May 15, 2017

Low Row

Our tour's rendezvous point was the “ATM side” of the clock in the York train station. There was a coffee shop called “AMT” on one side, so I thought that might be a typo—until I spotted a pod of ATMs on the other side of the clock.

The composition of our group surprised me: women outnumbered men. On a cycling trip?! Including our guides, six countries were represented: Australia, Canada, Ireland, Luxembourg, Scotland, and the USA. Three people had traveled with Wilderness Scotland before—an auspicious sign.

Our leader ferried us to Masham, where our second guide was waiting with our bikes. We started with lunch at a pub; coal [yes, coal!] was burning in the fireplace, and the resident dog was curled up in his bed and barely even looked up at us.

Merida Ride 400 road bike with handlebar bag
The bikes (Merida, Ride 400) were brand new, and labeled with our names. (So were our water bottles!) Capacious bags were mounted on our handlebars, and helmets were also provided (though I'd brought my own, along with my saddle and pedals). Luck of the draw, my bike was tagged “1.”

Wilderness Scotland asset tag #1 on seat tube
The bike fitting I'd had many years ago continues to pay dividends: I'd shared the diagram, labeled with each measurement, in advance. I expected that they wouldn't be able match it exactly (crank length, for example), but it was close enough. The bike felt like my own; I was immediately comfortable. The compact double gearing was the same as on my Cervélo (lowest gear 34-32), though the overall setup was heavier (especially with that handlebar bag).

We were headed for the Yorkshire Dales, to reach the inn where we'd stay tonight, near Low Row (inside the National Park). Rain started coming down. We pedaled through a flooded section (not my bike to clean!) and one of our guides shared a new word with us, a family favorite: “floodle” (rhymes with puddle). Spot on.

Sheep grazing under looming gray clouds, Yorkshire Dales, England
I'd donned my helmet and shoe covers, but not my rain pants. Silly optimist, I'd been. It wasn't cold, though; and my motto is “once you're wet, you're wet.” Meaning, it doesn't get worse. [But you do end up pretty grimy.]

Rocky Grinton Moor with green fields and stone walls in the foreground, Yorkshire Dales, England
Except that it got windy. So windy that, coming out of Leyburn and approaching the climb up and over Grinton Moor on Whipperdale Bank (2014 Tour de France Stage 1, albeit in the opposite direction), our leader chose to divert us. We'd ride around the moor, instead. I was grateful, because I was already off the back.

The sore throat that had plagued me for four weeks had finally abated last night; here I am, unfit and still mending, riding in the rain. I'd expected an easy first day, with gentle rolling hills. (Ha!) How did they get horse-drawn carriages up a 12.5% grade? I was gasping for breath; max heart rate was 177 bpm (sustained over a minute and a half).

Military firing range warning signs posted at a gate, Yorkshire Dales, England
Detouring around the moor took us through a military “danger zone.” It all looked so pastoral, but I imagine some of the sheep get unlucky.
DANGER: Military Debris May Explode and Kill You
Well, that's plainly stated.

Did I mention the rain? [Oh yes, I think I did.]

Large home at a crossroads on a rainy day, Yorkshire Dales, England
I'd been anxious about whether I would forget to ride on the left edge of the road; in practice, it wasn't a problem. Right turns took a lot of conscious effort, though, not to goof and wind up on the wrong side of the road.

The other tricky thing was to remember that the lever for the rear brake is on the left. One of our guides explained that the intent was to brake safely when you need to signal a right turn. An ex-pat colleague had tipped me about the switcheroo in advance, so I was mentally prepared. In practice, this also turned out not to be a problem for me. (Whew.)

Cyclists pause across from St. Andrew's Church, Grinton, Yorkshire Dales, England
From behind, I heard “I don't want to go up that!” ... just as I was thinking the same thing. It's the first day and I'm struggling, should I have bailed out of this trip? Then I thought how aggravated I would have been, sitting at home, to have my sore throat vanish the night before the tour would have started. Keep turning the pedals.

Stream flowing over a rocky bed between stone walls and homes, Yorkshire Dales, England
Rain is not conducive to photo stops. Trailing off the back also discourages picture-taking, not wanting to make the group wait even longer for me to catch up.

Getting up the inn's driveway was the final challenge of the day: steep, with broken pavement and potholes. Despair turned to delight when I learned that our guides had delivered our bags to our rooms (and, would fetch them in the morning). What an indulgence!

For the day, 27 miles with 1,745 feet of climbing. How ever will I fare tomorrow?

May 14, 2017

York

York—as in the original, not the familiar New World “New” version.

York Minster viewed from city walls, York, England
I had chosen to fly into Edinburgh (where the cycling tour will end), and take the train to York (where it will begin). Opting to rent a bike from Wilderness Scotland was the right call for this trip. Apart from the complicated logistics of hauling the bike (and its bag), there is a good chance we'll be riding in the rain. Your bike? You clean and service it. Their bike? They handle it all. (Sold.)

