Catching Up

When the week began, I did not plan to bike to work four days out of five. After bypassing Monday's traffic meltdown, it made sense to do the same on Thursday and Friday. On those evenings, the roads near the office would be choked with cars heading for big concerts at a nearby venue. The forecast for Friday was particularly dire, with home games for both major league baseball teams (San Francisco and Oakland), another big concert at a venue closer to San Francisco, and protesters threatening to shut down mass transit. Not to mention the usual get-out-of-town weekend parade.

There were fewer cars on the road in the morning; not unusual for a summer Friday, but maybe some folks simply chose to avoid the predicted chaos. I did not commit to the group ride planned by some of my colleagues, unsure whether I really would get up early enough to rendezvous at 7 a.m.

I almost made it; after a quick stop at the bank, I was about five minutes behind schedule. If I hustled, I thought, I could catch them.

A few miles later, I spotted them ahead at an intersection. Now we were separated by one (long cycle) traffic signal. Which route would they take through the neighborhood?

I swung onto our “secret passage” street; there they were, passing through the gate! When all three of them headed up the gratuitous hill, they were mine. They certainly did not expect to find me lurking at the other end.

Conversation always makes the trip seem faster, and we enjoyed ourselves in both directions: Everyone rode back together at the end of the day, including our group's modest birthday boy!

My tally for the week (commuting, volunteer work, errands): 3,945 feet of climbing and 159 miles by bicycle, 50 miles by car.

The Bike Advantage

The office was deserted when I rolled in this morning. Where were my colleagues? Did I overlook an important meeting on my calendar? [Not likely, first thing on a Monday morning.]

The reason would become clear later, after I was re-fueled, freshly showered, and back at my desk. There had been some sort of traffic meltdown. I overheard one story of exasperation after another. Something about an overturned dump truck, local roads clogged with cars and buses seeking alternate routes. Taking the shuttle would not have helped. Biking to work this morning might actually have been faster. Imagine that!

My commute was, thankfully, routine and uneventful. I listened to the birds and admired the flowers. I climbed a gratuitous hill. I clocked in (below the limit) at 28 mph on an electronic speed sign. Stopped at one intersection, I picked up a stray wood screw and tossed it off the road. [Some unknown motorist can thank me for the flat tire he didn't get.] Stopped at another intersection, I spied a nickel (and happily pocketed it). I was passed by a couple of speed racers who confuse the multi-use trail with a time-trial course.

I dawdled on my way home, taking a longer route through the park. My ride was bracketed by egrets: the first had been perched on a trailside railing along the creek near my office, and the last was hunting for a lakeside dinner.

One side of the park is bordered by the freeway. I realized that I was moving faster than the vehicles, which were barely visible through the trees. When I crossed above them, the southbound cars and trucks were stopped as far as my eyes could see.

I guess many people found their commutes bracketed by traffic meltdowns today. I prefer egrets.

The Endless Climb

I know what it's like to climb Montevina on a hot day, and I have not gone up in a while. The full route for today's club ride included a ridiculous amount of climbing; I had no intention of tackling the complete set of hills. I know myself well enough to head for Montevina first; otherwise, I would surely talk myself out of it.

It is hard to convey steepness in a photo. I stopped at one promising switchback and almost missed the main event: turkey vultures roosting in a dead tree. Being alive, I was of no interest to them; nor was I a threat. They completely ignored me.

A passing (of course) guy struck up a conversation. “Tough climb,” he said. “Yeah, but it was my choice,” I replied. He was inspired by Le Tour de France (which was nearly done). We all suffer.

I had forgotten how high the summit is—the day was clear enough for a distant view of Monterey Bay.

I was determined to do a second hill climb, Soda Springs. I knew that my legs would be done after that; it was an open question whether my legs would be done before I got to the top.

What makes Soda Springs such a grueling climb? Its steepness borders on painful, without really crossing that line; the grade is relentlessly constant. On the upper section, there are few scenic views or landmarks; just climb the narrow road, through the trees. Surely the end is around the next bend? [No.] Keep climbing.

