Blue Balls

With public art as playful as this, who couldn't forgive calling this "Blue Balls" Park? For the record, the official name is Anna Jean Cummings Park.

My ride partner suggested that we preview a route we plan to lead for the club next month, and so we headed into the redwood forest on a sort of junior Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge.

Up Old Santa Cruz Highway. Down Soquel-San Jose Road. One of my favorite descents - no need to touch your brakes unless you catch a car. Up Rodeo Gulch. Down Branciforte. Up Granite Creek. Down (and up) Bean Creek. There's a beautiful road, lulling you along through the redwoods until ... wham! It gets steep enough to hurt, signaling that you have almost reached the end. And finally, the pièce de résistance: Up Mountain Charlie Road.

The last time we led a group up Mountain Charlie, two of the riders thought the day's 45-mile route was a tad short and planned to extend it. By the time they reached the top, they had changed their minds.

Did I ride hard, or take it easy? I had a good time climbing Mountain Charlie. (There's a sentence I never thought I would write). I was riding without stats today (unthinkable!). My Polar receiver's battery was almost fully drained by the time I noticed, last weekend; hopefully the service center will return it next week. MyTracks balked and could not be coaxed to record any data. Just pedal. And breathe.

Misty Marin

My real cycling education commenced in the summer of 2003, on the back seat of a recumbent tandem. One of the most important lessons I learned was:

If the bicycle starts making an unusual noise, stop immediately and identify the cause.

This likely saved us from an unfortunate crash on the Tour of Napa in 2004, when a thump thump thump from the rear wheel signaled the imminent failure of the rim, which was separating at the weld.

A natural corollary to the above maxim might be:

If something feels unusual, stop immediately and identify the cause.

In retrospect, it is obvious that the slippery feeling on my right pedal meant that my cleat was no longer in a fixed position on the sole of my shoe. I was enjoying the scenery and my cycling companions; rather than inspect my shoe, I chose to ignore the unusual sensation.

Around mile 48, the vivid blue reflection of a pond compelled me to stop for a photo. I frowned as I yanked my foot out of that right pedal. Remounting the bike and continuing uphill, I could not clip in. I pulled into a farm driveway and, finally, looked at my shoe. The cleat was dangling by one bolt.

I backtracked to look for the wayward bolt, but it was likely lost on the road long before I stopped to snap that photo. With more than 50 (hilly) miles ahead, it seemed that my ride was over. Now, where was that red Porsche convertible SAG vehicle I had seen earlier in the day?

Luckily, I was within a mile of rest stop #2, and it wasn't that challenging to get there under my own power. There, the Wheel Peddler saved my ride. He was busy lacing spokes into a wheel for another rider, but promptly provided a suitable replacement bolt (and refused payment). Should you have the opportunity, give this guy some business.

The weather was perfect (thanks to the cool fog), the route was beautiful, and the ride was well-supported by the Marin Cyclists. I am always tense about riding on Highway 1, but perhaps the fog kept the tourists away. On that seven-mile stretch, we encountered only a handful of cars.

Our group of five hung together pretty well - largely because the two guys were willing to ride at a more relaxed pace, or wait for us. I was surprised to run into several people I know, including one colleague from work who was riding her first century. Congratulations, Maire!

I averaged 13.2 mph over 106 miles with 6,400 feet of climbing - not bad. A few people were surprised that I was riding a century just three weeks after the Death Ride, but honestly, I felt fine. In the end, I even tackled the steepest climb of the day: a nasty-but-short wall back to the hotel, where I had left my car. [Initial segment: 21% grade, average 16.6%. Ow.]

Stanford History Tour

The bicycle is the ideal vehicle for exploring the Stanford University campus, and today I joined two alums on a short history tour. We visited the resting place of the university's namesake, Leland Stanford Jr., and his parents; compared the inner quad to photos of buildings that collapsed during the 1906 earthquake; and visited the archaeological site of the original gymnasium, also a casualty of The Great Quake. I learned about the Burghers of Calais when we visited the Rodin sculptures, and one alum learned about the cactus garden she had never before visited. Did I mention how large the campus is? Having been schooled on urban campuses, I remember my first impression of Stanford many years ago: It looked like a country club, and I marveled that students could stay focused on their studies.

A ride just isn't complete without some significant hill climbing, and so we ascended a pair of them before meandering around the campus. Reaching a top speed of 47 mph on the descent suggests that one of these hills was, shall we say, steep.

