Guerneville Loop

Eager to show us a little local color, our leaders strayed off-route at the start to take us up (yes, uphill) Florence Avenue, home to the artists Patrick Amiot and Brigitte Laurent. My ride buddy and I had toured the street, on foot, when we explored Sebastopol on Monday. Many front yards on Florence sport their quirky creations, but there is no mistaking where the artists live. (Look! It's an Aermotor!) Their work is popular all over town, and beyond.

Of course, this diversion entailed some calculating for the rest of the day, as the mileage on our route sheets was no longer valid. Work for the brain as well as the muscles ...

It has been quite windy so far, uncharacteristically so (according to the locals). Today's forecast showed a 20% chance of rain. Around these parts, this time of year, that means there are pockets of showers scattered about. Over 20% of the area, perhaps?

We paused atop a hill to admire a vineyard, and I felt the first sprinkles as we started rolling again. Mist became drizzle became downright rain. It was warm enough for vest-and-arm-warmers; I'd left my jacket behind.

Ah well, once you're wet, you're wet. At least it wasn't cold.

We paused in Occidental to discuss whether to break there for coffee, or continue to the next town. The choice seemed obvious to me: our lunch stop in Guerneville would be only a few miles past Monte Rio—too close. No one seemed to want to make the decision, so ... I called it. While they enjoyed their coffee, I wandered over to the nearby shops.

A colorful summer dress caught my eye. Looked like my size. But how would I carry it? I wandered back.

I thought about my friend Pat, shopper extraordinaire, who manages to snap up a find like this whenever we're cycling in Europe—without anyone noticing that she vanished for a few minutes.

I returned to the shop. I slipped the dress on over my cycling gear; it fit. Figure out a way to carry it.

As I scrunched it into a compact roll, to fit into the small plastic bag I carry in my saddle bag (expressly for an occasion like this), a woman seated in the cafe tapped on the window. She gave me an enthusiastic smile and a thumbs up. I was right not to pass up this dress! As I'd hoped, one of the riders in our group had a capacious saddle bag and graciously stuffed my package inside.

Much of today's route passed through the forest, deep in the redwoods, with lighter traffic. One guy in the group had been particularly helpful, doubling back to check on trailing riders and waiting at turns to be sure we didn't go astray. I stopped for a photo at a bridge over the Russian River, turned around and ... they were gone. I didn't think I'd miss the next turn, but my confidence was ebbing. “Is Martinelli ahead?” I asked a guy who happened to be walking down his driveway. “Yes, you'll love it!” he said. (Fellow cyclist!)

What I didn't love was the end. Signaling a left turn onto Highway 116, I was dismayed to see heavy tandem trucks rumbling past, in both directions. The kind with open trailers that haul rock. There must be a quarry ... sure enough, Canyon Rock's entrance was within sight. Loaded trucks were exiting the quarry in a steady parade; empty trucks were returning. We would have to share the (narrow) road. Uphill. [Gulp.]

Our next turn, onto a trail, couldn't come soon enough. [Whew.] We caught a whiff of apples cooking as we passed behind an industrial building. True to form, a couple of riders whizzed right past the next turn (we reeled them back). By managing to catch up to our leaders, I found the turn I missed yesterday, finishing with 43 miles and 1,870 feet of climbing.

Tomorrow is another day ...

Sonoma Sojourn

A couple of club members planned a series of rides near their new home turf in Sonoma County, inviting all who wished to join in. My ride buddy and I, both in need of a break from work, tacked on a couple of extra days for travel and (perish the thought!) non-cycling activities.

Like most people, I associate Napa and Sonoma counties with wine: acres and acres of grapevines, vineyards, tasting rooms, and tourists. Late in the season, mid-week with schools back in session, we envisioned a veritable paradise of empty rural roads through rolling hills. [Er, not so much ... lots more traffic in this region than I remember.]

I didn't associate Sonoma with apples; Gravenstein, to be precise. Locally celebrated, we wondered about this unfamiliar variety. Turns out it doesn't travel well; it's commonly used to make applesauce and apple cider. A month past the harvest, we didn't find any to sample.

We warmed up our legs for the week with a 44 mile loop, climbing a modest 1,295 feet. A couple of missed turns added to the challenge.

