There were many choices for riding today, all of which involved ice cream.
Most of the rides would end up at our club's annual Ice Cream Social, but all of those would involve baking in the hot summer sun.
Cool summer fun seemed like the better choice, so I headed over the hill for a ride that would end up on Ice Cream Grade.
I was sorry to skip the party, but much more comfortable in the redwood forest.
I was even downright cold as we dipped down toward the coast. We turned north into a mighty headwind and stopped to visit Swanton Berry Farm, where cyclists are welcome (and even get a 10% discount) on the treats, but it was just too windy and chilly for picnicking today.
Next Saturday, the Santa Cruz County Cycling Club will host their annual Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge, and today the volunteers were out on the course enjoying their workers' ride. Which meant that we saw more cyclists than cars on Swanton Road.
Heading back, of course, meant ... major tailwind! With my top gear maxed out, I settled for a tad over 47 mph on the smooth descent to Scott Creek. The fog was blowing in, teasing us with wispy shadows on the road.
What goes down, must go back up. Fortified by a wedge of olallieberry pie, I made my way to Ice Cream Grade along Bonny Doon and past the cliffs on Martin.
After 37 miles, 3,865 feet of climbing, I was rightfully tired. I celebrated at home, with ice cream. (Of course!) And a long nap.
The end of the public portion of Soda Springs Road—effectively the summit—is surprisingly high: 3,000 feet. Trees and hillsides block the view there, but an intermediate vantage point offered a clear view of the layer of gray smog hovering over the valley. The past few days have been “Spare the Air” days, but too many people drive too many vehicles, nonetheless.
The climb isn't particularly difficult; the grade is a nearly constant 8%. Somehow it always feels never-ending; there are few landmarks or vistas along the way, and I haven't ridden it often enough to grow familiar. A large boulder, a few mailboxes and private gates. Eventually you round a bend and there's a welcome sign: “Road ends in 500 feet.” [Finally.]
The tricky part is the descent. The road is in better shape than I remembered, but the grade makes it fast. Too fast, for a curvy road with few clear sight lines. Descend with caution.
Getting this ride done before the day heated up seemed like a great idea. Even better was the cool breeze that kept the temperature just right. Chilly, even.
Not content with one hefty climb, we ventured to the far end of Aldercroft Heights. From there, Wrights Station is oh-so-near; but, off-limits. [Sigh.] For the day, 23 miles with 3,440 feet of climbing.
There is a weekly afternoon tradition of climbing Metcalf Road, and since I had the day off, I decided to join the party.
What's that, you say? You can think of better things to do on a day off than ride a bicycle up a steep hill? Ah, well, you're not me.
The downside of this ride (apart from the grade) is that the climb is almost entirely exposed—broiling hot on a sunny July day.
The upside of this ride is that there would be little traffic, mid-week, with the off-road vehicle park at the summit closed.
Grinding my way up the hill, sweat pouring off my body, I tried to hold that image of the serene blue water of Coyote Creek in my head. [Didn't help.] If only those kids with super-soakers who gleefully cooled us down during the LIVESTRONG ride were always here ...
I've climbed this hill a handful of times. Six times, before today. By way of contrast, our ride leader has climbed it more than 1,200 times. [That's not a typo.] It's been a few years since he took stock, and he's continued to climb it regularly, so it's more likely that he's biked up more than 1,300 times.
Who am I to complain? [Nobody. That's for sure.]
Lacking a power meter, my heart rate is a proxy for the effort it takes to get up the hill. It peaked at 178 bpm, and when it would occasionally drop to 176, or 174, that meant the road was a just a little bit less steep for a few moments.
To put that in perspective, that's just shy of 3 heartbeats per second. Which is pretty remarkable, if you think about it; and for some reason I hadn't really thought about it before this ride.
You might expect it's all downhill after reaching the top, and that would be true if you made a u-turn to return to the base. It's not true if you continue down the back side and loop around via San Felipe Road, which (of course) is what we did.
You also might expect to learn something new about this territory from someone who had climbed it so many times, and that was true. Our leader pointed out the remains of a private narrow-gauge railroad barely visible through a thicket of trees. It's neglected, these days, by the current landowner.
The club hosts a pancake breakfast every Fourth of July, and I always look forward to the socializing (and the carbs). I don't look forward to getting there at the very beginning; 7:30 on a holiday morning is just too early, even with the promise of pancakes.
The post-pancakes rides don't start till 10 a.m. (or whenever clean-up is finished), so my regular ride buddy and I figured that rolling in at 9 a.m. seemed about right. We've done this before.
We were wrong. Or maybe we didn't get the memo. I arrived a couple of minutes past nine, and the chairs were already put away. The last tables were being clanged shut. The plates had been removed, the fruit was being bagged. I hurried to snag a (hot) pancake bursting with blueberries, which I rolled up and ate taco-style. I found a paper towel to serve as a napkin, and retrieved a couple of strawberries and an orange wedge. Having arrived at 8:55 a.m., my ride buddy had scored a plate but was eating while walking around—the table had been almost literally pulled out from under her.
What was the rush? Disappointed and annoyed, I didn't stick around to find out. Why wait till ten? We ate and ran.
I vaguely remembered that Arnerich Road had a section that was pretty steep. [Yup.] Heart-poppingly steep. 185 beats-per-minute steep. [Confirmed: I can still function at high heart rates.] After that, the remainder of the route was tame; although the climb to the top of Reynolds seemed longer. Right around that bend ... nope. Right around that next bend ... nope.