Trains, Planes, and Bicycles

Seven riders joined us for today's excursion, one of my favorite local adventures. Our trip started with a train ride to San Francisco. Years ago, I had an aunt and uncle who would head for their Florida vacation on the Auto Train. You guessed it: the car gets loaded onto the train and travels with you. On this coast, Caltrain offers at least one bicycle car on every train. Some transit officials scoff at providing this service - please note that more cyclists boarded the 3:21 p.m. train in Palo Alto this afternoon than passengers on foot.

Having disembarked at the southern edge of San Francisco, we quickly fled the urban outskirts to climb San Bruno Mountain. This being summertime, the top was dipped in fog this morning. It was neither cold nor windy, so we lingered while the sun teased us with glimpses of blue sky, but we were ultimately denied our views of the Pacific, San Francisco, and the bay. Our route headed east to the sunny shoreline of San Franciso Bay as we returned south.

Trains, sure; but what about these planes, you say? Ah, well, our route happens to pass through San Francisco International airport. This sounds intimidating, so I try to keep that a surprise for the riders who join us. It really is an easy ride, and with any luck we pass the end of the runways just as some jumbo jet starts accelerating for take-off. [Have you noticed this fondness I have for big engines and fast speeds?]

During lunch at Coyote Point, we gazed wistfully at the Mountain (now in the clear), and tried identifying the airliners approaching SFO to land. The windsurfers were out, but the most unusual sight included a crowd on the shore bearing witness to a Pentecostal baptism in the bay. Expect the unexpected.

It's Just a Car

A mini-van pulls into the turnout along the Avenue of the Giants, and we hear an adolescent male voice:

Whoa, take a picture of that!

That was not the towering behemoth of a tree, of which there were many awe-inspiring specimens in sight. That was a rather uncommon automobile.

With no biking plans for the weekend, how could I pass up another opportunity for a road trip on four wheels? Destination north, away from the baking Bay Area.

At first sight of the shiny black car last Friday, one of my friends asked:

Can I take out a life insurance policy on you?

But as the car's owner is prone to remark,

It's just a car.

Well, yes. And no.

It's not the average car that induces a guy in a pick-up truck to pull a screeching u-turn and jump out (in his socks) for a close look after spotting it in his rear view mirror. We were admiring the trees.

And I can't say that I have ever had another driver pull alongside and roll down the window so his passenger could lean across and snap a photo. The flash went off; I wonder how that turned out? I smiled and waved.

A car is meant to be driven, and this car is rarely meant to be driven on the shortest path between two points. A navigation system turns out to be unexpectedly useful for spotting the most exquisitely twisted route in the vicinity.

Sitting in the passenger seat does not feel like I'm just along for the ride. It has been a surprisingly intimate experience. Is it because I'm so low to the ground, and the road is in my face? Is it the way it handles, or because I anticipate how the driver will take every curve?

Being a passenger feels almost like driving the car.

Did I drive the car?

Well, what do you think?

Five

Flashback to August 25, 2002: Long before I became an active cyclist, a friend suggested we sign up for the Tour of Napa Valley. Ride on the road? With cars? And hills? Apprehensive, but conceding that there might be safety in numbers, I agreed.

We hauled ourselves around a short loop (35 miles?) on our sturdy Trek hybrids; still uncomfortable with my clipless pedals, I recall toppling over at a stop sign. Of course, this event included more challenging routes, and thus we were lost in a sea of colorful jerseys at the end-of-ride barbecue.

There were some jerseys that really stood out, though. The ones emblazoned with skeletons. Skeletons? Was it some sort of cult? These dudes were scary. They were skin-and-bones thin. The jerseys commemorated something called The Death Ride, which covered 129 miles over five mountain passes in the Sierras with more than 15,000 feet of climbing. In one day. That's not humanly possible, is it? These guys were monsters.

Fast forward to July 11, 2009: My wheels start rolling at 4:47 a.m., about two hours before my body normally rolls out of a bed. The parking lot is already full; I am half a mile from the official starting point. As I approach, ominous drumbeats echo from the park and I see the blinking red tail lights of my fellow early starters. My legs tell me we're already climbing and my ears tell me we are following the course of a river. Overhead, there are stars in the sky. We are heading for the first climb of the day, Monitor Pass. The 30th Annual Death Ride is underway.

I have heard a lot about this ride over the years. I have heard that I can do it, and today I am here to find out.

Unlike some, I didn't get too obsessive about my training. Lots of climbing. Lots of distance. Long rides with lots of climbing. I am slow and I know this will be a long day. Although it is not a race, riders have to meet prescribed cut-off times at checkpoints along the route to be allowed to continue.

We are riding at altitude, in the Sierra Nevada mountains. As I ascended into the Tahoe area on Friday, my car was clearly slowing on the climbs and I shifted down. On the bike, I am not struggling - but I am slower. This ride is about endurance, and I will ride it at a heart rate I know I can sustain.

