The Straggler

That was me, today: The Straggler.

Despite a healthy head start, the rest of the group soon caught (and passed) me. After I paused to peel off my jacket, I never saw them again.

I puttered along, pausing to enjoy the occasional view. Newly-planted trees were a sign that this is still an active orchard.

I wasn't up for the full route today, anyway. Without a leader to follow through Alum Rock Park, I strayed off course.

Enough, already. I took the direct route back to the start.

Seventeen miles, with 1,340 of climbing on a lovely blue-sky day.

In the Thick of It

I was excited at the prospect of exploring new territory. [Sort of.]

The skies were clear at home—unlike yesterday, when a winter fog had settled upon us.

My spirits sank as I got closer to the start for today's ride, in Livermore. Fog. Ground fog.

It's magical in the distance; here you can see the top of Mt. Diablo peeking above it.

Up close, it lends a mystical ambiance to field and forest.

The more we climbed, eastward toward the Central Valley, the denser it got. Droplets formed on my sunglasses and dripped from my helmet. Crosswinds buffeted the bike and made it wobble.

Near the summit, I was alarmed that I could hear an approaching car long before I could see its headlights. I knew I was near the summit thanks to my new gadget, a Wahoo Elemnt Bolt on its maiden voyage. Having pre-loaded it with today's route, it beeped reassuringly at key moments and counted down the remaining distance when I was close to the top. [Not that I was going to sprint, or anything.]

I could hear the rest of the group chattering; why would they wait for the last of us, in such conditions?

Change of plans, they announced. [Whew, what a relief!] It wasn't safe to continue on the planned route. (It wasn't particularly safe to ride as far as we did, but there we were.) I was more than happy to high-tail it out of there, back down the hill. The new plan was to head up to Del Valle Regional Park, another new place for me.

The beach was deserted, and we had the park nearly to ourselves.

Not much of a lake view, at the moment. We saw a couple of boats leaving the park on trailers; did they not check the conditions before making the trip?

An Aermotor!

Glad we were able to improvise, for a respectable 2,640 feet of climbing over 35 miles. It was worth it. And I suffered less than I expected, given that my last real ride was six weeks ago.

Not a big riding year for me in 2017: 2,977+ miles, 85,390+ feet of climbing overall. A new year has begun.

Go Tell It on the Mountain

I was having trouble summoning any holiday spirit in the Bay Area this year. No desire to hear the music. No interest in baking cookies. I even felt half-hearted about pulling out my treasured decorations.

My good friend and chief biking buddy, Ms. C, suggested a stroll through Christmas in the Park, which features many traditional Christmas trees decorated by groups large and small. As well as some non-traditional trees, California-style.

The last concert in the Season of Giving series at the Cathedral Basilica of St. Joseph featured the Harpers Hall Celtic Harpists. The program ranged from the local to the traditional, with selections from around the world—almost as diverse as the faces in the audience. Children enthusiastically embellished Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (“Like a flashlight!”). I chimed in for Silent Night; luckily there were plenty of voices to carry Feliz Navidad (note to self: learn the words). We both felt drowsy at the same time, and agreed that the Carol of the Bells was the piece most suited to the instruments.

The past two years have seen us exploring the coast in Half Moon Bay on Christmas Day; this year, Ms. C suggested we try something new: Montara Mountain. We followed the Gray Whale Cove trail first, for the coastal view. Although it didn't seem that we'd climbed all that much, we were soon looking down—way down—at the parking lot where we'd started. We saw lots of gray clouds, but no whales.

And while this would seem to be an unlikely way to spend Christmas, the parking lot filled up and many fellow hikers (and mountain bikers) greeted us sincerely with “Merry Christmas!”

The mountain lies within the expanse of McNee Ranch State Park, which (despite its size) is treated like a footnote to Montara State Beach.