Persuaded to join me for our town's celebration in a local park, I gave my ride buddy a choice: stay flat or go over a hill. [Bet you can guess her choice. Birds of a feather, we are.]
The Lions Club runs a barbecue, so they got my support: hamburger and chips. We stood for the national anthem and watched some Boy Scouts raise the flag. After listening to the San Jose Wind Symphony play a few marches, we were on our way. Our timing was perfect to watch a Billy Jones Wildcat Railroad train chug past—the diesel locomotive, not the steam engine, today.
Cycling up Black Road is hard. Because I don't make a habit of it, I tend to forget how hard. And how long. At my pace, there is plenty of time to gaze down the steep sides of the canyon, and up at the towering trees. Now that the John Nicholas trail is open, there are also a fair number of vehicles carrying hikers and mountain bikers up.
It was surprisingly windy as we approached the top. Expecting a hot day, I had chosen this route for some shade; I didn't expect it to be, actually, chilly. [I was happy to be chilled.]
The temperature shift was evident as we circled back toward Lexington Reservoir, despite the wind. We were descending, but our thermometers were rising.
Years ago I visited famously windy Wanaka, with its namesake lake. The whitecaps on the reservoir didn't rival that, but they were remarkable for Lexington. I had never seen our reservoir like this. The ripples approaching the shoreline made sense; the wind was pushing the water toward us. What I don't understand were the series of streaks crossing them.
Fortunately it had been a relatively quiet week at work, with many folks adding an early extension to the upcoming July 4th holiday. Because somehow, my volunteering stints were all packed into the last week of our month-long community service extravaganza.
Since I've worked at the same company for a while, chances were that my projects would include some folks I knew; and that was true for both projects earlier this week (Sunday Friends and Castle Rock). Today's project was led by someone from our organization, and several of us joined in: Go, team!
The chefs for Loaves and Fishes Family Kitchen set us up with aprons, gloves, cutting boards, and sharp tools. Then we got to work.
One group would cut and season chickens. A lot of chickens. Another would prepare meatloaf. A third group cooked enchiladas. Somehow, trays of salad were prepared. I joined the crew prepping vegetables for a stew.
At the office, teams can sign up for sessions in an onsite “teaching kitchen.” It's a fully glass-enclosed space, and I admit that I often chuckle at my colleagues inside, many of whom have that deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces. [It's okay, that would be me, too.]
Anticipating the inefficiency our lack of experience would entail, a chef showed us this one weird trick for chopping off the broccoli florets: Hold the head upside down, by the stalk, and then whack-whack-whack the florets off with the knife. It takes a few seconds. [Wow.] Three of us could fill a large aluminum pan within a couple of minutes. Cauliflower was a bit more work; after removing the leaves and base, the best approach was to break off the florets by hand.
After we exhausted multiple cases of cruciferous veggies, we joined the rest of the crew working on potatoes (easy) and carrots (hard).
After we helped with cleanup, they estimated the number of meals we'd prepared, by type. Altogether: Five thousand. Five thousand? That's a lot of meals.
I remember the first Earth Day. I was just a kid, but I helped haul trash out of the marshy woodland near our school, former cranberry bogs gone native. I was inspired to haul more trash out of the wooded area near my home, too.
Spend any time on the road, especially on a bicycle, and the popular dumping grounds become all too familiar. In the local neighborhood, it's small scale: cigarette butts, fast-food wrappings, bottles and cans. Get out of town, though, and there is so much more. I think of one area along Sierra Road as “The Valley of the Appliances:” washers, dryers, you name it.
I can only wonder how it all got there. I mean, if you're hauling it in the first place, why don't you just haul it to the dump? [Yes, I know. Because then you'd have to pay a disposal fee.]
One group would stay in the parking lot and repaint the trim on the entrance kiosk. Light duty.
Another group would hike to the Castle Rock Falls overlook and paint the railing. Beautiful view.
The third, and largest, contingent was needed to haul junk out of the creek in a not-yet-opened section of the park.
Guess which group I joined? [Hint: I'm not much for painting.]
This new tract was formerly a Christmas tree farm. Oh, the allure of exploring non-public territory, legally!
Down the hill we tromped, past the stumps of logged redwoods and one particularly massive Douglas fir. Old growth.
Of course we went down the hill, because that's where you find a creek. [And poison oak. Though I managed to emerge unscathed.]
Down means we'd be hauling the junk back up the hill. Cardio workout!
Tires. There are always tires. That's easy to understand; they roll.
Pipes, tubes, rusted wire mesh, fence posts, orange plastic netting, a traffic cone. Three lengths of narrow PVC piping encasing three heavy-gauge insulated wires. A sealed bucket full of white paint.
Really, what is all this stuff? And why is it here?
The grand prize was an unwieldy corrugated metal panel, as big as a garage door, but heavier. Down an embankment. (Of course.)
I love engineers. How best to move that behemoth called for brains as well as brawn. Pipes and shovels were pressed into service as levers, and with coordinated effort (and coordinated grunting), the panel was heaved up the hill. About six inches at a time. More importantly, no one got hurt!
Someday I'll hike along these same trails, and I will see what others cannot: The ghost of Christmases past.
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