Girls Rule

Pop.

Riding along, it's not uncommon for a high-pressure bike tire to catch the edge of a pebble or whatnot and launch it off to one side. Or to roll over something that goes “pop!”

I did wonder at a lighter spot on my front tire, trying to puzzle out what I might have ridden through. A patch of sand?

Nope. A stout roofing nail, driven smack into the center of my front tire. If I wanted to do that deliberately, I have no idea how I would make it happen.

We weren't even 1.5 miles into the ride. The route started with a climb, so most of the group was ahead of me. Three of the women in our group stopped. “Go on without me, it will take me a long time to fix this, I'll probably just turn back,” I said.

Nonsense! Let's get this started, where are your tire levers? With four of us sharing the work, we were rolling again in record time. [They insisted I save the nail for show-and-tell, later.]

Down the road apiece, I paused at a random spot when I realized that one of our riders had dropped out of sight. We reconnected, and within moments a pickup truck that had been trailing us stopped just ahead. We were a bit nervous when the driver got out and started walking toward us. “We have to stop meeting like this,” he joked, and then sensed our uneasiness. GPS unit in hand, he was looking for a geocache located somewhere within a few yards of where I'd chosen to stop. I think he'd assumed we were at that spot for the same reason. (No, unless I've somehow developed a sixth sense for finding hidden treasures ...)

We would eventually catch up to a couple of stragglers, but we didn't see the rest of the group until our lunch stop around mile 33. We passed on the café they'd overwhelmed, heading instead for a little local Mexican food. Climbing out of San Miguel entailed going up a steep hill—it was only one block long, but a sign posted along the edge announced it was a 15% grade. (Made it. Just. Whew.)

For us, lunch was at the top (yay!). The rest of the group would climb that on full stomachs.

Our next challenge was to merge onto Highway 101 South and ride the shoulder for about a mile before exiting onto our next lovely back road. Being a bit heavy laden with lunch, we were feeling sluggish. Once on the highway, I quickly found the motivation I needed to move—fast! There were multiple lanes and not much traffic, but the speed was intimidating. As we circled off to continue our route, the bridge we'd crossed loomed high overhead; we paused to gawk at the tractor trailers zooming by. We'd biked that! (Yikes.)

The reward for that stressful mile was a peaceful trip through ranch lands. I thought I'd seen long-horned cattle before today, but ... maybe not.

We lost our fast lunch advantage over the rest of the group when another one of us flatted. Our well-practiced crew sprang into action, this time changing out the tube on a rear tire. When they caught us, the rest of the group stopped to see that we had matters well in hand ... and then continued on their merry way.

For the day, 47 miles with a mere 1,720 feet of climbing. Girls rule.

Just Peachy

A spring getaway? Why not venture out and see more of my home state?

My curiosity was piqued when some club members proposed a set of rides in the Paso Robles area.

The plan was to drive down early enough to start our first excursion around 11:30 a.m. I thought a poor night's sleep spelled doom for my first ride, but I made it. With time to spare.

When you walk into a hotel lobby and pass two bike boxes waiting for FedEx to pick up, you know you're in friendly territory.

Did the gloomy gray cloud-filled sky also spell doom? It was chilly, but dry ... until nearly the end of the ride. Was that, or was that not, a raindrop?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Blue skies opened up only after we all arrived back at the hotel.

Somehow I rode off the front today, instead of the back. This group was riding at a slower-than-advertised pace. (Which is fine.) The strongest rider got a late start, appeared out of nowhere to catch me, and then sociably kept me company.

This is Central Coast wine country; lots of vines staked on the hillsides, fewer wildflowers than I'd hoped. We cruised through the oak woodland, where I noticed two distinct types (and probably failed to notice more, this being the “Pass of the Oaks”). And the understory of poison oak doesn't count.

When the tracks of more bicycle than vehicle tires streak the pavement, you know you're in friendly territory. But when you pass “Hanging Tree Road” you can't help but wonder at the story behind that name.

