Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 4

The jersey design for my fourth Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, planet Earth with wings and butterfly-inspired hearts, seems a fitting choice for today.

No fog. No blue sky. This is not turning out to be the challenge I had in mind. [This year is not the year any of us had in mind.] I'm in the yellow “moderate” zone; red is “unhealthy,” brown is “hazardous.”

That orange spot glowing in the water behind the mallards is a reflection of the sun, casting a bronze gloom over us all.

I slowly puttered around, crossing above two different highways on bike/pedestrian bridges. One familiar, one less so (and which would have been useful during a different exploration a few months ago). Bike through random neighborhoods, see new sights, learn new routes.

Stage 4: 14 miles, 340 feet of climbing, average speed 9.7 mph. I found a steep little hill tucked in one neighborhood, but the top will wait for another day. No exertion for me, even with moderate air quality (average heart rate: 98 bpm). I had set out to cover at least 10 miles, and decided to roll around a bit more after I stopped recording my track.

The air purifier I'd ordered almost two weeks ago arrived. Finally.

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 3

There was a distinctly yellow cast to the light when I woke up, so I wasn't surprised when I checked the air quality map. Smoke affects the wavelength of the sun's rays. Simply put, yellow means “not good,” orange means “pick another day,” and red means “don't even think about it.” Not unlike the colors on the map.

Local sensors painted a better picture than the official map. The sky was a pale blue, with the ubiquitous  purple haze of the smoke layer hanging just above ground level in every direction. I mapped out a meandering route through some unfamiliar residential neighborhoods, including a little bridge over a (completely dry) creek.

This jersey makes me smile. It makes other people smile (and wave), too. What's not to like about two cuddling teddy bears? [Well, I'll bet this design was not at all popular with the competitive male cyclists back in 2009.] After 2008's baggy “small,” I'd requested “extra small,” which was a good fit ... except for the sleeves. Toothpick arms needed. [Thee years, three different vendors.]

I was in prime shape for my third Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge, averaging 14.3 mph despite climbing almost 6,300 feet. Today I was feeling less than great, with a slight but lingering headache. Could it be that I was (somewhat) dehydrated? For short rides, I don't fuss with electrolytes, but I should have mixed some up for Saturday's ride; today I did, and it helped.

Stage 3: 14.2 miles, 300 feet of climbing, average speed 10.6 mph. [Trying not to inhale, much.]

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 2

On this very date, 12 years ago, I rode the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge for the second time.

Not my favorite jersey. Baggy, despite being size “small.” And what you can't see is that the back is ... black. I see lots of cyclists wearing black jerseys and it mystifies me: it's not very visible on the road, and you absolutely cook in the sun. Maybe it's meant to be a fashion statement, but the result is that most of my Best Buddies jerseys are never seen: During cooler months I will layer a vest or jacket on top anyway; they hang in the closet during prime cycling season. (Unlike other cycling events, where you pin your number on the back of your jersey, they'd insisted we pin it on the front.)

Today would be hot, which meant that I needed to get an early enough start. I was surprised to see many other cyclists out and about. All of a similar mind, I suspect.

I paid a price for yesterday's ride. Not only had I been off the bike for three weeks; I hadn't been exercising regularly, either, due to the heat and wildfire smoke.

I studied the air quality map; it wasn't good, but it wasn't dangerous, either. I settled on a flat route and planned to take it easy, but still get home with enough time to visit our weekly farmers' market. Stage 2: 17 miles, 320 feet of climbing, average speed 10.7 mph. [Like I said, flat.]

The best way into town is on foot: no struggle to find parking, no worries about locking up a bike. But there was a small matter of a tree to deal with. The path was marked closed, but someone else had already broken through the pesky yellow “caution!” tape.

It was 93°F when I set out. Bad luck of the draw, I stood baking in the sun while one customer engaged the vendor in a leisurely conversation about their growing season and techniques, followed by a woman whose credit card didn't go through and then found some fault with the first pack of berries they presented to her. [Sigh.] My transaction took less than a minute. [Cash.]

When I got back home—90 minutes after I'd set out—I was stunned to see the temperature was now above 102°F. And I'd walked home in that? Carrying a basket full of produce? [The day was still heating up, of course; it would peak just shy of 108°F.]

Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Stage 1

Back in 2007, before I started this blog, I participated in the Best Buddies Hearst Castle Challenge for the first time. I didn't know what to expect. Mostly, it seemed like a handy way to cycle down the central California coast, from Carmel Valley to San Simeon. Impressed with the organization, I returned the following year. And the year after that. And ...

