Ramsen

Our tour begins in the town of Ramsen, where we're staying at a “velohotel.”

What is a velohotel, you ask?

It's a hotel that understands what cyclists need, and accommodates us. Typically that means a safe place to stash our bikes, maybe with a floor pump and some basic tools. Here, we have a bonus: A backyard with a clothesline, outfitted with clips. Post-ride laundry will dry in no time!

Some cyclists of note have preceded us at the Hotel Hirschen Ramsen. Team Leopard Trek stayed here in June, 2011 during the Tour de Suisse—including two pros I regard highly, Jens Voigt and Swiss champion Fabian Cancellara. A framed, hand-written thank you letter hangs in a hallway, and I recognized all the names, primarily from watching Le Tour de France.

First order of business today was to reassemble my bicycle. With time to explore the town on foot, I learned that the church dates back to 1796, but the congregation was established in the 13th century. The graves in the churchyard were carpeted with flowers and so well tended that one neglected plot made me feel sad; I couldn't walk away without pulling the weeds.

Next order of business: a test ride. In my street clothes, I blended right in with the locals. I didn't plan to to venture far, especially in the heat (88F degrees). Once I was on the bike, of course, I didn't want to stop.

The German border was just a couple of blocks away, but I headed out through the fields and skirted through some woodland, nearly to the banks of the Rhine. Exploring the unmarked local roads without a map, I was careful to note landmarks along the way. The tower of the town's church would guide the way home.

I turned back to darkening skies; the wind picked up just as I rolled into town, but the storms passed us by.

Zürich

Traveling with a bicycle, it's generally advisable to arrive a day or two before you expect to start riding. I've been fortunate in that (so far) my bike has not been delayed. Taking a direct flight also reduces chances for your bike to go astray.

Staying in a hotel near Zürich International, I was surprised to discover signs pointing cyclists (and inline skaters, and pedestrians) on a route to the airport. Things are different, here.

Other than visiting colleagues at the office for lunch and a tour, I had no real plan for the day.

Even though I don't speak German (sadly, not even a little bit), I wasn't concerned. Past excursions in Europe have built my confidence; you can get by pretty well with gestures and a smile, help from Google Translate, and ... lots of Europeans know some English (and are accustomed to mono-languaged tourists).

Google Maps helped me navigate by train (and foot) to the office. At last, I met some people I'd only seen on video screens. They were excited to recommend sights to see, and the sweeping view from an upper-floor lounge helped orient me.

I wandered off to explore the old part of town, generally surprised by the amount of construction everywhere. And cigarette smokers (everywhere). And, bicycles! Everywhere! The Velostation at the main train station offers secure bike parking and minor services. There were so many bikes on the racks alongside the station that I couldn't capture them in a single photo. (And there were more parked around the corner, in front of the station.)

Two passions in one picture: Am I a magnet, or what?

There were too many options for me to explore in one day, especially with jet lag creeping over me. I managed to cover more than seven miles, on foot. I figured out the routine at the post office, and a friendly clerk found pretty stamps for my cards.

I stumbled upon Predigerkirche at a lucky time: the massive pipe organ was getting a workout—it was almost too loud. What sound! I visited the Wasserkirche, strolled down to the lake and crossed the Limmat for another view of the Wasserkirche and the iconic towers of the Grossmünster.

The Zeughauskeller had been recommended for dinner, along with a less-touristy option. I went with the former, uncertain how I would fare at a smaller place without speaking German. Normally I would have tried to master some basics before the trip, but the past couple of months just didn't allow that.

At the train station, I was too weak to pass the Sprüngli shop ... nothing that chocolate couldn't cure, of course. The box itself was an engineering marvel, perfectly designed to hold my treat just so.

Not to worry, I'll burn off those calories in the next few days.

Tomorrow, I'll join the rest of the group in the countryside.

One Hill to Climb

It's been a topsy-turvy couple of months, with little time for cycling. A couple of bike commutes, that's all.

The more I thought about today's club ride, the more I admitted that I needed to scale it back. Way back. Not just due to lack of fitness, but to conserve a most precious resource: time. In a few days, with mixed emotions, I will be on a jet bound for Zürich and a long-planned summer cycling trip. A trip that had been off-again, on-again so many times over the past two months.

My ride partner and I started our route near the new elementary school in the hills. The site is virtually on the San Andreas fault, and when the town said it was too costly to renovate (or rebuild) to modern safety standards, the mountain residents raised a ruckus. And got the new school they deserved.

Just one hill, nothing more or less. Up through the redwoods, and back. Ten miles, 1,080 feet of climbing.

Remembering Mom

The inevitable day comes, when mother and child must part forever.

Two months ago, Mom was tottering about independently at home. Her memory was spotty and the family was wary, but she was determined to live her life on her terms (and frightened of the alternatives).

None of us had a clue that really, she was terribly ill.

One month ago, she was in sub-acute care and we were exploring those alternatives. Assisted living ... with memory care now, or in the future?