The sky brightens as I begin to climb the front side of Monitor Pass, and I soon realize something that no one ever mentioned about this ride: the scenery is spectacular. The ride has an alternate, less intimidating name: The Tour of the California Alps. They're not kidding. Suffering, with a view.

It is hard to get a slot for this ride. I saw bib numbers in the single digits, and some numbers well over 3500; yet, they turn away many riders every year. I was warned that the scariest part of the ride would involve climbing while riders are descending fast in the opposite lane, but what I found most unnerving throughout the day was the congestion at the rest stops.

After refueling at the summit, I start descending the back side of Monitor Pass, and it is crowded. Slow descenders are everywhere, some hugging the center line. The solution comes to me almost immediately: Pick another good descender and follow him. The descent became smooth and fun again, with the rider ahead getting the slow folks to move to the right and leaving a clear path in his wake. Later I would hear that this is a smart tactic in the fast lane on a German autobahn.

Ascending the back side of Monitor Pass, I am spotted by a colleague from work. When he hears that this is my first Death Ride, all the nearby riders get excited.

You're doing great!

Yeah, but you started 40 minutes later than I did, and you're passing me on the second climb.

Remember, it's not a race!

[This from two riders in stylin' black-and-white Rock Racing kits.] Yeah, but I do have to make those cut-off times, and I am already running slower than I expected.

The crowd has thinned somewhat, and I am on my own as I descend the front side of Monitor. I am mindful of those still climbing; I slow and give them plenty of space, but mostly I am free to fly. With the road closed to cars, I can use all of it when no cyclists are ascending. Top speed: 49.3 miles per hour. After turning onto the (relatively) flat approach to Ebbetts Pass, another rider pulls alongside to tell me how beautiful my descent was. I smile and thank him. [I learned from the best. Thank you, Nicole Freedman.]

Still, this is a first - a total stranger sought me out to deliver such praise. Watching me climb, I am sure no one would expect to find me a noteworthy descender. When the road finally kicks uphill toward Ebbetts Pass, it is steep. The lane is full of cyclists, leaving no chance to pick the easiest grade through each switchback. Kinney Reservoir is too scenic to pass without stopping for a photo. The summit is chaotic when I reach it; to save time, I pick my way through the crowd and descend.

This was not the best choice, I would realize all too soon.

I refuel at the bottom and start climbing my fourth pass. The back side of Ebbetts is the shortest climb, but I am behind schedule. And I am not feeling well. I should have refueled at the top, to give my body some time to process the food on the descent. I finish the climb and descend toward the lunch stop without pausing at the top. Barely able to stomach the thought of food, I eat a few pretzels and orange slices. I have to keep moving or I will miss the next cut-off, yet I am not at all sure I can continue.

On the way to the final checkpoints and climb, I pass the starting point (and my car). I have backed off my pace, hoping that a more modest heart rate will facilitate digestion. (Eventually, it does.) I reach the penultimate checkpoint with more than 20 minutes to spare, but I feel awful. If I can't eat, will I bonk?

I cannot force down another drop of my trusty electrolyte drink; I pour out a bottle to refill with plain water. It isn't really hot, but I get hosed down anyway. That seems to help, and I am not giving up without a fight.

Along the way, a guy behind me announces:

We have 50 minutes to go four miles. We can do that.

Approaching the final checkpoint, the wind is gusting and dark clouds are hanging over Carson Pass. The first raindrops are falling. There are weak flashes of lightning. It was so warm at the start that I left my vest (and jacket) in the car. It has been dry for days, with no rain in the forecast; I left the free rain poncho at the cabin. I have reached the final checkpoint well before the cut-off time, and they have already given away their last trash bag. I am so close! The rain is cold. The descent will be freezing, and slippery. I want to finish.

I remember my friend Tammy's words to her brother last year. I realize they must have been at this same checkpoint when the hail started falling, and he wanted to throw in the towel.

Look at it this way. You can either do 9 miles now, or 129 miles next year.

I pull up my arm warmers and head up the hill. With little hope, I ask some spectators cheering us from an SUV if they might happen to have a rain poncho.

No, but I have a trash bag!

She jumps out of the car and helps me don it with all the speed of a pro mechanic in the Tour de France. Elated by her enthusiasm and my blessed layer of white plastic, I begin to believe that I really will make it up that fifth pass! A big guy trailing me tells me that I am his inspiration; he has seen me on and off all day. The rain shower passes and we are rewarded with a brilliant rainbow so wide I couldn't capture the whole arc in a single frame. I start to feel hungry again.

