It Takes a Village

I faced down two conflicting temptations: a challenging bike ride on Saturday, or a Covid-19 vaccine booster shot on Friday.

Taking it easy after getting the shot seemed prudent, so ... one or the other. [Decide.]

The booster won. Appointments were plentiful on Friday; next week, not so much.

A modest (5-mile) hike on Sunday seemed doable.

I wasn't the only one out for a stroll. A civilized “March Against Hate” drew a sizeable crowd, responding to a disturbing uptick of baseness in our community. Motorists idled patiently as the police escorted the flow of people toward town. Peace and Coexist signs. Hate has no home here.

I took my time, exploring occasional clearings alongside the trail. Some water still flows in the creek, released from the reservoir above.

Music interrupted the sounds of nature as a couple approached briskly from behind. I stepped aside to let them pass, wondering why the man was carrying a large white sack. I didn't notice the piece of litter at my feet until he paused to collect it (with his nifty trash-grabber gadget). The sack, of course, held the trash he'd picked up.

A kindred spirit! Years ago, my coworkers and I had a few favorite spots where we'd enjoy our lunch (weather permitting), and we would always pick up some trash left by others. I've removed countless nails and screws from the roadway, while biking; and last year I stashed a bag in my car to collect at least some of the litter I find in remote spots where we gather to ride.

I would later learn that what I thought were chestnuts were actually dangling from California Buckeyes, a reminder that it's a bad idea for amateurs (like me) to eat what you might forage. [They're toxic.]

Now, foraging for trash—that's something I can get behind. Strive to leave every place better than you found it.

Rays of Autumn

I wasn't expecting a party.

I've been reluctant to start my cycling day with a long drive, especially because it means rising extra early. I've never been a morning person, and dark mornings are extra challenging.

Today's ride was appealing, though; I haven't dragged myself up Patterson Pass in ages, and the rest of our route would be more mellow.  The sun will rise, the hills are greening, and there would be moments where the lighting is just right.

There had been some mention of a pot-luck, which I figured I'd simply bypass.

When I managed to find the group (parked in a large field at a sports complex), the location made sense. This was more than a usual club ride—it was a thank-you for volunteers who had supported a double century a few months ago.

We were in the mix with a large crew of very strong riders. I was confused when I overheard one guy ask another if he planned to ride to the marina, which conjured up images of San Francisco Bay. That there is a “marina” at Lake Del Valle didn't occur to me, until the route led me there.

I tried to dodge the post-ride feast, having done nothing to earn my share, but our gracious host would simply not allow that.

Thirty-two miles, 2,620 feet of climbing and a little chow fun.

Rainy Day Woman

The traditional Hearst Castle Challenge was infeasible this year (again), but Best Buddies still counts on our fundraising to support their operations. And we all miss the opportunity to come together. Thus, the California Challenge was born: one route (100 km), with a heftier fundraising commitment. Or, a do-it-yourself ride (like last year), with no fundraising commitment.

And so I found myself self-administering my very first Covid test (in my car, parked in a field, before dawn). [This would have been a fumble-fest had I not watched an instructional video the night before.] Not only was vaccination a pre-requisite for participating—a negative test result was required to walk out of the parking lot.

And so I found myself welcomed with an unexpected and enthusiastic hug at the sign-in table—the first actual physical human touch I've had since The Before Times. I think of myself as just another face in the crowd, but after so many years ... they know me. And not just because I'm always one of the last riders across the finish line.

I wasn't sure what to expect. Domestiques (in their bright pink jerseys) would support three groups of riders, the slowest of which would finish the ride in four hours. (Four hours?!) I worried about how this would play out; I knew I could not sustain a pace in excess of 15 mph over this route, and hoped they wouldn't nudge me to climb into a SAG vehicle.

The heavy hitters (20 mph pace group) flew ahead, supported by pro cyclists ... including four-time Tour de France winner Chris Froome. Child's play, for them.

We started out with a rude climb, vaguely familiar from the Marin Century—and just as misty. This would not be a day for snapping scenic photos; I had to keep pedaling at a good clip. But the glassy surface of Laguna Lake was too compelling to pass up.

