Red Letter Day

On some forgotten day this year, I decided that a goal for 2013 should be to beat my previous record for number of bicycle commutes (34, in 2007). In the past three years, I had gotten lazy; most days, it is oh-so-easy to find a reason not to get up early and climb on the bike.

The more often I rode, the easier it became. It was habit-forming. There were a few weeks when I managed to bicycle-commute four days out of five, which helped to offset three months of slothfulness (not even one ride to work during the months of January, February, and March).

The least palatable way to get to work is to drive. In heavy traffic, driving can take nearly as long (or longer) as biking it.

Most days, I rely on a commuter shuttle bus. Door-to-door, that trip also takes nearly as much time as biking it; but it allows me to extend my day by getting some work done en route.

Today was a special day, and not only because I discovered hand-made woolen scarves adorning the California Quail statues.

Today marked my 52nd bicycle commute of the year. Some 1,895 miles pedaling to (and usually, from) the office.

'Tis the Season

Winter in the Bay Area hardly conjures up visions of Frosty the Snowman. For the past week, however, we have been in the icy grip of an Alaskan air mass. Pipes are bursting, delicate plants are turning to mush, and self-generated wind chill on a bicycle holds little appeal.

With the thermometer registering below the freezing mark, it would be an ideal morning to snuggle under a warm comforter. Except that I had gamely volunteered to lead a ride for the club.

Who would show up on such a morning? Perhaps no one, in which case I might simply declare victory after the first hill, and skip the next four.

Oh, me of little faith. Six people turned out for my ride; two left home early enough to bike to the start. In the land of palm trees and surfboards, there are some hardy Californians. Okay, it's not Minnesota ... but the weather is freezing and we all dug into our stashes of cycling gear for the heavy-duty stuff.

It was a day not to head for the Santa Cruz mountains, where the Christmas tree farms are bustling. I chose to head across the valley to the eastern foothills, for roads that were mostly well-exposed to the sun. We tackled the steepest climb first, followed by a series of mellow (mostly short) hills.

I was apprehensive about the cold; I have to admit, though, that it was really a pleasant day to ride. I have certainly been colder, on the bike. Whenever we stopped to regroup, my dark side chilled down fast. (Nothing that couldn't be fixed by a judicious pivot toward the sun.)

The little hills added up. It did not feel like I had climbed 4,215 feet over 36 miles. Cold therapy is good for muscle recovery.

Welcome to Our World

It was a day to escape the bustle of civilization, to climb out of the valley and connect with the natural world. Below the mist, downtown San Jose was less than 10 miles away. I spend my weekdays overconnecting with technology; this is how I spend my weekends.

We headed straight up Old Calaveras Road. [And I do mean straight up.] The chilly air burned our lungs and our hearts pumped hard to warm up our muscles. Instead of the traditional right turn at the road's end, we took a left to explore some new terrain. Everyone agreed that Sandy Wool Lake was a scenic reward for that tough climb, and a much nicer place to regroup. Alison taught us about the origin of hang gliders as we watched fliers hauling their wings up the slope. Challenge: find a paraglider in that photo.

There were three courses on today's menu, 4,400 feet of climbing (and descending) densely packed into 28 miles. One rider's appetite was sated by the appetizer, Old Calaveras. Four riders had their fill after the soup course, Felter. The rest completed the main course, Sierra; a few had time for salad (assorted sections of Calaveras). Still hungry, two riders tackled Welch Creek for dessert.

Assembling at the start, one rider remarked that there were no flat sections on today's ride. True, I admitted; but there are downhills. One rider was apprehensive about descending Sierra, and thought it was silly to turn right around and climb back up. Well, there you are, right in the neighborhood, I replied. How could you not climb Sierra?

As it happened, a few of us were in the right place at the right moment on Sierra. However compelling the view, it is rare [exceedingly rare] for me to stop on a descent. At 22 mph, something very special came into view with enough space for me to come safely to a stop.

The smallest calf I had ever seen was right next to the fence. Mom watched me, but was unconcerned. The newborn was as fascinated with me as I was with him. Mom had already cleaned him up, but he was clearly hours old—unsteady on his feet, with a trace of umbilical cord still dangling. Welcome to our world, little one.

Take a Peak

On the long climb, I was passed by a cyclist with a catchy phrase on the back of his jersey. Emblazoned with the symbol for California State Route 89, the encouraging words were “Take a Peak.” That would make a fine slogan for next year's Low-Key Hillclimbs, I thought. Clear skies gave us clear views of three regional peaks: west to Mt. Umunhum, northwest to Mt. Hamilton, and south to Fremont Peak. Today's destination was Henry Coe State Park, a ridgetop undistinguished by name, near the Calaveras Fault. This is California's largest state park, but exploring it takes commitment: the Visitor Center is at the western edge. The rest is wild land.

The road to the park is wild enough. I spotted an acorn woodpecker inexplicably tapping at a cable splice case, a small covey of California quail, and a bevy of peafowl encircling a pickup truck in someone's driveway. Deer scampered away as I approached, but I nearly overlooked the sly young coyote trotting alongside the roadway. He rounded a bend ahead of me and vanished.

My evening was devoted to a different sort of peek: for the first time, the local Fantasy of Lights was opened for a one-night-only walking tour. People have requested this access for years, and the county parks department decided to give it a try. As a volunteer, my role was to keep people safe: on the paved road, off the dark trails, and away from the lighting displays. Bundled up for the chilly five-and-a-half hour shift, I began to regret my decision to help.

The parks department had no idea what to expect, though some 500 people had purchased tickets in advance.