And then . . . I made it! I finished all five passes! I really did it!

It was cold and windy atop Carson Pass, but I was determined to visit the ice cream truck anyway. I signed the poster (another tradition I hadn't heard about) and flew back down the hill. The trash bag impaired my aerodynamics and the crosswinds made the descent challenging, but we were supposed to be off the course by 8 p.m. I managed to accelerate to 50.3 mph and get back to the park at 7:55 p.m. I collected my 5-pass finisher pin, ran into some friends, had dinner (they were still serving! yay!), and more ice cream. Having burned some 5500 calories, I was still calorie-negative for the day.

More climbing, more miles, than I have ever done in one day. More than I once imagined possible.

Climbing well is all about power-to-weight ratio, and my engine is undersized.

On Sunday, I celebrated with the ultimate recovery ride.

Think ... more carbon fiber.

And ... a really big engine.

A friend of mine picked up his new car on Friday and was eager for some quality driving. We headed for the south shore of Lake Tahoe and carved a scenic loop past Mono Lake into Nevada, along the Walker River to Walker Lake, returning over Monitor Pass and then up Ebbetts to Kinney Reservoir and the summit for good measure. That rocket-engine-inside-a-slick-car-body accelerates like nothing else. But I can still outrun it on a twisty descent.

Celebrating Independence Day

The early cyclist gets the pancakes. Our club's annual Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast started at 8 a.m. Needless to say, I was not signing up for one of the pre-breakfast rides; riding to the start was good enough for me.

But not good enough for pancakes, which had vanished by the time I arrived at 9:00 a.m. Sigh. I felt sorry for any riders who planned to skip the pancakes and just join one of the later rides, as we rolled out half an hour ahead of schedule.

I'm not shy about drafting a skilled cyclist when I can manage to stay on his wheel. But what is it with strong cyclists drafting weaker ones? Inspired by what little I saw of the Tour de France Prologue before I left home, I was pushing a good pace on the way to breakfast and attracted a wheelsucker. The last time this happened, I was leading the group and couldn't adopt my usual tactic: slow my pace enough to annoy the guy and induce him to pass me. On the Wildflower Century, this maneuver led to an amicable partnership that moved both of us briskly through 10 or more miles of headwind. This morning it had the expected effect—he passed me and sped off. Seriously, would you draft a woman with sparkly stars and streamers fluttering from her saddle?

We had quite a crowd (40 or more) for our post-breakfast sortie into the hills above Los Gatos. Our route explored Overlook Road, which (as you might expect) overlooks the valley. Nice climb, but hazy views today. Most of us decked out in red-white-and-blue, we were quite a sight as we scrambled out of the way for the hilltop resident who arrived home. The guests are here, let's get this party started!

Faster than Some

Slower than most.

The fast riders agreed to back off to a more social pace today, which meant that I successfully hung with them for miles on the flats. Once we hit the rollers, however, it was game over. Another woman fell out of sight behind me, and we had already opened a gap early on the slowest riders. Which meant that I was out there in the middle, somewhere, enjoying the day. Along the way, a pack of motorcyclists waited for us to turn in front of them. They would soon pass us; I would bet there were a hundred of them, we had never seen so many in one group. One guy was spotted in full leathers, but these were not Harleys. Think Vespa.

I rode to the start in San Jose, and then we were off to Morgan Hill, past the Calero and Chesbro reservoirs, for two modest climbs. Our route approached these from their easier flanks, so I was momentarily puzzled when three of the fast guys caught up with me at the second summit. They had added a small climbing diversion, which must have been quite challenging if that delayed them enough to fall behind me. Or perhaps they'd done our little climbs twice, besides.

On the return, a route sheet error sent me the wrong way in San Jose's unfamiliar suburban sprawl. After mixing it up with shopping mall traffic for a mile or so, I surmised that I was meant to head in the opposite direction. Today's ride was something of a fundraiser for the club's team riding in next weekend's LiveStrong Challenge, and our hosts were sponsoring a barbecue. I managed to roll in just in time to eat.

61 miles, 1,575 feet of climbing for the day.

Montebellows

Shady, but steep? Or a more mellow grade, in full sun? Life is full of little trade-offs. My backyard thermometer registered 101.8 degrees F this afternoon, in the shade. The weather may heat up even more tomorrow, so I was determined to bike today.

For some reason, riding Mt. Eden Road tends to be eventful. Today, as we were descending a curvy section with motorcycles roaring by, an SUV swung wide into our lane around a bend to pass some ascending cyclists, and suddenly a young buck tried to cross the road. I'm not sure the scene could have been more chaotic, but perhaps I lack imagination. The buck backed up, the traffic passed, no cyclists were harmed, and the buck crossed behind me.

