Birthday Boy

What better way to celebrate a popular member's milestone birthday than to ride our bikes? [And so we did!]

Biking to the start constrained my viable contributions for the picnic lunch. I settled on veggies and hummus, food that wouldn't spoil while we were out riding (and, easy to transport).

I opted for the harder of two routes, up the east side of Hicks Road (and down the west side). I've long regarded that ascent as the “easier” of the two, but the steepest stretch was more than I wanted today (walking kept my heart pumping a-plenty).

The park had a lovely (and empty, this being late November) picnic area where we laid out our spread—there was no chance anyone would go away hungry! Candles were lit, and the birthday boy had no trouble blowing them out.

1,560 feet of climbing over 34 miles doesn't sound like much, but trust me ... it was.

The Big Bike Build

Turning Wheels for Kids is a local non-profit, 15 years strong. I have been a donor since it was founded. Writing a check is easy; this year I decided to do more—to donate my time, as well.

The charity is active year-round, but many hands are needed for the annual Big Bike Build leading into the holiday season. Our bike club has been deeply involved for many years, and volunteer slots are highly coveted (I got lucky!). Being “skilled labor” [it's all relative ...], we were tasked with assembling the “big” bikes: the bikes with derailleurs and rim or disc brakes.

We worked in pairs, and it was less daunting than I had expected: the bikes were mostly assembled. We needed to unpack them, attach the handlebars, install the pedals and saddles, add the wheels and reflectors, adjust the brakes (and sometimes the derailleurs), and pump up the tires. Then we'd hand off the bike to our quality control sub-team to check our work (and give us any needed feedback).

When we faced a problem we couldn't solve, we'd tap one of our real experts for help. One bike was almost done—just needed to pump up those tires!—when we discovered that its headset needed some major adjusting. Deemed a “Franken-bike,” it was intercepted and whisked away to the master mechanics.

The logistics were impressive: from the boxes carefully arranged by model down the center of the hall, to the aggressive clean-up crew that hauled the empties out to truck-sized containers for recycling.

How did we do? My buddy and I built five of the 53 (or more) that our club assembled. By the end of the day, an army of volunteers had completed some 2,330 bicycles. I will smile on Christmas morning, thinking of all those happy, soon-to-be healthier kids!

Scorched Earth

After two weeks of poor air quality, I was excited to get out on the bike. The fog, I knew, would burn off.

And so it did, just as I approached The Wall on Calaveras. (Which is not as daunting as it once was.) It was a glorious fall day, warm and sunny.

Along the way I'd chided a bunch of wild turkeys that were spilling out onto the road, into the path of an oncoming car. Despite their apparent cluelessness, however, I've never seen one as roadkill.

It seemed that there was more litter than usual on our beautiful twisting road above the reservoir; the usual bottles and cans, but also fast-food wrappers and many empty packs of cigarettes (Marlboro Lights, in particular). Why don't people keep their trash inside their vehicles?

I was surprised to pass a disposable lighter. (Disposable doesn't mean dispose of it wherever you please.) Only later did I wonder whether it had been tossed by the arsonist who set a bunch of fires there in late September.

Some of the rolling hills to the west of the reservoir were blackened; the road, and what remained of the golden grasses, had a pinkish tinge from the chemical retardant that had been dropped to contain the flames.

My ride buddy and I turned off to enjoy our snacks in the Sunol-Ohlone Regional Park. As in the past, the rangers were welcoming—offering us water and impressed that we'd taken the steep route from Milpitas.

Visiting the park entails more climbing (in, as well as out), but it's worth it. Another 29 miles and 2,675 feet of climbing for the year.

I regret not picking up that lighter to dispose of it properly.

Last Light

How many round-trip bike commutes could I squeeze in this week, the final week of daylight savings time? My work schedule would allow three.

The air quality, however, allowed two. See that orange haze in the distance? (Luckily I stopped for some photos on Thursday before heading home to greet the trick-or-treaters.)

Because, while the official forecast was unremarkable ... I woke up with a sore throat on Friday.

Maybe, maybe ... there can be a few more round trips before the year is over? (Just have to leave the office a bit on the, um, early side.)

