Coastal Caravan

The first couple of times I did this ride, the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, I was itching for a faster start. We were paced out at a leisurely 12 mph or so over the initial 10 miles, which was a penalty for me because that was terrain I could cover at a faster speed.

Oh, how times have changed. With former Olympians and pro riders at the front, including Christian Vande Velde and George Hincapie, this year I lost the wheels of the front of the pack before our u-turn at Robinson Canyon. I rode my heart out, averaging 18 mph for the first 30 minutes, but resigned myself to surrender. A local woman would cross the line first today, champion rider Christine Thorburn, in 4 hours, 46 minutes, 13 seconds—besting Christian and George by 3 seconds. [Well done, Christine!]

I, on the other hand, availed myself of rest stops along the way and stopped to snap the occasional photo. It wasn't a picture-perfect sort of day; it was warm, but there were only brief glimpses of blue skies to the east. The sun peeked out for all of about five minutes.

One factor that slowed me down this year was the traffic. More traffic than I've ever experienced on this ride. Along one stretch, I passed the same vehicles multiple times. Not only did I lose precious momentum on a key downhill, I had to pick my way gingerly alongside SUVs and motorhomes crawling up the hill. In one case, a few of us threaded our way through stopped traffic to the left of a Cruise America RV that left no room to ease past on the right.

It was quiet along the open road. The air was still; no tailwind for the final miles, but no headwind either. Between the layers of low clouds, the sky had a pinkish hue above the horizon. Pelicans, silhouetted against the gloom, glided past at eye level—some heading north, some south. I spied a juvenile snake in my path with little time to react; I think I managed not to clip it.

A volunteer at a rest stop looked out at the Pacific and asked me what was on the other side. I smiled. “Well, it's the open ocean, it's a long way to the other side.” Then I asked where she was from. “San José,” she replied. [Sigh.]

Even though I was slower this year, I found myself passing people. Quite a few people. I played leap frog with a couple of riders for much of the day, but dropped them for good as we headed toward the final pair of climbs. I didn't mind those so much this year; and as in prior years, I passed riders who were walking (or, sitting) on the penultimate climb. Over the years, some riders would sign up to ride the century, confident that they could rely on a SAG vehicle to carry them over these hills. The organizers had been especially complicit over the past two years, providing a full-on truck to carry bikes and vans to ferry people.

Not so, this year. I watched a guy try to flag down a regular SAG van as it rolled past, but it was full. He would have to wait a bit longer.

Cresting that second summit means one thing: It's time to hammer on to the finish line. Even without a tailwind, I was gratified to pick off many riders along the way. I'd see one ahead, in the distance, and think it wouldn't be possible; but time and again, I'd reel them in. They were too spent to give chase.

Throughout the day, I reflected on how much each mile was worth in terms of the money I'd raised for Best Buddies, and I'd pedal strong and proud. I was determined to keep enough people behind me to stay clear of the well-meaning course marshals who sweep the route. Coming down off the final climb, I estimated that my on-bike time would be 7 hours, 40 minutes. I was thrilled to be wrong, crossing the line in 7 hours, 30 minutes. I wasn't last. I wasn't even the last woman. For the day, 100 miles with some 6,280 feet of climbing; average speed, 13.2 mph.

The Pointer Sisters entertained the crowd at the post-ride barbecue, which puzzled me because ... I went to a Pointer Sisters concert when I was a teenager. [That was some time ago.] Our generous host, Steve Hearst, shared the genesis of this event. Anthony Shriver had called him with a proposal for a ride that would start in Santa Barbara and end at Hearst Castle. “People will die,” Steve replied. “You need to start in Carmel.” And here we are again, 12 years later.

I was excited to have a chance to chat with Christian Vande Velde, who was a genuinely nice guy. I was looking for my buddy Cameron, to thank him for his help last fall. They'd announced his name at the start, but Christian explained that he was out with a broken foot (and, training for Kona).

The post-party party up on the Enchanted Hill seemed smaller than usual. Being an early bird for a guided tour, I was treated to a one-on-one (!) visit to two of the cottages.



The famous pool is still drought-dry. Maybe, next year?

Top It Off

I haven't pedaled to the summit of Mt. Diablo in a while. It's a tall ask, that last 235 meters. Over about 0.15 of a mile, the road rises 105 feet.

Could I do it? I've done it before. But the last few times, anxious about having a car behind me, I've abandoned and walked.

Today seemed like an ideal day for an assault: Day one of a three-day weekend. With the crowds headed to the beach for summer's last hurrah, I expected few to choose a drive to the top of the mountain.

I was right.