Peachy Canyon was the highlight of today's 33 miles and 2,330 feet of climbing.

With modestly sore muscles, I'm hoping for better night's sleep.

A Hill Too Hard

Ah, Hicks. Whatever was I thinking?

I sighed dejectedly at our lunch stop. “I'm really out of shape.” A wiser rider reminded me that it's relative. Few of my peers would be out on a bicycle today, even fewer pedaling up a relentlessly steep hill. [We tackled it from the “easy” side. That's relative, too.]

I slipped off the back almost immediately. No riders were in sight long before I reached the base of the climb.

I heard some wild turkeys. I admired the rushing flow of the creek. I listened to the buzzing of hundreds of bees, somewhere nearby. I watched a doe, watching me.

I struggled. I paid for yesterday. My legs had not recovered. On the last long steep section, I surrendered. I walked.

For the day, 30 miles with some 2,220 feet of climbing; for the week, 86 miles. Looking back, I haven't biked this much in a single week since last September.

And now I really must go to sleep.

Round Trippin'

Daylight Savings Time took effect almost two weeks ago. Which means, spring is here. Which means, enough daylight to bike home from (as well as to) work.

I was so close to bailing out this morning; my body was balking. It would be easier to tackle the difficult club ride I had in mind for tomorrow if I didn't ride today. [Or would it? I haven't been biking enough this year.]

I knew traffic would be light, which makes for a much nicer bike commute. I could shuttle home to save something for tomorrow's ride.

One of the school crossing guards I see along the way had been given the day off. In her place, the Easter Bunny. [Okay, not in full costume—just fuzzy pink bunny rabbit ears. And a basket of candy.]

I ate a jelly bean, but saved the rest of my bounty for my fellow bike commuters at work. [I bet you didn't meet the Easter Bunny on your way to work.]

On such a lovely day, how could I shuttle home? [Easy: Just load the bike and climb aboard.]

Not today.

For the day, 40 miles with 885 feet of climbing. [I skipped the gratuitous hills, but finished with a pleasant little spin through a local park.]

Leap Fog

On any given winter morning, it is so easy to decide not to ride. This morning, dense fog. Low visibility. Kinda scary. Should I? Should I not?

Oh, get out of the bed. Don the bright jacket. Switch on the flashing lights (front and rear), and just go.

After persuading my boss to try a different commute, who am I to wimp out?

Day one, last week, he arrived sweaty and sore and somewhat out of breath, but surprisingly enthusiastic. He was already hooked. Instead of stewing, alone in his car, for more than an hour, he had been relaxed and productive on a train. Followed by a few miles of biking (mostly on trails) to the office.

Anxious about the possibility of missing the evening train, which has limited availability, we talked about the importance of working out a Plan B in advance. I shared tips about riding in the rain, the advantage of slick tires (for his mountain bike), and the reason to wear padded shorts and stick with his firm saddle.

Today marked his third trip. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I can tell that I'm going to want a longer route soon. What if I take the Bay Trail?”

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! He's already thinking about picking up a bike more suitable for commuting. Last week, on his second train-plus-bike commute, he arrived home in less time than the trip would have taken that evening by car.

The advantage to following my timeworn route was evident this morning, when the fog was so opaque I worried that I might outpace what I could see. There's a turn up there, somewhere ... Droplets condensed and fell from my visor and rear-view mirror; my glasses were speckled with tiny dots. I looked down to see a layer of mist twinkling on my capri tights.

Hydration is not much of an issue when you can, more or less, drink the air.

Tomorrow? Lather, rinse, repeat. The forecast shows the rains will soon return, possibly spoiling any weekend rides.

A shuttle ride home tonight for me and the bike; in two weeks, daylight savings time will liberate me from the bus. (Cycling the 20 miles home in darkness is just not for me.)

