Goldilocks and the Three Hills

Today's ride was not too long and not too short, not too steep and not too flat. It was ... just right.

A bunch of other cyclists thought so, too—more than a dozen joined us for three climbs deep in the forest.

First, we climbed through the redwoods along Old Santa Cruz Highway, to the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Once is not enough, so we descended back down to the level of Los Gatos Creek and then climbed back up through the redwoods along Wrights Station Road.

Finally, we circled back to climb through the Aldercroft Heights neighborhood. You guessed it: this involved descending back down to the level of the creek, but not another climb to the summit. (If the water district allowed passage along the old railway bed, we would have a direct route to Wrights Station. It is safe to assume that we will never see this.)

Twenty-three miles, some 2700 feet of climbing. No bears were sighted.

Green Acres

Dress warmly to enjoy the rolling green vistas along Calaveras Road; the peak months of the rainy season are cold, and the hills block the low angle of the winter's sun.

Heading east on the lower section of the climb, I thought of Sierra Road's steeper ascent of this slope a few miles to the south. I will need to be in better shape before I tackle that, this season.

The level of the reservoir is lower than I have ever seen it, as the water district works to replace the old dam. Lying along the roadside were some new utility poles, waiting to be erected near the site of this massive construction project.

Our 50 mile route passed through the tiny town of Sunol to explore some new territory, Kilkare Woods. The dead-end road climbs gently along Sinbad Creek, and despite the variety of architectural styles and vintages, there was a strong sense of community there. We passed a noisy flock of turkeys midway up the road, and several (human) families strolling along the upper section.

Returning to Sunol, I was happy to enjoy my lunch at a sunny picnic table in the Sunol Community Park. This little gem is tucked alongside the railroad tracks; until today, I had never even noticed it. At the entrance, a small sculpture sets the mood for an exuberant romp in the park.

I took advantage of a head start on the rest of the group to avoid trailing the pack on our return to San José. Along the way, I was impressed with the behavior of two drivers. An SUV was in a position to overtake me, just as a small oncoming car appeared in the middle of the narrow road. I thrust out my left arm to signal "wait" to the driver behind me; the approaching car froze in place. Moments later, the SUV safely passed me; the driver (a woman) gave me a friendly toot on the horn and waved.

The second courteous driver was a man in a sizable pickup truck who caught up to me on the fast descent of lower Calaveras. With a couple of cars behind him, he allowed me a generous and steady lead, even when he might have pulled out to pass. Perhaps he gave me some respect for traveling close enough to the speed limit and appreciated that he would gain little by passing me?

Wrap Party

I never was a tomboy, but I am nonetheless deficient in many traits common to my gender. I seemingly lack the fashionista gene, as well as the one that inspires home decorating. I have never had a pedicure. The notion of pampering myself is alien to me.

Could I relax during a two-day getaway? If I could not join my buddies on the ski slopes, should I just stay home? I suppose I could walk down to the lake, or read a book. I could ... try some spa services. (Seriously?)

Day One: Alone in the swirling hot mist of the steam room, it was hard to breathe, at first. Water condensed on my skin, and every other surface; droplets rained down from the ceiling. It was glorious! My skin was already softer, and this was just the warm-up. I moved on to a full-body treatment, exfoliated head-to-toe with ground grape seeds, slathered with a mixture of aloe and seaweed that felt like molten honey, wrapped up in plastic and layered with blankets. After rinsing off the green goo, the finishing touch was a nice botanical lotion.

Having spent the day doing nothing, more or less, I was ready for bed. Score one for relaxation.

Day Two: My first-ever facial. Call me a skeptic. The descriptions of the procedures always read like a mix of faux science and new-age hocus pocus. My skin was still supple from the steam room. Products were applied, to sting and to soothe. More steam, warm towels, cool towels. The finishing touch? A slick moisturizing lotion.

Facing myself in the mirror, I had to admit it: some all-too-familiar sunspots were, indeed, lighter. Score one for skin care.

Maybe there is something to this pampering stuff, after all.

Toasty Toes

Toasty toes and tingly tips. (Fingertips, that is.) Another chilly day on the bike.

A reasonable person in sub-prime condition would not spend a cold January morning biking up the steep side of Hicks Road. But today was the club's annual luncheon to thank those of us who led rides last year, and it was inconceivable to eat pizza without burning some calories in advance.

Sleeping in seemed like the better option. Cleverly, I had talked a friend into riding with me—I had to get out of the bed.

I was altogether unconvinced that I could power myself up Hicks. Should I declare victory when I reached the dam? Having made it that far, surely I could at least ride to the bridge.

Having lured myself to the bridge, I carried some speed to begin my assault on the steepness that is Hicks. With two short stops to lower my heart rate, I made it. Another rider looked at my rear cluster and observed "That's not really a climbing gear. I add a tooth every year," he joked.

Twenty-five miles, 2300 feet of climbing, and some mighty tasty pizza.

