The Smoke

With the windows open, I could smell the smoke when I woke during the night. Closing them would wait until morning.

Not the best photo, but you get the picture. A smoky sunrise.

Fires are raging to the west, north, and east.

I stepped outside to water some plants. There have been other fires over the years, and enough smoke to warrant closing windows. But nothing like this. I wasn't sure I could stay out there, even briefly, to finish watering things down. This was the worst I'd experienced. Smoke was seeping through every gap in my leaky old house; I taped shut the edges of two doors.

Little bits of ash were drifting down from the sky. Some were recognizable fragments, ghostly tips from redwood branches that had been incinerated. Something jet-black caught my eye—a leaf. It disintegrated in my hand. The closest fire is 10 miles away.

Colleagues have been evacuated from their homes. At least two know people (friends, family) who have lost everything.

The Storm

We're in the midst of a heat wave, and it hasn't been cooling down at night. No breeze. No marine layer.

I woke up at 3 a.m. What was that light? I'd opted to sleep downstairs, where it was a tad cooler (88°F, instead of the 94°F in my bedroom). The display screen on my cordless phone was glowing (and blank); the power had just gone out. Maybe it would be cool enough upstairs, now.

Thunder was rumbling, with the occasional flash of lightning. It was windy, and I heard a smattering of big raindrops plopping down. And then, a rush of vehicles. Red and blue flashing lights. “Got a saw?” I overheard one officer remark.

I stepped outside for a peek at the action. Big branches had come down from a tree across the street. A chainsaw appeared, the road was cleared, and soon thereafter I was asleep again.

It wasn't the work of the wind. Evidently I woke up when lightning struck that tree and multiple branches exploded. The main strike blackened the sap where it split the largest branch from the trunk, but it did not ignite.

That bolt, or its kin, ripped the tops off two additional trees a couple of houses away.

One piece landed atop the utility pole; larger branches took out the traffic signal.

It had been an epic lightning storm for the Bay Area: thousands of strikes, which started hundreds of fires.

In the morning, I shuffled some containers from the freezer to the fridge to keep things cold, longer. I'd recently taken to filling containers with water and packing them into the freezer, to prepare ice for likely power outages in the coming months. This is why they recommend keeping your freezer full, for efficiency. 💡 [Duh.] 💡 Just like you'd pack your cooler with ice. I've been using quart-sized containers, which are easy to shift around and stack. Added bonus: In the event of an earthquake, there's some stored water.

My original plan for the day had been to hole up in my home office and run my portable air conditioner. My new plan involved taking a book to the local park, where I found ample shade under a tree near the lake, at a comfortable distance from other humans.

But, as it turned out, right next to a ground squirrel's burrow. The creature was nonplussed, though disappointed once it understood that I was not going to share any food. Busy enlarging its abode, it would dig with front paws and kick the dirt up and out with rear paws.

The invasive Canada geese also regarded me with indifference as they preened and took their afternoon naps. The tree cast enough shade for all of us.

My book finished, I zigzagged my way from one patch of shade to the next as I walked home. It was the hottest day so far: 103.6°F at my house (in the shade).

Shortly after I got home, power was restored. It had been off for 13.5 hours, but my cold food was still cold enough and my frozen food was still frozen enough.

Except for that container of Phish Food. [Dinner.]

Cool It

Third time's the charm!

Another hot day, this time without fog and early enough not to tangle with diverted, distracted drivers. We headed deep into the redwood forest, at last!

My guess is that Stetson was once a logging road; it's narrow and twisty and the pavement is in terrible shape. I suspect the residents prefer it that way, too. Who would want to drive it? One was happy to cheer us on, as we labored up a steepish-section before stopping at the local church to rest in the shade.

I persuaded my chief ride buddy that it was worth a little detour down a dead-end road to see a Really Big Tree. Which turned out to be not quite so big as I remembered it. It's all relative. Especially if you're not accustomed to being around redwoods, I imagine you're thinking “but, that is a big tree.”

Just off the road, however, we found a bigger (fallen) tree, and a huge old stump.

Back at the start, I continued my litter-pick-up tradition. Six cigarette butts, two AAA batteries, and one Starbucks cup (lid attached). I often wonder what sort of person throws their trash on the ground; now I know that one of them is named Bryan, and he likes a lot of caffeine, heavily sweetened. But he eschews sugar and doesn't much care about the environment.

We may have ridden only 26 miles, but with 2,430 feet of climbing it was a solid workout. And so beautiful, riding among those ancient, towering trees.

(Un)group Ride

A caution sign for motorists is often a harbinger of joy for cyclists. Translation: Tight curves and steep(ish) grades ahead.

Our club's calendar opened three weeks ago, for those wishing to lead (small) group rides, after a suitable update to our county's rules. To be safe, we remind people to stay home if they have any symptoms or known exposure to COVID-19, and we require social distancing and face coverings whenever stopped near other people.

To join a ride, or not? That was the question.

After mulling it over, I proposed to my chief ride buddy that we show up for today's ride. Listings on the calendar are few and far between; those who expected pent-up demand are likely disappointed.

For us, the routine would not be all that different. Because we're slow, we often roll out ahead of the group (and end up off the back). Today was no exception. With a head start of (at least) 15 minutes, the pack didn't materialize until we'd crested the second hill, almost 10 miles from the start. Whenever I'd pause for my ride buddy to catch up, I'd deliberately stop a good 10 or 20 yards away from where I knew the rest of the group would gather. At one such stop, our ride leader arrived to admonish them: “Social distancing, guys!”

