On the Slow Side

Poor air quality has kept me off the bike, lately. Today's ride seemed like a good opportunity to get back into the swing of things.

Each ride leader has his or her own style, and today's ride was meant to be a friendly “no-drop” ride. It was nice to see some old familiar faces who apparently think they're too slow for club rides (but, they're not).

I learned something new today—namely, that I may not have the patience for this style of ride. I'm more at home with rides that tend to break up into smaller groups, by pace or for conversation. Rides with planned regroup stops, to ensure that no one is lost.

Maybe I was just feeling grumpy, but we seemed to be Stopping. Way. Too. Often. That, and the leader was detouring from the route he'd published (adding stops), which was confusing at best. If I hadn't pointed out a string of riders passing above us on the trail, at one such point, they would have blithely continued straight. (Which would have been fine, as that was the actual route, but we would have been separated.)

Near the end, a short semi-urban stretch of the Coyote Creek Trail lived up to my low expectations (littered with trash and broken glass, courtesy of a small homeless encampment). Not the best memory for my ride of 29 miles (with 1,860 feet of climbing); I'm much happier picturing the towering eucalyptus trees lining San Felipe Road on the rural fringe of San Jose.

Lick at Night

A familiar view, albeit in unfamiliar conditions—gazing down at the winding road that leads to the summit of Mt. Hamilton. The sun, still high in the sky, was veiled by the haze of smoke from distant fires.

This view has been out of reach since flames roared up these slopes, one year ago (to the day). The wooden posts that supported the guardrail were incinerated—the fire came that close to historic Lick Observatory. And that is why the top of the mountain has been off-limits to visitors.

But, hold on ... where am I?!

Beyond the locked gate, atop the mountain ... trusted not to slide off the road. I'm here for a special night-time tour (having unconventionally made the trip not by bicycle, but in a vehicle—accompanied by the friend who first brought me to the top of this mountain, many years ago).

Alas, our viewing of the stars was not to be; the telescopes would remain tucked safely within their domes, their delicate optics shielded from the airborne particles. Our host seemed confused when we couldn't even see the sun set—that's how dense the smoke was.

To compensate, our guide was cleared to expand our tour of the facilities. Despite so many visits to the top, I'd never noticed how many telescopes are housed (and used) up there. One of the more unusual snippets of trivia he shared in one building was that it was used during the filming of a movie starring Lauren Bacall, The Gift of Love.

Not only did we see the Shane 3-meter Reflector—we got a behind-the-scenes look at the vessel used to realuminize its mirror.

And, of course, the Great 36-inch Refractor you'll see on a regular public tour.

I'd heard from a friend that they no longer raise and lower the floor in the main building; during our tour of the basement, we saw why. One of the things that intrigued me about the equipment—especially the telescopes—was wondering about how they were made. These things are all one-of-a-kind.

Our visit included a history lesson on the Observatory, during which we learned that James Lick was quite an eccentric character. We paid our respects to Mr. Lick, at eternal rest in the basement of the main building, below the telescope.

It is our enduring good fortune that he was persuaded to establish this observatory, and that one year ago this very night it was successfully defended by a small army of firefighters.

All the Way

To the top. (Though not from the bottom.)

I've biked it, but not hiked it. (Not all the way to the top.) Today was the day to visit the summit of Mt. Umunhum on foot.

We started from the Black Mountain parking lot, encountering few others along the way.

The trail meanders gently upward; it's a long walk, but not a strenuous one—about 5 miles.

We could see the layer of smoke from distant fires thickening above the valley, soon to drive us all indoors.

My hiking buddy pointed out a few bail-out points on our downward trek, ways to shorten the route by walking down the road instead. And miss sights like these glorious madrones? (Not a chance.)

The Longest Mile

Oh, the pain.

Somehow I managed to be faster, today, than on previous ascents. Truthfully, climbing Reynolds wasn't as arduous as I expected. I was surprised to hear my fellow riders chatting before I rounded the last bend; surely I wasn't that close? [Yup, I was.]

Overall I completed 18 miles and climbed 1,910 feet, but Reynolds always feels longer than it is.

A social group today, we wended our way into town for those who wanted coffee. A parrot perched on a nearby table next to its human (clearly identifiable by the feather tucked into the band of his hat). An unstable guy bobbled and babbled in the street, slinging a boombox and taunting traffic. Who knew that our bustling little downtown would be so entertaining on a Saturday afternoon?

WFH: Week Seventy-Two

Welcome to the workplace.

I found the tattered balloon arch ironically fitting (though I'm sure they meant well).

We now have the option to return to the office, and a few of my colleagues had eagerly done so. (Not I.)

Despite all the protocols (e.g., complete a survey each day, attesting to your lack of symptoms or exposure), within the first three days some had received messages that a person who'd visited the same building on the same day had tested positive for Covid-19.

I spent no more than a few (masked) minutes indoors. I cleaned up my desk; after 15 months, surely I didn't need whatever papers were still scattered there.

I ate my lunch outside, alone. And was pleased to enjoy a walk through a now-thriving restored natural habitat.

A few days later, I received a message that someone who'd visited one of the same buildings had tested positive ...

