WFH: Week Zero

The message landed in my inbox on Thursday night: As of Friday, March 6, working from home was an approved (voluntary) option.

Restrictions had been escalating rapidly at the office—no international travel, all visiting workers required to return to their home locations, exhortations to stay home even if you were sure your sniffles were nothing more than seasonal allergies.

I was uncomfortable about the close quarters on our commuter shuttles. Just a couple of weeks ago I'd moved several rows back when the guy in the seat behind me kept coughing. And coughing. And coughing. Maybe it would be better to bike to work, now.

But then, I'd become increasingly uneasy with the (deficient) hygiene practices of some of my coworkers. A woman who leaves the restroom without washing her hands; this week, a guy who repeatedly sneezed into his napkin at lunch, repeatedly touched it to his nose, and then ... set it right down on the countertop. [This, after all the public news and all the warnings we'd received internally.] Common sense, as the saying goes, is not all that common.

So that Thursday night, I found a good deal online for a nice “open box” monitor. We'd be in this for the long haul, I reckoned, and my laptop screen would get tiring. External keyboard? [Check.] External mouse? [Check.]

Friday felt ... different. I've worked from home before, typically when I've recovered enough from a cold to be productive, but not recovered enough to mingle with my colleagues. I was focused, I was productive, and I was content to close the laptop at the end of the workday. But I also felt ... lonely.

I was uncertain about traveling to the city on Sunday for the first ballet I would see this season, A Midsummer Night's Dream. I'd never seen it, and San Francisco Ballet hadn't performed it in more than 30 years. I decided I would drive—steering clear of public transit—and if it seemed at all sketchy after I was there, I would leave.

The mayor of San Francisco made the choice for me, shuttering all city-owned venues on Saturday. In our county, the week opened with 7 confirmed cases of COVID-19, and ended with 37 cases (a 5.29x increase).

On Sunday, I made a trip to the office to rescue the plant that lives on my desk.

Over the coming weeks, I'll share some reflections to preserve the memory of this time. And for some color, I'll share a photo of some bit of local flora, for cheer. Hopeful for the future, something is always in bloom.

Thanks to a Guy Named Joe

Once upon a time, some charitably-minded athletes (cyclists, mainly) had an idea. What if you could raise funds for worthy causes, just by riding your bike? Running was okay, too. As GPS-enabled devices became common, it was easy to record and verify the distance you'd traveled. Smartphone apps later made it even easier to track and upload activities.

Plus3 was born. Strava did not yet exist.

I signed up in November, 2008. In the early days, the founders lined up non-profits (like Trips for Kids) and companies willing to donate a pot of money (like Ritchey). Each Plus3 member chose a cause, and each activity earned points that allocated small amounts from a sponsor's pot for that cause. The payout rates shifted over time, but even pennies add up.

The idea, in part, was to motivate people to be more physically active. There were leaderboards, challenges, and prizes, and many more qualifying activities were added (like healthy habits, volunteering, carpooling). The model shifted toward the corporate world: to encourage employees to be active and make healthy choices, a company would sponsor a cause.

That shift seemed brilliant to me (but, what do I know?). My employer had run a similar sort of program in-house to encourage “self-powered” commuting. When they shut it down, I failed to persuade them to engage with Plus3. They chose, instead, a personal-incentive-based program where cyclists (only) can redeem points for things (water bottles, socks, tote bags). [Sigh.]

Plus3 found a niche for some early, loyal members (like me) who weren't aligned with their new model. There were only a handful of folks in our little corner of Plus3, and I didn't notice how much the overall participation had dwindled until they sent me a message at the end of last year that they were shutting down.

Plus3 moved more than $3 million to charities around the world; my personal tally, they tell me, was $1,942. Mostly by riding my bike (more than 3,100 trips) and walking (more than 1,900 trips). Over 11 years, I logged about 40,000 miles and more than 5.5 million steps.

I was sad, but a colleague who spent many years in the non-profit world was not surprised. It seemed like such a great idea, and a sustainable model, to me. But, what do I know?

About a Mile

I should know better. I really should.

A short hike, my friend promised. “Keep it under three hours, and I'll join you; I have other things to get done today. And my body got a workout yesterday.”

I haven't hiked the full length of this trail in many years. We passed the spot where we'd turned back on our last trek.

“How much farther?” I'd ask. “About a mile,” he'd reply. [I knew better.]

There's a flowering plant I've not seen before. That's the thing about visiting a trail in different seasons, there are always surprises.

This trail has some wickedly steep sections. It's popular with mountain bikers; we kindly yielded the way as they dodged the rocks and ruts.

