Big Game Hunting

Save the poodle! Save the poodle!

Even when you're biking in familiar territory, you just might learn something new. A few independent riders were climbing up the hill at the same pace as our group, and we started comparing our ride plans. “We ride up to see the dinosaurs,” they explained. Their route was similar to ours. What have we been missing?

Not only did we find the fearsome predators, we met their keepers as well. The pterodactyl was temporarily grounded, awaiting a connection to a freshly-installed post to anchor its aerial wire. The owners started their collection with the life-sized Tyrannosaurus rex about three years ago, and talked about how they decorate the creatures for holidays. Let's just say that a Christmas-season visit may be in order (though not until shopper/choppers are done fetching trees up there).

Returning from our extended excursion along Highland Way, a sweeping arc of high clouds caught my eye. From one vantage point, conditions were clear enough for a view of Monterey Bay glistening in the distance.

The first long ride on the new bike felt great: 40 miles with 3,460 feet of climbing. I was moving pretty fast on a familiar downhill straightaway and thought, gee, I'm not even trying. I adjusted my body to a more aerodynamic position and ... the bike jolted forward. Instantaneously. Who put a turbocharger on this thing?

Those engineers at Cervélo? They know what they're doing.

Bike the Track

No, not the velodrome; a different breed of track. For racing fast things with motors, ordinarily.

One of the more unusual places to ride a bicycle in the Bay Area is a track of some renown: Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca. They host a monthly Twilight Ride for bicycles, which I had decided to check out this month. The timing couldn't have been better: What could be a more fitting inaugural outing for my new ride than this?

It was a perfect fit: the track's signature colors matched my bike (black, white, blue). I might have been the only first-timer tonight—but not the slowest. It was a pretty casual affair: pay the $10 fee, turn left, and go. The steepest climb leads to the track's famous corkscrew, a precipitous drop through a set of quick turns.

Despite pausing to snapshot the views, I was surprised at how quickly I completed the first circuit. The loop is 2.238 miles. (To be precise). Fast bike?

Smooth pavement, lovely curves, a steep climb, a thrilling descent ... what's not to like? I wondered if circling the same loop would become boring, but found it became more fun as I challenged myself to push harder, to take a faster line through each turn. With only about two dozen cyclists spread out over the course, it often felt like I had the place to myself.

Best lap: 10:43.
Max speed: 40.82 mph, at this spot.
Overall, 1,110 feet of climbing over 14 miles.

Zoom zoom.

pep's New Ride

I've had my eye on Cervélo for a while; years, in fact. But I didn't need a new bike.

My friends with Cervélos rave about them. But there was nothing wrong with my bike.

Technology has advanced since I bought one of the very first Trek Pilot 5.2 WSD bikes. (Ten years ago.)

A new compact double offers a higher high gear, and a lower low gear, than my triple. But that drivetrain isn't offered as a standard model.

Now and then, I'd browse the Cervélo website and ... move on. Really, there was no reason to buy a new bicycle.

My first bike was a hand-me-down aqua Rollfast that my mother bought from one of her cousins. I don't know how old I was when I learned to ride it; it's full-sized and heavy, so I'm guessing I was 8 or 9. I remember my dad steadying the bike behind me till I took off. He didn't believe in training wheels.

As a teenager, 10-speed bikes were the thing. My parents bought me a new blue bike (Schwinn, probably)—with 5 speeds. My dad didn't believe in gears, either.

In grad school, I saved and invested in my first diamond frame bike, a 10-speed Raleigh in brown. The bike didn't fit—I barely cleared the top tube—but I rode it, in a busy city, without a helmet (in those days). Years later, I sold it to a friend.

In the '90s, hybrid bikes were the thing. 27 gears! Grip-shift. Full-sized wheels with knobby tires. A relaxed diamond “ladie's frame” that fit. My black Trek 720 Multitrack has seen more action than I ever imagined; it's the workhorse of my commute. To say that I have gotten my money's worth is an understatement for the ages.

By 2005, carbon fiber was the thing. I struggled up hills on my steel hybrid. The relaxed geometry of the Trek Pilot was a new thing. Even the smallest frame in the women's specific design accommodated full-sized wheels. The 5.2 WSD edition in glistening “pewter carbon” has been my main ride ever since.

Till now.

A colleague made me an offer I couldn't refuse. After upgrading to an S-series, his meticulously maintained R5 frame was sidelined. He'd sell it to me. He'd build it up with the gearing and short cranks and narrow handlebars I needed. He mounted my saddle, attached the pedals, and off I rode—full circle—on the hand-me-down of my dreams.

A Country View

Despite being a relative newcomer to the Bay Area cycling community, a few years ago I discovered a new hill to climb. And, given that I persuaded my fellow club members that it was a worthy challenge, it seems only fair that I should tackle it from time to time.

