Simply Sheldon

I do remember this spot. I stopped here the last time I climbed this hill, and I confess it was not just to admire the view across the valley.

The road, quite steep at this point, bends sharply to the left and continues sharply upward. I was teetering on the brink of stalling when one of the strong riders in the group chose to demonstrate his hill-climbing prowess by repeating the steep segment, effectively blocking my precarious ascent by riding across my path. I stopped.

It was a friendly group, with a few Wednesday night regulars and a couple of unfamiliar faces. Not the most coordinated crowd, though—especially one woman who paid no heed to calls of "Car back!" and persisted in riding alongside her partner, blocking traffic. The more direct "Single up!" seemed to get her attention.

Another pleasant little after-work ride, offering 1,640 feet of climbing over some 18 miles. Warm enough for shorts, with the half-full moon casting some bonus light to ease the after-dinner ride home.

The Drip Zone

My car offered the first warning of the day when the heater kicked on, automatically. A rare cold front passed through the area yesterday, lingering long enough to give us a taste of winter on this Memorial Day weekend. Cycling up the east side of the ridge, it is easy to know when you pass under the tallest redwoods: the pavement is wet beneath them. On the west side the entire roadway was slick, and we rode through the occasional downpour wherever the trees excelled at collecting (and dispensing) the fog.

The temperature dipped to 44 degrees F. My brake levers were cold; so were my fingers and toes. The slippery (and frigid) descent of West Old La Honda demanded so much caution that the climb back up seemed quicker. (I am sure it also helped that we were generating heat instead of battling wind chill.) With such low visibility, riding through the forest was positively spooky—gnarled limbs and rock slides and eerie animal noises (oh my!).

Why would anyone head for the hills on such a day? Ah, well, we were committed: my ride partner and I were leading this one for the club. As for the three riders who joined us ... their motivation remains a mystery. [A long, flat ride that stayed in the valley attracted a sizable crowd of sensible people.]

Forty-two miles, 3,990 feet of climbing. Having just cleaned and lubed my bike last weekend, it is already time to lather-rinse-repeat. [After a nice mug of steaming hot chocolate, methinks.]

Bunch o' Bumps

We set out to explore some dead-end roads in the neighborhood tonight. I have cycled past each one more times than I can remember, never choosing to make the turn. Where might they lead? Too steep to climb? Too short to be interesting?

A bemused homeowner, pulling out of his driveway near the base of the first significant climb, encouraged us. "That's quite a hill, up there," he said. "That's what we've heard," I replied.

He was right. Still, upon reaching the end of the road, some of us could not resist the temptation to climb just a little bit higher ... the attainable summit beckoned from a short side street. [Extra credit.]

The steepest pitch presented a grade approaching 15%—tough enough, but also short. We climbed some 1,885 feet over 17 miles; five summits on a fine spring evening.

Lately, the spin class at work has been setting up their cycles outdoors. Out of the saddle, straining at the pedals, the instructor shouting "You're almost to the top of the hill!"

No, you're not. You are on a stationary bike, facing an office building, with your back to the view of some real hills. So sad.

Timing is Everything

Homeward bound, I pedaled for more than 46 minutes straight, without a need to unclip and plant my feet on the pavement. The challenge: flow with the traffic, and calculate whether the best approach for a given traffic signal is to accelerate or slow down. Luck helps.

My evening commute starts out on a trail, near the spot where Stevens Creek flows into San Francisco Bay. Not a big fan of biking on trails, it is expedient to follow this one over a wide swath of expressway, light rail, and Caltrain tracks before veering off onto surface streets. In the morning, I use even less of the trail.

Hungry for some variety this morning, I decided to pick up the trail where it begins. In theory, this could be a quicker route to work: no traffic signals, no stop signs, no cross traffic. In practice, it added time—and distance—when compared with my tried-and-true route.

It seemed pleasant enough on Bike to Work Day, when we guide our little pack of commuters to the head of the trail. But then, we reach that point somewhat later in the morning than my normal routine dictates. And that makes all the difference.

Getting to the trail involved multiple violations of one of my cardinal rules for a suitable morning route:

Avoid schools.

Riding through largely residential neighborhoods, I found myself immersed in the morning chaos for three different schools. Distracted parents in minivans and SUVs, driving every which way. Crossing guards blocking traffic. Gridlocked right-turning vehicles. The only feasible escape? Move out into the lane and pass them on the left.

A month from now, a new bridge promises to extend the trail to the town on the opposite side of the freeway—obviating the need to navigate this messy maze. It is safe to say that I will not pass this way again.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Just when you think you have seen it all, some new stupid human trick packs a surprise.

Soquel Avenue is four lanes; much of it, a boulevard. A couple of miles from the end of today's ride, I was attentively approaching an intersection in the bike lane. The signal had just turned green, and the cars were starting to roll. This is a perfect set-up for the dreaded right-hook crash: without signaling, a driver suddenly turns right in front of you.

Two motorcycles were also approaching, and saw no reason to slow their pace. One veered left, splitting the left-most lane to pass the cars. The other veered right, splitting the bike lane with me. Nothing about that maneuver was legal. There was no time to panic; he was gone in a flash.

