spoken. Dr. 2 ends his shift and refuses to release me.

Lesson 3: You can check out any time you want. Your insurance will not pay the bill. (I did not test this.)

I am a prisoner.

You want to go home? Bwahaha. Just confess! er, we mean consent!

Through another night of beeping, voices, bright lights, refused meds, and one more unnecessary blood draw, I resolve to try a new tactic.

It is time to charm my captors. Thank them for their solicitous oversight. Assure them I feel fine. [Request nothing for that caffeine-withdrawal headache, lest they order a brain scan.] Click my ruby slippers.

There's no place like home. There's no place like home ...

And home I am, at last—my left arm tracked with the pricks and bruises of four intravenous shunts (including one aborted attempt), my right arm bruised and swollen from countless blood draws.

How much did that second, completely unnecessary night on the cardiac ward cost? [Postscript: $3200 just for the room; associated charges, unknown.]