Flat-out Social

A girl needs a day off, now and then. Like today.

A social ride on our club's calendar fit the bill. Our leader has a regular following, but since she focuses on weekday rides her routes are often new to me.

Without a cue sheet or map, we trail along like good little ducklings. These outings typically (always?) involve a coffee stop, and today was no exception. [Except, I'm not a coffee person.]

Heading back, there were sudden calls to stop. “Why do I always get a flat on your rides?!” one guy exclaimed.

We chatted some more as we waited for the necessary repair to be completed, mostly not overseeing the operation. [No pressure.]

I could have returned via a more direct (shorter) route, but that wouldn't have been very social of me, now, would it?

In all, 32 miles and (maybe) 700 feet of climbing. Plus, a little adventure.

Remembering Ellen

The chapel was filled with Ellen's family and friends and colleagues. They shared stories and memories of a woman who was involved with her community, warm and friendly and generous and kind, a strong and accomplished athlete.

Monks chanted and sounded bells in a Buddhist ceremony before leading a procession to say our last farewells, each of us tucking a white rose beside her.

Ellen's broad smile radiated from every photo on display. Another cyclist pointed out details I would have missed in a large poster that we'd seen at Sunday's memorial ride: The photographer reflected in her sunglasses. The lacy pink shoes on her feet. She would often forget her cycling shoes but do the ride nonetheless, he explained. [Note for non-cyclists: that's quite challenging, our pedals are not designed for that.]

A dozen or so of us cyclists assembled at the rear of the funeral procession. Our spirits were lifted when one remarked “Ellen would have loved this, that we were sending her off on our bikes.”

I regret that I'd never met her; I nearly turned out for a ride she led a few weeks ago, but the group was doing a long training ride and realistically I wouldn't be able to ride at their pace.

In the final ceremony before Ellen's cremation, the bells seemed to fall into the rhythm of a heartbeat. A beat that grew slower, and slower, and then ... silence.

This line from a poem by Mary Oliver echoes in my head:

Tell me, what is it that you plan to do with your one and precious life?

While we have the chance, let's (all of us) do more.

In Somber Solidarity

We came together to ride in memory of a cyclist, a member of our club, a woman whose life was stolen last Sunday by a man driving a Land Rover on a remote stretch of road: Ellen Le.

We are reminded that the difference between life and death can be a matter of seconds. Had Ellen or the driver been a few seconds faster or slower, they would not have arrived at that place on the road at that moment in time. That moment when he rounded a blind curve and struck her, head on.

More than a hundred cyclists assembled for a memorial ride—nearly 50 from our club alone. Many of us had never met Ellen; some traveled 50 miles or more to ride in her memory.

It could have been any of us on the road that day. It could have been someone on a motorcycle, or in another vehicle. It could have been no one at all. Tragically, it was Ellen.

We pinned yellow ribbons to our jerseys and set off in waves to avoid clogging the roads. Biking to and from the place where we gathered, I covered 40 contemplative miles.

Every day is precious. Do what you love, and do it with care.

And when you drive a vehicle that weighs in excess of two-and-a-half tons—when you drive any vehicle—do it with care. Stay in your lane.

Oh Oh Henry Coe

Here's a climb I haven't done in a while—up, and up, to Henry Coe State Park.

We met our small group in a surprisingly trendy pocket of Morgan Hill. (I suppose I need to get out more.)

This is a challenging, but unremarkable, climb—which accounts for why I rarely choose to do it. At the top, wilderness stretches farther east than the eye can see.

The parking areas were filled, which seemed surprising for a winter's day. (Well, the vehicle parking areas, that is.)

It's not really wildflower season, yet—but a few early poppies had popped near the visitor center.

There was an empty picnic table, under a tree, which seemed like a perfect spot to enjoy my sandwich. Until I realized why it was empty. Under a tree. (Plastered with bird droppings.)

I'd framed a good shot of some lupines in my mind's eye on the way up. Not wanting to pause, I tried to commit a few landmarks to memory. Would I find them on my way back down?

I wasn't enthused about the return path our leader had plotted; my ride buddy was game to follow the alternate route I suggested. We weren't with “the group,” anyway; paces vary on climbs (and descents). We finished with 28 miles, 3,500 feet of climbing, and tired legs.

Social Climbers

Varying paces separated us on the road, but we'd mostly regroup at the usual places alongside the Calaveras Reservoir.

The landscape is healing, but another prolonged dry spell is fast fading the emerald hills to olive.

While everyone else was keen to continue to a cafe in Sunol (which turned out to be closed), my chief ride buddy and I split off into the Sunol Regional Wilderness, as is our habit.

The park was so busy I wondered whether they were offering free admission. (For vehicles, that is; there is no “parking fee” for cyclists.)

Another lucky reward for our visit to this park: a nice spiral-bound copy of the guidebook for their annual Trails Challenge. Their 29th annual Trails Challenge. Being denizens of the South Bay, we had no idea!

I climbed 2,780 feet over 36 miles using nothing but human pedal-power. There were at least four people in our group on electric bikes today; to my surprise, I'm beginning to find that dispiriting. I'm excited to have the company of folks who otherwise wouldn't be riding, but I'm feeling irked by others whose goal seems to be to zip ahead.

Stay tuned ...

Inclined to Surprise

Seemed like a good day for a not-too-challenging, not-too-long ride.

Running a bit later than I'd intended, I was puzzled to arrive at the starting point for today's ride to find only two fellow cyclists—and not the ride leader. I checked my email to see if he'd canceled. [No.]

We were prepared to follow the route without him, but he did materialize.

We weren't prepared for the first climb. Not having studied the route closely, in advance, I was enjoying the non-traditional route through a residential area of “estate” homes ... until a steep climb loomed above us. “Are we going up that?” my ride buddy asked. [Yup.]

I'll say this: After that, the steep-ish stretch of Roop felt like nothing. And I suspect we were not the only riders who expected a gentler route; we waited for the rest of the group to catch up. Eventually we saw them approaching below us, and that was the last we saw of them (with the exception of the lone e-bike rider). We dawdled for a while before the next turn, chatting, but got too chilled to linger longer.

Even on a familiar route, a new perspective can catch your eye. Location, location, location. I'm guessing that the adjacent stream sustained this majestic tree ... until it didn't.

And while I will rarely pause if I'm flying down a hill, it is occasionally worth it. [Occasionally.]

The lighting. The green hills. The flat surface of the muddy pond.

Free of the group, my ride buddy indulged my curiosity about taking a different route back to avoid an always nerve-wracking uncontrolled left turn across a busy road with fast-moving traffic. I'd tweak my variation slightly, next time; but overall I think it was a win.

A modest 25 miles, but with 1,400 feet of climbing.

Muddy Waters

The last time I biked past Chesbro Reservoir, there was so little water that I couldn't bring myself to take a picture.

The brown water was a welcome sight! Even though it's been more than a week since we've had any real rainfall, sediment carried by the inflow hasn't yet settled out.

My ride buddy and I were of the same mind today—follow the route that skips the last two hills, which we'd just climbed a few weeks ago.

Coyote Creek was flowing fast and the water level was high; I wondered whether we'd be forced to detour. [Yes.] We were somewhat curious to see whether the trail really was still flooded, but not curious enough to bike past the barrier and have to turn back.

Our ride leader was surprised that we'd gotten ahead of the group after we rolled out together. I've shared my route variation with him before, and now have shared it again. Next time, maybe I need to lead an expedition into the Unknown Territory.

A pleasant 39 miles and 860 feet of climbing, though oddly chillier (at times) as the day wore on.