Homeward Bound

I made it home safely, despite meeting an unusually high number of dangerously clueless fellow humans. First, the trail: The guy holding a cell phone to his left ear, pedaling slowly and blocking the lane. The cyclist who planted herself in exactly the worst place on a sharp curve with poor visibility on a bridge; my wrist brushed the tip of her flat handlebar as she stood there saying "Oh! Oh! Oh!" (Had I stopped, the guy behind me would have taken us all down.)

Then, the road: The two drivers who turned right across the bike lane at traffic lights (cutting me off; one without signaling). The cyclist in the bike lane who paid no heed to the red traffic light at a T-intersection (yes, dude, it applies to you) as a green arrow granted me the right-of-way. The guy on a mountain bike (helmetless, of course) who unpredictably veered off the sidewalk into the bike lane without regard for a red traffic light or the approach of another cyclist (me).

Nearly home, the road was too crowded to negotiate the merge across three lanes of traffic for my customary left turn. Having faced enough challenges for one evening, going straight held a certain appeal. Nothing wrong with a little more climbing, is there?

My morning ride was as peaceful as the evening was perilous. As soon as school lets out for the summer, the number of vehicles on the road plummets.

I held up remarkably well, in both directions, considering that I was short on sleep. 11 p.m., midnight ... why I am still awake? Barely dozing off, then snapping back to full awareness. It is fire season ... I smell smoke, but hear no sirens. 5:15 a.m. ... beep beep beep; some vehicle is backing up.

For the day, the usual 39 miles, 925 feet of climbing (having skipped the gratuitous hill climbs en route). Almost back to a normal pace: 14 mph average, this morning! Regular riding pays off.

Biking to the Beach

Call me a curmudgeon, but why do I have to wake up at 4 a.m. every year when the DJ for the local high school's all-night graduation party cranks up the amplifier to 11? (I live a mile away and my windows were closed.) This year it was David Bowie and Queen's Under Pressure. Really? A 30-year old song for partying teenagers? "This is our last dance ..." [I wish.]

The song looping in my head on today's ride was a tad more contemporary: OneRepublic's Good Life. We were headed to the beach on a breezy, crystal blue sky day.

This has gotta be the good life ...

Thoughts drifted back to my high school days, and a faded memory of biking to the beach one summer's day with a boy who was ambiguously not my boyfriend. That would have been my longest ride: a flat 17-mile round trip on a different coast. Today's ride would have been unthinkable: 63 miles, none of them flat (4,680 feet of climbing).

The stunned bee that pelted my forehead and briefly clung to my sunglasses did not sting me.

This has gotta be the good life ...

The coast was clear, redwood trees shaded the climbs, a strong breeze kept me cool, the rushing waters of the creek soothed my ears.

Oh yeah, good, good life

A beautiful day, with friends old and new.

Please tell me
What there is to complain about?

Transit of Eden

Bicycles traversing the mountain; not nearly as dramatic as yesterday's passage of Venus across the face of the sun. You did not miss the chance to witness that, right? Venus will not pass that way again in your lifetime. It was a thrill to see—with the naked eye (well-protected, heavily filtered) and close up, through a proper telescope. When you spend most of your day staring at a computer screen, watching the transit "live" on the web just does not have the same power.

As many times as I have paused at the summit of Mt. Eden Road, I am not sure I understood it offered a clear view of Mt. Umunhum (until tonight). In the evening light, the Doppler radar sphere and the concrete monolith were plainly visible.

Tonight's after-work adventure attracted two out-of-town guests. Strong riders, they were sharp and funny and very outgoing. My hunch was spot-on: sales executives. Visiting the area on business, they found our ride listing and joined us. That is the power of the web—not to mention a high level of commitment to cycling: They traded their suits for bike gear and joined us for the ride and post-ride Mexican fare, when you might imagine they would spend their evening kicking back in some hotel lounge.

Twenty-three miles, with 1,695 feet of climbing. I struggled up the hills as my legs rebelled at being stressed for the fourth ride in five days. Shape up, I say!

Even Odds

4:15 a.m. At just the right phase of my sleep cycle, I woke up. Wide awake. At a most unnatural hour. Despite my best effort not to engage my brain, eventually I could not deny that the sky was getting lighter and the birds louder.

Another unnatural occurrence: Fifty percent chance of rain showers. I peered at the radar map before setting a foot on the floor. A bright green band was approaching the coast; in all likelihood, I would stay dry. Almost as an afterthought,I donned my rain jacket. [Which ensured, of course, that I would not get caught in the rain.]

With my building in sight, a few sentinel drops arrived just as I exited the trail. As I expected, the real downpour came later. First, there was breakfast: Greek yogurt parfait, fresh melon and strawberries, and a mini croissant with freshly ground peanut butter. Next, a videoconference: Here, it is completely unremarkable to be clad in sweaty bike clothes. Finally, time to clean up: A hot shower, soap and fresh towels provided. Elsewhere, any one of those benefits would be treasured by the typical bike commuter. I fully appreciate this, and more.

The cold front having passed through, my evening ride was actually chillier than the morning—and briefly, wetter. A mysterious burst of rain on the trail was, thankfully, short-lived.

A pleasant pair of rides to bracket the workday: the usual 39 miles and 1,000 feet of climbing, including one gratuitous morning hill climb (for the view across the valley). Traffic was light ('tis the season), and there were surprisingly few fellow cyclists on the road. Put off by the threatening skies? Ha! Fifty percent chance of no rain.

Resistance Training

It is possible to find some straight, flat roads in the Bay Area (though, mostly this is a hilly place). My average pace on a long, flat stretch today was slower than 10 mph. If you think that sounds more like a hill-climbing pace, you are right. Wide open spaces are windy.

Near Uvas Reservoir, a cyclist heading in the opposite direction recognized me and called out. That explained the steady stream of cyclists on the road—a triathlon event was in progress. With their tents and gates set up, the parking lot was closed (much to the dismay of some passing motorcyclists).

Our club is large enough to support a few distinct subcultures. The long distance riders comprise one such group. As they train for their double/triple/quad centuries, they rarely cross paths with the rest of us. By biking to the start of our ride, they could almost stretch today's 68-mile route into something suitable.

Even though we claimed a head start after lunch, they caught us. Wistfully, I watched their train go by; if only I could hang onto the end of that paceline! Unable to match their speed, 22 miles of headwind was my fate. Determined as I was to head northwest to San Jose, the wind was determined to push me southeast to Gilroy. I was sorely tempted to hop on a number 68 bus ... but I resisted.

The temperature was perfect and the breeze felt good. [Really.] It was refreshing. [Honestly.] It builds character.

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.]