Shadows and Fog

Some years ago, the time had come for my mom to downsize. The house was sold, and the utility company sent a representative to shut off the water and record a final meter reading. Looking at the name on his work order, he asked “Do you have a daughter named ... ?”

Flash back to [a long time ago]. There was a student in our 8th grade class, “M,” who was old enough to drive. He had some sort of learning disability; there was no place for him in our high school, nor did he belong in the special education classroom. He was mainstreamed with us, though the age difference must have made it awkward for him.

There was another student in our class who was ... bored. Insufficiently challenged. Our teachers understood this, and so it came to pass that I tutored M. My best friend and I developed lesson plans, and part of our education was teaching M.

That same M who now stood before my mom, with a decent job and a family. I had made a difference in his life, and he remembered.

There was no organization called Best Buddies then, but that is who we tried to be. That summer, I did more tutoring and worked with special needs children. I would choose a different path for my career, but with the indulgent support of my friends I now ride each year to support the work of Best Buddies.

This year marked the tenth anniversary of the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge—the seventh ride for me. With some racers and former Olympians at the front, the century riders set off at a blistering pace. I lost contact with the lead group by mile five, despite sustaining an average speed of 18.6 mph over the first ten miles. At the one-hour mark, I had covered 17 miles and climbed some 580 feet. Only 83 miles and 5,750 feet of climbing to go ...

The fog toyed with us as we approached Big Sur, casting shadows as it drifted across the road. It filled the canyon at Bixby Creek, obscuring the iconic bridge. By mile 60, it hugged the coast and swallowed the view. For the last 13 miles, I regretted two things equally: the lack of a taillight and the lack of a tailwind. I hammered that stretch as best I could, averaging 15 mph and sweeping past four very tired guys. As I closed in on the fourth, he rose out of the saddle in a vain attempt to defend his position; the other three never gave chase. [You know a guy is spent when he lets a woman pass, unchallenged.]

Yet, I was speedy only in my own mind—I was a full mile per hour slower than last year, and well off my best pace (14.3 mph in 2009). I managed to roll across the finish line in time to claim a quick massage before getting cleaned up and heading for the traditional barbecue at Piedra Blanca Rancho. I was fortunate again to close out the night partying on the patio behind Casa del Monte. And of course, frolicking in the Neptune Pool. One of the Castle's resident bats circled overhead before dropping down for a quick sip of the pool's fresh spring water.

There is no better way to see the California coastline than from the seat of a bicycle. Next year, I'll be back: same charity, same coast.

A Day on the Bay

A day away, a day to play, a day on San Francisco Bay.

We boarded our boat near the Bike Hut.

For some, the first time on a sailboat.

For many, a first visit to Angel Island.

For most, the first close encounter with a crazy hi-tech
America's Cup boat.

For all, the first passage beneath the newly-completed eastern span
of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.

A day to unwind with a team that works (and plays) well together.

Classic California

Southbound traffic on the highway was backed up for miles. [Luckily, I was traveling north.] The likely cause was the uphill grade—drivers fail to maintain their speed as they climb and the effects slowly ripple backward. I was grateful not to be sitting in that jam, and felt sorry for the drivers who would soon meet the tail end of it.

I saw flashing lights at the head of the next southbound jam. Alongside the patrol car ... a pair of horses? Yet there was no horse trailer in sight.

I would later learn those were not horses, but mules (with their eccentric human companion). If I were trapped in that miles-long traffic jam on this holiday weekend, I would not be amused. Definitely. Not. Amused.

Northbound traffic was moving apace, and I was sailing comfortably in the left lane when a bull slipped into the gap ahead of me. Even with the windows sealed tight and music playing, there was no mistaking the distinctive sound of those twelve cylinders. Trailing that gleaming silver Diablo VT made for rather a quicker trip on the freeway than I had anticipated.

I had spent the morning making my way to the top of Fremont Peak, while one of my ride buddies narrated the history of Captain Frémont and his men. The local market might as well have been in Mexico, I thought, as I was tempted by an array of indecipherable frozen treats. The ascent had been less arduous than I remembered, but the State Park was just as confounding. We were determined to get as close to the summit as we could (without hiking), and after a few wrong turns, we found our way. With all the radio towers up there, though, it is not a place to linger.

Some 3,715 feet of climbing over 31 miles ... but half of those were downhill. [Think about it.]

The Trouble with Trails

Two cyclists collided last week on the Stevens Creek Trail, with injuries serious enough to be carted away to a hospital. The story according to a near witness, who called 911 on their behalf, was that he heard someone shout “STOP!” One cyclist was heading north on the trail, just having descended the bridge over Moffett Blvd. The other, apparently, was entering the trail at street level.

I had passed through this intersection about 30 minutes before the accident. I suspect that both cyclists had a role in this crash. The cyclist at street level is supposed to join the trail at a T-intersection, but it may be possible to merge (at a dangerous angle) by slipping through some posts meant to block the way. Whatever his approach, the street-level cyclist entered the trail without regard for oncoming traffic. The oncoming cyclist, with a view from above, should have been able to see him. Should have been moving slowly enough to stop or yield.

Approaching the T-intersection entrance from Sleeper Avenue one morning, a cyclist flew onto the trail without a glance in either direction, then slowed as he proceeded to ride no-hands. I saw him before he made the turn. I slowed down. We did not collide.

If the trail ahead of me is clear and straight, I will cruise along at 15 mph—and every single day, other cyclists fly past me. They pass me without regard for the solid line. [Tip of the day: Dashed line—OK to pass. Solid line—Do not pass.] They pass me on tight curves, like the one pictured above on the north side of the bridge over Hwy 237.