It was not the day to try for a personal best on Montebello Road, although if you are faster you will spend less time suffering in the blazing heat. Montebello tilts up abruptly at the bottom, and after covering 3/4 of a mile, I was wishing for a lower gear. I looked down, and . . . holy cow, I was in my middle chainring! My wish was granted! I do have a lower gear, and I wasn't already in it. I am now strong enough to climb that far up Montebello without my granny gear?

On the way up, I admired the (somewhat hazy) views of the valley, noticed a memorial plaque to a cyclist for the first time, enjoyed the still-blooming wildflowers, and was amused by a marriage proposal painted on the ascent. Did Tamara accept?

We shared the summit with some lizards as we waited for the rest of our group to reach the top. Most of our fellow riders scattered before our leader joined us, and the rest of us split off at the bottom to retrace our path to the start (more climbing, more climbing). A short ride today, 33 miles with 3,620 feet of climbing.

Some triathletes visiting from Texas joined one of my rides a couple of years ago, on a blisteringly hot day (108 degrees). Early on that ride we compared notes about biking in the heat, and they told us:

This is not like Texas. In Texas, it feels like your flesh is burning.

Before the end of that ride, we took refuge in a local convenience store where we refueled with cold Gatorade, packed ourselves with ice, and heard our visitors admit that we were now having a taste of the full Texas experience.

Riding home from Saratoga today, with the heat blasting me from the road surface and the sun beating down, my flesh was searing. This time, I rode straight to the cure.

Cruisin' to Santa Cruz

'Twas a lovely day for a picnic at the beach and a rare mid-week opportunity for some challenging riding. Two organizations at work pooled their resources for a joint summer outing, and the popular vote landed us at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Biking to the picnic is part of the tradition, and groups formed to ride from San Francisco, Mountain View, and Los Gatos. Most riders opt to shuttle home on buses, and this year a small rental truck had ample capacity for hauling all the bikes. Where's the fun in that?

I led the Los Gatos contingent and was astonished to attract 15 riders. Since the shuttles would not be stopping here on the way back, most of them biked to our starting place so they could shuttle back to Mountain View. Two were game to join me in biking back from the picnic.

Being a high-tech crowd, we used Google Latitude to track our fellow riders as they made their way toward us. Incoming text message:

Two flat tires, don't wait for us.

They were baffled that we weren't moving, as they were monitoring our position, too. We had a rider who also went flat (twice) before we started, so everyone came together for the start.

But not the finish. Their rider flatted again, and upon further investigation, they mended a gap in his rim tape with some electrical tape to protect the tube from the end of the spoke. (I love engineers. Biking with electrical tape.)

Our route to the coast involved a little uphill on the downhill side, for which I took some friendly ribbing. Okay, okay. It's a 9% grade for half a mile to the top of Laurel Glen . . . but the other two miles are practically flat, and the road brings us within a couple blocks of the bike trail to the boardwalk. Trust me, it's worth it.

At the beach, we wolfed down huge plates of food and headed for our favorite attraction: the 85-year-old Giant Dipper wooden roller coaster. Our group of four was unanimous - as soon as we exited, we headed for the end of the line and rode it again.

All too soon, it was time to claim our bikes and head back over the hill. Another rider was loitering around the racks, seeking to join us. I'm a big fan of Bean Creek Road, but I imagine my three ride buddies were thinking . . .

Uh, why are we descending, when we need to go up and over the Santa Cruz Mountains?

This was the inaugural ride up Mountain Charlie Road for two of them; along the way, one commented that it looked more like a driveway than a road. Indeed. At one point, I politely stopped and stepped aside to let a resident pass; she called out her thanks.

I finished climbing Mountain Charlie in about the same amount of time as my last visit: 46 minutes, with a lower average heart rate (despite the additional 4.5 pound backpack). Maybe I am getting stronger. Still, my three companions beat me up the hill.

Minus One, Plus One

On the ride home from work tonight, I was treated to a close look at one very handsome California Quail, our state bird. He was posing atop the stone pillar of a bridge over Prospect Creek in Saratoga, uncharacteristically four feet off the ground. In the past, I've caught only brief glimpses as the birds scatter into the brush.

Sadly, this brings to mind the sculptures that briefly adorned some well-placed boulders on the southern approach to the Mary Avenue bike bridge. One morning not long ago, a sign appeared in front of the newly bare rocks:

The quail sculptures have been removed to prevent further vandalism and theft.