With my heart rate more or less in check, I looked up at that final ramp and continued without a rest. It didn't look as steep as I remembered, but I knew it would hurt. A family hiking down encouraged me. “Good job!” they called out—even the kids.

My heart rate climbed by twos and threes, sampled every five seconds, topping out at 181 bpm for half a minute. Two and a half minutes of suffering, that's all it took. [That's plenty.] Average heart rate: 176 bpm.

A few years ago I had a cardiac stress test, running on a treadmill. They stopped the test at 173 bpm, which they considered 104% of my maximal heart rate. [Pffft.]

It was surprisingly windy, and the wind was surprisingly chilly. I watched other cyclists donning layers for the descent. Ah, well, the faster I go down, the less time spent feeling cold. We watched smoke rising from a fire to the west and fretted about the wind factor. It was a 10-acre grass fire in Sunnyvale, which they fought rapidly to contain. [Whew.] The mountain is recovering remarkably well from the fire that scorched it two years ago. Some evidence remains, like the blackened dead tree that virtually brushes up against the historic stone building at the top. That was a close call, up there.

I was most of the way down when a line of three cars came into view. A minivan, a pickup truck, and a mini-Cooper. Guess which one was in the “lead” (and I use that term loosely). I kept my distance, but I really don't like having to brake behind cars. I'm sympathetic; I'm sure the minivan doesn't handle particularly well, and maybe the driver doesn't enjoy the challenge. But, sheesh .... pull over and let the traffic pass. [Eventually, she did.]

There's a bit of an uphill near the bottom, and I could hear the minivan catching up to me. I was about to crest the hill; I took the lane, hoping to keep her behind me. Reassuring me of her poor judgment, she passed me nonetheless. And immediately slowed as she started going downhill. Slow enough that, when the opposite lane was clear, I pulled around and passed her. Unlike the (large) guy who coasted (!) past me on the way to the top, with his battery-powered electric bicycle, I don't have a motor. The minivan does.

A fine workout on a fine day: 31 miles with some 3,840 feet of climbing.

Wildlife

The first wildlife sighting was the guy sitting in his car, windows down, at the summit of Old Calaveras Road. Smoking pot. I guess he thought he was in the middle of nowhere. But at 9:15 a.m., really? I was glad he was pointed downhill, as I hoped we would not cross paths with him later.

The paragliders and hang gliders were setting up on the hillside above Sandy Wool lake, as usual; some were already in flight.

Heading up Calaveras toward Felter, a couple of turkeys made an appearance. I've seen them here, before.

The usual turkey vultures, and a hawk, soared overhead on Felter.

Then there was this snake hanging out in the middle of the road (California Red-Sided Gartersnake, Thamnophis sirtalis infernalis). There's not much traffic on this road, but after I was passed later by a huge flatbed truck hauling fancy barbecues, I'm not convinced the snake's day ended well. Even if it stayed right there on the center line.

I caught a glimpse of a Western bluebird as it darted above the road.

The biggest moment of uncertainty was yet to come. Sierra Road is steep, which makes for a fast descent. A coyote popped off the hillside and started running along the road in front of me. (Yikes.) Did it see me? If I pass it, will it give chase? Can I pass it safely, at all?

I pressed the brakes, hoping the right choice would become more clear. Lucky for me, the coyote decided to turn right up the hillside before I got too close. (Whew.) They normally don't attack people, and this one looked adequately fed, but ... who knows?

I had wanted to climb a third hill today, but my legs just weren't up for it. Felter seemed longer and harder than I remembered; the third hill seemed like a bad idea. Each time the road would descend a bit, giving me a break, I'd think “That third hill is only 1.3 miles, how bad can that be?” Then the road would climb a bit and my legs answered No!

I kept it short, 19 miles with 2,500 feet of climbing. With 100 miles of commuting in my legs this week, that was enough.

Happy Trails to You

Farewell to cyclists passing me on blind curves.

Goodbye to the graffiti tags and homeless encampment.

Arrivederci to groups who block the entire trail, walking three abreast.

Toodle-oo to the joggers who abruptly stop, mid-trail, and flip a u-turn with no regard for people behind them.

Adiós to the iDiots, white wires dangling from their ears, oblivious to the world around them.

Auf wiedersehen to cyclists turning onto the trail without a glance for oncoming traffic.

To the dog-walkers with their leashes strung across the trail ... bye-bye.

When the Stevens Creek Trail was extended across a freeway a few years ago, taking it seemed like a game changer. More than four car-free miles without stoplights!

