Leapin' Lupines

Taking advantage of another day off to [what else] ... ride my bike. And, lucky me, one of our club's rides was headed for Uvas Canyon County Park. This being a weekday, we'd be sharing the roads with fewer vehicles.

There was some uneasiness about whether we could enter the park. Another group had recently been turned away when the ranger insisted that admission was not free. [Hmm.] That has never been the case, before—even after reservations became required (for vehicles).

And it was not the case, today. [Whew.] I was all set to challenge the ranger to Show Me the Actual Regulation; approaching the entrance, I noted the sign that posted the fee for motor vehicles. But we just pedaled on through unchallenged, as we always have.

The condition of the private stretch of road, through Sveadal, was more hazardous than ever. I feel their pain (literally!), all those park visitors traversing the crumbling road through their community. Who should really pay to maintain, or better yet, improve what's left of the pavement?

As we prepared to return, I announced my intention to capture shots of the fields of lupine we'd passed, and was pleased that our group included a few kindred wildflower-spirits.

Biking to (and from) our rendezvous point added up to my longest ride so far this year: overall, 54 miles, with about 2,500 feet of climbing. When I got home, I felt ... oddly ... perky. [Stay tuned.]

Climbing & Coffee

A lone Ithuriel's Spear? This photo-worthy specimen popped up in my backyard.

It's often too challenging to play photographer when a group is hanging together on a ride.

What's the formula for coaxing new riders to join a club ride? A gentle pace, a modest distance, not much climbing, a later starting time, a social break?

We had all of that. Yet, besides my chief cycling buddy, the two riders who showed up were stronger than us (and, long-time members).

They rode alongside and chatted with us, loitering patiently at the top of the hill. One enjoyed a concoction that looked like a giant cup of whipped cream. Maybe there was coffee in there, somewhere.

Everyone else missed out on the 31 miles, 960 feet of climbing and the ample camaraderie that I enjoyed.

Ladies Who Hike

Every now and then, it's time for a day off. This one happened to align with a hike planned by some of my cycling friends. Monday, Monday ... sometimes it just turns out that way.

I was happy to discover how compatible we were—our pace, as well as our interests.

We explored some of the Sierra Vista Open Space Preserve, terrain that I have previously surveyed only from the road (on my bike). We had the place pretty much to ourselves.

Poppies!

And a mystery flower. Lindley's blazingstar, perhaps?

Scenic vistas, good conversation, and eight-ish miles with more than 1,000 feet of elevation gain—forgetting to unpause my GPS tracking after we stopped for a break, along with another apparent hiccup, conveys our approximate route. We stayed on the trails, of course.

I could get used to this.

A New Twist on an Old Fave

A succession of members have kept the tradition of this club ride alive after the closing of its namesake (Bici) bike shop, first moving the start to a nearby park and now to another neighborhood in response to heavy construction at the park. The new location is a winner! (Let's keep it!)

It's still a bit early for wildflowers, but there were some lupines in bloom near the Chesbro Reservoir.

Once upon a time, this region was known as the Valley Of Heart's Delight. Now we can only imagine acres upon acres of orchards in bloom, stretching as far as the eye could see. A few remain, their trees dusting us with white petals like spring snowflakes.

We made good time heading north on the Coyote Creek Trail before I led my chief biking buddy off the “official” route with my own wee tweak, near the end.

The faster riders had caught us this morning, of course, despite our usual head start—but later than expected. Perhaps they were tardier than usual. We enjoyed a solid 45 miles and 1,380 feet of climbing.

Cookie Monsters

Cookies? Did you say, cookies?

But first, some cycling. One must earn those cookies. (By riding uphill, of course.)

We started with a brief foray up a dead-end road I think I've visited only once before, waving to some familiar faces (club members) working in their yard, before continuing to the summit of Sierra Road. (The “easy” way—up the backside.)

The point of our little cookie party today was to recruit more volunteers for our club's upcoming big event. As it turned out, the crowd was mostly members who had already signed up—in some cases, for more than one role.

After 19 miles with a tough 2,700 feet of climbing (and a sandwich), I did my best to shrink the supply of cookies. (And brownie bites.)

Remembering

For me it seems that February is the cruellest month, having claimed the lives of two of our club members: Ellen this year, and Jon four years ago.

Today we traveled to honor Jon on our bikes.

Knowing the main road would be busier later, I headed first to visit Jon's ghost bike. I was disappointed when most of our group set off directly on the route to the Panoche Inn; would they make time for this leg later, when they were fatigued and eager to head home? (I hope so.)

Considering the rutted condition of the last miles leading to the Inn, I opted to turn around at the summit. That was better suited to my fitness level, anyway, this early in the season (42 miles and some 2,400 feet of climbing).

Fortuitous timing and placement gifted me with a two-for-one special: an Aermotor ringed by a solar halo.

Searching the airwaves on the drive to Paicines this morning, it took me a moment to flip back when I recognized a familiar voice. A tiny regional station was broadcasting a particular song that has been reverberating in my head over the past few weeks. In this case, a live performance of The Circle Game recorded nearly 56 years ago and released on Joni Mitchell's Archives - Volume I.

And the seasons, they go round and round

We can't return, but we can look back and remember our friends.

A Very Special Place

A long-planned, much-needed day off. A day for a visit to the seashore, the place where I find peace.

I puttered about, made a sandwich, and left the house at no particular time. Inching along when traffic backed up unexpectedly, I wondered if the trip would be worth it after all. Was the drive adding stress to my day?

I settled onto a bench and realized how quickly I might lose my lunch, in a moment of inattention, to a pair of determined ground squirrels (or a crafty seagull).

The skies cleared as I ambled along the coastal trail, in fits and starts, detouring onto the beach or taking a seat to gaze out to sea.

I snapped photos. I picked up litter (especially dismayed by a plastic spoon left beneath a scenically-situated bench).

The giant aloe plants had sent up red spikes; the flowers were fading, but I hoped to frame a good view.

The trail was busier than I'd expected for a weekday in the off-season; the sea, nonetheless, was working its magic.

Families, couples, singles walked and jogged in both directions. A young woman passed as I eyed the view between a pair of aloes, and suddenly turned back.

“A friend of mine is a Buddhist monk,” she said to me. “He comes here, in his orange robes, to meditate. He built a little altar, it's right here.”

She led me along a tight path between two of the giant plants. “He sits there,” she said, pointing to a flat rock. Tucked into the base of the plant was the altar.

She turned toward the water, sweeping her arm across the view. “This is a very special place,” she said. I took a deep breath.

“It is amazing to me that you are telling me this,” I said. “I have just lost a Buddhist friend, we just had services for her.” Her face froze.

I added “She was a cyclist, and she was struck by a vehicle.”

Her face contorted with grief. “I have to go now, I'm ... I'm doing a virtual race,” she stammered.

“I will stay here for a while,” I replied.

And so I did. Seated on the rock, contemplating the sea and the altar, the confluence of all the unplanned moments of my day (and hers) that brought us together at that spot, at that time. Wondering at whatever led her to single me out, to turn back, to address me. Taking in the very existence of this altar.

Thinking of Ellen and meditating, in my own primitive way, on a spiritual journey.