Where the Sun Don't Shine

It was a cold morning, and heading deep into a narrow canyon seemed less than enticing; but that was my plan for the day. With the thermometer hovering near the freezing mark, I revised my attire. Wool jersey, wool socks, thermal tights, booties, serious jacket and gloves. [There, that feels better.]

Given a comfortably late start for this ride, and a route that would circle back toward home, it made good sense to bike to the start. Good sense in a frigid-air kind of way.

We met the first deep pocket of cold shortly after entering the canyon. Eyeing frost-coated leaves along the roadside, I focused on the road surface. Bridge Freezes Before Road echoed in my brain. In this dead-end canyon, there is little need for signs. My cycling companions were chattering about the hazards of black ice as I studied the haze of white frost on the bridge. Above us, a patch of snow lingered on the rocks. Snow? In Stevens Canyon?

When did the last storm pass through? Certainly, it was more than a week ago. This part of the canyon must trap some really cold air. Climbing gently along the creek, the rest of the road was wet, and muddy—but thankfully, not icy. December's heavy rains had triggered some large slides. Occasional patches of sunlight were a welcome surprise; I was eager to find more. I was not eager to socialize (and cool down) whenever we regrouped.

I slowed on Mt. Eden as something clambered down the hillside toward me. Too bold for a coyote ... it was a fawn! Mom was waiting on the other side of the road. They calmly looked me over before continuing on their way.

I suffered up the steep hills, but I made it to the top of every one. Endurance, I have. Strength, I have not. Sheer ornery determination, I have.

Thirty-six chilly miles, with 2,350 feet of climbing. One look at my bike and you would think I had been off-roading. So much for yesterday's thorough cleaning. Lather, rinse, repeat.

What Am I On?

I am on my bicycle.

Celebrating a friend's birthday. Cruising down a coastal trail, hugging the shoreline of Monterey Bay. Riding through drifted sand, following the paved path up and down the dunes. From the heart of artichoke country, past Cannery Row and Lovers Point. Along the famed 17 Mile Drive, past the unnatural greens and sand traps of Pebble Beach. Into Point Lobos State Reserve, and back again. Sixty-four miles, with a challenging 2100 feet of climbing.

I am the antidoper. I had a pint of blood extracted this week. Not for my own benefit—not to boost my performance on a bicycle on some future ride, but to help save the lives of people I will never know. When my oxygen-starved muscles spiked my heart rate to 189 bpm climbing an unexpectedly steep hill in Carmel, I stepped off the bike and walked the last few yards.

We stopped for a treat at a French bakery, and it was a chance encounter that many of us will remember about this day. A beautiful elderly woman, impeccably dressed, stopped to chat with us. She was spry and quick-witted, and eager to encourage us to keep riding our bicycles. She talked about the freedom it brings, and shared fond memories of girlhood cycling adventures in the Black Forest. Some riders in our group soon engaged her in speaking German and French. We were speechless when she revealed that she is 96 years old.

Riding back to our starting point, I reflected on the cognitive advantages enjoyed by the multi-lingual. I thought about our freedom to ride. No entrance fees for bicycles on the 17 Mile Drive. No entrance fees for cyclists at Point Lobos. We coasted past a line of idling cars waiting for others to exit on an over-capacity day; no entry delay for bicycles.

I basked in the bright sunshine of a California winter's day—on my bicycle.

No Excuses

It is cold, not even 40F. The roads are slippery from a short, late-night downpour. The rear tire on my bike had gone flat. I am still a bit congested. My ride buddies shun the cold even more than I do; I bet they will stay home.

But, what if they don't? I suggested the route; I should not renege.

I bundled up: wool jersey, fleece-lined tights, serious winter cycling jacket, thick wool socks, booties. The roads will dry. The tire stayed inflated overnight. I tucked an extra package of tissues in my pocket.

Convinced I would end up riding alone, I signed in with the leader. Much to my delight, both ride partners materialized. We were all a bit dazed by the cold; the temperature never reached 50F. If that does not sound uncomfortable to you, you are not factoring in the effect of wind chill: self-generated, with an assist from Mother Nature.

We agreed to follow the most modest route, 35 miles with a mere 795 feet of climbing. My endurance was well-preserved, but my muscles are sore. (My last bike ride was 49 days ago!)

Oh, and about that flat tire. It had a slow leak, and the last time it went soft I was convinced it was punctured. The replacement tube (supplied by a fellow rider) also had a slow leak—a bad patch. Re-inflated, I could not find a leak in my original tube, which seemed willing to hold air again.

Still, there was a lesson to be learned about my tube. Specifically, about the Presta valve on that tube. It has a removable core. The next time I unscrewed the valve cap, the core came with it. [Accompanied by a rather dramatic release of the pressurized contents of the tube.]

The loose core explained the slow leak. Lesson learned: Know your valves. Make it a habit to point that thing at the ground, lest you unleash this pressurized little projectile in a most unfortunate direction.

[Like, your eye. Or, a roadside thicket, never to be found again.]