Rainy Day Women

My friends had mapped out an 80-mile route for the first day of our biking vacation. After plotting the course on a map, I saw a straightforward way to reduce it to 60 and suggested considering that option when we reached the turning point. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was to follow the shorter route—especially since we were not staying another night in the area, but would face a post-ride two-hour drive to our next home base in Nevada City.

Our loop started with a sweet downhill, passing through the town of Graeagle. I was glad that I'd tossed a vest into my bag, almost as an afterthought, “just in case.”

The morning was chilly, with a slight chance of rain (rain?!) in the forecast.

Uncharacteristically, Ms. C (who normally stacks on multiple layers), brought none. Here she is snapping a photo of me snapping a photo of her.

There were flowers and boulders and evergreens a-plenty.

At one point I looked up just in time to see two fawns trailing their mom across the road and up the hillside.

“Did you feel that?” Sprinkles.

Which turned to rain.

Enough rain for vehicles to flick on their windshield wipers and spray water up from the roadway and bring patches of oil to the surface.

We have neither windshields, nor wipers.

But I've weathered far worse.

I met the Boyfriend (Ms. C's) climbing back up. “She wasn't far back when I started descending, but she must be cold.” He'd offer her the option to turn back. “I'm going to continue,” expecting that I would ride out of the rain. [I was right.]

I paused now and then for a snack, and to admire the scenery.

If they hadn't turned back, they'd surely catch up to me.

Continuing was the right choice (but then, with my vest and arm warmers, I wasn't really cold). I dried out soon enough.

I realized that my internal soundtrack had started playing a tune ... Gershwin. The mind works in mysterious ways.

I lingered a while at the Sattley Cash Store, by now convinced that my friends had turned back.

I had earned these photo-worthy views.

A barn dating back to 1895.

Vehicles traveled fast, but there weren't many. Visibility was excellent, so I wasn't worried about sharing the road.

A flock of white pelicans rose up from the field, swirled overhead and vanished.

In addition to the views, I was rewarded with a smokin' tailwind.

Puffs of cloud dotted the sky above massive rock formations.

Bright flowers were a welcome sight after the morning's gloom.

I was glad I had stayed the course: 4,025 feet of climbing over 61 miles (some wet, some dry). For my friends, who turned back, more wet than dry.

The afternoon drive gave us the views we missed this morning. Maybe I'll come back, one day.

A Walk in the Woods

With most people celebrating Independence Day, traffic was light and I made it to Auburn yesterday without growing exhausted in the process. That left today for the rest of the long drive to Graeagle, where I would rendezvous with two biking buddies for a mini getaway.

Graeagle? Where the heck is Graeagle? Until they'd suggested it, I had never heard of it. Entering the town, I think the sign claimed a population of 737.

We visited the town when my friends arrived, and later I went exploring on my own as they relaxed before dinner. Our lodge provided a map that showed the start of a path leading to “the river.”

The path wasn't marked, and I had no sense of the distance to the river. The bouncing blue GPS dot on my phone kept me on the main route (Clareville Flat Road, according to Google Maps).

I was rewarded with the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional song of a bird.

And, of course, flowers. It may be late in the season, but the altitude is higher (and the nights cooler).

I wondered about bears ... but didn't see telltale signs of large mammals.

I wondered whether I would, in fact, find the river. The Middle Fork Feather River, as it turned out.

I didn't expect railroad tracks, and a bridge.

I didn't expect to find the river flanked by cliffs, dotted with granite boulders.

A most satisfying walk in the woods.

Pancakes!

I learned my lesson from past Fourths of July: Don't sleep in. To the early arrivals go the pancakes.

My post-pancake aspirations were modest this year. As tempting as it was to head up to the summit of Mt. Umunhum (which I have still not visited?!), I had other plans for the afternoon. It would take me at least an hour, I calculated, just to get to the top—bracketed by more riding.

The day was windy and unseasonably cool—I stepped into the sunshine at breakfast, just to stop shivering. The subsequent climb up the backside of Hicks warmed us up handily, of course. To get there, we looped past the Almaden Reservoir, where we had a clear view of the fog blowing in from the coast.