I remember smiling at the joy on a toddler's face as her mother lifted her to stroke the birds. No more. Even in a tony suburb, some lowlifes will deny our small public pleasures. The bridge, so far, remains unsullied by graffiti, though some blue stains (ink, perhaps?) have appeared on the deck.

On the plus side, it is now possible for bicycles to take a vehicular route across Homestead on the northern side of the bridge. A gate has been removed from the fence leading to the Homestead High School staff parking lot, which includes a driveway that aligns with Mary Avenue at the traffic light. At the intersection, plant your wheels on the stripes above and below the bicycle icon that marks the sensor loop, and the signal will cycle to green.

Holy Howling Headwind

Ice Cream Grade intersects Candy Lane, but there is no ice cream or candy within miles (unless you stuffed some in your pockets). There is plenty of grade, however.

We had a lovely excursion through the redwoods and along the coast today. The headwind demanded some pedaling even while descending Bonny Doon's 10% grade, and the crosswinds were a challenge for bike handling. For that matter, so were the dogs.

Climbing Smith Grade, something started smashing down the steep embankment on my right, and it wasn't stopping. Through the brush, I caught a glimpse of a tawny, wriggling animal (was I about to come face-to-face with my first mountain lion?!) before not one, but two, dogs scrambled in front of me. Nervous, but not yet panicking, I slowed down. They looked like well-fed bulldogs and seemed preoccupied with their particular quest, which luckily did not involve me. Whew.

We passed (and in turn, were passed by) some Bicycle Trip race team members training on Swanton Road. Their quest did not involve me either, and I behaved myself and did not try to give chase. Returning along Highway 1 to Davenport for lunch, with the howling wind finally at my back, I reached a downhill stretch that was traffic-free and gave it everything I had: 44.2 mph. While inside the bakery, I watched a motorcyclist in full leathers check out my bike. Was he a bicyclist, too? Or was he thinking I might be crazy to do 44 mph on those skinny tires? In spandex, no less.

Our route intersected with another club ride - a long distance training ride. These guys set out to ride 110 miles today, with nearly 8,000 feet of climbing - yet they seemed impressed that we were climbing Bonny Doon. Okay, so they weren't doing anything that steep today, but they could. And they could easily climb it twice as fast.

On the way home I visited a covered bridge that is on the National Register of Historic Places, spanning the San Lorenzo River in Felton. Believed to be the tallest covered bridge in the U.S., somehow this local landmark had escaped my notice (till now). There were lots of families enjoying a breezy, carefree afternoon in the adjacent park.

37 miles, 3,965 feet of climbing for the day. My reward? A luscious, chocolate-dipped strawberry. Remember, eat five servings of fruits and vegetables every day.

Tunitas Again

A team formed at work to ride the Silicon Valley Tour de Cure (a fundraiser for the American Diabetes Association); with some misgivings, I joined as an act of solidarity. As it did two years ago, this event disappointed me; but I figured it would be a worthwhile training ride. I completed 6800 feet of climbing over almost 78 miles.

I rode alone most of the day, which was fine. I am pathetically slow (averaged 11.2 mph), and much happier not gasping to keep up with faster teammates or feeling guilty for lagging behind. Those doing the long route (120 km) rolled out promptly at 6:30 a.m. Not being a morning person, I was quite proud of myself for rolling at 6:40. I probably lost five minutes trying to get MyTracks to start recording a track, then debating whether to return to the car rather than carry the otherwise useless G1 all day. I was already cranky after navigating the registration maze, which involved standing in lines at two separate tables just to get my rider number and an exit chute with an even longer line to get a route sheet after waiting for a volunteer to pin the number to my jersey.

Lots of riders were huffing and puffing up Kings Mountain, including one Cory from Concord who passed me only to stop a few yards later. Not being accustomed to hill climbing, he had no idea how to pace himself. He seemed astonished to find the hill much easier to climb at my pace, and chatting helped distract him from the effort. He was sensitive to the uptick in pitch on every switchback, which did not bode well so early on this route. I gave him the quick synopsis of Tunitas Creek Road, so he might not have despaired on that middle steep section (if he made it that far). He was still at the first rest stop at the top of Kings when I took off, and I never saw him again.

The route itself is beautiful - redwood forests, rolling hills, views of the Pacific Ocean. I flew down Highway 84 through La Honda, and was surprised to see one rider walking up Haskins Hill. This route takes us over the easy side. Tunitas Creek Road, longer and steeper, is going to be a long walk. [At the next rest stop, he arranged for a SAG ride up Tunitas.] More than a few of these riders should have opted for one of the easier routes. One of our teammates, having given us a two-hour head start, passed me on Tunitas like I was standing still. Later, he would graciously tell me that it hurt, that he didn't climb the whole thing at that pace - he was trying to catch the rest of the guys.

