Josie

Letting go is the hardest part.

I promised myself that I would not go to extraordinary lengths to prolong her life. To do otherwise seemed selfish; she would rather be curled up in a spot of sunshine at home than being poked and scanned under artificial lights in a strange lab.

I knew that promise would be hard to keep.

Josie came to me in August, 1998. Losing my previous cat during a tough time in my life had made it even tougher. I couldn't imagine replacing her.

A week later, I was back at the clinic to see their kittens. I was just too sad. “What's the story with that one?” I asked.

Josie was 11 months old, returned by the family that had adopted her. Their new apartment didn't allow cats, they had said. She had been born at the clinic; someone had left a pregnant feral cat in a box on the doorstep.

Settled on my lap, Josie leaned into me, pressed the back of her head to my chest, and started purring.

Every night, she would snuggle up next to me. If she got there first, she'd take my side of the bed. More often than not, if I woke during the night she'd start up purring. When she needed some petting, she'd stretch out a paw and gently tap my shoulder or my face. Her fur was as soft as a chinchilla's.

I was reading the newspaper one day, spread out on the floor, when she trotted over and dropped a spongy ball in front of me. Did she want me to throw it? [Yes!] The more it bounced and ricocheted, the better; she'd bring it back for more. A cat who plays fetch? Sometimes the ball would go splat! in front of me; evidently it was more fun after she soaked it in her water bowl for a while.

She loved shoes. Not to chew them (well, sometimes, if they had stretchy bits). She'd rub against them and roll all over them in a fit of ecstasy.

She had a couple of mystery illnesses as a youngster, never diagnosed, always cured by antibiotics. Hooked up to an IV at the clinic, she stretched her paw through the cage to touch me. “You know,” said the vet, “let's send her home with you now; I think she'll do better there.” After they shaved her belly the second time for an ultrasound, she decided it would be best never to let the fur grow back. In the winter, she would lie smack on top of the best heating vent.

Sitting in front of the computer one night, I heard something rustle and drop. From the kitchen, she had carried upstairs a piece of shortcake in a plastic sandwich bag and deposited it next to my chair. Is this a snack for me, or for you?

Wherever I was, that's where she wanted to be. On my lap at the computer. On, or under, my chair at breakfast and dinner. Often underfoot, she forgave me immediately whenever I stepped on her tail.

She was so active and brave, I had no idea how very sick she was until there were only a few days left.

I miss you so much, sweet Josie Pussycat.

Sometimes a Tailwind

It was a picture-postcard kind of day, with the temperature just right for climbing the back side of Mt. Hamilton. (In other words, cool.) The pros will not be so lucky on Tuesday, when they climb the front side and descend the back side on their way to the Stage 3 finish atop Mt. Diablo.

But first, you have to get to the back side. By climbing the front side, of course.

Ahead of an incoming heat wave, the high temperature at the summit was a mere 49F, and the winds were picking up.

A friend joined me today, eager to climb the back side for the first time. We were both enchanted by the wildflowers and the sweeping views.

Our turnaround point was the bridge over Isabel Creek. Passing motorcyclists seemed friendlier than usual, waving and giving me a thumbs-up. [My “Aha!” moment would come later.]

The climb was less strenuous than I expected—I'm stronger! As the road zig-zagged up the hill, sometimes we had a tailwind. And sometimes a headwind.

By the time we headed back down the front side, the wind was blowing steadily at nearly 15 mph, with gusts to 24 mph. I have descended Mt. Hamilton more times than I can remember, but never with such strong wind. Holding my line was a challenge as the crosswinds buffeted me from side to side. I tucked myself in and low on the bike and kept a firm grip on the handlebar. I was relieved to make it safely back to the starting point; for the day, 50 miles and some 7100 feet of climbing.

At the bridge, I had shed my jacket for a photo-op. I had claimed an unwanted pair of socks from a colleague, and I had promised him a photo. Shocking pink, emblazoned with an up arrow and the words I'm with awesome. “They'll be perfect with my Death Ride jersey!” I had explained.

The one with the skull and crossbones. (Thumbs up!)

Follow Me

Bike to Work Day has a special significance for me. With the encouragement and support of a colleague, I biked to work for the very first time on Bike to Work Day eight years ago. Thousands of bike-commute miles later, I return the favor by inviting colleagues to join me each May.

Twenty-nine people followed me to work this morning; a few were making the trip for the first time.

I was making the trip for the fourth time this week.

We started at a local commuter shuttle stop, since most people would load themselves (and their bikes) onto a bus for the return trip.

I keep it simple:

1. Give each other space.
2. Call out “slowing” and “stopping.”
3. Don't take chances. If we get separated by a red light, we will wait for you.
4. Have fun.

[Guess which rule is most important.]

We waited for some riders from nearby San Jose to join us, then swept up a few more along the way in Saratoga.

This is much easier than I thought it would be. [Success!]

Being out in front makes it tough to capture photos en route. This year I mounted my Narrative Clip to the back of my helmet, and it turned out to be the best application for my Clip (to date). Not only did it capture plenty of respectable photos, it captured plenty of smiles. And all of those smiles were natural—no one expected that little orange square was automatically snapping photos as we rolled along.