After 33 miles and 1,945 feet of climbing, I got cleaned up and embarked on my next challenge: Heading out on another road trip, this time solo. Apprehensive about my stamina for a drive of four-plus hours, I scoped out motels for a few “halfway” points along the route.

Could I make it as far as Auburn? We'll see ...

Riding with the Bunch

After last year, I was looking forward to repeating the MacMurray Ranch training ride for Best Buddies and was excited when it materialized on our calendars.

I was eager to book the same Airbnb spot and was delighted that it was available. This year, I was joined by a biking buddy who took the leap to register for the big event this fall!

It was promising to be a hot day, so everyone was ready to get rolling. Our ringleader and master of ceremonies, Richard Fries, commanded us to “Go easy when it's hard and hard when it's easy” in a noble attempt to keep the group together. No reason not to do the 40-mile route today (well, other than the impending heat), and this year I saw a range of riders lining up. The hammerheads would split off soon enough, and the rest of us would stay together.

Or so I thought.

My cycling computer showed that I averaged 15.7 mph (!) for the first hour, and for me that's not sustainable. This was the slow group?

When we stopped for our break at the Dry Creek General Store, I learned that I was part of the “middle” group. [Ohhhhh.]

The fast group was ready to roll when the slow group caught up, and the middle group was dawdling. “Let's go,” I said. “They'll drop us, but the day is only going to get hotter.”

I soon found myself in a familiar in-between place: behind the fast group, ahead of the slower groups. That suited me just fine, allowing me to indulge in some photo-taking.

Despite the heat, the last leg on Eastside was actually pleasant—a little bit cooler, with a hint of a breeze even.

We rode 38 miles with a scant 695 feet of climbing—which factors into how I was able to average 14.9 mph (wow).

Back at the party, Richard said “You're a strong rider, I watched you in the group today.” [Me? A strong rider?] “I have no power,” I sighed. “We can work on that, and the first thing is: Stop saying that.”

Castle Crags

Another Saturday, another metric century. [What?! Three in a row?]

How could I resist when a friend asked me to join her for the Castle Crags Century Mountain Metric? We managed to squeeze yet another Friday off and headed for Mt. Shasta. Long-distance driving is not one of my strengths, so I was thrilled—normally I would not consider such a distant event. [Not to mention that this one was not on my radar.]

Our motel was close to the the route, so I suggested we just start from there—that approach worked well last time I rode here, too.

When I rode the Mt. Shasta Century a few years ago, I missed getting a good photo of Lake Siskiyou. This time, I knew where to stop. It wasn't long before we stopped again, my ride buddy shouting behind me to look up. Ospreys! And then ... a Bald Eagle. What a way to start the day!

We'd tackled the principal climb first; the ride three years ago was an out-and-back on this hill, not a climb to the summit. [Oh, what we missed!]

A rear-view mirror is handy for more than just checking the traffic behind you. Sometimes, there's a picture-worthy view.

We got the full Tour de France welcome from enthusiastic volunteers at the first water stop.

The gentle grade turned serious after that. Encouraging signs were planted in strategic locations. The first one reminded us “Remember You Signed Up For This.”

As I admired the Trinity Alps from the summit, my internal soundtrack spontaneously began looping on a particular song.

Over bridge of sighs,

To rest my eyes in shades of green

Under dreaming spires

Around the bend, Castle Crags came into view.

What did you do there?

I got high ...

What did you touch there?

I touched the sky ...

It's all too beautiful

Even the on-ramp to Interstate 5 framed a lovely view of the Crags.

And as you see, that's where we were headed ...

The orange cones on the shoulder of I5 were a helpful reminder to passing cars and trucks to stay clear.

The weather was near perfect, but a tad warm in the afternoon. I was holding up better than last week, grateful to have my lowest gears again after I'd taken my trusty steed in for some adjusting. I'd also mounted some new (wider, 25mm) tires—the organizers had been emphatic about the poor road conditions. I chose to walk when my wheels started slipping on an uphill dirt section, but the rest of the route was rideable. The hazards were well-marked and all was well, until ... I got excited about a downhill stretch and slammed into a pothole that launched a water bottle. [At least that was the worst of it.] At speed, in the shade, I didn't see the markings.