The route covered some of the same territory as last week's Sequoia Century. I took it easy and stopped to snap some photos along the way. A juvenile red-shouldered hawk atop a telephone pole ignored me, as did a peacock strutting his stuff along the edge of Stage Road.

Handy tip for riding in organized cycling events: Always, always stuff your pockets with your favorite sustenance before you leave home. Maybe the rest stops will be well-stocked with a wide variety of fruits and salty snacks. Or not, in which case you might be temporarily disabled with severe muscle cramps, like the rider some of my teammates encountered a few miles from the finish.

I carved my way down Kings Mountain Road so fast that my toes were chilled, and thanked a courteous driver in an Isuzu Trooper who pulled aside to wave me past. When I arrived at the finish, the taco provider had packed up early and there were no more hamburgers (veggie burgers or hotdogs only). No protein for me. (Bugs in my teeth don't count.) Thank goodness for Tony & Alba's timely pasta delivery. Looking to add some salad to my plate, I soon discovered that the organizers had whisked away the huge bowls of green salad as soon as the pasta arrived. Sigh. I did enjoy a good massage before leaving, in search of dessert.

Home Field Advantage

Wildflowers were abundant on today's Sequoia Century, unlike April's Wildflower Century. The two events, however, are not to be confused. The Sequoia has a reputation for being one of the tougher centuries in our area, and the route masters change it every two years. I have done the workers' 100k ride a couple of times; this year, it was time to tackle the 100 mile route as an actual registrant.

The ride started in Palo Alto and immediately headed toward the Saratoga hills that are just a few miles from home. Rather than getting up extra early to haul myself and my gear to Palo Alto, essentially to bike back home, I plotted my own start. A side benefit was avoiding Redwood Gulch, a “Steep Climb” according to the route sheet. Something of an understatement, that. The first time I was brave enough to climb it, a few years ago, I recorded my highest heart rate (199). I can climb it whenever I want (which is, rarely), and I certainly didn't want to pick my way through an obstacle course of surprised 100k riders on it today.

As I passed the top of Redwood Gulch, I met my compatriots. Uh-oh. Racing kits. Jerseys from Paris-Brest-Paris, the Death Ride, Climb to Kaiser, Devil Mountain Double, and some other event that includes 200 miles and 20,000 feet of climbing in one day. These are the sub-5% bodyfat types, overwhelmingly male. There were no recreational riders (though I would see some, later), and they disdained to acknowledge me with so much as an “on your left,” much less “good morning.” I enjoyed sweet satisfaction in passing a couple of them on the descents.

Highway 9 has mile markers that count down to the summit; you know where you are, with great precision, at irregular intervals. Mile 5.89? Are you kidding me? They couldn't have planted that stake 1/100th of a mile sooner? And so it goes, to the top, which today was dripping in cold fog.

I have been off the bike for almost two weeks, and donated blood 10 days ago. I was not confident that I could really pull off this ride today. Being on home turf, I was prepared with plenty of bail-out options. My legs were already aching by mile 40, on the second climb—ascending the other side of Highway 9 from Boulder Creek. Just go down the other side and cruise home, counseled the evil voice in my head. Let's see how much I'm hurting when I get to Alpine Road, I replied. If I descend that, I'm committed.

“It's all about pacing yourself, at this point,” remarked one of the many stronger riders who passed me. Indeed, I was carefully grinding it out and managing my heart rate. My alternate start meant that the finish was six miles closer for me, but . . . then I would have to ride home.

The lunch stop in La Honda was a veritable garden party (our hostesses, Vickie and Karen, always do an amazing job). Even the portable toilets were adorned with flowers. One of my Western Wheeler buddies assured me that I was making decent time and helpfully pointed out that sunset is almost as late as 8:30 P.M. these days, so I would surely make it home before dark.

Honestly, I wasn't feeling terrible. In fact, I was feeling pretty okay. The prevailing headwind spoiled the descent to San Gregorio and slowed my climb up Stage Road. When I reached the rest stop at the Bike Hut along Tunitas Creek Road, I realized that I was in much better shape than many of my remaining fellow riders. It's not a race; I had done a good job of conserving energy. My leg muscles had attained a steady state of ache and I wasn't feeling tired.

Having reached the top of Tunitas Creek, the last real climb, I enjoyed a jubilant, car-free descent of Kings Mountain Road. I arrived at the finish with ample time to enjoy more food and chat with friends before continuing on my merry way—18 miles back home, at a recovery pace.

Lots of firsts today! Most vertical feet climbed in a day (9,775). Most miles in a day (116.8). Most time on the bike (10 hours, 32 minutes, 48 seconds). Most calories burned (4,498). I did it, and I'm glad.