Some Like It Steep

So many memories light up on this climb. Low-Key Hillclimbs. Capturing a great photo of a club member who is no longer with us. Racing it. Watching the pros race it. Seeing a brand-new calf.

It's been several years since I last tackled this hill. I stopped, once, to ease my suffering (translation: get my heart rate to drop a few notches). Only four hardy souls joined me, today. We chatted a bit with a ranger stationed in the tiny parking lot at the summit—that's something new (and unusual).

The winding descent down the backside affords a view of the Calaveras Reservoir. There was still some water there. (Some.)

To report that I climbed 2,115 feet over 17 miles doesn't really capture the nature of biking up Sierra Road. Nearly all of that ascent is in a single stretch, less than four miles long.

Running on Empty

Me and the Lassen Bench, we have some history. Last time, in the heat of the day, I flatted.

This year, I got myself lost. But first things first.

We rolled toward our pancake breakfast at the Fairgrounds in the early morning light, sunrise tinted by the smoke of a (somewhat) distant fire.

Up here, water still flows—a sight to savor, as California's drought worsens. Within the first couple of miles, a bald eagle thrilled me by gliding low above the road, just ahead. Mt. Shasta was barely visible through the wildfire haze. (Look carefully for the peak's reflection in the river.)

The area is rugged and remote. It can be challenging to cross a rumble strip on a bike, but fortunately there was very little traffic on CA 89 and the shoulder was reasonably wide.

A welcoming sign told us we were 2.17 miles from the rest stop. Not 2.2 miles, mind you, or 2 miles. Two-point-one-seven miles.

I remembered that first rest stop; this year, we were the source of much excitement for kids across the road—a day camp, perhaps? Some perched outside on a tall stump, others inside with their faces pressed up against the window—all eyes were on the cyclists in our colorful attire.

One of the charms of this event is the local hospitality. The American Legion served eggs (duck or chicken, your choice) as well as pancakes, and the Auxiliary staffed the first rest stop with extra care: just point at what you wanted, they handled the rest.

Our route skirted a southwestern branch of Lake Britton (which we'd visited yesterday).

We crossed the bridge above the dam; the lake to our left, the Pit River far below us, to our right.

We found ourselves with more riders, this year; maybe it was just lucky timing, but our memory of our last visit was pretty much being on our own. I chatted with a woman who's been riding in this event for 20 years, and with a guy who shared our alarm at the emergency evacuation of Markleeville on the eve of today's Death Ride (now canceled, of course).

The climbs are mostly gentle, but as we rose higher I caught the whiff of smoke in the air—I wondered how the sky could be so blue, and whether I would choose to cut today's ride short. [Ha.]

Unlike my ride buddy, I had no memory of the second rest stop; now it is one I will not forget. Four kinds of homemade breads; the young woman serving us explained that her aunt and uncle were inside, taking a break; they had been up late into the night baking for us. They came out of the house to socialize while we were there—her aunt tethered to her portable oxygen tank.

And then there was Duke (the dog). After I saw him chase a (wimpy) stick that another rider had thrown, I started looking for a proper one. And he knew what I was doing—suddenly he was right at my heels, wagging his tail. His muzzle was gray, but Duke leapt like an excited puppy when I teased him before tossing that stick.

As I reflect on the (many) rides I've done, in so many interesting and beautiful places, it is the kindness and generosity of the people I remember most clearly.

I got ahead of my riding buddies. I passed another group of riders. I was hungry. I sailed down a gentle hill, following the bend at a fork in the road, and ... stopped. Uh oh.

I didn't see an arrow on the road. My odometer suggested that the next turn, toward lunch, was a mile or so away. I walked back toward the intersection and saw arrows heading down the other road.

I went that way.

Sadly, my original trajectory had been correct, despite having missed the helpful arrows leading up to the intersection. And I had stopped just short of another set of arrows that would have reassured me I was on the right track.

I kept going, expecting to see a sign like “1 mile to lunch!” (There was none.) The miles ticked past, in a straight line. By the time I stopped to get my bearings, I was well on my way to McArthur, on the post-lunch part of the route.

My brain needed more fuel. I wasn't thinking straight.

Continuing to the next rest stop didn't seem sensible; I needed real food, not snacks. I turned toward McArthur, and the Fairgrounds. Should I just end my ride there, with the post-ride meal? [Of course not.]

I headed back to Fall River Mills, where somehow I was not the last rider to roll in for lunch.

I texted my buddies to let them know that, regrettably, I would skip the segment to the Lassen Bench and catch up with them at the finish. Refueled, I discovered that I had been riding all day with my clear lenses, not remembering to swap in my sunglass-tinted lenses. I studied the map and decided where I would cut the route short to return to the Fairgrounds.

My plan for the day had been to ride about 88 miles; I climbed 3,135 feet and rode 88 miles (just not the 88 miles I'd intended).

After we got cleaned up (and ate even more food), I persuaded my chief ride buddy to go for an evening stroll.

Unintentionally, we ended up at the fateful intersection. That's how close I was to lunch when I went astray. Just a couple of blocks away. [Sigh.] There were the arrows I'd overlooked in my downhill and distracted euphoria, as plainly marked as they should be.

Ah, well. Just might have to come back. Next year?