How Green is the Valley?

You might think that there could be nothing new for me to discover on Mt. Hamilton (and you would be wrong). I have bicycled to the top more than two dozen times, and in all seasons. As the group prepared to depart, one rider remarked that he had no intention of including Kincaid today. He might do that once a year; he just didn't see the point. [Oh, what he's missing!]

I would not include Kincaid today, either; I am in no shape for that. I crawled my way to the top, where I was most grateful to put my feet up on the Reverend's patio and savor my luscious peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich.

On the climb, it is natural to focus on the road ahead and neglect the view behind. White clouds smudged the sky. Old trees were popping out the first leaves of another spring. San Francisco Bay glistened in the distance. From the summit, the snowy peaks of the Sierras were evident.

The buildings have seen a new coat of paint in the past year or so, and from my vantage point the detail on an external stairway caught my eye. How had I never noticed the curled ironwork, the stars in the railing?

The uphill interludes on the descent afford more leisurely sightseeing. A raucous pair of Steller's Jays caught my attention, and as I slowed to listen I noticed a proud wild turkey strutting his stuff. It's mating season! I was a few feet away from his flock of hens; some were foraging, others were taking dirt baths and possibly nesting. The dominant sound in the video clip is that of the noisy Jays. Listen for the turkeys; they made a sound like the resonant plink of a large drip of water hitting a pool.

Always something new to see, and to learn, on Mt. Hamilton.

Winter Break

Off to the Sierras with my colleagues for a two-day refresher course, Winter Fun 101.

After a whirlwind of spa mini-treatments, I set off on a short hike before dinner. Engineers had scattered, eager to check in (and log in). Equipped with a rudimentary paper map, I trudged down an old logging road and found the trail. Some landmarks were clear; others, not so much. When the U-shaped route returned to the road, I opted to retrace my path through the forest instead. The moon was high overhead, but there was enough daylight remaining.

With none of the white stuff at the lodge (elevation: 5300 feet), Friday's snowshoe hike was relocated to Yosemite. There was snow, albeit slushy, at the 7200-foot elevation of Badger Pass, one of California's earliest recreational ski areas.

Ranger Christine was our enthusiastic guide. Crunching uphill at altitude wasn't challenging enough for a couple of guys in our group: they took off at a run, racing each other to the top of the steepest hill we climbed.

The reward? A view across Yosemite to the snow-dusted highlights of the Clark Range.

The ranger invited me to join her in running down the hill, but with clumps of ice caked on my crampons, that would have ended badly.

Winter. Fun. Exercise. Education.

And then, back to work.

Beautiful Noise

A slippery rainy day is not the sort of day to trot out the exotic automotive plumage.

But this was not an ordinary rainy day. It was a rainy day during a Bay Area visit by the legendary Valentino Balboni.

Signore Balboni led the train up the rain-slicked roads, down to the coast and into the city. Navigating through San Francisco, with its hills, potholes, and close-packed traffic, was less nerve-wracking than I had feared.

Early in the drive, a muddy hillside released a soccer-ball-sized rock that oh-so-luckily came to rest at the edge of the road. It was still settling into place as I passed. Most drivers skillfully dodged the debris that the latest storm had thrown our way. One vehicle flatted a rear tire, providing a useful demonstration for a few of us on how not to use a tire repair kit.

On the road, the train was interrupted by the occasional minivan or compact. Most had the courtesy to pull aside, with the notable exception of a seemingly clueless motorhome from Arizona. Leaving our lunch stop, I yielded (not without a sigh) to a Tesla sedan. To his credit, he moved to the shoulder when he had the chance.

“Your car is beautiful.” High praise indeed, in this rarefied atmosphere of Diablos and Murcielagos, Gallardos and Aventadors. There were a couple of fast red cars in our midst, too.

One by one, we filed into the garage at our endpoint. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was a sound to behold.

Achy Brakey Bike Ride

I warned the group that I would be even slower than usual, since I had been off the bike for four weeks. As it happens, I miscounted: it had been five weeks.

First, a seasonal cold virus took me down (for two weeks). Next, I staffed registration and the finish line for the annual Mega-Monster Enduro; the following day, it rained. Then I made a quick trip to the other coast for a family celebration over the long holiday weekend. After packing eight bicycle commutes into the first half of January, wet weather and fog dissuaded me in February.

Which brings me to today, warm and dry and sunny: a taste of spring before the month ends. My cranky legs complained within the first fifty yards, and I wondered if I would cut the ride short. Maybe skip the last, most challenging hill?

Of course, that didn't happen. I plodded along, last to roll up at every regroup (except the finish, despite being a bit more conservative with the brakes than usual). Technically, those five weeks did include some time on a bike (33 flat miles or so)—mostly trips to and from the shuttle bus. Three to five miles a day? Rounding error, essentially.

We racked up some 2,820 feet of climbing along our 24-mile route. The end of Aldercroft Heights Road is about a mile from the base of Wrights Station Road, but the connecting dirt road is strictly off-limits (razor wire courtesy of the San Jose Water Company). With so much of the rest of the watershed fully accessible, one can only wonder what makes that one mile so special. We peered down at Los Gatos Creek from the bridge at Wrights Station; one rider remarked “That little thing fills the Lexington Reservoir?” Yes; but this year, not so much.

The forecasters tell us more rain is on the way, and that is a very good thing. Though for biking, not so much.

Land of Ice and Snow

Between storms, I managed to slip in a quick visit to the east coast for a family celebration.