I confess that it's been a while. The past few years, I felt that I didn't have the legs for it. It's a beast of a climb, with two short descents that exact their toll on the return from the top. The teensy cyclist in this picture is yours truly, courtesy of my ride buddy, as I hit the bottom of that first pitch.

How steep are those descents? Steep enough to top 37 mph in less than a tenth of a mile. Sounds great for some uphill momentum on the other side, right? Alas, no ... the grade is that intense.

But oh, the views from the top!

On the way up, I paused on the second (and longest) segment; I knew I'd have a better time if I got my heart rate down. A little bit of recovery (from 178 to 143 bpm) made all the difference. I pedaled past the spot where I normally take a break and continued straight to the top.

After exalting at the pinnacle of this success, we headed south for a picnic at Uvas Canyon County Park. The park was uncharacteristically packed, with cars queued to pay the entrance fee. [Pro tip: no fee for bicycles. But it's a bit of a climb to get there.]

At the end of the day, I was spent. 3,140 feet of climbing over 58 miles—well spent.

Keepin' Score

Metrics are everywhere. Take, for example, a simple wooden sign nailed to a utility pole at a curve along today's route:

CAR 5

POLE 17

The paint looked fresh. Odds are that the pole's count merited the latest update.

One rider in our group was proud to show me his bare handlebar: no bike computer, no stats. Others compete to climb more hills or cover more distance than their peers. The rider at the top of our club's leaderboard for 2014 biked more than 10,000 miles and climbed over 836,000 feet—just on club rides. He often commutes by bike, as well.

We had a preview of summer at the coast today—cold and fog. Not that I'm complaining: I'm out here riding my bike through the redwood forest, while friends and family on the other coast suffer temperatures in the single digits and more snow than they'd like.

Creeks were flowing and the traffic was light.

58 miles, 4,860 feet of climbing. The fun factor is harder to measure.

One Cool Cat

You can be sure you're in Woodside when you get the traditional Woodside Welcome:

Go home and ride your bike in your own neighborhood!

A lady of the manor rolled down her window to shout at one of the women in our group, as if we were teenaged delinquents rampaging through town.

You should have replied “This is my neighborhood,” I suggested wryly.

We were climbing the steep section of a wide residential street, impeding no one on this sunny holiday. [Technically, we were in Portola Valley, but the animus is the same.]

We had already biked up (and down) Alpine. The group had traveled at a fast clip, intent as they were to reach the end of the road. Whereas I tend to meander, looking about. And, well, I have this knack for noticing things.

What I will remember most about this ride were the pawprints I spotted on the upper stretch of Alpine Road, which climbs gently alongside a creek. Still damp, in a line, claws retracted. The cat must have climbed up from the banks and then ... where? I considered stopping to snap a photo, but the prints had to be fairly fresh. Was the puma watching me? Wiser to keep moving and catch up with the group, ahead.

Enjoy the simple things: An invigorating ride with friends on a glorious day off (24 miles, 1,960 feet of climbing). Savor a sweet indulgence: A post-ride Linzer cookie from the Woodside Bakery. Embrace beauty.

Money doesn't buy happiness.

On Being Excessive

My thoughts wandered as I passed the towering redwoods on today's ride. The age of the trees, the age of the planet, the age of the universe, the age of the cyclist having these thoughts.

On a recent visit to the local library, I spied a copy of Half the Road on a rack and checked it out. A documentary I had meant to watch, then forgotten.

Not being a runner, I didn't know the story of K. V. Switzer, the first woman to register successfully and run the Boston Marathon. There were shots of the race manager physically accosting her, trying to pull off her race numbers—women were not allowed to run more than 800 meters, much less a marathon. In 1967. I remember 1967.

Our group was heading for a 65-mile ride with some 6,800 feet of climbing, and that was more than I wanted: more distance, more climbing. I hatched an alternate plan that would shave off some distance and elevation. My ride partner, working to rebuild endurance after a hiatus off the bike, trusted me.

The film also told the story of an angry letter from the chauvinistic UCI to the organizer of the Women's Challenge bicycle race, refusing to sanction the event because it included excessive climbing. Excessive stage distances. Excessive number of stages. Excessive duration of event. Women weren't allowed to climb that many feet, cycle those distances, ride that many days. In 1990. In 1990, 1967 was 23 years ago.

To say that I had miscalculated our alternate route would be ... an understatement. It was how far from the park's headquarters to Boulder Creek? [Uh-oh.] And I'd thought we'd climb just a couple of miles back to the intersection that had led us to the park. [It was nearly eight miles.]

The film was inspiring with stories of strong, determined women. And here we were: not racing, but headstrong and determined to finish. “Where's my chauffeur?” joked my ride buddy. “Send the limo!”

My ill-conceived route entailed 64 miles with 6,180 feet of climbing. I got home in time to return the DVD to the library. By bike.