Camp ... Home

I'll trade turkeys for traffic any day—they make for a much more interesting commute. Six of them were busy pecking something out of a suburban lawn. They were wary of this odd two-legged creature and her two-wheeled contraption, but they were more keen to keep eating.

My (thwarted) plan for the weekend had been to join some club members for a ride up the west side of San Francisco Bay, followed by a ride down the east side the next day. Commuting today was my consolation ride.

Is there a region immune from natural threats? Blizzards, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes ... For California, earthquakes come to mind; but we also have wildfires. It's fire season now, and with the Kincade fire raging north of our Saturday destination, I opted out. At first I was concerned about me: Why would I choose to ride toward, and into, the smoke? As the evacuation area expanded, I was more concerned about others: Why would I voluntarily leave my home and occupy a hotel room that could be used by any of the tens of thousands of evacuees?

When my electricity was cut off on Saturday night, I shouldn't have been surprised. Our embattled utility company had widely publicized that they planned to de-energize parts of their grid to avoid a repeat of the deadly fires they've been causing. While I wish their maintenance practices were such that they could safely operate their equipment, I accepted their decision. Better to inconvenience a million (?!) customers than to incinerate another town and kill people.

Their website had assured me that my place would not lose power, but I'd had my doubts. In fact, at the level of individual addresses, they don't actually know what's connected to what. [Quelle surprise.]

With the help of a flashlight, on Sunday I found my coolers and ventured out in search of ice to preserve what food I could. [Block ice, for the win! My grandmother would have been proud!] After breakfast, I think you'd agree that consuming most of my still-sealed container of now-soupy Phish Food was the obvious thing to do.

Biking to work on Monday was also the obvious thing to do (after that ice cream). “No electricity! No Wi-Fi!” a colleague exclaimed. [Shrug.] After dark, I caught up on some reading, the old-fashioned way. [Well, the paper was old-fashioned ... my light source was a USB-wired LED bulb connected to a power bank.]

Monday night, the lights flicked on—just minutes shy of 48 hours without power. I'm no camper, but I managed.

Tony Turkeys

Just as I was thinking that I might not capture a photo on today's short ride, I came upon a small rafter of wild turkeys.

I heard them before I saw them scrabbling under the trees. They were vocalizing, but their calls sounded more like hooting than gobbling.

I remember the first time I climbed the steeper side of Westridge, early in my cycling days. I wasn't sure I'd make it up the hill; I thought my heart might explode (and here I am, so ... it didn't). Portola Valley is a tony town, but the locals didn't chew us out today for daring to ride our bicycles on their public streets.

I waited for my biking buddy at the end of Alpine Road, watching others (on road as well as mountain bikes) continue onto the dirt section. “Have fun!” I said. They understand what lies ahead.

The strongest rider in our group tacked on a few wickedly steep climbs nearby, but most of us kept it short and simple: 16 miles and 1,515 feet of climbing for me.

Hamilton, the Mountain

That view means one thing ... I have made it to the top of Mt. Hamilton ... again!

Somehow, 2019 had mostly slipped by without undertaking my favorite climb. I decided to try something I haven't done in a long time: Pedal non-stop to the top. Just take photos at the top, I told myself.

Smoke from a distant fire added to the haze, but it was an otherwise perfect day. Expecting to see no flowers, this late in the dry season, I was surprised by yellow blooms. How have I not noticed these before? (In 2012, I climbed this mountain 10 times, missing only the months of March and December.)

This was the maiden voyage for my starry Lick Observatory jersey. I truly didn't need another bike jersey (don't ask), but how could I not add this one to my collection?

A staff member gave me a thumbs up as she pulled out of the parking lot. “You earned it!” she said. [Indeed.]

I offered a head start to the others in our group, in case any of them felt uncomfortable about having no one behind them. “It normally takes me about an hour and ten minutes,” I explained. One rider's eyes grew wide. “It takes me two hours!” she said.

In all, 39 miles with 4,855 feet of climbing. I summited in just a tad (less than two minutes) over three hours. Turns out I descended a bit faster than I expected (62 minutes), despite having to brake repeatedly behind an SUV—and a teenager on a skateboard (!) on the lower section. Those two pesky climbs on the way down hurt less today.