The road kicked up, I shifted down, much clattering was heard. I stopped (luckily before the rear wheel would have seized up): the chain had dropped off the largest rear cog and become thoroughly wedged between the cassette and rear wheel spokes.

I nudged.

I tugged.

I yanked with all my might.

I was skeptical when the technician had turned the limit screws on both derailleurs last week. I'm no bike mechanic, but ... that wasn't the right solution.

My hands got plenty greasy, but the chain would not budge. [Somehow it always seems like Too Much Trouble to fish around in my saddle bag for the latex gloves. Why do I carry them?]

I looked at the map; so close, yet so far. The SAG guys transported me seven miles to the finish, and then carefully pried the chain free with a screwdriver, link by link. “We should have tried that out there, you could have finished the ride!”

After partying with my bike buddy and some newly minted friends we pedaled back to the motel as planned, rounding out my day with 55 miles and 5,805 feet of climbing.

It's all too beautiful ...

Adopt-a-Park!

Every June, our company organizes and sponsors a month's worth of community service. We're encouraged to get out of the office and volunteer our brains and brawn. I traditionally gravitate toward the outdoors-y projects. [As if I didn't have enough yard work to do.]

We learned that the city of San Jose has more than 200 parks! And (no surprise here) there isn't enough staff to maintain them. Especially since, here in California, stuff grows ... and grows ... year round.

The project I chose this year was on the grounds of a large community center, landscaped with trees, bushes, and flowers that were out of control. Volunteering alone isn't enough for me; for many years, I have chosen to lead at least one project. This year I went all in: 100 volunteers to coordinate (one of whom stepped up to co-lead!).

We swarmed over the grounds and, in a matter of hours, transformed the place. Community members thanked us, the staff came out to marvel at what we accomplished, and city workers hauled multiple truckloads away.

I joined a crew that tackled the weeds, leaves, and assorted debris that had accumulated in the plants along the long sidewalk fronting the facility. We raked and pulled and swept faster than our comrades could load tarps and wheelbarrows to haul it away.

A few folks even stayed late, after lunch, to help the city worker load the last load into his truck.

At the end of our stint, everyone was dirty and sweaty ... and proud of what we accomplished.

Morning, Marin

I thought last week's ride had a small turnout. Today's ride was smaller still.

I'd resisted signing up for the Marin edition of a one-day ride for the Arthritis Foundation, opting for the Pescadero ride the past two years. But there will be no Pescadero ride this year, so I decided to haul myself up to Marin to support the cause. A few days before, a friend decided to join me—that turned out to be quite fortuitous, because I would otherwise have been riding alone all day. [Pretty much.]

Sunny and windy, we both found this ride unexpectedly difficult. The temperature, though, was perfect.

A few miles into the ride, I spotted a doe and two (!) fawns next to the road. Mom decided we didn't pose a threat and tolerated our presence as they grazed. I was impressed to watch her drop down and slip under the lowest fence rail—so her offspring could easily follow.

I remembered Chileno Valley Road from last fall, and it was just as pretty.

Had I studied the profile more closely, I might not have chosen to donate blood five days before the ride. And I might have been more diligent about getting a mechanic to adjust my finicky front derailleur, which sometimes refuses to shift down to the smallest ring. [I'm apprehensive about looking after my newer bike at group events, so I rely on my older road bike—which hasn't been getting enough love, for sure.]

The back roads were quiet, passing mostly through ranches and dairy farms. There were a few steep sections, but the route was mostly rolling hills. I did manage to shift into my lowest gear once. Before and after that one long climb, it balked (and I walked).

I had a sense, on Marshall-Petaluma Road, that I had been there before. (I was right.) On the Marin Century, some years back, we rode it toward the coast. In the opposite direction, it starts out with a rude climb. I shifted down and carried some speed, but without my lowest gear, I stopped turning the pedals before the grade eased up.

With some 20 miles to go, my legs (and I) were ready to be done. I rode for miles without seeing another rider and wondered if they'd missed the turn. [They hadn't.]

I was excited, and oh-so-relieved, when Stafford Lake finally came into view.

A scenic, but painful, 58 miles and 3,885 feet of climbing.