Winter Sports

It's not all about the bike. [Well, it's mostly about the bike.]

Our HR system started admonishing me “You should take a vacation!” [Challenge accepted.]

Off to Utah, home to the best snow on earth. And the home of good friends who welcome a stream of visitors, mostly during ski season. Great skiing is just a plane ticket away—it's easier than going to Tahoe.

They encouraged me to give their Peloton bike a try. I'm not really a spin class fan, but ... why not? The beginner workout got my heart pumping. And the advanced beginner session reminded me why I'm not a spin class fan. It's not cycling. It's a workout, for sure; but I'm happier on a rowing machine or a StairMaster. [Personal preference, that's all.] Spinning my legs at a cadence of 90+ rpm bears no semblance to cycling.

Case in point: some of my colleagues are HIIT fans, and they've tried enticing me to join them. “You'd kill us on the bike!” one said. It's not about the cadence, she insisted; the goal is distance, 3/4 of a mile in a minute. [Hahahahahahaha.] In other words, 45 mph. A pro cyclist might average 31 mph in a time trial.

But this isn't about the bike, it's about the skis. Alta had already collected more than 400 inches of snow this year, and mid-week I had the lift (and often the trail) to myself. On the last day, I shared a chair with a woman who exclaimed “Challenger [a black diamond run] is beautiful, they've groomed it!” Turned out she was 83 years old. “My husband passed away at 95,” she shared. “And he kept skiing till the end.”

I had been puzzled why one of my favorite runs was roped off, until it opened on the last day and I realized there's a slide path down the face of an adjacent peak.

One run stood out on this trip, one so special that it will live on in my memory: The snow was the consistency of flour. I've never experienced anything like it.

Looking forward to many happy returns. The best snow on earth.

In With the New

Wintertime,
And my fingers are freezing.
Rooftops are frosted;
The sun is low in the sky.

Warm toes? Warm fingers? Pick one, because you can't have both on a chilly winter morning. By the time my fingers stopped stinging, my toes were numb. [Eh, it's not really that cold here.]

And what better day for a bike commute, when the office is empty. Best time of the year to catch up: no meetings, no interruptions, no one else around. It was so quiet in the afternoon that one of my colleagues couldn't take it anymore and headed back home to work from there.

A fine day for an early departure, to get home before dark!

Turning Twenty

My last ride of 2019. Last ride before that third digit flips from one to two. It's a turning point whether you declare that the new decade starts two days from now, or a year and two days from now.

It had rained overnight, but I wanted to fit in one more ride this year. Be mindful of slick painted lines and slippery metal rails and grates and shards of glass that adhere to your tires ... The ride would make a mess of the bike, but I so look forward to indulging in a few winter round-trip bike commutes during this quiet time between holidays, when I can duck out of the office early enough to get home before dark.

One year, someone had adorned the bronze quail near the Mary Avenue bridge with handmade red scarves. This year, I found them pressed into service pulling Santa's sleigh.

I clocked more than 2,590 biking miles this year (more than last year), but did less climbing (some 103,000 feet).

But, what about the last ten years? Well. Let's add it up.

I don't track the short utility rides on my folding bike (generally 15 miles per week), but I did wear out its rear tire. On my full-sized bikes, I spent ...

• in excess of 2,513 hours
• pedaling more than 28,259 miles and
  
• climbing over 1,493,389 feet
• in a dozen different countries.

That's once around the earth (and then some). Akin to more than 51 ascents of Mt. Everest (but without being challenged by high altitude). And equivalent to spending over 104 days on a bicycle.

One pedal stroke at a time.

Me & Squirrel

A flash of gray fur, a rustling in the leaves next to the bike path. Catastrophe, miraculously, averted. It played out in less than the blink of an eye: the rascally rodent streaked across the path so close to my front wheel that the riders behind me thought it jumped through the spokes. (Luckily for the squirrel, and especially for me, it did not.)