Armchair cyclists, fearful of sharing the road with cars and trucks, long for trails like this to ride. If only ... if only there were trails connecting home to office, they just might make the trip by bike instead of car—they're sure of it.

Whenever I would tell a non-cyclist that the trail was the most treacherous part of my commute, they stared at me in disbelief.

I've had more close calls on the trail than on the street. Generally, motorists are predictable and follow the rules of the road. Trails, on the other hand, are a free-for-all.

Recently the city announced some changes for the Stevens Creek Trail. A speed limit of 15 mph (which, actually, was already the case). Electric bicycles and skateboards would now be permitted.

Just what we need. Commuters on heavy motorized bikes who know nothing about cycling etiquette. Skateboarders who fly down any incline they can find, over and over again.

The speed-limit announcement implied there would be enforcement. An electronic sign, registering and recording speeds, appeared along the trail for a week or so.

Surely that wouldn't affect me? On the heavy hybrid I use for commuting, cyclists are constantly zipping past me. And I'm a courteous trail user, slowing as I approach others, ringing my bell. People wave, and smile, and thank me.

Then I looked at the data. [Uh oh.]

I'd been routinely cruising along the straights at 16-17 mph. If the trail is clear, I'm much faster coming down the bridges. The last thing I want is a slower commute. [Or a citation.]

I shuttled to work this morning, but biked home in the evening. It's been a few years since I adapted my route to take full advantage of the trail, but I can do well without most of it. In the morning, I can bypass it entirely. In the evening, the trail is the safest way to cross the freeway, expressway, and railroad tracks. Then, exit, stage right.

To my surprise, my old route was actually faster—despite getting caught by two red lights. Without having to slow down to pass every meandering body on the multi-use trail, I was able to sustain a more constant speed.

Sayonara, Stevens Creek Trail.

All Quiet on the Mountain

More than halfway through the year, and I hadn't climbed Mt. Hamilton ... unthinkable. Today was the day to fix that.

The temperature was perfect, and for some reason there was little traffic; motorcycles, mostly.

Along with little traffic, there was little breeze and little view. There is likely a relationship among those three elements. The sky was layered with smoke from distant wildfires.

I paused to watch some deer munching on the still-green leaves of a large branch that had snapped off an oak tree. Flora and fauna, stressed by the drought.

There were, of course, other cyclists. I chatted with a couple of first timers, and passed an over-dressed guy who was struggling. He hadn't gotten much farther when I passed him again on the way down, despite the additional time I'd taken for lunch at the top.

I'd heard they'd done some work on the upper section of the road; notably, they re-graded a gnarly switchback near the top, making the steep inside curve more gentle. On one trip up the mountain, I had witnessed a motorcyclist stall and tip over on that curve. With its wheels uphill and weighty body downhill, he needed help to stand the bike back up.

I was surprised (and mystified) to see Cipollini's name freshly stenciled on the road in multiple spots, as he retired some time ago. And he's not exactly local.

For the day, the usual 39 miles and 4,860 feet of climbing. My favorite.

Lake Shasta Caverns

We're heading back to the Bay Area today, but that doesn't mean we can't find some more fun.

My ride buddy had done her research and found an attraction that wouldn't have been on my radar screen: Lake Shasta Caverns. It's even a National Natural Landmark, like Burney Falls (which we visited last year) and Mt. Shasta itself.

Our timing couldn't have been better. We arrived early, but missed the first tour of the day (a busload of tourists). For our small group, it felt like a private tour.

We hiked down to the water's edge to catch a boat across Lake Shasta, which is fed in part by a river we visited two days ago. With the drought, the water level is down by some 150 feet. Over such a huge surface area, that's a lot of missing water.

On the other side, a small bus carried us up to the door where we would enter the cavern. Our guide filled us in on some history and interesting facts along the way. She claimed that poison oak will mimic the plants around it, which is something I'd not heard before (and, have not been able to substantiate). She also told us about treating the rash with Manzanita, which has indeed been recommended elsewhere. My strategy is to avoid the devilish vines in the first place, but I'm filing that remedy away in the “good-to-know” category.

Along the way, a friendly California Sister (Adelpha californica) posed nicely on the fence rail.

I haven't visited many caves; my family just wasn't into that. The caverns were unexpectedly fascinating, with a great variety of formations—not just the stalactites and stalagmites you'd expect. Flowstone, for example. The floor could be pretty slippery; there were handrails, but shoes with stickier soles would have been better than my hiking boots.

Most of the formations are “alive” (still growing). Our guide's flashlight illuminated the difference. Only the living formations had a translucent glow. We were cautioned not to touch, as the oils from our hands disrupt the chemistry and “kill” future growth. One room was an exception to this rule, including a formation that invited us to crawl inside.