The gold medal goes to Virgin America, a class act from start (clever safety video) to finish (AC power and USB charging outlets at every seat), including a pre-flight plug for the upcoming Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge on every seat-back entertainment system. Not to mention the email they sent a few days before the trip, warning of possible weather problems and offering the opportunity to re-book without penalty. Get out in front of the problem, before it snowballs (so to speak)—unlike the travel nightmare mismanaged by Continental a few years back.

In contrast, NJ Transit was not only off the podium—they barely managed to finish in last place. My experience pales in comparison to the recent Super Bowl debacle, but I am gratified to learn that the executive director resigned this week.

I have taken trains in Italy and France without difficulty, despite my fluency in one language (English). I have taken the train in Alaska, where it snows (a lot). On the day after yet-another-snowstorm in a modern civilized nation, the train seemed like an ideal way to transport myself from Newark Airport to the Jersey Shore.

A trip that should have taken a little over two hours stretched well over four.

The train for the first leg of my journey was canceled, a fact not reflected on the large color flat-panel display. 5:55 P.M., the schedule read. Luckily I caught the audio announcement. Now, what?

I pulled up the njtransit.com trip planner on my smartphone, which sent me to a different platform to head for Newark Penn Station. Many trains were running late; we arrived at 6:09 P.M. I dashed down and up the stairs to the next platform for my connecting train. It had departed on time, at 6:08 P.M. Now, what?

Catch the 6:40 P.M. train from yet-another-platform? Or catch an earlier connecting train at 6:18 P.M., from this very platform? The overhead schedule listed that as Train 3273, and the number glowed on the engine as it pulled up. I boarded; the LED banner in my car displayed Train 3510. [Have I entered the Twilight Zone?] Another passenger confirmed that the train would indeed stop in Long Branch, where I would wait for that 6:40 P.M train to catch up.

Except that the 6:40 P.M. train developed a mechanical problem and was canceled. We would have to wait for the next train, scheduled to arrive an hour later. Which turned into an hour and a half, due to some other delay.

There is a word that succinctly captures this public sector fiasco. [I'll leave that to your imagination.]

The party was wonderful, and the next snowstorm failed to thwart my escape back to the west coast.

I took advantage of a single sunny day to re-visit a post-Sandy reconstruction site. The pilings are in, the cranes are gone, and the massive building has been shifted to its new perch at the water's edge: modern engineering finesse in the private sector.

Turkeys

Passing the Upper Ranch entrance to the Hollister Hills State Vehicular Recreation Area, I noticed a driver standing beside one of three (large) pickup trucks.

“Stay on the right side of the road!” he shouted.

Interesting, what drama did I miss?

“Don't ride in the center of the road! You almost caused an accident back there!”

Oh, he is addressing ME.

“I wasn't riding in the center of the road,” I called back. (Nor did I ride on the wrong side of the road.) With that much adrenaline flowing, I was glad he was taking it off-road.

What prompted his angry tirade?

Heading uphill on a shoulder-less stretch of rural Cienega Road, I passed a cyclist standing next to his bike. Before doing so, I checked my rear-view mirror for approaching traffic. I saw the white pickup truck. There was ample distance for me to pass the cyclist before the truck would overtake us, and there was another vehicle approaching in the opposite lane, in plain sight.

The pickup driver chose to pass me as I was passing the cyclist. The oncoming driver tooted his horn.

Mr. White Pickup: I didn't almost cause an accident—YOU almost caused an accident, by passing unsafely. This maneuver saved you, what, five seconds?

What might I have done differently? I should have signaled with my left arm, instead of assuming that the driver would reasonably expect me to pass the stationary cyclist in my path. (Honestly, I doubt this would have made a difference. Nonetheless.) I suspect he was so focused on the cyclists (target fixation) that he failed to look at the opposite lane.

Something crashed through the underbrush near the road. I slowed and scanned the woods. Sure enough, a deer. The first time I biked this road, a deer sprang across the pavement in front of me. This one darted back through the trees.

Our destination was the Pinnacles, now a National Park (though the sign still reads National Monument). The pool at the visitor center looked so inviting (in January?), but it was closed; the high temperature for the day was 79F (in January!). I was pleased to average 12 mph on our 66-mile route, with its modest amount of climbing (2,895 feet) on a rare day with no headwind.

Saw some wild turkeys on Cienega, too.

Rattlin' Roads

We got our share of gloomy clouds, but no rain. We need rain.

The Lexington Reservoir has fallen to 31% of its capacity. A great egret and great blue heron joined a crowd of ducks foraging in the shallows. The retreating water leaves puddles in the mud.

Climbing through the redwoods, five deer boldly watched me from the side of the road. When I made eye contact, they turned tail and fled into the forest.

No matter how familiar the route, I always notice something new. Broken glass, remnants of flares, and melted pavement where some car recently crashed on Old Santa Cruz Highway. Power lines attached to a conveniently-situated tree. Dual-purpose bike racks. [Hipster mountain bikers.]

Landslides continue to exact their toll on the mountain roads. It took years to repair one section of Highland Way; the guardrail has already been mostly ripped away. In places, the pavement is broken into pieces that fit together like a crude jigsaw puzzle. The combined weight of me and my bicycle is enough to rattle the loose pieces as I ride over them; imagine the effect of the SUVs and trucks that frequent these roads. [Trust me, I'm lighter.]

The jackrabbits in the group headed down to the coast. I was content to admire Monterey Bay from the ridge. Forty-three miles, 3,895 feet of climbing. It was nice to come home to a hot bowl of soup.