The train was packed with rugby fans returning from an important match. So much for those stunning views of the coast, I thought, as I stood outside the one coach with unreserved seats. I got lucky, though; some gentlemen pointed me at a seat that had emptied after the first hour, and graciously kept an eye on my luggage till we disembarked.

With many daylight hours left on a northern spring day, I set out to see what I might of the city.

River Ouse from the Lendal Bridge, York, England
I crossed the Lendal Bridge over the River Ouse, and headed for the Minster.
Windows and nave of the Minster, York, England
I passed the well-preserved birthplace of Guy Fawkes, still rather notorious more than 400 years after he paid the price of his treason.

Sign for Guy Fawkes Inn (birthplace), York, England
I strolled through the Shambles, with buildings dating back to the 1400s.

Medieval building along the Shambles, York, England
I watched traffic flow under the Micklegate Bar—including an Uber Prius—some 800 years after it was built.

Cars pass through the Micklegate Bar, back side, York, England
But there is much more history here, dating back to pre-Roman times and the founding of the city nearly 2,000 years ago. [Yes, you read that right.]

The well-chosen site of the York Museum is dense with history, from the ruins of a medieval hospital ...

Ruins of St. Leonard's Hospital, York, England
... to a tower built by the Romans around 300 A.D.

Multiangular tower, York, England
In the shadow of that Multiangular Tower, conservationists were offering close encounters with birds of prey.

Tethered owl, York, England
And then of course, there are the city walls. The Romans built a wall. The Vikings buried it. [It's a complicated business, this wall thing.]

View of the city wall from the outside, York, England
The medieval wall was visible from my hotel room. I explored a stretch, but there wasn't enough time to complete a full circuit.

Atop the city wall, with towers of the Minster, York, England
Much more to see here ... next time?

May 13, 2017

Edinburgh

Six Ferraris, all in a row. Three red, two black, one yellow. South Queensferry, Scotland
What am I doing, here?!

I really hadn't planned on taking a cycling trip this year. I was kind of in a world-funk. Then a brief mention in the New York Times Travel section caught my eye one Sunday, and more or less on a whim I booked a tour with Wilderness Scotland—their Five Countries Tour.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed like less of a good idea as I boarded the plane, having cycled only about 333 miles to date this year. And still with a sore throat (week number four). I'd visited the doctor, again, on Monday. “I'm supposed to get on a plane to the UK on Friday,” I lamented. “Have a good time!” he replied.

Technically, I am in South Queensferry; hotel rooms were scarce (and expensive) in the city itself. Curiously, there were 24 Ferraris in the parking lot. (An excited little boy counted them.) Earlier in the day, the road bridge spanning the Firth of Forth had been briefly closed to allow a caravan of 75 of them to cross, evidently celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Ferrari Owners' Club.

Hello, Scotland.

May 11, 2017

Big Wheel

Most of the group lined up and ready to roll, Bike to Work Day 2017
It's been an odd year. Cold weather. Wet weather. (Lots of that.) Not a whole lot of blogging going on because, well, not a whole lot of cycling going on.

And then came the Cold of the Century. Three weeks of misery (and counting). Yesterday I despaired that I might not be able to ride at all, today (Bike to Work Day). I assured my co-conspirator that I could, at least, lead people the few miles to our rendezvous point. From there, he might not only have to take the lead—he might have to manage the group alone.

Our peloton was smaller this year. Normally, a few weeks before the big day, I promote the ride and start egging people on; but I had no energy for that. When we reached the bridge leading to the Stevens Creek Trail, a woman and her daughter counted off: one, two, ... twenty-four of us. One rider had turned off before that.

Uncharacteristically this year, we were gruppo compatto for most of the route; at the first energizer station [rest stop], a few speedier riders usually split off. Not this year.

A couple of first-timers joined our crowd of mostly-familiar faces. And we celebrated a new first: an odd number of wheels. [Think it through.] A tricycle? [No.] A unicycle.

Who would ride a 36-inch unicycle some 20 miles to the office? Mixing it up in a line of bicycles, in stop-and-go traffic? In the lead, I didn't get to watch him (or to witness the facial expressions of the drivers who passed us). Having watched him dismount, I'd characterize it as a controlled fall, essentially. “There's nothing to it,” he insisted. “You land on your feet.” [Right. You land on your feet. I'd land on my butt. Or worse.]

pep on Bike to Work Day, 2017
Once I started moving, my body just kept moving. Maybe I could ride home after all; I felt surprisingly good.

Until I stopped moving. Suddenly, I was tired. My last real bike ride (also a commute to work) had been six weeks ago.

Twenty-four miles for the day. I made it.

So did my followers: No mishaps, no dropped riders, lots of smiling faces, and only one flat tire.

April 6, 2017

Schwanensee

When they heard I'd be spending the week in Zürich, my friends were eager to hear about my adventures. “It's a trip for work,” I explained. They seemed unconvinced.