A natural entrance to the cave was high above us in the last “room,” which was enormous. Bats swooped overhead as we stood there, admiring the spectacle.

I'm a curious sort of person, but I have to admit that, had I stumbled across the entrance to these caverns I would not have ventured inside. Especially with the primitive tools and lighting available in 1878. Thank you, Mr. Richardson.

A Social Century

The Mount Shasta Summit Century is the reason my biking buddy and I drove up to Siskiyou County. “Summit” is a bit of a misnomer; the ride ends, along with the paved road, at an altitude of 7,780 feet. There's quite a bit of mountain above that point, as the peak tops out at 14,179 feet.

The ride is put on by the local chamber of commerce, so we were surprised to see no hint of the event as we walked around town. No flyers. No posters. No signs. When we hiked at Castle Lake, we saw a notice that the parking lot would be closed on Sunday [rest stop], so we felt reassured that they hadn't called it off and forgotten to let us know.

We had registered for the full century, but as we did last year with the Fall River Century, we concocted our own route. We're the Goldilocks of cycling: 100 miles with 10,500 feet of climbing is too big, and 59 miles with 4,000 feet of climbing is too small. And of course we wanted to bike up Mt. Shasta. Shorten a loop here, skip a climb there, and go up the mountain. Just right.

Imagine our surprise when the first cyclists we met en route were a couple from our own bike club, on their tandem.

This event was the most social century of any bike event I've ridden. Normally, the hard core cyclists zip past without a word, intent on making good time. Not today. I had so many nice conversations with cyclists who slowed to chat. I called out to a couple of guys wearing a jersey from my home state—that's something I've never seen before, as it's hardly a nexus of cycling. One lives in California now, and his brother flew out to do this ride and spend a couple of weeks touring the Pacific Northwest.

There were also more women riding than I have ever seen at a cycling event (with the exception, of course, of the Cinderella). And they, too, were friendly. I was wearing a jersey from one of our club events, and some women admired it as they passed. One recognized the club and raised a fist in triumph, shouting “Sierra to the Sea!” She'd had the chance to do that ride.

Another first was the woman riding up the first climb on a mountain bike ... with three sled-dogs-in-training yoked together.

Raindrops started falling just as we finished lunch. We kept going. Sprinkles are fine; a downpour and slick roads, not so much. When I'd heard a thunderclap on the morning climb, I wondered just how we would find shelter in a lightning storm (surrounded, as we were, by really tall trees). A cyclist who was cutting his ride short offered me his jacket, asking only that I return it later to his hotel. But it was a warm day, and here's the thing: Once you're wet, you're wet. The raindrops actually felt good.

Early on the slopes of Mt. Shasta, something caught my eye just off to the side of the road. How silly, I thought; why would someone put a statue of a deer out there in the forest? [Duh.] It was a live doe, standing so still and with a coat so perfect she didn't look real. She was watching me. “Hi there,” I said. “Be careful if you're going to cross the road.” As soon as I passed, that's exactly what she did. Luckily the woman driving an oncoming car saw her, and slowed.

I was a bit apprehensive whenever I passed someone walking along the road. What are they doing, basically in the middle of nowhere? Are they going to harass me? The guy in the green t-shirt, carrying a paper grocery bag, cheered me on. “Great job!” he called out. The scruffy mountain man, with his long hair and longer beard, greeted me with a friendly hello.

The climb itself, 15 miles at a gentle 5.6% grade, didn't even require my granny gear. Nonetheless, being unfamiliar, it seemed everlasting. “You did the Death Ride,” I reminded myself: twice the climbing. Keep turning the pedals. I noticed the thinner air around 7,000 feet. “You climbed above 10,000 feet last year,” I told myself. No excuses.

By the time I made it to the top, I was more than ready to be done. And looking forward to the descent, with its smooth pavement and wide sweeping turns. Three of us took off at the same time, and I was finding it a challenge to keep a respectable distance. When I reached a comfortable place to pass them, I did. Later, when they arrived at the finish, the woman saw me. “You're a great descender!” she said. Thanks, I smiled. “I followed her all the way down!” she announced.

Two fast guys had flown past me; I know better than to give chase. A woman passed me, too, and gained some distance but stayed within sight. I could play with that. Just by tweaking my aerodynamics, and with greater comfort in the curves, I started gaining on her. She was surprised when I passed her. “It's a great descent!” she shared, when she pulled even with me again.

For the day, 79 miles, 7480 feet of climbing. My legs hurt. Just right.