Nature's Way

I sense a letter theme developing: today I bring you the letter “V” (more or less). And a tree that grew, for years and years; a host for moss and other clinging plants of the damp forest. Until it shattered, falling away from the creek. There it will rest, slowly breaking down, long past the day when I might visit no more.

On a day like today, it can be hard to get the layers right. Jacket, or jacket-plus-arm warmers? I shed the latter, but as soon as we were moving I regretted that decision. Nothing a few more watts of exertion couldn't improve.

At the upper end of Alpine Road, our group gathered in the shade. I decamped to a sunny spot a few yards away, but they stayed put. [Go figure.]

Watching some mountain bikers emerge from the trail at the end of Alpine Road, a fellow rider started spinning tales of doom and danger. To which, at the moment, I was not particularly keen to listen. She mentioned being a nervous descender, afraid of crashing. “Don't focus on that,” I advised. “If you're thinking about crashing, you'll crash,” I offered as I accelerated down the hill. Really. Focus on where the pavement is wet. Focus on the slick grime near the roadside construction. Focus on taking a clean line at a safe speed around a blind corner. Focus on staying upright.

1,939 feet of climbing over 24 miles—enough to tire me out.

Seasons Change

Today's tale is brought to you by the letter “O”. (No, not really.)

The entrance to one of the local Christmas tree farms features a giant artificial wreath, year round. Most incongruously, daffodils were blooming beneath it today. In this break between storms, we're having some (lovely) unseasonable weather.

Yet, just about the time I was overheating and thinking about shedding my jacket, I rode into a downright chilly dip of air. Procrastination has it rewards.

A simple ride in familiar territory, with friends; nothing strenuous or eventful. Apart from the sad carcass of a doe in the middle of the road, that is. Looked like something of a mountain-lion feast, but I'll spare you the details.

A comfortable ride, 31 miles with 2,460 feet of climbing, before the welcome rains return.

Blue Sky Daze

Mother Nature smiled upon me and delivered a fresh foot of snow for my first day on the slopes.

But first, there was the matter of getting fitted with new boots. My old ones were, well ... old. Very old. With (at best) a handful of days per season, I don't wear them out. The master fitter at The Sport Loft joked that the new pair would need to last 20 years, as well.

There's nothing like that new-ski-boot feeling, crushing the bones in your foot and leaving you to wonder if you will, in fact, be able to pull the thing off.

No worries. The master knows his trade. K2's Spyre 110 was the boot for me. Low-volume edition.

New boots. New skis. First day on skis in four years.

What could possibly go wrong?

I gently glided downhill to the chairlift. [Whew.] Would I remember how to do this? [Yes.]

I've spent so much time with ski instructors that it seems they are always with me. If only my performance would measure up to their expert coaching! But no matter, I made it downhill. And by the end of the day, I had the confidence to tackle a black diamond trail. (It wasn't pretty, but I got down. Without tumbling.)

Alta is my favorite place to ski. [No snowboarders.] Rock 'n Roll. Challenger. Rollercoaster. Corkscrew. Staring down the steep and narrow Extrovert, my bravado faded fast. [Repeat after me: You're a better skier than you think you are.] Definitely outside my comfort zone, and that's important.

“What's the plan today,” I'd ask my friends in the morning. “Ride up. Ski down.” I haven't heard the familiar words in years. All is right with the world.

Uncharacteristically, we even spent a day skiing together (they're much more skilled than I). They led me on a grand tour of Deer Valley, from Jordanelle to Orion, and back—over and under bridges, past lodges and chalets, and ... wait for it ... no snowboarders!

Sunshine, stillness, snow-covered peaks. Yes, I do remember how, and why, to ski.

Poor Pitiful Pep

The bad thing about promising to meet up with a buddy for a ride is that the weather might be less than enticing, when the time comes.

The good thing about promising to meet up with a buddy for a ride is that you need to show up, anyway.

And so it was this morning, gloomy and gray at home. But not so in the east bay, where skies were clear and blue. For a while, anyway.

Winter rains have returned, at last, greening the landscape. In this break between storms, I was mindful of the road surface—pockets of wet lingered from yesterday's storm. This moss-wrapped tree was a sign.

So were the emergency vehicles, sirens wailing, that passed us on the climb up to the canyon. With no evidence of a car wreck, almost assuredly some cyclist had gone down—as had a veteran of our club, yesterday, on this very route.

The road surface was almost entirely dry today, with a few mini-landslides on the fringes. More roadkill than I've seen here before; skunks, mostly. With the low volume of traffic on this road, that's truly a puzzle.

We were headed for Sunol, but ominous clouds rolled in over the hills as we got closer. I had the legs for it, but not the toes. The wind picked up, and it was not a warm one.

We turned tail and hoped to avoid the rain that surely was falling on some not-too-distant hills. How fast that blew in!

28 miles with 2,550 feet of climbing tuckered me out. I'm in poor shape, a pitiful pudgy pep.

I took care not to get carried away on the descent. There is that stop sign, at the bottom, after all. Where's that clever electronic speed sign? [Ah, partially obscured by a bush, these days.]

36 mph. Oopsie.

Ham, or Turkey?

In 2015, I climbed more than 149,000 feet and pedaled more than 3,575 miles. Time to reset the cycle computer.

It's a Bay Area tradition to climb Mt. Hamilton on January 1st. One of my biking buddies invited me to join her, and ... well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It seemed like less of a good idea this morning, with the thermometer at my house reading 31F. In other words, -0.5C.

Why do this? Maybe she'll bail out. [Nope.]

Who am I to cancel, then? Some sort of cold-weather ultra-wimp?

The climb was comfortable enough; it's the descent you have to keep in mind. The road was wet, in places, just as I expected. My toes were numb, despite wool socks and booties. It was a challenge to brake with stiff fingers. I've come down from the top before, with teeth chattering.

Sensibly, we opted for half-a-Ham today, declaring victory at the entrance to Joseph D. Grant County Park. The sun was determined to hide in the clouds; the summit was just not enticing.

Let's get this New Year started: 17 miles, 2,030 feet of uphill.

Half Moon Bay on Christmas Day

I heard the birds on Christmas Day ... Oh, wait—that's a different song.

How would I spend this day, the first Christmas not celebrated with Mom? This, our favorite time together.

Answering the innocent question “What are you doing for Christmas?” has been hard, this year.

I thought and thought. I thought some more. A hike, I'd decided. Something local.

Then a good friend suggested that I join her for a walk along the coast near Half Moon Bay. Low tide exposed the rocky beds, and cliffs basked in the rays of the afternoon sun.

Egrets and gulls hunted their dinners, children and dogs scrambled and splashed. A stately heron stood apart.

More than a century and a half has passed since Longfellow penned those words, hauntingly apt in our time.

For hate is strong,
and mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men.

It was, for me, a day of peace.

Ho, ho, ho!

A day off from work, my cold behind me, and the sun shining ... time for a bike ride!

The holidays are upon us, ready or not.

The local park is bedecked in lights for a nightly show. By day, the sun teases a glow from bulbs here and there.

It's fun to cruise through the show at night, headlights off (!). Some displays are animated, like this penguin who slips down the roof of an igloo.

Our group headed for a chilly canyon, its road wet and slick with fallen leaves. Recent rains have revived its dormant creek, a most welcome sight (and sound).  I will admit, though, that tackling 39 miles with 1,920 feet of climbing after six weeks of slothfulness feels more like “Ow, ow, ow” than “Ho, ho, ho.”