Today is the first time I will ride back home. [Success!]

The clouds looked ominous, but we were spared any rain. If only we could have been spared the headwind ...

I want to ride back home with you. [A first-timer. And, she did!]

For me, 43 miles, some 960 feet of climbing, and much joy.

Breezy Backroads

Knowing I would quickly be off the back today without a ride partner, I decided to head east instead of west: Calaveras.

Racers from SJBC encouraged me as I clawed my way up The Wall. They might have ignored me. Or patronized me. Instead, they cheered me on. What a great bunch!

Our groups converged near the dam. They were celebrating with a birthday boy (who turned 60), and approached me to take a group photo. Wait, they said; here comes one more person from our group—Holly. Holly? I know Holly!

They caught me again after the twisty descent toward Sunol, when the road flattens out. The birthday boy had the lead.

Our group crossed the tracks for a gentle climb through Kilkare Woods. The road is not well-traveled, and I came upon a long tree branch completely blocking one lane. I parked the bike, hauled the branch off the pavement, and picked up the larger pieces of debris. The end of the branch had a clean, well-weathered cut; it had been dead for some time, caught overhead after tree trimmers had completed their work. Today was the day when the wind would finally dislodge it, and I later heard that it narrowly missed a cyclist when it crashed down. (Yikes!)

Calaveras is a long, rolling road with no hard climbing (after The Wall). The base of the wall is a T intersection. A right turn would lead me to a wide suburban thoroughfare, back to the start. A left turn would take me back, too, after looping through some wild and rural land.

Decisions, decisions.

Did I mention that a left turn meant ... more climbing?

For the day, some 54 miles and 4,595 feet of climbing. Sheep and goats, horses and cattle, wild turkeys and hawks, one wounded, writhing gopher snake. And a chance encounter with a cycling friend.

Flower Girl

Overheard as a tandem was descending Old La Honda Road: “I think it might be safer to go down 84.” [Yes, cap'n, it is.] Old La Honda is a lovely climb, but a bad choice for the return trip.

One source of entertainment for a slow climber (me) is the occasional snippet of conversation caught as riders pass. Like the group of three guys mentioning a particular actor, murdered some 35 years ago, and the ignominious details that emerged about his private life. How did that subject come up? [It's probably better that I don't know.]

Most of our group was headed for the coast. My ride buddy and I were of a similar mind: keep it short on a windy, chilly day. She graciously insisted that she had only been at the top for a few minutes before I arrived.

I convinced her to drop down the west side, with its expansive views; we were surprised by the wildflowers. After some determined research on Calflora, I can put names to all that I photographed.

Cow Parsnip

Crimson Columbine

California Goldenbanner, Winter Vetch, and Indian
  Paintbrush

It was just a coincidence that we traveled the same distance today as my regular morning commute, but with a tad more climbing (2,190 feet, vs. 385 feet) and scenery.

Being in the neighborhood, on the drive home I made one extra stop. My red cells did a fine job of getting me up the hill today, and now some of them will go on to do something important.

If By Chance

As I coasted home through the park, I noticed that the resident population of Canada Geese had been much reduced. Is it a lucky side effect of the drought, or have the (trained) dogs finally driven them away?

Then I spotted a lone, lean bird in the grass. I slowed to a stop. A Great Blue Heron! My presence gave the bird a dilemma: Take flight, possibly losing the furry prey clenched in its beak, or stand its ground. As I fished my cell phone out of my bag, I watched it maneuver and swallow its prize in a single gulp.

Even the most routine commute rides pack in their share of surprises. In the past two weeks, two colleagues have caught up to me on the evening ride home and slowed to chat.

Feeling lazy this morning, I got a late start. Random factors aligned to stop me at a particular intersection at a particular moment in time. “Pep?” To my right was a former colleague I have not seen in years; we worked for the same company twice (my previous two jobs).

There are three ways for me to cross that busy thoroughfare; I study the traffic flow and signals each morning before I commit. Today, the quickest approach led me onto the perimeter loop of a community college—and to this unexpected meeting at a red light. We had a chance to chat over the next mile before our routes diverged. Both of us were biking to work. Both of us got a late start. Neither of us chooses to cut through the college every morning.

With this recent spate of chance encounters, I cannot help but wonder at the chances missed.

Narrative Clip Oddities

I used a Narrative Clip on three bike rides, capturing more than 4,000 photos. Most were unremarkable, few were worth keeping, many were blurry or distorted. Five of the better photos are posted in Scenes from a Commute. Five of the oddest are featured here.

Other photos captured at the top of Montebello were fine. The color balance is wacky in this one. [The road is not painted green.]

The descent jostled the camera, which captured many photos of my front wheel. A JPEG expert could probably explain what went wrong with this one.

Purple haze on the Stevens Creek Trail.

The wooden planks on this bridge make for a bumpy ride. The camera doesn't cope well with vibration.

There were plenty of distorted images, evidently motion-induced. This office building really stands out. Blurry, I can understand. In focus but wavy, I do not understand.

Sadly, the Clip arrived too late to capture four generations at a dual 90th birthday party earlier this year. Those were some moments I could imagine keeping.