Coustellet

Reunited with my luggage, I was ready for my next challenge: acquiring a French SIM card for my smartphone, and activating data service. The problem with knowing even a little bit of a foreign language is that you may have enough words to ask a question, but not to understand the answer. When the vocabulary is specialized ... well, good luck with that.

Having done my homework in advance, I visited a local Orange Boutique and muddled through the process. I needed to reassure them that the phone would work (unlocked, at the right frequency); they must have seen their fair share of unhappy foreign customers.

I was anxious about the French reputation for being rude to those who do not speak the language, or who do not speak it well. I was relieved (and pleased) to find little evidence of that. The Orange staff were patient and helpful. And, when I understood that my service was prepaid for un mois, they were clearly delighted.

The final challenge of the day: Reassemble the bicycle. For me, pulling the bike apart is easier than setting it up again. With the skies threatening (and delivering) some rain, I was not sorry to give up the chance for an afternoon ride.

Bonjour, Provence!

Le Grand Départ

Bike disassembled and packed, bags packed ... less than 24 hours after returning home from the Best Buddies century, I was on my way to the airport. Destination: France.

I caught a shuttle to the Millbrae BART station. After hauling everything up and down two elevators to cross platforms, I learned that there was no direct service to SFO. To reach the airport, one must board a northbound train to the next station, then transfer to a southbound train headed for the airport.

You can see the airport from here. Bay Area Rapid Transit? Not.

I hailed a cab.

Later the next day, I was surprised to see my oversized bike bag pop off the conveyor belt onto the luggage carousel in Marseille. I was equally surprised not to see my tiny suitcase, despite both bags having been tagged with red "priority" labels by the airline.

My decision to spend the first night near the airport had been a fortuitous one.

The hotel took good care of me, from the brilliant design of the air conditioner in my room to the pain au chocolat for breakfast.

The Coast is Clear

Four out of five runs down the coast have been foggy. For my sixth return to the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, my reward was a crystal-blue-sky day. Oh, the splendor of the central California coast!

Strategically positioned at the front of the pack, I did my best to hang with the group for as long as I possibly could. On this "neutral" roll-out from Carmel Valley to the coast, I averaged slightly over 19 mph for the first 10 miles. Surprise!

Ostensibly, I am a member of a small team of co-workers for this event; we managed to assemble for a group photo at the first rest stop before they sped south. I am in less of a hurry to get to the finish line, especially on such a picture-perfect day. [Not that I could match their pace.]

Shortly after the second rest stop, a few large birds circled overhead. Turkey vultures are a common sight, though usually not along this stretch of the coast. There was something different about these birds. After I spotted a photographer with a very big lens, a fellow cyclist excitedly confirmed my hunch: California Condors!

This being my first ride since last week's big wipe out, I was feeling a little tentative on the bike. I was not trying for a personal best this year, but still managed a faster pace than last year's jet-lagged excursion.

Nonetheless, the late climbs seemed particularly interminable this year. For the first time, there were no cyclists walking up. At the third rest stop, SAG vehicles were running at capacity: many riders know what is ahead and are not shy about hitching a ride over the top.

At the finish line, an announcer provides a running commentary to entertain the crowd. Straggling solo across the line, he nabbed me. "Here is one of our top fund-raisers!" he called out, thrusting a microphone in front of me.

What time did you leave? [With everyone else.]
Do you know what time it is now?

"Yes, I have been sitting on the saddle for 7 hours and 24 minutes," I explained.

I scored a much-needed massage this year, but was still feeling stressed by the time I got cleaned up for the evening. For the slow, there is no margin for down time: head straight to the barbecue and concert (Blues Traveler, this year). Unexpectedly, I ran into a friend who apologized for not donating this year. "Get a picture with one of those hunky lifeguards at the pool," she teased, "and I'll double my donation next year."

Thanks to the generous friends who supported my fund-raising, I enjoyed the special post-barbecue party again this year. For some, this is an opportunity to mix with celebrities and movers-and-shakers. For me, it is a glorious night under the stars in a legendary pool. I chatted with an amiable fellow swimmer/cyclist who recognized me from the road. He introduced himself, modestly responding that he worked for the legislature when I asked.

Later, I looked him up. Legislature, indeed: a State Senator. Movers and shakers, in the Neptune Pool. And me.

Slip Slidin' Away

Warning: loose gravel.

There is always loose gravel on this road, of the natural variety (shed from the hillside). The signs were posted because Mt. Hamilton Road has been freshly chip-sealed, from mile marker 9.0 to a level just above the Twin Gates trailhead (Joseph Grant County Park). The surface is rough, but there was scant loose gravel after the first few turns.

With September promising to be a busy month, I decided it would be best to climb Mt. Hamilton today. My usual ride buddies had other plans, but a cyclist is never alone on this route. For that, I am grateful.

I was strong on the climb, and cautious descending on the rough road. Taking a tumble on that would be, in a word, gruesome.

As the saying goes, there are cyclists who have crashed and there are cyclists who haven't crashed yet. [Can you guess where this story is headed?]

With less than a mile and a half to the end of the road, I rounded the final hairpin bend. The bike slid out beneath me. In the instant that the wheels lost traction, I knew this one was not recoverable. The road was smooth and dry; perhaps I braked too aggressively and locked the rear wheel.

The stats: My speed dropped from 30.4 mph to 0.9 mph in five seconds. My heart rate accelerated from 125 bpm to 147 bpm in those same five seconds.