Not long after we'd started out, I compared the mileage on the route sheet with my bike computer and brought our posse to a stop. Somewhere, we'd missed the turn onto a trail; we backtracked to get back on course. This would complicate navigation for the rest of the day, as we needed to estimate the expected mark for each turn by factoring in the distance added by each missed connection.

The highlight of our loop was a late lunch at the Trail House, a welcoming stop for a bunch of hungry cyclists.

Followed by another lowlight, when some of us muffed our departure by missing the first turn. Separated from the ride's leaders, I suggested to another experienced leader that we take care not to drop anyone in our half of the group.

We were on the lookout for our next turn, onto the Santa Rosa Creek Trail through the Prince Memorial Greenway, when a local cyclist overheard us and helpfully chimed in: “two more traffic lights.” With the rest of the group in tow, I didn't pause to get a photo of the colorful sculpture of a leaping fish at the entrance plaza. As we made our way along the trail, alongside homeless men passed out in the shelter of every overpass and none-too-friendly-looking teenage boys loitering in the shadows, I was grateful not to be alone. I realized I'd been here before: this trail was part of the return route for Levi's King Ridge GranFondo.

I noticed a sign for the Joe Rodota Trail ... is this the other end of the trail that would lead us straight back to Sebastopol? [Yes, as it turns out.] Our route sheet didn't send us that way, and feeling responsible for the rest of our little group, I stayed the course. A diversity of paces splintered us, but we all found our way back, despite missing the penultimate term (for good measure).

A Challenged and Challenging Challenge

After riding down the Pacific Coast ten times for Best Buddies in the Hearst Castle Challenge, this year would be different.

That view never gets old, so why change the route?

Mother Nature, that's why. Last winter's storms first undermined a bridge over Pfeiffer Canyon; and then, as if knocking out a bridge wasn't enough, a massive chunk of hill slid down onto Highway 1 at Mud Creek. The road repairs may not be complete by this time next year.

Our destination (Hearst Castle) is a constant, but ... you can't get there from here. The ride must go on, and thus Plan B was hatched. All routes would start (as well as finish) in San Simeon, at Hearst Memorial Beach, instead of the traditional start in Carmel Valley.

I struggled mightily over which route to pick. Forego the 100 mile route and opt for the 100 km route instead? Yes? A more scenic climb up Old Creek Road (vs. Highway 41). No! I've always done the century; if I skipped this year, I wouldn't know whether I could have done it. Either way, late in the route (mile 37, or mile 78) I'd face a steep climb on Santa Rosa Creek Road. (Going rogue, following Highway 46 all the way to the coast, did cross my mind.)

But I stayed the course. All 101 miles of it. From San Simeon, through Cayucas, to Morro Bay.

Up Highway 41, into the Los Padres National Forest, to Templeton.

In keeping with this year's track record, my level of training was not where I needed it to be. A record-breaking heat wave, enhanced by bad air (from distant wildfires), kept me mostly off the bike over the preceding ten days.

The sun broke through and started baking us as we climbed inland; I started feeling a bit twitchy around mile 60; a bit of bonk was creeping up on me. [Uh oh.]

We would be tackling Santa Rosa Creek Road in the downhill direction, descending the wicked wall. I'd wager that a handful of participants (at best) had ridden this road before, in either direction. The climb from Highway 46 starts out gently.  I knew it had to get steep, recalling my wild ride last year. “Is this the climb?” a nearby rider asked, clearly not impressed. “No, it gets steep.” (He thought an earlier climb today was steep.) “No no no, this gets steep.”

A rider walking up the hill came into view. It didn't look all that bad.

And it probably wasn't all that bad, at that point. But with 78 miles and more than 4,300 feet of climbing behind me, my legs simply gave out. For the first time, I considered what it might be like for pro riders in Grand Tours to finish a long stage at the top of a mountain. Sure, I've pedaled up some of those climbs. But not with 100+ miles in my legs. (By the way, our peloton today included Big George and Christian Vande Velde, so there just might be a new KOM on Strava's leaderboard.)

The pavement is in terrible condition, making the technical descent to the coast even more tricky. There were occasional signs cautioning “Rough Road,” but it would have been more honest to mark the few sections of smooth pavement, instead. The ever-vigilant Best Buddies staff must have emptied a full can of purple paint marking the cracks and potholes. In a couple of places, they had consistently sprayed “Very Steep Decent,” which made me laugh. There's nothing decent about a steep road.