Another passing guy, sporting a Lotto kit, kindly gave me some encouragement: “Tough climb,” he said. Dispirited by then, I sighed “I thought it was five miles, and it's not.” “Almost there,” he replied.

Surely the end is around the next bend? [No.] “Good job!” he shouted to me as he descended. It's a trick, I thought; this hill grows ever higher and the road grows ever longer just before I round each bend. Until, finally, the magic sign materializes: Road Ends 500 Feet.

Thirty-nine miles, 5,535 feet of climbing. Crazy. But it was my choice.

Just for Kicks

Way back in 1992, an ad on a local radio station caught my attention: a bike shop in a nearby town was having a sale. At the time, I was without a bicycle, having sold my Raleigh 10-speed to a friend. The Raleigh had carried me through grad school, to and from campus in a hilly urban environment (without a helmet, in those days). With my short legs, I barely cleared the top tube. After earning my degree and entering the workforce, I do not remember riding it again.

With its wider tires, a hybrid bicycle seemed much more practical. I studied the Trek catalog; the 720 Multi-Track became the object of my desire. There was even a “ladie's” diamond frame, with a sloping top tube. The bike's knobby tires let me take a short cut on a dirt trail to the local park.

It would be many more years before I became seriously interested in cycling. I added a rack, and a bag ... and quickly found that I could not keep up with the group on club rides. I visited a local bike shop and nearly tossed a bike over my head when I tugged it off the rack—no wonder those people on carbon fiber bikes were so fast! Their bikes weigh nothing—compared with my “Cro-moly” (steel) frame. [Well, that, and they were in better shape than I was.]

Twenty-one years later, that steel bike gets more action than I ever dreamed it would: it is the workhorse of my commute (40 miles, round-trip). I traded the original knobby tires for slightly narrower slicks, flat pedals for SPDs, added some lighting options, replaced the saddle. But it is not a finicky machine; consequently, it has not gotten a lot of (mechanical) love.

I really should do something about those shrieking brake pads, I thought. And then I would forget, until the next ride. I should find some time to take the bike for service. And then I would forget.

The Bike Doctor! [Duh.] The Bike Doctor is a mobile mechanic; he will come to you, or better yet—to a workplace near you (in the Bay Area). I marked my calendar for his next visit and booked my bike on his schedule.

I wrote out a list of things that needed attention. He read my list, smiled at me indulgently, and tossed it in the trash. “Don't worry, I know what your bike needs better than you do.” [This was true.]

Fresh (quiet) brake pads. A new red rear blinkie, at my request, securely mounted to the rack. The silly plastic ring between the cogset and the spokes? Gone! [It was cracked, he noted.] Tuned up. “Your rear dérailleur hanger was bent, I straightened it,” he said. “Have you crashed the bike?” [No.] “It must have been dropped at some point,” he said. [I racked my brain and came up empty.]

Inspired by Ladyfleur, we added a kickstand. The bike posed proudly with some trailside flowers on the way home. And speaking of home, the bike stood tall in the middle of the driveway—no need to balance it precariously against a tree while unloading it.

The driveway ... now I remember ... the day I was so proud to have completed a long ride on the local trail, clipped into my new SPD pedals, without toppling over. They were campus pedals (flat platform on one side, SPD socket on the other). When I left the trail for the road home, I was careful to unclip (lest I unceremoniously topple over at a traffic light). Not being the most coordinated person, it was taking some time for me to master that clip-in/clip-out business.

That day, I coasted into my driveway, came to a complete stop and ... just like Arte Johnson, toppled over. That is how my dérailleur hanger came to be bent.

The Bike Doctor knows all.

Trifecta

If you love your dog, I implore you: put a tag on your pet's collar—stamped with your phone number.

Somewhere above Holy City, a German Shepherd materialized. We were climbing; she was faster. Luckily, she was not aggressive. She seemed to want to play with us, running alongside our bikes and stopping to pick up a stick as a hint.