This morning I slowed behind four people walking two abreast. Two cyclists were approaching on the opposite side of the trail. And yes, another cyclist chose to pass me, over the solid yellow line, threading his way through the narrowing gap between the oncoming cyclists and the pedestrians.

Some hazards are common: people oblivious to their surroundings, earbuds blocking the sounds around them, fiddling with their smartphones, stopping in the center of a trail intersection.

Some hazards are unusual, like the staggering drunk I approached from behind. To ring my bell, or not to ring my bell, that was the question. I darted past him without advance warning, calculating that I was in more danger of being knocked over if I startled him.

Or the woman who emerged from the dark underpass below Hwy 101, pushing a stroller up the wrong side of the trail. Had I been a few seconds earlier, I might have run straight into them.

Just another typical day on a popular multi-use trail. Be careful out there.

Up Grade

Street, road, avenue ... what's in a name? Nothing dramatic.

Boulevard? Expansive, with lots of trees.

Grade? This one is not uncommon in the western U.S. It means ... prepare to suffer. Uphill climb that is long or steep. Or both.

I have been (bicycle) commuting to work more often, and my legs are feeling stronger. It was time for a test—a torture test, some would say.

First up, China Grade. Climb more than 1,000 feet in 2.2 miles. My heart rate peaked at 180 bpm, my speed dropped as low as 3.1 mph, but I reached the top without pausing.

Next, pass through Big Basin Redwoods State Park (California's oldest). I slowed for a caravan of backpackers crossing the road, and later for some campers tossing a Frisbee back and forth in the middle of CA 236. Deep in the redwoods, I guess it is easy to forget that a state highway passes through the park.

Last up, Jamison Creek Road: Climb more than 1,400 feet in 3 miles. This one is intimidating; like China Grade, I had never before attempted it. My legs still felt strong, but having already completed 3,200 feet of climbing I had no reservations about pausing. My heart rate peaked at 179 bpm, my speed dropped to 3.1 mph, and I stopped three times to recover. When four motorcycles came flying down the hill, recklessly over the double yellow line in the center of my lane, I congratulated myself for a well-placed recovery break. I was off the road.

41 miles, 4,620 feet of climbing. I chose not to join the rest of the group on Empire Grade. Enough is enough.

Simmering Sunday

The summer heat finally cranked up this weekend. What better time for a hard climb?

Loma Prieta did not seem as difficult as I remembered. Then I reached the steep part that I remembered. Five people turned out to join me for today's challenge, and it was eventful (in a good way). Four of them had no prior experience climbing Loma Prieta or Highland Way. My description of the summit was misleading, which sent me chasing down the riders who overshot it. (No one seemed to mind.) We had a clear view of the distant strawberry fields and the fog hanging over Monterey Bay.

On Highland Way, we were flagged down by a couple who had pulled their car to the side. “How do we get to the freeway?” they asked. First question: Which freeway? I explained that they were indeed headed in the right direction (improbable as that can seem, up there). When they overheard me offer to share some of my water with my ride buddy, they gave us two (chilled!) bottles.

Our club keeps track of various statistics for our rides, and today was a big milestone for one of our riders: Adding two new hills to his tally for this year tipped him over the 100 mark. We were astonished to learn how much weight he had dropped in the past year (75 pounds). Cycling is great for that, provided you restrict your intake at the same time. [Note to self ...]

On the return, I found a few riders clustered at the base of Mt. Bache. Surely they did not want to climb it again? [No.] A couple on a tandem were seeking advice on returning to Mt. Madonna via Loma Prieta. Not just any tandem, but a handsome Calfee bamboo tandem. We had heard that the road is public, but there are gates with signs that suggest otherwise (and much of it is dirt). The stoker seemed less enthusiastic when we added that it was an exposed climb, but they headed on up. “We can always turn back,” the captain reassured her. [Right.]

For the day, a bit more climbing than I had estimated—3,670 feet over 40 miles. Some day I will manage to climb Loma Prieta when the temperature is moderate. Today was not that day.

Over the Top

“Are you training for something?” the visitor asked.

I might have said that I was training for Best Buddies, but mostly I was at the top of Mt. Hamilton for the sheer joy of it. With a plan to visit the back side for the sheer challenge.

We reached the floor of the marine layer at an elevation of 1600 feet, give or take, and quickly left it behind. This summer has been unusually cool, which meant that the temperature was just about perfect for a sunny day of climbing.

It also meant that a summertime descent to the valley at Isabel Creek was conceivable. [Strictly speaking, the descent is always conceivable. Climbing the exposed back side of the mountain is the challenging part.]

Though to be fair, that descent is rarely without drama. There was a rider at the summit with road rash from the back side, making it sound more treacherous than usual. Would I find fresh chip seal, or fresh tar? [No.] It is just a tricky descent, with sharp curves and enough steepness to give you more speed than you need.

The core of our group continued to the Junction, but I knew that was more than I could handle. Still, I was tempted ... What if I went just a little bit farther? Across the bridge, around the bend ... Uphill, of course. After half a mile, I regained my common sense and made a u-turn. Hauling myself back up to the summit would be enough.

With a bit of a breeze and more strength in my legs, I found the climb less arduous than in the past. Oh, and the view! Apart from one ranch, there is no sign of civilization as far as the eye can see—unlike the other side of the hill, which overlooks the urban/suburban sprawl of the Santa Clara valley.

Back at the observatory, I ran into the same visitors again. “I could never do what you just did,” one remarked. I assured them that there was a time when I could not do it, either.

Fifty-one miles, 6,960 feet of climbing. Next time, I do believe I will venture ... just a little bit farther.