To the junction, he'd said. [Of course this would take more than three hours. I knew that.] “Look how close we were, a year ago—an easy 1.6 miles away!” [And another 4.1 miles down to the road, with no car waiting at this end.]

Round trip: 8.2 miles, ascending approximatley 1,900 feet. I should know better. I really should.

Chillin'

Back to the scene of the flat ... this time, with my eyes peeled for puncture-perfect debris.

What a nice, social group assembled today—including some new faces! I had a good time chatting with one guy who slowed to my pace. He's scheduled to leave on a trip to Italy [uh-oh] that starts with a cruise [uh, no] and then some cycling. Earlier this month, I had been researching options for a European cycling adventure; no longer a viable option, this year.

Off the back as usual, I snapped only one photo when we regrouped on San Felipe.

I expected an easy ride today; instead, it felt hard. Less climbing, more distance, and ... a cold headwind. Those 36 miles (and 2,475 feet of climbing) wore me down, more so than last week's taxing climb. [Headwind, I tell you. Headwind.]

Roadside Picnic

The acacias were in bloom, offering an occasional spot of cheer on today's climb.

It's been nearly four years since I paid my dues on this road.

A wary doe eyed me before sprinting up the hillside, but otherwise I was the only creature in sight after most of the group passed me.

Did I really climb this, once, in less than 63 minutes? [Yes.] That was then, this is now (94 minutes), including 2+ minutes of walking. I wasn't really suffering—the grade isn't steep enough for that. But after the first 3+ miles (and 1400+ feet of ascent), a lapse of attention brought me perilously close to the edge of the pavement. Getting my concentration back, by walking for a stretch, seemed prudent.

Someone with a sense of humor tacked a sign to a tree. [In truth, you're not “almost there,” but it made me smile.]

I was surprised not to see the rest of the group descending long before I reached the top. I hoped they weren't waiting for me. Or for our birthday boy, the ride leader, who trailed somewhere below me. [I did wait for his triumphant arrival.]

With the top at 3,045 feet, it was chilly. [Duh, it's February.] The wind picked up speed as some fog rolled in, making for a cold descent. If only I'd thought to bring long-fingered gloves ...

The desent is a quick one; I had deliberately chosen not to bring the fast bike today, with this descent in mind.

The ride ended where it began, at the side of the road, but now with a pop-up picnic to celebrate our leader's milestone birthday. As he lamented what he's lost as he's gotten older, I reminded him that precious few of his age cohort could even consider biking up Soda Springs Road. [Or any road, for that matter. Seriously.]

I rode 17 miles, with 3,020 feet of climbing. When you consider that this route is an out-and-back, what came down must have gone up ... that means I climbed 3,020 in 8.5 miles. How slowly I did that, matters not to me.

Up the Hill

Consider it a walking meeting, with the added bonus of occupying our full attention (no distracting phones or laptops). Two of us ducked out of the office just early enough to hit the trail by 4:45 p.m. Enough daylight for a short—sometimes steep—hike.

It's been rather a long time since I've trudged up the Kennedy Trail, which is silly considering how nearby it is. (Thankfully, dry today.)

Up the hill, and back down: about 3.5 miles and maybe 700 feet of climbing. Highly recommended as a way to de-stress at the end of the workday.

Bici

If I could bike 37 miles in a day (albeit in two sittings), I should be able to do the flat version of the club's beloved “Bici” ride. Its namesake bicycle shop closed several years ago, but a suitable gathering place for the start was found nearby.

Prepared to go it alone, off the back, I set out on my adapted version of the route—which avoids a formerly desolate stretch of road, a freeway interchange, and (more recently) a busy Costco. I think the crowd was somewhat puzzled, as they waited to turn left at a traffic signal, when they saw me sail ahead on the road they were about to join.

They waited for me at the tops of the climbs, and I was surprised that most people would be skipping the hillier variation of the ride today. Eventually off the back, I expected to capture a photo of the reservoir I would pass; but that was not to be. A strong rider caught up to me after fixing a flat and slowed to my pace, to chat.

We regrouped at a coffee shop, and when it was time to leave I found myself leading a small posse. I alerted them that I would be deviating from the “official” route near the end, to avoid that same unpleasant stretch of road. They endorsed my variation, which wends alongside a “linear park” through a relatively new neighborhood, and encouraged me to recommend it to the ride leader.

I was gratified that 38 miles and 765 feet of climbing didn't wear me out. It was a treat to have company for almost all of the ride; after all, that's why we show up for these club rides, isn't it? And who knows, maybe next time I'll find that my twist has been adopted for the traditional route.