I wasn't looking for squirrels. I wasn't thinking about squirrels. That was my mistake. Had I seen the creature nearby, I would have hissed loudly (that works!) and it would have turned tail to run away, fast.

I'd been off the bike for too long (a full month), recovering from my east coast cold. I didn't set the alarm last night; if I wake up early enough, I told myself, I will go for a ride. I thought it might be warmer than yesterday. [It was not.]

Thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit. (Less than two degrees Celsius.) That seemed like a good reason not to go for a bike ride, so of course ... I bundled up and went for a bike ride.

This ride leader's style might best be described as eclectic. She has a comprehensive understanding of back roads through San José neighborhoods, and without route sheets the group sticks together. To be honest, I'm not sure she necessarily has a route in mind when we set off.

I was surprised when she pulled over to stop at a seemingly random spot along the Coyote Creek Trail. On the opposite side of the creek, perched on a tree branch, was a bald eagle. I wasn't looking for bald eagles. [Our leader was.] I wasn't thinking about bald eagles. [Our leader knew to keep an eye out here, and now I do, too.]

It was a day for surprises. The next revelation was Malech Road. When we turned on Metcalf Road, I thought she was heading for the gate to Basking Ridge; but no, we turned ... right. I had no idea that road went anywhere. We regrouped at the top of the hill before heading down to Bailey for the return trip. [And away from the gunfire reverberating in the foothills.]

The last surprise, as I rode back home, was to be caught by another club member out for his own ride. He'd waited until the day warmed up before venturing out. [Smart, that.] We agreed that it was too cold for the club's hilly rides today; he had started up a challenging climb before thinking it through ... the descent ... would be so cold ... he turned back. And thus met me, along the way.

I managed 40 miles (with a mere) 695 feet of climbing. It felt good.

The Big Apple

The big apple took a bite out of me.

I'd traveled to the east coast to work with colleagues in the New York office, with a little extra time to indulge in some cultural treats. Plays! Concerts! Museums!

It seemed there was a big fuss over a little bit of weather, but apparently it was the first snowfall of the season.

Alas, after just three days a winter virus had thoroughly colonized my body. I lost my voice (which, in some minds, was a net positive). I kept working, because ... that's why I was there.

I did enjoy New York City Ballet's Nutcracker, which I had never seen. Unlike San Francisco Ballet's version, the part of Marie was danced by one young girl throughout the performance. The theatre was unfamiliar to me, even though the first ballet I'd seen was in New York (more than 30 years ago).

Working from another office generally means the day stretches long as I follow much of my normal schedule with a now-shifted timezone. Most evenings I only had the energy to drag myself back to my hotel room, but I did manage to connect with one good friend for dinner.

I scaled back my dream of seeing two plays on Saturday, deciding that I had just about enough stamina for a matinee and a pilgrimage to Rockefeller Center.

Note to self: Check out the tree on a weeknight, not on the first Saturday after they've lit it up. Bodies were packed so tightly that you had no choice but to swim with the crowd, kind of like body-surfing an ocean wave.

Oklahoma! was my first choice, and the cast was good even though several key roles were not played by the primary cast members. [So, no, I did not get to see the Tony winner sing the part of Ado Annie.] The music is so stunningly beautiful that I fought back tears as soon as it began. I didn't find Ado Annie or the peddler convincing, but the other leads were: Cocky, conceited Curly; conflicted Laurie; and a truly menacing, sociopathic Jud. This production struck deeper for me, emotionally, than the sunny movie version.

Sunday's journey home would begin with a subway ride, to catch a train, then a monorail, to the airport. With completely random timing, I hurried down the steps when I saw a subway train still boarding. And ... what to my wondering eyes did appear, but a vintage historical train—something that they roll a few times during the holidays. I slipped into car 484, built in 1932 and restored to period glory (the year 1946), complete with advertisements of the time. A memorable finale for this visit!

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!