I tuned out a guy who was holding forth with a scary tale of some road hazard, presumably on this road (“ ... rider couldn't avoid ... no guardrail ...”) Enough of that. I started my descent and kept a careful eye on the road, which was freshly paved. “That was almost fun,” another rider remarked at the bottom. (Almost? It was fun.)

We thought it would be hotter than it was, but we were determined to finish while it was still pleasant and mostly kept moving. I spotted a couple of deer and a small gang of turkeys. Cattle sheltered in whatever shade they could find, watching silly humans sweat in full sun. 44 miles, 1,140 feet of climbing for me.

WFH: Week Twenty

The oleanders bloom all summer. And here we are, late July and week twenty of working from home.

When I was growing up, it was during the summer that I realized my mom had scheduled the rhythm of our life. One day was designated for housecleaning, one for grocery shopping, one for laundry. If the weather cooperated, there were beach days, too.

And so it is now, for me. Saturdays, of course, are for cycling! I've found the optimal (early morning) days for grocery shopping, and Sundays are for laundry: I tug the sheets off the bed with me as I rise, and they're washed (and sometimes dried) before I finish my breakfast.

Sundays are also for the occasional stroll to the local farmers' market. I've optimized my route, shunning the busy sidewalks for a (shadier!) back street. They've chalked socially-distant circles to help us line up at the booths, but that does nothing for the clueless who simply gather in the middle of it all to chat. Like the guy who stood less than two feet behind me, mask pulled down, gabbing with two (masked) friends.

This is why we can't have nice things.

He was facing away from me; I edged myself slightly forward, anyway. That seemed safer than asking him to move, or (imagine!) wear his mask.

Last week I was excited to score an appointment for a haircut, a luxury I haven't enjoyed since February. Salons in our county got the all-clear to open on Monday; before the day arrived, the county reversed itself and shut everything down again as of the end of Tuesday. In the grand scheme of things, my (now) ponytail simply is what it is: a reminder of the passage of time.

Not Your Spin Class

As I cycled to meet up with my biking buddy, I passed a class in session at a spin studio that had hauled its stationary bikes outside, where exercise is permitted. Do they long to ride free when they see one of their kind pass by, as horses in a paddock might?

To each, her own; I prefer views of golden hills and blue lakes to a view of a parking lot.

My plan for the day was ambitious; if I managed to finish, it would be my longest ride of the year. I was short on sleep, but it occurred to me that being short on fuel was more responsible for my craving a nap under a shady tree. How did I not remember to fill one bottle with my electrolyte mix?

Our turnaround point was Uvas Canyon County Park, which is currently requiring advance reservations—for those who need to park a vehicle. We sailed right through, and saw more vehicles and people than we've ever seen there. Including some large groups with coolers and picnic gear, which ... is not yet permitted. [We kept our distance.]

One benefit of riding on our own is the opportunity to stop whenever we want, for as long as we want; we're not holding up the rest of a group. We've certainly passed this site before, more than a few times, without ever noticing it. The plaque describes the structure, made of stone from the “Goodrich Quarry.” Stone that was also used for notable buildings in San Jose and at Stanford University.

I was curious to learn about the quarry, but what I found was more remarkable: the story of Sarah Knox-Goodrich, a determined local suffragist. She was clearly a force to be reckoned with, in her time; and I imagine she would be, today.

I made it! All 54 miles and 2,055 feet of climbing of it (and, without giving in to a nap).

Out of Towners

The area around Woodside is a magnet for cyclists, and more than a few local residents are cranky about that. [I get it.] I don't often ride there, any more.

There were a couple of cyclists chatting when I reached the (paved) end of Alpine Road; as I approached, the woman forcefully cleared one nostril (onto the ground). Seriously? You can't trouble yourself to use a tissue, especially now? [I avoided her like the plague ... so to speak.]

A large group was heading up as we descended; lucky timing, there. And yes, there were a few groups riding in tight packs. [I avoided them, too.]

There were also some unlucky novices.

One thing to remember, if you choose to ride in this area, is that that the traffic laws apply to you. Yes, cyclist: they apply to you. [Cranky locals, see above.]

This stop sign on Cañada Road is a reliable revenue generator. It's a “T” intersection; it is very tempting to ride straight through, in the bike lane, where your position on the road jeopardizes no one. Tempting, yes; and also illegal. There is a stop sign, and it applies to you. To leave no doubt, they have painted a stop line and the word “stop” across the bike lane. (I suspect they tired of arguing the point with indignant cyclists on the spot, and in traffic court.)

It was a busy day for the sheriff, staking out that intersection and ticketing cycling scofflaws. Time well spent?

My biking buddy and I rode the full length, making a u-turn at Highway 92 (which was fully backed up with vehicles heading toward the coast). Along the way we were surprised when another cycling friend materialized, out for a spin with her own little group. Cañada Road is popular with triathletes and time-trialers, a more-or-less straight shot with gently rolling hills and almost no vehicular traffic.

Stopping at the Pulgas Water Termple was always a regular part of riding here, but I can't recall the last time I visited. We took some time to relax, watching a lone Canada (!) goose grudgingly take wing to find refuge in the reflecting pool after some children focused on chasing it. And we were amused by the antics of a photographer trying to get a shy newly-married couple to look happy.

It was a perfect day for cycling and conversation, 33 miles and 1,645 feet of climbing, cool and sunny.