Two weeks ago, she was in the hospital and we were preparing to move her to a nursing home (her worst nightmare). She was upset that her fingernails were a mess—she loved her manicures. I did my best to trim and file them.

Four days ago, we placed her in hospice care. I did my best to hold her when she cried, and not to break down at the same time. Once, she managed to lift an arm, reaching to comfort me back. How not to break down, then?

This afternoon, I was standing over her when she suddenly opened her blue eyes wide. Could she know, then, that she wasn't alone?

Tonight, I was stroking her hair when she took her last breath.

I regret not having more photos of the two of us, sharing good times.

Of carefree days at the beach: Dad would meet us there, after work. He'd wear his bathing trunks under his suit and pick up a barbecued chicken for a picnic supper.


Of Scrabble games: Mom couldn't keep score last December and tired after two games, but she still played some darned good words. The words—not the numbers—were the challenge, for us. How many hundreds of boards did we fill, over all these years of my life? She never minded that I outscored her virtually every time.

Of trips we took together: Florida. California. Thanksgiving weekend in Manhattan. England. There was such joy in her smile.

If you don't have an advance directive or a living will—or whatever it's called where you live—you should. (Mom did.) She didn't want to live with dementia, or to linger in a nursing home for years. Her last days were not without suffering, but that time was mercifully short.

Now, there are only memories.

In the Moment

A day of reflection was needed, and at such times I'm drawn to the sea.

The overcast sky suited my frame of mind. I would spend much of the day outdoors, but first headed to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I normally visit for member events, when the crowds will be sparse. On this Sunday morning, the place was bustling with families and I enjoyed that more than I expected. The kids put every interactive exhibit through its paces, and then some. I pointed out some of the well-camouflaged creatures tucked away in tanks that jaded adults concluded were empty. I learned that the residents of the aviary are all rescued and rehabilitated shore birds that can no longer survive in the wild.

I noticed a panel featuring a quote attributed to Francis Bacon:

We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand—and melting like a snowflake.

I ambled slowly southward through Pacific Grove, along the promenade. Harbor seals lounged on a beach, some nursing their pups. One hapless little one would advance a few feet from the water's edge, only to be rolled and pulled back by the next wave's advance.

I read about the signature “magic carpet,” Drosoanthemum floribundum, in glorious trailside bloom. It's an ice plant native to South Africa, tended here by volunteers, and a legacy of the first volunteer, a curious adventurer named Hayes Perkins, who planted it. The promenade passes through the eponymous Perkins Park, dotted with benches dedicated to others who found solace in this place.

Later, I would find the preamble to Bacon's quote.

Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity.

Movin'

Last year was The Year of the Dog; this, The Year of the Turkey Vulture. The bird was occupied with some delectable piece of carrion and none too concerned with us. It was pure chance that my ride buddies and I had stopped nearby.

This was the coldest Tierra Bella pre-ride I can remember. I regretted not having insulated my head and toes. “If the Tierra Bella is next week, why are you all riding today?“ asked a cyclist on the opposite side of the road. When we explained that we ride the course to check the markings and look for any problems, he thanked us. With any luck, we'll get that spray of broken glass and pulverized bits of car on the shoulder of Highway 152 cleaned up.

Given our extended drought, I have been surprised at the abundant wildflowers this spring. It was a banner year for the oaks to produce acorns, too.

Canada Road offers a swift descent to the valley, with some care. One sweeping arc, in particular, tends to catch some cyclists unprepared. I tapped the brakes to keep the new bike from getting carried away. My rear-view mirror allowed me to keep an eye on a wide SUV that was trailing me at a distance. The gap would shrink whenever the road tilted up or straightened out, but once we hit the curves I had the advantage. Reaching a long straight stretch, I sat up and slowed to let it pass.

The driver pulled even with me and matched my speed. Mountain bikes on the rear rack, windows down. “You were movin'!” the passenger exclaimed. “Yes,” I smiled. “It's fast.” Curious about where we were headed, I told them about the upcoming Tierra Bella.

Starting and finishing at the site of our post-ride barbecue, we cut the 100k route a bit short: 55 miles, with 2,260 feet of climbing.

Flat, essentially.

Coe Coasting

Not too hot. Not too cold. Not too windy. Green hills and wildflowers in abundance. Thomas Grade seemed steeper, and the steep grade on East Dunne seemed shorter.

My ride buddy turned back at some point on the hill below me, so I talked to the deer and cattle along the way. Hawks soared overhead and a lone turkey ambled across the road, in no particular hurry.

Other riders from the group were enjoying Henry Coe's picnic tables by the time I got there. Our club members are phenomenal. One guy pulled a full sack of fresh oranges from his pack. He'd stopped at a roadside stand and hauled them up the hill to share with all of us! He was out for an epic 100-mile day (or more), whereas I  had shortened the ride a bit (29 miles with 3,500 feet of climbing).

I was looking forward to the descent. With its wide, smooth pavement and no cross streets, I would be able to let the new bike roll in the final stretch. My peak speed there has been constant over the years.

Until today, when I was 10% faster.