I'm accustomed to solo efforts on long rides—I'm too slow to hang with the jackrabbits, but faster than the slowest folks. After catching up to me, the indomitable Richard Fries was my domestique for a short stretch. Sitting on his wheel for a mile or two made such a difference! And sure, I understand that advantage ... it's just not part of my routine cycling experience.

There was a chance of rain today, on the order of 30% or so ... the odds seemed in our favor. Mist ... turned to drizzle ... turned to rain, calling for prudence on otherwise fast descents. It had been chilly enough that I'd opted to wear a jacket and long-fingered gloves [good call]; many riders had nothing more than jerseys and arm warmers.

At the second (and last) rest stop, some onlookers asked if I was going to continue. [Silly question.] Of course. Once you're wet, you're wet. And fortunately, it wasn't cold.

I didn't think much of it when the ride's medical support pulled out behind me when I started rolling. The road kicked up and they patiently hung back as crawled up the hill at my pathetic pace (as slow as 5 mph, at times). Once there was a clear line of sight, I waved and expected them to pass me.

But ... they didn't.

With 23 miles to go, they had evidently been assigned to be my escort. While domestiques hung back with the slowest riders, I had my own personal ambulance metering vehicular traffic. Once there were four or five cars stacked up behind, they'd slip slightly onto the shoulder and let them pass. I stopped at a pull-out at the top of a hill to take in some much-needed calories; there was also a police cruiser there, and I thought they might park there for a spell.

Nope.

At one point they even activated the flashing lights; maybe there were some antsy drivers behind them, as my uphill pace dropped below 5 mph. Of course, there were some downhill sections, so I managed to average 12.8 mph over the last 23 miles. But still. Imagine tailing a (slow) cyclist for ... nearly ... two ... hours.

I didn't get a chance to find them and thank them at the end of the ride, but I did get to deliver a long-overdue thank-you to Cam Wurf for his memorable assist seven years ago.

After 64 slippery miles and 3,560 feet of climbing, a warm shower and lunch fortified me for the long drive home. My 15th year of pedaling (and raising funds) for Best Buddies delivered another ride to remember!

Panoche Pass

With a long ride coming up on my calendar, today's route seemed like a fair test: 55 miles, 2,720 feet of climbing. On Friday my coworkers had been sharing their weekend plans, and when they heard mine one of them asked “Will you camp?” (Evidently this is not the sort of outing they picture when I say that I'm going for a bike ride.)

Not surprisingly, none of them had been to this area. It's a challenge not to take the same photos every time I ride here; the same sights always catch my eye. And I wanted to convey a sense of just how beautiful it is (albeit in a desolate sort of way).

A small group set off for the Inn, and conditions couldn't have been more favorable—no headwind on the return. (The condtion of the road has not improved, but ... this trip is worth the trouble.)

One cyclist lost half their lunch to the Inn's resident pooch, who evidently is well-practiced in the art of pilfering sandwiches from unsuspecting customers.

As expected, we saw very little traffic on this road—our bicycles may have outnumbered the vehicles ...

... until the end, when a slew of emergency vehicles and patrol cars roared past. I regretted, then, that I had gotten ahead of my ride buddy. Had someone crashed, or been struck by a car? [Fortunately, no.]

A few of us were chatting near our cars when a pickup truck passed us, then suddenly reversed. “Are there more cyclists out there?” he asked. It turned out that he was one of the responders, so we learned what had happened. A gunshot—reportedly someone had shot a rattlesnake—and a gunshot requires a response from law enforcement.

Desolate. Did I mention, desolate? (But so beautiful.)

Up a Wall

A couple of riders, ahead of me, paused at the base of the Calaveras Wall. They seemed impressed when I made the turn and kept going. “Just get it over with!” I replied.

I didn't feel especially strong, but I was a full minute faster than my previous best time. (Though, years before I started tracking the data, I may have been faster.)

It was another conversational sort of ride, the group splitting in two. Some were eager to stop at a cafe in Sunol; others followed my lead into Sunol-Ohlone Regional Park. I pack my lunch: Peanut butter and jelly, for the win. The rangers had water on tap again—a hint of a return to normalcy?

We regrouped at the natural places: at the top of climbs, and at a couple of intersections to ensure everyone was on track. A reliably pleasant 36 miles with 2,880 feet of climbing, in pleasant company.

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.