Rainy Day Rover

Knowing that there would be some familiar faces biking up a local trail, it was the perfect day for a low-key hike. Cross-training, as it were.

Sure, it was raining (more or less; sometimes more than less). Dig out the waterproof boots, pants, jacket.

If you have hiked the Kennedy Trail, you might wonder how it can be such a popular mountain-biking trail. [I certainly wonder that.] There are at least three "walls" on this trail, and I do not understand how a cyclist can maintain enough traction on the rocky, sandy surface to climb them. Just hiking up those segments is enough to elevate my heart rate; hiking down is a test of nerves, balance, and muscle.

To that challenge, add slippery wet leaves, slick wet rocks, and rivulets of runoff crisscrossing the trail. With all that water, the top few inches of the lower (flatter) section of the trail was thick with tire-sucking, boot-sucking mud.

I rather enjoyed hiking in the rain. I was warm, I was dry, I was enjoying the sights. I played roving photographer, much to the delight of the cyclists (and runners) who tackled the hill today. On the way down, a couple of them rode their brakes to match my pace and chat.

I cannot imagine that I would ever bike up the Kennedy Trail. Which reminds me that, not so long ago, I could not imagine biking up Kennedy Road. [Hmm.]

Pining for Panoche

I planned my weekend around the chance to ride in one of my favorite places, a stunningly beautiful (but remote) valley.

One reward for rising early was a clear view of Saturn and the rising crescent moon. I headed out the door at 6:40 a.m., right on schedule for the long drive to our starting point in Paicines. The temperature was less than 37F, but I was bundled up and ready.

If only I could say the same for my car. Yes, the car that was inspected two weeks ago when I brought it to the dealership for a minor recall repair and a routine oil change. The car which, most likely, has a battery on the wane. You would think they would have noticed that. And this is why I have spurned their service department for years.

Ride? Denied. I went back into the house to sulk.

Two of the great things about our bike club are the variety and abundance of scheduled rides. I was in luck—I could bike to the start of a ride that would take us to the Veterans Memorial in San Jose (and the pre-holiday parade).

Our small group assembled and started rolling; four and a half miles later, a rider had a flat tire. After a few minutes, it occurred to me that I should check my own tires. If one rider has a flat, the odds are higher that another rider also has a flat.

San Jose, City of Broken Glass. My rear tire was soft. Nearly flat.

As for the memorial, I would characterize it as High Concept. Figures on glass panels [easy target for vandals] cast shadows at certain times of the day [not this morning]. White flags symbolize peace [not surrender?].

No parade for us; our leader could not linger.

I was grateful for the bike ride, but the urban-suburban route was no substitute for the doomed splendor of the Panoche Valley.

Peak Peek

What to do on an unseasonably warm November Sunday?

Climb Mt. Hamilton, of course!

[Last week was so ... October.]

I have not been looking forward to these late-season climbs, having descended the mountain more than once with chattering teeth and numb fingers. Not so today, with the high temperature at the summit approaching a balmy 68F.

This seems to be a banner year for acorn production. I thought my trees had gone nuts [so to speak] after being trimmed last fall, but acorns are bountiful on Mt. Hamilton, too. Happy squirrels; less-happy cyclists, who need to dodge slippery acorns as well as the usual loose rock on the roadway.

Conversation helps the climb seem shorter, and I was pleased to be joined by two friends today.

Practice makes the descent seem smoother, and I was pleased to pass two guys on the way down today—even though I am still descending with an abundance of caution.

Saddle Up

It happened that a fellow cyclist was organizing a group ride today, to support his fundraising for a Light the Night walk. It happened that he chose to send the group up Mt. Hamilton. And it happened that I had not yet climbed the mountain this month.

I will admit some apprehension. The climb? No problem. It was the descent that was on my mind.

As I neared the summit, riders were already streaming down. I caught sight of a pair about a mile from the top and ... where were they? They should have passed me.

I rounded the corner, having just missed witnessing the crash. One rider was down, off the road in a shallow rock-strewn clearing carved out of the cliff. "I looked down," he said, regretfully. "On a curve." Lying on his right side, his hand repeatedly probed a couple of his left ribs. His buddy pulled out a cellphone, and I wished that I were a faster rider to reach the group at the top.

At the observatory, bikes were being loaded onto the SAG vehicle to head to the rescue. I briefed them on what they would find.

The air was clear enough for a rare sighting of the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. It was easy to linger in the warm sunshine on a perfect autumn day.

It was not so easy to banish the fresh image of a crash on the mountain.

How many more curves, how many more descents, will it take to get my groove back? More than 50,000 feet of climbing (and descending). More than 850 miles. More than all of that, to wipe out one single memory—fractions of a second long—the feel of my bike sliding out beneath me.

Six Wheels

As the mid-Atlantic coast battens down for a wicked hurricane-blended "Frankenstorm," out here on the Pacific coast we are enjoying some balmy late-fall days.