Fast forward to 2020, when this event (like so many others) cannot be held. By the time they made the decision, encouraging us to make up our own challenge, I was uncertain about fundraising. Could my appeal to donors rise above the chaos that is 2020? I thought about scaling back. Unsurprisingly, without an actual event, many folks decided to sit this year out. Those who did sign up have raised little money. Like other non-profits, Best Buddies runs these events to bring in needed cash to support their programs year round (and, to raise awareness).

Who am I? Not a fair-weather friend! The need doesn't stop just because we can't have a mass gathering of people riding our bicycles down the coast.

Then, I had an idea. Challenge accepted. I reached out to my donors, and they've graciously supported Best Buddies for me, again. I promised them I would do something worthy. Today marked the start of my challenge.

I made a late call on what today's ride would be; where would the wind send the wildfire smoke? I checked the air quality when I woke up, and confirmed the plan with my ride buddy. The redwoods beckon on a hot day; the area we enjoyed just three weeks ago was unscathed by the lightning that torched the forest just a few miles to the north. Stage 1 of my Best Buddies 2020 Challenge: Old Santa Cruz Highway to the end of Highland Way, and back.

As I expected, there was very little traffic on the route; beaches are closed, and mountain bikers who flock to the Soquel Demonstration Forest risk citations (also, closed). The road is narrow, and in increasingly wretched condition; there are a couple of construction zones, fighting to keep sections from collapsing into the canyon. A vintage red convertible (Mustang) hung back behind me, and just as the road opened up a bit and I sensed the driver would pull around to pass me, I saw a group of fast cyclists approaching.

I did what I normally do in this situation: I eased farther to the left, effectively leaving no room to pass, firmly extended my left arm straight out, palm back, and hoped the driver would react responsibly. Which is to say, stay behind me and keep to the right. [She did.] The cyclists were grateful; I received a chorus of thank-yous, and from a guy at the front, “Appreciate that!” When all was clear, I edged back to the right, leaving enough room for the driver to pass safely. As she did, she waved and called out “Thank you!” [That was a first.]

Sadly, there was a recent local case of a driver who chose to pass an uphill cyclist on a blind curve, fatally injuring an oncoming cyclist on his way down. Note to drivers: Don't do that. If you don't have a clear line of sight, don't pass. Really. On another ride, I've had a driver pull around me and nearly run head-on into another vehicle. Most drivers, though, get it and hang back when I stick my arm out.

At the end of Stage 1, I saw that I was so close to finishing on the three-hour mark. I dug deep, the final turn was in sight, seconds to spare ... and I had to hold up for an approaching car. The total duration of our outing, of course, was longer—we regrouped a couple of times in the shade, for snacks and conversation.

Stage 1: 30 miles, 2,345 feet of climbing, average speed, 10.1 mph (yes, I'm slow). High temperature this afternoon, at home: 101°F. The forecast for tomorrow: hotter.

The Fires

The smoke will be with us for some time. The losses will be with us far longer.

My heart aches for those who have lost their homes. Many years ago, a colleague assured me that people who choose to live in the forest accept that this day might come, the day when fire takes it all away. [But, still ... ]

When the Tubbs Fire blew over the ridge into Santa Rosa a few years ago, I took a deep breath. That could have been my town, embers flying miles over the hills to land on our rooftops. When a nearby community was put on an evacuation watch, I decided it was prudent to gather a few things together, just in case. I stashed my sleeping bag and tent in the trunk of my car; I could think of a few friends who wouldn't mind having me camp in their backyards. [Socially distant.] An evacuee's RV has been tethered to a neighbor's house for several days.

The red splotches on Cal Fire's Incident Map are not abstract to me. I have biked the back roads through so many of them (annotated here with black lightning bolts).

As it happened, I chose to click on HamCam 1 just as flames crept into view on a ridge below Lick Observatory. I couldn't bear to watch. [Thanks to a heroic effort, only one unused building was lost.] The valley on the back side burned; it must look very different from this view, which I captured near the base of the fire lookout on my most recent visit.

There will still be a spectacular view of the Pacific from Meyers Grade.

But the landscape, I expect, no longer resembles what I pedaled through a few years ago.

The northern end of Swanton Road drops steeply down to Highway 1, not far past the intersection with Last Chance Road (where the fire tragically cost a man his life). I had no idea there was a community up that road; umarked, I'd always presumed it was private, perhaps leading to an out-of-sight ranch.

This intersection of Alba Road and Empire Grade, I believe, has been incinerated.

 

Did this quirky spot near Big Basin survive? [Doubtful.]

The park—California's first state park—has burned.

There are reports that this beloved tree survived. As you can see, this was not the first fire in its (long) lifetime.

We are so small. What have we wrought?

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.]