The Clean-up Crew

Gray clouds loomed over the hills (where we were headed, of course). It was a leap of faith that the skies would clear. [And they did.]

I was bringing up the rear, as usual. [Note to self: Ride back into shape. Soon.]

It was an ideal day to visit some little-traveled roads east of Tres Pinos. Roads that snake through wide-open rolling hills, dead-ending at gates to private ranches. The hills are green, now, and the cattle are fat. Dramatic cliffs pop up in surprising places.

I regret not pausing to snap a photo of the oh-so-blue sky and green hills reflected on the surface of a pond, with a bull lounging nearby. “I'll stop on the way back,” I thought. But then, some twenty minutes later, a stiff wind rippled the water. A memory, that's all.

Having learned that lesson, I did stop for a peculiar alignment of cloud and hillside.

Heading back toward Tres Pinos, I spied not three pines, but three enormous buzzards on the road. One with wings spread wide, the other two picking at a freshly flattened ground squirrel. I slowed; they were surprisingly reluctant to move, and promptly circled back to their prize once I'd passed.

The longest ride I've done in a while: 46 miles, 3,440 feet of climbing. Sleep well tonight, I will.

Singletrack?!

There is a popular equation in cycling, and it goes like this: Let N represent the number of bicycles you own. What is the value for the number of bicycles you need?

When a friend in our bike club was parting with her mountain bike late last year, I took it for a test ride. The handling, with a front shock, was unfamiliar; so were the shifters. By the time I finished a small loop through the neighborhood, though, it felt like a perfect fit.

The solution for that equation, above? N + 1, of course.

I had been thinking about getting a mountain bike. One could explore more territory, in less time, than on a typical hike. Nice, wide fire roads abound. I had no desire to go bombing down steep trails, sliding over gnarly roots and rocks.

Where to begin?

A few days ago I announced my new steed to a friend who is a mountain biker par excellence. Would she consider teaching me the basics? She pulled out her calendar. Sunday? Game on. [I have the best friends.]

I was nervous. “Don't hurt me,” I pleaded. Herewith, her response for all to see:

@Arastradero, I promise not to:

1. kill you
2. lose you
3. make you feel like toooo much of a newbie
4. make fun of you for being a newbie (well, maybe)
5. make you laugh and enjoy yourself; you'll want to schedule the next “session” :)

Remember that bit about fire roads? She led me straight up the Wild Rye Trail to coach me through my first switchback. [Fire roads are boring, I'm told.] I made it. Then I freaked out. What was I getting myself into?

Clearly I lived to tell this tale, so she delivered on points 1 and 2. On points 3 and 4, well, I was already thinking I needed a big caution triangle: “First time on a mountain bike, stand clear!” If anything, she insisted that I was more skilled than I thought I was.

Which brings us to point 5, and the time I had to stop because we were laughing so hard after I took the (evidently more difficult) inside line downhill on a switchback. “You're a natural!” she exclaimed. [No way. Not me.]

“This is probably steeper than anything you've been on today,” she explained, as we headed back toward the parking lot. “You'll be fine.” Only when we reached the bottom did she reveal that she'd wiped out on that very descent, cracking her helmet and whacking her head hard enough to be carried out by EMTs. On her first time down that hill.

There was a crash today, and it wasn't us, and it wasn't on the trails. As we approached the road, we hung back behind a woman with a stroller and several kids, and a girl on a horse. Don't spook a horse. We heard the unmistakable clatter of a bike skittering on the road, and my friend shot ahead to help. The horse spooked a cyclist, who hit a bump in the road and went down. Cars stopped, cyclists waved to slow traffic. He was shaken, but not broken; his companions congratulated him on falling well. “You'll have to ride home after all,” I joked. “Best way to flush all the adrenaline out of the system,” he smiled.

Quite the workout, it was, for a mere 7 miles ... with 1,040 feet of climbing. Perhaps that was a factor? Just maybe?

Thank you, Ms. T, for coaching me through my first mountain biking excursion!