I have been meaning to tuck some rope into my saddle bag ... The dog had a collar, but there were no jingling tags. She stopped following—perhaps she knew her territory? The best I could do was to report a lost German Shepherd when I found a county worker in his truck at the Summit Store.

The other key item missing from my kit today was a vest. The Santa Cruz Mountains were draped in fog, and we were heading for the coast. I should always carry a vest in my bag of cycling gear. I know this. The redwoods rained on us near the summit, but it was not as cold as I feared.

What a merry band of riders we were! Plenty of conversation, plenty of lingering at each re-group, and plenty of patience when we found our lunch stop overwhelmed with an at-capacity crowd.

For one of the riders in our group, three of the four hills we tackled were terra incognita. The best, of course, comes last: the soul-crushing ascent of Mountain Charlie Road. That photo at the top was taken looking back at a section I had just climbed. No, that is not a dead-end road—it drops off that steeply. Fifty-one miles, with some 4,615 feet of climbing (same route we traced in 2009).

Whose idea was it to climb Mountain Charlie today?

[Oh, wait, it was my idea.]

But look at who was waiting for me at the top! Three fine, friendly firemen!

You chose the wrong ride today, Miss C.

Fryin' on the Fourth

I needed to burn off those pancakes, heat wave or no. After joining more than 150 fellow club members for our annual July 4th carb-fest, my ride buddy and I headed for Stevens Creek Canyon.

It is a modest climb, but not as cool as I had hoped. In the winter months, the sun is too low to penetrate the canyon. By noon on a summer's day, sunshine is abundant.

We did the sensible thing after reaching the gate: we retreated! Even though it would have been shorter to return via Redwood Gulch or Mt. Eden, we would have melted on either of those climbs. With a flat route, we could manage enough speed to generate some evaporative cooling. And, we were drenched.

Not to mention the opportunity to stop for a cold smoothie along the way. [It's all about the food, this cycling thing.]

There was no reason to hurry home, as the day (and my house) would only get hotter (98F). I claimed my piece of shade under a redwood tree and enjoyed the last 30 minutes of the San Jose Wind Symphony's Independence Day program.

Duke Farms

During the last gubernatorial race, I could not help but compare the legacy of a 21st century billionaire (Meg Whitman) with that of a 20th century multi-millionaire (Andrew Carnegie). Ms. Whitman spent some $144 million of her own money on her (unsuccessful) campaign to become the governor of California. Andrew Carnegie spent, for example, $56 million establishing more than 2,500 free public libraries around the world (~$706 million in Meg's 2010 dollars). Of course, Ms. Whitman and Mr. Carnegie were free to spend their wealth however they saw fit; the entirety of Mr. Carnegie's legacy inspires awe to this day.

If you owned one of the largest private parcels of land (2,700 acres) in our most densely populated state (New Jersey), what would you do with it?

There are many municipalities in the state that are smaller than Duke Farms. It is hard to imagine the value of this land, were it to be sold off and subdivided into plots for several thousand McMansions. I lived, for a time, in a townhome built on what once was farmland. I used to fantasize about what it would take to buy back the farm, to raze the garden apartments and townhomes, the condominiums and single-family homes, to grow tomatoes and corn and potatoes again.

Doris Duke had no need for greater wealth; she did not sell her land. She bequeathed it to all of us.

The price of admission? $0. Spend the day hiking, or hop on a Breezer and pedal along more than 13 miles of paved and gravel paths. $0.

As I passed through the first gate, an indignant wild turkey flapped and clambered over a high fence. They can fly, when they're motivated.

Keeping an eye on the threatening skies, I spent most of the afternoon exploring the larger, northern section of the grounds. The paths are essentially flat, but I appreciated the Breezer's fat tires (and gears!) when I followed a gravel path uphill. At the top? A pet cemetery?!

Lakes and meadows, woodlands and marshes, a community garden. The sound of wind in the trees, water tumbling over rocks, the chattering of birds. I did not have to travel far to escape the bustle of neighboring suburbs and highways.

I expected to leave at 3 p.m. (I stayed till 5.)

Thank you, Ms. Duke, for preserving this land and opening it for all to share.