Towering bookshelves and chandeliers, B2 Hotel, Zürich, Switzerland
Day one began with a 7 a.m. breakfast in the two-story library (33,000 books) at the hotel (in a building that once housed a brewery). The chandeliers were crafted using original beer bottles. The day ended around 7:30 p.m., at which point my boss and I headed out of the office for dinner.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Much good work got done.

One evening was reserved for dinner with the team. Another evening, a colleague and his partner hosted us for a Moroccan-inspired dinner at their apartment. (It was amazing.) I conspired to keep one evening free. In Zürich, as in San Francisco, it's ballet season.

Giant clock composed of flowers along Lake Zürich, Zürich, Switzerland
On my way to the Opera House on a lovely spring evening, I strolled through the Arboretum.

Lake view of the Opera House with swans, Zürich, Switzerland
What could be more picture-perfect than swans on Lake Zürich?

Tonight's performance? Swan Lake.

Front view of the Opera House from the Sechseläutenplatz, Zürich, Switzerland
I learned that the Opernhaus Zürich has a somewhat surprising history. Not all cultural treasures are treasured, it seems.

Ornate carved and painted ceiling with chandelier at the Opera House, Zürich, Switzerland
I thought the restoration was stunning.

The performance, featuring Anna Khamzina and Tigran Mkrtchyann, was ... interesting. I'm most familiar with Helgi Tomasson's interpretation (which, as fate would have it, I had seen just four days earlier in San Francisco). Alexander Ratmansky's revival includes elements that were unfamiliar to me, truer to the historic Petipa version. Some seemed superfluous or even confusing; other moments I will regret missing whenever I see Tomasson's version.

Mosaic fountain glittering at night, Zürich, Switzerland
I walked back along the edge of the Arboretum, where this mosaic fountain drew me in for a closer look. Public fountains spouting drinking water are pretty common, but none so lovely as this.

Night view of the Münsterbrücke, flanked by the Fraumünster and Grossmünster churches,  Zürich, Switzerland
After a moment's hesitation (walking alone, at night, in a foreign city), I backtracked to cross the bridge for a clear view of the Fraumünster and Grossmünster churches. It was worth it.

When my colleagues in Zürich asked if I had visited before, I summarized my bike trip (2015). “You've seen more of Switzerland than I have!” they'd respond. Not on this trip, though. Next time ...

March 18, 2017

Up a Random Hill

Out of shape, I am.

View of green hills and the Diablo Range from Bernal Road, San Jose, California
I did manage to commute to (and from!) work one day last week, after daylight savings time kicked in. Getting up took some convincing, it did.

Today wasn't pretty, a bit chilly thanks to overcast skies and more wind than I expected.

My ride buddy and I kept it short—just one hill. Most of the group skips the climb we chose; instead, we skipped the rest. It's quiet and wide, affording us ample time to chat. (My buddy pedaled up twice, having arrived an hour too early.)

It's been awhile since I last visited this area; there's quite a bit of development in progress.

We met at Random Access Method of Accounting and Control Park. (RAMAC Park, that is.) Named for the first computer to use a hard disk drive, which was invented nearby at IBM. Fittingly, our climb up Bernal Road ends at the Almaden Research Center's gate.

The club has been starting rides from this park after a favored bike shop shut down. Something didn't feel right with this place. Men in aggressive cars were loitering in the parking lot, or circling the neighborhood. I picked up (and recycled) an empty 32 oz. beer bottle that had been discarded. At least it hadn't shattered.

After finishing the ride, the dead-end street next to the park was blocked by adjacent patrol cars; the officers were conferring. That seemed all the more curious after I reached the main road, where the traffic signals were out at two busy intersections. Motorists were left to negotiate the multiple straight-through and turn lanes on their own.

One mile of climbing, 12 miles of flat: 575 feet, in all. In a word, enough.

March 3, 2017

Ah, Altitude

It has been an spectacularly snowy winter in the Sierras. We arrived on a perfect high-altitude-blue sky day,

which became a perfect clear black night.

In a few days, skiers from around the world will compete in the World Cup races at Squaw Valley.

They will be well-prepared. Unlike yours truly, who committed a regrettable tactical error ten days ago by donating a unit of blood. I did consider postponing till after this trip, but then made the wrong choice.

You see, at altitude, you really need those red blood cells.

My heart rate was elevated (normal) and my body was busy shedding plasma (normal) to raise the concentration of those oxygen-carrying warriors. There just weren't enough of them.

I felt tired ... was it only 8:30 p.m.? Maybe I'd feel better in the morning.

I woke up groggy. Maybe I'd feel better after lunch.

Sliding around on a pair of skis while lightheaded would not count as a good idea. The sled dogs were fully booked.

The skies had clouded over as the next storm approached.

I boarded the tram to visit the mountain-top High Camp.

Lake Tahoe was just visible in the distance, through the rings that remain from the 1960 Winter Olympic games.

I wandered through the Olympic Museum. I would not have fared well on those skis, not at all.

Graceful skiers carved their tracks down the slope as I watched with wistful envy.

Next time.