There are no facilities. No posted trail maps. No pamphlets. A few signposts at some junctions, that's all. We asked some descending hikers how much farther to the top of the mountain, and were surprised when they said a few more miles. Having foregone a recommended short-cut, I wasn't entirely surprised; Google Maps confirmed our fellow hiker's estimate, so we soon chose to turn and follow a different route back to the car. The trail was steep, and sandy; challenging enough with our hiking boots and walking sticks. A trio including an older woman outfitted with ordinary running shoes hiked past us; we couldn't imagine how she'd fare on the way down. In the distance, the Farallons were just barely visible.

We were satisfied with our 5.2 mile hike. The mountaintop will wait.

Memories, Indelible

I'd walked through that tunnel on Saturday, transferring from the R line to the C. Like thousands of other people, that day and every day. (Except today.)

So many hotel dining areas have televisions running the non-stop news cycle. Honestly, I don't know why. At breakfast, or really at any other meal, the images are all-too-often disturbing.

I was the early riser this morning, the only guest in the room. Having scanned the news online while waking up, I was stunned to find the screen filled with flashing red and blue lights, the NYPD bomb squad, live coverage of an explosion in the tunnel connecting the Times Square subway station to the Port Authority station. Yet another disaffected, brainwashed young man. Fortunately, he killed no one—not even himself.

Within two hours, the hum of the city was already being restored. The bomber identified, surveillance footage of the blast on air, officials holding a press conference about the resilience of New Yorkers. Within two hours. Astonishing.

Construction is a constant in the city. If I had thought about how concrete floors are poured two dozen stories above street level, I would have assumed the material was mixed there. I would not have expected to see it poured from a truck into a bin that was then hoisted into the sky by a giant crane.

The friend who planned to meet me in the city confirmed that NJ Transit was running normally and our lunch date was on.

I strolled up Fifth Avenue, not wanting to miss the the animated displays in the windows at Lord & Taylor. I assured two visitors that they were on the right track and could not miss Rockefeller Center. This being a weekday, the crowds were a bit thinner than Friday night's crush.

How many times have I seen the Christmas Show at Radio City? I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure it was an annual treat when I was a child. Back in the day when some of the seats were actually general admission. How my mom loved it! After we moved farther away, she'd take a bus tour each year.

Fifth row, virtually in the center, today. I wish you were here, Mom. (Though the 3D segment would make you nauseous!) They fully use this glorious space these days, projecting trains and dancing Santas on the arches high above our heads to complement the action on stage.

Confetti rained down on the audience, like snowflakes, in the finale. Even after walking 20+ blocks back downtown, stray bits fluttered off at dinner and in my hotel room.

I love NYC at Christmastime.

Down the Shore

I'd reserved Sunday for a family visit. Perhaps, I suggested, we could take a walk on the boardwalk and enjoy an early dinner.

Yes, it does snow at the beach. Evidently the sand held enough heat to fend off any accumulation from this early storm.

It was uplifting to see Asbury Park in its revitalizing state. I'm sure I rode the merry-go-round as a child; the building remains, though the carousel is long gone.

When the city slid into its deep decline, we'd stroll the boards through the neighboring town of Ocean Grove and turn back at the border. The line in the sand wasn't hard to miss; sketchy characters loitered on the Asbury side. It was no longer the town that Bruce romanticized.

Things are turning around, these days. A jazz band played as we strolled through a fair inside Convention Hall, where artisans were selling their wares.

I never had the chance to notice the architectural details, before.

The interior could use some more work, but somehow the building and its ornamental flourishes survived those sad decades of neglect.

And the wintry waves of the steely gray Atlantic roll on.

Musical, Magical, Manhattan

Luckily I'd re-checked the forecast when I was packing on Thursday night. Snow! On Saturday! (Not Tuesday, per earlier forecasts.)

I broke out the insulated winter boots for slushy sidewalks and my ski jacket to stay warm and shed the flakes.

Big, wet snowflakes drifted down from the sky and melted on my tongue. The first snowfall of the season was just enough to make the city pretty, and not enough to wreak havoc or summon the plows.

To make the most of my short trip, I headed for a quick morning visit to the American Museum of Natural History—via the subway.

I'd read about the deteriorating state of the subway system, but from afar I didn't follow the details.