There was no warning about the loose dog. He turned to face me, and of course decided to give chase. Having expected that, I dug deep and sprinted, hoping to outrun him. [I did.]

There was no warning about the loose head of cattle, either. He was walking up the road and bellowing. I slowed, glad that it wasn't one of the longhorns I'd seen earlier, but unsure how he'd react. He moved to the opposite side of the road, focusing on the herd on the other side of the fence and bellowing mournfully. [Whew.]

There were no bikes at the rest stop at the base of the road (even though I'm slow, that was a first). I knew there were riders behind me, and I knew that most of them would not have an easy time coming down the hill. Of course, they might have given up and hopped in a SAG wagon, but that didn't occur to me. [They hadn't.]

The next challenge was heading north on Highway 1. The name of that challenge was “Headwind”—payback for 10 years of tailwind. This year, we had a crew of domestiques (!), outfitted in yellow jerseys emblazoned with “Get on my wheel!” My guy pulled me for a few miles before swinging off to wait for others, and I relished every inch of that draft.

Mother Nature had one more surprise for us: Hurricane Irma. [Say what? We're in California.] This year's entertainment at the post-ride barbecue was to have been KC and the Sunshine Band ... but they were stuck in Florida. At the last minute, the organizers pulled an LA-based band out of a hat—Soulville California Band. And the dance floor was packed!

My internal soundtrack during the ride was the Hollies:

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I'm strong ...

I love this charity, and I keep coming back—for the Buddies. He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

Ladies, Some Naked

There were an uncommon number of women climbing Tunitas Creek today: women in groups, women alone, me and my ride buddy.

Mere photos can't capture the majesty of riding through a redwood forest. I paused a couple of times—not because I needed to, but because I could.

I could stop in the cool shade of the towering trees.

I could stop and listen to ... utter silence. No motorcycles. No cars. Not even the sound of the wind in my ears or the soft whir of my tires on the pavement. Beautiful, blessed silence.

Of course there were motorcycles, and cars, and other cyclists. But mostly, there were none of those.

We rode close enough to the coast to be touched by its chilly foggy breeze.

Naked Ladies (Amaryllis belladonna) were abundant along Purisima Creek Road. The flowers pop months after the plant's foliage has disappeared (inspiration for the name). Last week I learned that, to children, these blooms mean “Back to school!”

On the way up Kings Mountain this morning, I doubted whether I had the stamina to complete our planned route. (Evidently, I did: 44 miles, 4,975 feet of climbing.)

We did trim a few miles by not heading into town with the rest of the group for lunch.

I usually wear a club jersey on a club ride, but that leaves so many fine specimens hanging in my closet.

“Grüße!” called out a passing rider. (Or at least that's what I think he said, in part.) I suppose it's only natural to expect that I, bedecked in a design featuring the Swiss flag, might speak the language.

Another rider in a full Movistar kit told me he has the same jersey, and almost wore it today. Now, that would have been a sight!

Redwood Rain

I stepped out of the car, just a few miles from home, and was surprised by the chill. [Uh-oh.] I didn't expect to need an extra layer. Micro-climates. I pulled out my arm coolers, which I'd brought for extra sun protection. They would have to do.

I'd caught a glimpse of thick fog in a sheltered valley on the drive up to the start, and hoped we would stay above it. [Nope.]

By the time we reached Summit Road, the fog was thinning but still blowing sideways from the coast. It looks like steam ... but it's cold. And of course, wet. In the forest next to the road, there were pockets that sounded like steady rain as the condensing fog dripped from the branches of the redwood trees.

“If I ever move away from here, it's the redwoods I'll miss most,” one of our riders remarked. How very fortunate we are, to be cycling through the redwood forest just a few miles from home.

The surface of Highland Way continues to deteriorate, battered by last winter's storms. Slides have reduced it to one lane in a couple of places, and some fresh boulders are perched at the road's edge. This is not a place to linger when there is any likelihood of earth movement.

We made our way up to a high point on Loma Prieta Road. The agricultural fields around Watsonville were just barely visible, if you knew where to look; Monterey Bay and the peninsula were obscured by the marine layer.