There were couples strolling hand-in-hand. Multi-generational families. Children in strollers and wagons, including one three-car Choo Choo Wagon, complete with lights. A couple spontaneously waltzing to a Christmas song.

“Hi, sweetie. I know it's really hard, the lights are so pretty, but please don't touch them, okay?” That line worked well. The dad looked at his toddler and laughed. “Busted!” he told her. “She's going to tell you that you can't go that way,” another dad told his son. I smiled, “Right, you can't take the trail tonight.” [Parenting by proxy is popular.]

I chose one of the less glamorous zones; only two of us volunteered to staff it. One hour in, I thought “this is going to be a lo-o-ong night.”

The bridge was a busy spot for photos. It reminded some of fireworks; others, of a counter filled with colorful bins of candy. What surprised me most was the popularity of another display: The American Flag. Here I am, stationed next to a symbol unrelated to the holidays. There are tunnels of light, trains and snowmen, animated gingerbread cookies jumping rope, toy soldiers and elves and penguins, even dinosaurs. The flag seemed out of place.

I was wrong.

“The American flag!” kids squealed as they ran toward it. At least two of them put their hands over their hearts and launched into the Pledge of Allegiance. “Take a picture of the flag with grandpa!”

We are a nation of immigrants. Tonight I was reminded that this symbol has a deep significance to many. Five and a half hours well-spent.

The Old Stage Road

Five minutes. Five minutes till the next loaf of Artichoke Garlic Herb bread comes out of Arcangeli's oven. My fellow rider and I finished our PB&J sandwiches. He looked at me. “I think it's been five minutes, now?” and returned with a steaming loaf for all of us to share.

Bliss.

Several riders were tentative. They had ordered big sandwiches. “Try some,” we insisted. [I was not disappointed to eat more than my fair share.]

Among the notices posted in the picnic area behind the market was a thank-you to their customers: bicyclists, motorcyclists, and whale watchers—all are welcome.

The ride had been colder than I expected, and the marine layer seemed too stubborn to burn off. For the first time, I had noticed the historic plaque (courtesy of the Clampers) next to a ramshackle building across from the General Store in San Gregorio. As we were traveling along a portion of the old Stage Road, it was not surprising to find that this had been a stage coach stop. Formerly an inn, built in 1865 and rebuilt in 1902, it is now private.

The marine layer finally retreated as we headed for Haskins Hill. Earlier, a rider had asked whether the climb would be steep. “No,” I said. Then I thought to ask what she considered steep. Some shot ahead on the flats, later to dismount and walk up the last stretch of Haskins (average grade of 7% over 2 1/4 miles). I thought back to the first time I had climbed this hill, with a different club. Abandoned by the leaders, a few of us had retraced our path to the start when we learned that the planned route was blocked by downed wires. The climb was a struggle for me, that day.

It was easier than I remembered. Thirty-one miles with some 2,300 feet of climbing. I should ride this loop more often—for the bread, alone.

How Cold?

It was 42F (5.5C) degrees when I left home this morning. I could see my breath, exhaled in great billowing clouds, with the effort to climb the first hills. The most uncomfortable body parts were my fingers, which started to warm up after 4 miles or so. Maybe preheating my gloves would help? Sometimes I miss steam radiators.

Egrets, herons, and ducks are a common sight near the bay. When they are close to the trail along Stevens Creek, they quickly take flight as people approach.

I rounded a bend and stopped. I was no more than 15 feet away from a Great Egret. The bird was nonplussed. I fished my phone out of my bag. The bird looked away. I felt lucky to capture a single photo. The bird did not move. I dared to draw its attention, hoping for a nice profile. Other cyclists passed. I snapped more photos, stashed the phone and continued on my way. The bird remained still, conserving energy on a chilly morning, watching the creek for breakfast.

“How cold does it have to get for you not to ride in?” asked a co-worker this week.

In the Bay Area, not cold enough.

Leaves Are Falling

Dry leaves crunched under my skinny tires. I felt strong enough to add Kincaid to my Mt. Hamilton ascent, and the diversion was well worth it. This should be a staple of fall climbing for the colors alone. No match for New England, but better than I thought possible without traveling to the Sierras.

There were fewer cars than bicycles on Mt. Hamilton today (once the Mini Cooper club buzzed by). Perhaps the valley haze discouraged people from making the trek. Perhaps they were out hunting pumpkins. No complaints from this cyclist.

Two cycling clubs chose this route today. I overheard a conversation about two crashes on the other club's ride last weekend, which bolstered my resolve to avoid their rides. A mile after making the u-turn at the end of Kincaid, I found a lone rider fixing a flat. The rest of their group was long gone. We were five miles from the main road, ten miles from the summit. I was out there alone, too, but that was my choice. My ride partners would not have deserted me. In fact, on the way up a fellow club member had stopped to show me a better way to get my dropped chain back into place—a perfect demonstration of the difference between these two clubs.

I know myself well enough to tackle Kincaid on the way to the summit. On the way down, I would never convince myself to turn off the main road for an extra dozen miles worth of climbing. After finishing Kincaid, there is always the option to turn right and head down the mountain.

I turned left. Five more miles to the top.

The people who shout encouragement crack me up. I have lost track of how many times I have climbed Mt. Hamilton. (Ten and a half times, last year alone.) One of these riders was making his annual trip up the mountain. The story gets better: He lives near the base of the climb and bought the house specifically for the hill.

I stretched out on Jeanne's bench to enjoy my lunch (and the view) in the warm sunshine.

Fifty-one miles, 6800 feet of climbing. If I lived at the base of this hill, you couldn't keep me off it.