Miraculously, the bicycle and I are intact. We slid together, and nothing came unhinged. Water bottles stayed in their cages. My sunglasses did not fly off. Most importantly, my head did not hit the pavement. Once I stopped sliding, I sat up and thought "Huh. That wasn't so bad." I thought back to my favorite Jonathan Vaughters quote:

Next time you're in your car at 50 mph, strip down to your underwear and jump out the door. And that's what it's like to crash in a professional bike race.

My right outer thigh took the brunt of the impact (a fine hematoma, there), and my right arm got most of the road rash. Toward the end of the slide, the edge of my helmet visor grazed the pavement. My bike jersey and shorts? Grimy, but not torn.

Being only somewhat the worse for wear, I declined a ride from the kind motorist behind me. I found a safe spot to collect my wits, pulled out my first aid kit and cleaned up the messiest bits.

The bike seemed rideable, until I noticed that the brake hoods were askew and the stem was not aligned with the fork. As I hiked down the hill, the first ascending cyclist stopped to help. He tugged the hoods into place, realigned the stem, and checked the bike over. Worried, after watching me get off to a wobbly start, he turned around and generously accompanied me back to my car.

Thank you, Monta Vista Velo guy. I apologize for being too rattled to ask your name.

High on a Hill

The climb was steep, but the view across the valley was worth the effort invested. Following the group on a route new to me, I paused for a brief recovery when my heart rate reached 180 bpm and the end was not in sight. [The end of the road, that is.]

Curiously, the path to the left in the photo appears to be part of the Novitiate Trail on a map, but it traverses private land before entering St. Joseph's Hill Open Space Preserve and was clearly marked "No Trespassing." That was okay, though; hiking, we were not.

My legs protested this after-work foray, but I managed not to fall too far behind the rest of the group. Our route was long enough to press against the limits of daylight; our evening ride series will soon close as summer drifts into fall. On this particular night, it was a treat to slip home through the back streets after dinner in the light of the (almost) full moon.

Detoured to Distraction

Some detours are lovely (A Ride in the Park).

And some detours are good for you, like a gratuitous hill climb (not to mention the view).

But some detours are downright treacherous, as I learned today.

New principle of safe bicycle commuting:
Beware the impromptu detour.

A public works crew has been layering a new surface on one of the roads I frequent. Never mind that the new surface is annoyingly irregular, making for a most unpleasant ride. That, alone, is a temptation to shift my route by a block or two.

This morning, temporary detour signs were posted during the morning commute hours as they prepared to work on the next section. Should I just ride through? They were not far along, a bicycle would not be a problem. Should I veer onto the sidewalk and slip past? Or should I do the right thing, behave like a vehicle and follow the detour?

I chose Door Number Three, and I feel lucky to tell the tale. There is a fourth option, which I highly recommend:

Steer clear of the official detour and improvise your own.

The problem with the official detour, even in a low-traffic area, is that the motorists are discombobulated. They are befuddled. Their routine has been disrupted, they are not familiar with the adjacent streets, and they are running late for work.

And thus I was nearly mowed down (twice) by a driver who (1) disregarded my right of way, (2) appeared to be proceeding straight but was not, (3) made a sudden u-turn in the middle of an intersection, and then (4) abruptly decided to parallel-park.

Had I chosen to tap on his window, he would have jumped out of his skin. I am sure he never saw the cyclist [that would be me] in the neon-yellow jacket with the flashing white light on her bike's handlebar and the flashing red light atop her helmet.

I shall not pass that way again.

Goats Gotta Eat

And girls gotta ride.

On paper, the road to Henry Coe State Park looks no more difficult than climbing Mt. Hamilton—and it is shorter. Why does it feel so much tougher on the bicycle?

To avoid the unpleasantly busy stretch of the lower climb, we prefer to wend our way along Thomas Grade. From there, the next mile averages a grade of about 4.1%. Here is why the next three miles are so trying: the gradient is about 7.2%. This time, I was mentally prepared for the final challenge, the painfully steep-but-short segment that rises after a cattle guard in the last mile.

Although this was a club ride, I spent most of the day riding solo. After the group pulled away from me on the Coyote Creek trail, my pace was good enough to keep them in sight but not good enough to catch them. When I reached the herd of brush-clearing goats, I threw in the towel. I would rather fend for myself and enjoy the sights.

Before he left me in the dust, I had a chance to chat with a club member who is lucky to be alive after suffering a heart attack out on the road a few months ago and undergoing bypass surgery. This is no average unhealthy American: he has completed the Furnace Creek 508 (look it up) more than once. Then, as today, he was riding his fixed-gear bicycle. "You could ride one too," he encouraged me. "Only if it were geared as low as my lowest gear," I replied. "But then you would spin out here [on the flats]," he explained. Exactly. Later, he gave me a cheerful wave on his way back down the hill; I, of course, was still climbing.

After lunch, I considered my options for returning to the start. Direct-but-congested ride on busy roads? Flat-but-dull route along the Coyote Creek trail? Hilly-but-scenic return past the reservoirs? Oh, why not.

When asked how I was doing by a younger couple on the gentle climb, I responded without hesitation: "Tired." "You don't look as tired as we do," they offered. Once I passed them, they had a target to chase and picked up their pace. As I pushed up the last little hill, they ran out of gas and slipped out of sight. The reward for my hard work was to have the final curvy descent to myself. For the day, some 59 miles and 4,085 feet of climbing.