And as close as we were to their peaks, we had hazy views of Loma Prieta and Mt. Umunhum. Only then did I realize that there was another layer above the fog, a thin layer of smoke. From where, we wondered, as we looked at the hillside scorched by last summer's Loma Prieta blaze.

37 miles, 3,535 feet of climbing. For an out-and-back route, what goes up must also come down. Translation: That's a lot of climbing over a short distance. I suffered.

Velo Vittles

The main event today was not the climb (up Highway 9); it was lunch.

For a few years, one of our club members has hosted a barbecue to raise funds benefiting the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. He captains a team for Waves to Wine each fall.

Waves to Wine was the first charity bike event I supported, back in 2003 (as the stoker on a recumbent tandem). I learned that I could raise funds successfully, earning a “Champagne Club” jersey straight away. I returned on the tandem in 2004 and transitioned to riding solo in 2005.

The event had a friendly, homespun vibe those first three years; the logistics were simple, with two loops based out of Santa Rosa. Big changes came in 2006: complicated logistics, a move away from the fabulous old routes, and disorganized execution. I still support the cause through my friends who do the ride, but switched my riding allegiance to a new charity (Best Buddies).

This year was the first time I attended Craig's barbecue. Of course, I donned my favorite Champagne Club jersey (circa 2004) for the occasion.

I was the first patron to arrive; a bit early for lunch, but cyclists do get hungry. Grills were lined up along the edge of the driveway, and a pair of canopies from the MS Society shaded the tables. I chatted with a mechanic who has volunteered regularly at Good Karma Bikes (alongside our host), as well as friends and neighbors who stopped by. One guy's eyes grew wide when he heard I'd cycled up Highway 9 on my way to lunch. “I've scuba dived, I've dived for abalone ... I've never biked up Highway 9!” [More dangerous than free-diving for abalone? I beg to differ.]

Highway 9 isn't too crazy, even on a summer weekend, if you get an early start. On the way down, a Porsche trailed me patiently enough until it was safe to pass. Seemed fair enough, as we were both traveling in the neighborhood of the speed limit. (Um, roughly.)

One plate of ribs, beans, salad, corn muffin. Plus fresh lemonade. Thus refueled, I pedaled on home. Thirty miles with 2,580 feet of climbing—no map to share, as my GPS took a nap along the way.

Feathers and Friends

There was at least one club member who was disappointed to miss last week's outing. And the birds are still there, so ... let's do it again!

Another strong turnout, including a couple of people who rode with us last week. Plus four biking friends who were curious enough to come over from the East Bay.

This week, it was windy along the bay. Really windy. Which meant that most of the birds were hunkered down to hunt in coves where the levees offered something of a wind break. There were a couple of snowy egrets close to shore. The wind helped ruffle some feathers, giving us a look at the distinctive plumage that adorns the back of a snowy egret's head.

Behind Moffett Field, this red-tailed hawk wasn't too concerned with us. “Wish I could get a better picture, if only it would turn around,” said one rider. “The bird needs to face into the wind, otherwise think what would happen with its feathers,” I suggested. Just as I'd put the camera away [of course], a brazen seagull swooped down over our heads to harass the hawk, leading to an aerial bird fight. (Just threats, no victim ... today.)

Last week I sensed that people would have preferred to head straight back after lunch, so this week we visited the Garden of Tasty Treats first. That worked out well, people were excited to pose for photos with their favorite droids. And as much fun as that can be, the birds are a tough act to follow.

One of the Black-crowned Night-Herons was out of the nest, perched on a branch for all to admire.

The rookery more than made up for the meager sightings along the Bay. People laughed and rooted for some fledglings that were flapping around, testing their wings and making it a few feet off the ground to a window ledge. Commotion in one nest drew our eyes upward, where we had a clear view of snowy egrets feeding their young. I passed around my binoculars for everyone to get a closer view.

I was explaining how the National Audubon Society came to be, protecting these birds from being hunted to extinction. “Their logo features an egret,” I said. “Mike designed that!” exclaimed one rider, proudly. [Say what?!] We had a bona fide celebrity on our ride. The guy wearing the jersey that was covered with logos (for brands that you would recognize) was the graphic designer who created them!

For me, 52 miles with 1,000 feet of climbing. (For everyone else, 26 miles with 340 feet of climbing.)

Much to like about this route, if I do say so myself!