What a mess. I walked over to 34th to catch the D train, only to discover it's skipping that station (repairs). I re-routed, and found some holiday cheer in a car where a three-piece ensemble (accordion, guitar, and bass) played and sang Feliz Navidad. They appreciated the applause (and donations).

I focused my abbreviated visit on something new: geology. It's sobering to cast your eyes on a sample of a rock that includes zircon crystals dated to be the oldest material on earth (over 4.276 billion years old).

I studied a cross-section of folded rock from the Sequoia National Forest (Kings Canyon), and a slice from the familiar San Andreas Fault.

A spectacular 12-foot geode was popular.

I hustled back to the subway to head downtown for my matinee. Having just missed one train, I listened to ambiguous announcements about a stalled train near Columbus Circle. The next train arrived, and was held in place by a red light.

Time for a taxi. Chivalry is officially dead: standing there in the snowstorm, a “gentleman” positioned himself upstream to intercept the cab that should have been mine.

I made it to the theatre in time. (Just.) Another bittersweet musical, Dear Evan Hansen. The staging included panels onto which images and words streamed; social media plays a big role. It can be hard to laugh when you know the story must spiral out of control, that it can't end well. Ben Platt (Evan) was brilliant.

So much to see and do ... I was already regretting how short this trip would be.

For the evening, I necessarily had Plans A and B—both at Lincoln Center. Plan B would be to see NYC Ballet's Nutcracker. Plan A relied on someone freeing up a ticket to a sold-out performance of the NY Philharmonic, the last in a short concert series commemorating their 175th anniversary.

The box office window for “this performance” was shuttered. I figured I'd plead ignorance at the “future sales” window, but there was no need. “What's your price range?” he asked. The weather had scared people away, and I wound up with a lovely aisle seat in the orchestra section!

For the occasion, they were repeating the same works performed at their very first concert. Which made this performance of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony one that assuredly I will never forget: the first one I've seen live.

I opted for a subway ride back downtown. No cycling for me ...

New York, New York

I miss NYC at Christmastime. I miss NYC at other times, too. But especially at Christmastime.

When I was a child, it was a regular treat to make a trip to the city, admire the wondrous tree and the skaters at Rockefeller Center, the elaborate animated window displays, and all the colorful decorations.

It's a longer trip now, but I'm a grown-up. I bought a plane ticket.

I made a list, and checked it twice. My flight landed early enough to take in a Friday night Broadway show.

My first choice was The Band's Visit, a stage adaptation of an Israeli film (though I didn't know that when I chose it). It was well-reviewed and perhaps not likely to play elsewhere. Plus, it presented an opportunity to see Tony Shalhoub (live!) in one of the leading roles.

I scored a ticket, grabbed a quick bite to eat, and headed for the box office of the next show on my list—securing a ticket for tomorrow's matinee.

Theatres sometimes (always?) hold back a few good seats “just in case” they need to accommodate someone special, or to recover from some mishap—a patron unhappy with his or her seat, a botched ticket. At some point, they might decide to release the hold. I believe this is how I ended up with a Broadway producer (Pamela Cooper) on my right, and a guy affiliated with the show on my left, jotting down notes that he would later take backstage.

Pamela (and the random theatre-goer to her right, who positively gushed about Pamela's Come From Away) convinced me that I should add that one to my list. It should have won the Tony for Best Musical, of that they were sure. The 9/11 theme had given me pause. (It will tour, if I don't make it back to Broadway soon enough.)

Pamela had brought Ben Vereen (seated elsewhere) to the show. From the deep recesses of my memory, I recalled the day my mom took me to my first Broadway show (Pippin). Starring ... Ben Vereen.

Tonight's musical comedy was bittersweet, and evidently starting a theme for the works I'd chosen: ordinary people, leading ordinarily complicated lives, learning about themselves and each other as they make their way in our complicated world.

After the show, I found my way to Rockefeller Center, merging into the Friday-night crowd taking selfies with the famous tree

 and the angels

and the elaborate light show on the front of Saks Fifth Avenue).

I love NYC at Christmastime!