It was chilly when I dropped off my car for some minor service this morning, but I was prepared. As they busied themselves with paperwork, I busied myself with my bike and was ready to roll out by the time they were done.

Having thus boosted myself forward on four wheels, it was a short and flat 12 miles to the office. Commuting on my road bike has a very different—almost devious—feel. Riding to work is so strongly associated with the heavy feel of my loaded steel hybrid, and my nimble carbon road bike is associated with playful recreational outings.

One look at the wheels on that horse-drawn cart conjures a ride I would not envy. Today, it was just one element of the décor for our afternoon Halloween party. Some people spend the day in costume (and, in character), which leads to some unexpectedly entertaining meetings. Superheroes, video game characters, zombies, Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz ... and one cyclist whose best effort involved colorful bike socks printed with ghosts and candy corn.

Progressive Dining

This being election season, I will first point out that a progressive dinner has nothing to do with politics.

Our bike club holds one of these events each fall, taking the aphorism "We bike to eat" seriously. Organized cycling events fuel us with rest stops every 15-20 miles; today's event was all about the food.

For the occasion, I actually cooked (rather than opting for my inherently lazy solution of selecting some creative salad from the take-out case at the local market). I found a well-reviewed recipe for Cranberry Couscous Salad, which I adapted slightly. The reviews were spot-on; it was a hit!

Having just returned from an ambitious cycling tour, the thought of driving to the start of today's route seemed, simply, wrong. It is surprising what can fit into one of those lightweight cinch bags—two 7-cup plastic containers holding a couple of pounds of couscous salad, for example. It would not have been difficult to carry them to the start of the ride (12 miles), but I took advantage of an offer by a nearby rider (5 miles) to drop off our food at her place (for transport by car).

Many of our rides take us into rural areas on remote roads, and wildlife encounters are not uncommon. Cruising the suburban neighborhoods of San Jose today, we were in for a few surprises. A hive of honeybees attached to an orange tree. Two dozen turkeys strutting their stuff.

We picked up route sheets at the first stop (which would also be last), and headed out for appetizers. The club set up bike racks at each home, and they were as full as I have seen at a typical bike event rest stop. Careful not to overeat early, we continued on our way to the next home for salads. At each stop, we enjoyed plenty of conversation and the chance to catch up with riders I have not seen for awhile. Then, streaming out onto the route to the next home, there were always groups to join or follow.

Fittingly, the main course included turkey.

The fourth, and most important course, was dessert. Apple pie. Lemon tart. Chocolate cupcakes. The disadvantage of biking to the start was that I could not afford to linger at the last stop, as the sun would soon be dropping behind the hills.

The advantage of biking to the start was that I could not afford to linger at the last stop.

I took the uphill route home, since that was most direct. For the day, 59 miles and 1,750 feet of climbing.

Bike to eat. Eat to bike.

Hard Pressed

You can find the strangest things on the road.

Black Road seemed steeper than I had remembered; was that the aftermath of yesterday's trip up Montebello, or the influence of so many gentle grades in Corsica?

It was on one of the steeper pitches that a long, shiny piece of metal caught my eye. Not good for somebody's tire, I thought, as I passed.

Be the change you want to see. Even when that's inconvenient.

I stopped, walked back, and tossed it off the road. [What, you expected me to pack it out?] It was a sturdy, pointed skewer from a rotisserie—a good 15 inches long. How did it land in the uphill lane of Black Road?

There were more helping hands at the cider party this year. Ravenous when I arrived, I sampled many of the snacks that we had all contributed before taking my place at the table, trimming apples for the crusher. The crusher kept ahead of the press, and the slicers kept ahead of the crusher. Plenty of cider, all around.

Just as the rest of our little group reached the top of Black for our descent, a truck turned onto the road. They went ahead; I gave the truck a five-minute head start, not wanting to ride his bumper all the way down.

Halfway down the hill, I found our ride leader on her cell phone at the side of the road. A car was parked nearby; the driver and his son had corralled a stray dog. Evidently I had seen his buddy, a skittish black Lab, weaving up the hill. At that point, I was more concerned about being chased than I was about attempting a dog rescue in the redwood forest, and I did not intervene.

Dog number two had a collar, but no tags. Damp and muddy from playing in the creek, he was also trembling a bit. He was well-fed and well-behaved, wagging his tail enthusiastically in response to "Good dog!" After many phone calls ("Animal control doesn't work on Sundays." "That's not in our jurisdiction."), it seemed the county sheriff might dispatch someone to pick up the dog. Eventually. They were kind of busy.

And so we waited. Our leader hiked up the road a bit, checking to see if anyone knew the dog. One woman had seen them in her yard earlier in the day (but called no one). A passing motorist delivered an unflattering opinion of the sheriff and suggested we let the dog run free.

The sheriff did not let us down. He called a county park ranger, who made the long trip on back roads to find us. Ranger Flint was a kind and friendly man; he would take the dog back to the park, where they have a couple of kennels and even some dry dog food.

Be the change you want to see.

Even when that's inconvenient.