That moment aside, it was a day of uncommon beauty. Nothing marred the saturated blue of the sky—no fog, no cloud, not even a contrail.

I started out with some friends who planned to ride only part of the the 100km route, and later caught up with another friend at the final rest stop. Notable riders along the way:

• A guy on a large-wheeled unicycle, holding a cell phone to his left ear and chatting away. I guess if you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, talk on a cell phone, and probably chew gum at the same time.
• A group of five women wearing jerseys that featured purple peaks and flowers across the front. Posing for a photo, they formed a mountain range.
• A rider stopped under the redwoods along Hazel Dell Road, re-inserting his seat post ... with no saddle attached. There is a story there, and it is not a happy one.

On the way to lunch, I flew past a few riders on a nice downhill. I do not understand why it is even possible for me to pass other riders who are tucked into their most aerodynamic posture on the bike, but ...
I pass them, nonetheless.

Climbing into the park for lunch, one rode up to me. "How fast were you going?" he asked. I checked my bike computer and gave him the answer. [44 mph.] His girlfriend rode up, saying "She's not the one who passed us." [No one passed me. Mystery woman was, therefore, faster than the speed of light.] "She was wearing gray shorts." [Have you ever seen gray shorts, apart from the Radio Shack kit?] Whatever. I have nothing to prove; I just happen to go downhill fast.

The end-of-ride meal was served about five miles before the actual end of the ride, and it is not to be missed—for that is where we gorge ourselves on the ride's eponymous strawberries (and chocolate ganache). The cruel joke was this: They eliminated the Tustin Grade, but Aptos High School is set high on a hill. Two steep climbs separated us from the food; many cyclists dismounted and walked. With any luck, I consumed fewer calories than the 2100 I burned today ... but, maybe not. A bit more climbing than the old route—overall, 3400 feet and 65 miles.

Plenty of time to get home, cleaned up, and then wow the neighbors with the best way to check out the solar eclipse (sans l'équipement spécial): Shadows.

Hard-wood

The Question: Would you like to climb it?
Correct Response: No, I hardly would.

That's Harwood.

Some people head home from work to kick back in front of the television.

Others head home from work to kick the heart rate up to 184 bpm on a steep hill.

For nearly half a mile, the average gradient on Harwood is 12.9%—with some significantly steeper sections. Pass through a gate, continue steeply uphill, pass through another gate, continue steeply uphill ... This is how to travel a short distance (1.2 miles) and fit in a good climb (some 500 feet). How economical!

Along the way, we persuaded a solo rider to fall in with our group. A strong guy, he passed me with confidence as we started the climb. When we reached Really Steep Part No. 2, he zigged (but did not zag) across the road. Once. Then he got off the bike and walked. [We really know how to treat a guest!]

Much to the confusion (and amusement) of the group, I covered an extra mile when I blew past a turn on the return route. Off the front, descending at roughly 30 mph, the closest rider in my wake shouted ... something ... which must have been "You missed the turn!" The group was confused, wondering if I decided to add another hill. And later amused, because this is my own neighborhood.

They waited, patiently, for me to sort it out and re-join them—at the dear cost of a delayed dinner. The hallmark of true friendship!

Both Sides, Now

It seems that I have inadvertently signed up for the Hamilton-of-the-Month club. January, February, April, and now May (sadly, I did miss out in March).

Wildflowers are still blooming, but the hills are fading from emerald to olive on their way to dry summer golden. Time passed quickly, as a friend and former colleague unexpectedly appeared and was content to match my pace and chat. Not having biked to the top in 20 years, he had forgotten the stunning views. I had forgotten that he had studied geology; he opened my eyes to the significance of the sheer rock faces.

As the first descent approached, I apologized in advance. "You know what happens next," I said. "Go," he replied, "this is your specialty." Resuming our conversation after he caught me on the uphill, he followed up with "You're so smooth, the best descender I have ever seen (at the amateur level)."

Today's "Free Lunch" ride is an annual tradition, wherein our intrepid ride leader hauls sandwiches (and more) to the top on a trailer attached to his bike. And yes, even with my 20-minute head start, he still passed me on the way up. This is one strong guy ... Sixty-five riders showed up, and every one of us got something to eat.

My goal today was to reach the summit twice: first, the front side (approaching from San Jose), and then the back side (approaching from the San Antonio Valley). Soon, the back side will bake dry and present a formidably hot challenge. After a brief pause for more water and a snack, I flew down to the turnaound point at Isabel Creek.

What a different world, back there! Fields, foothills, canyons, and mountain ridges as far as the eye can see. A robust breeze kept me cool, and I delighted in the isolation. A few riders were climbing out as I descended, but I would not see more of the group (descending) until I was nearly halfway back up the mountain.

I startled a jackrabbit, and paused at will to enjoy the sights: flowers, distant ridges, a handsome (but dead?) garter snake, a fabled roadside spring. I was pleasantly surprised to make it back to the top before the lunch crew departed, and was lucky to enjoy the last strawberry with some cake and whipped cream. Top that!

Some 7,100 feet of climbing over about 51 miles, same route as last year.

June is but a few weeks away.