Traveling Light

After picking up some "essential personal items," I found a flyer on my car from a local psychic offering one free phone consultation. Maybe she can tell me where my bag is? Continental Airlines has no idea.

Familiar with those nearly indestructible bar-coded tags the airlines attach to your luggage? They scan those tags and know the location of your bag at all times, just like FedEx, right? Ha! Pure fantasy. When pressed, a Continental representative revealed that they scan the tags at random, or only when "headquarters" tells them to scan an entire flight.

Despite checking in 101 minutes before the scheduled departure of my direct flight from San Francisco to Newark, paying $15 for the privilege of flying with my bag in the cargo hold, and confirming that the tag attached to my bag was correct, I left the airport in New Jersey empty-handed.

I once traveled for a month on an itinerary that involved multiple airlines and so many segments that the booking agent interrupted me to ask if I would ever return home. Newark - Chicago - San Francisco - Honolulu - Kauai - Honolulu - Salt Lake City - San Diego - Denver - Phoenix - and finally, Newark. For this combination of business and pleasure, I traveled with four pieces of luggage: two carry-on bags and two checked bags. Nothing was lost.

Even before I had a reason to study the fine print on the claim form, I raised my eyebrows at the woman on the airport shuttle who bragged about stowing her laptop in her checked bag (so she wouldn't have to juggle her laptop, shoes, and plastic bag of liquids at the security checkpoint). At the time, I thought about how easily the laptop could be removed in transit. Now I know that if the airline loses your bag, forget about it. They will not reimburse you for a laptop, or essentially anything else of value, should your luggage disappear. Anything worth $100 or more (e.g., your suitcase)? Hope you saved your receipt.

So, my plight could have been worse - I pack my electronics in my carry-on bag. In these days of heightened security, I avoid putting anything with wires or batteries in my checked bag to reduce the likelihood that the TSA will find a reason to rifle through my belongings.

Traveling to a special event? Be sure you arrive more than a day early, because the airline won't reimburse you for anything more than basic toiletries and undergarments for the first 24 hours. If you shop carefully, the next day's allowance might just buy you a pair of shoes.

On the bright side, I won't be paying that $15 fee on my return trip.

Gloomy Sunday

If they call it stormy Monday, then today was gloomy Sunday. Or maybe it's a new plot to drive the cyclists out of Woodside, since the skies were clear just south of town.

I met up with some friends for a casual ride from Palo Alto, heading north. Our route included Cañada Road, a portion of which is closed to vehicles once a week for Bicycle Sunday. Joggers, rollerbladers, racers, recreational cyclists, kids on tricycles and tiny little bicycles - all turn out to take over the wide, smooth pavement and gentle rolling hills along Upper Crystal Springs Reservoir. I am always amused by the people who continue to ride on the shoulder, despite the road closure. Take the lane, it's yours for a day!

It was quite a bit chillier than we had anticipated, and as we ventured further north the clouds were low enough to sprinkle us. Two friends turned back, and my ride buddy suggested we divert to Burlingame for a bakery treat and follow an easterly route back along the bay, searching for sunshine.

Alas, no cake for us. We didn't get very far before my freehub balked and refused, intermittently, to freewheel. Coasting downhill, it was rather exciting to have the chain (now slack) slip off the big chainring in front, with the rest of the chain clattering onto the chainstay. While the bicycle is rideable, controlling it is a bit tricky. If the chain pops off toward the crankarm, it can get tangled and snap. If it goes slack and gets caught in the wheel, the bicycle will come to an abrupt stop, with even more damage to the equipment (and me). To keep some tension on the chain, I had to keep the pedals turning, and if my cadence wasn't "just right" for a particular gearing the chain would go slack anyway.

The bike already had a service appointment scheduled for tomorrow, and my plan was to drop it off after today's ride. One more kink for the mechanics to investigate.

Tortoises Climbing Harwood

The first hill on today's route was the steepest, with the grade of one section averaging 13.1% for 640 meters (okay, okay, four tenths of a mile). Harwood is a residential street with lots of "view properties," and I can only imagine that the locals think we're a bunch of loonies for riding up there. It wasn't as grueling as I remembered it, which is a sign that I am getting stronger. I averaged 4.1 mph on the steep bit, and believe me, I am capable of staying upright at lower speeds.

Our intrepid ride leader, Marcia, is one of my personal heroes. When I grow up, I hope I will have her strength and stamina. She may be slow (her rides are titled "Tortoises Climbing Hills"), but she rides up steep stuff that I have not found the nerve to tackle.

And now a word about tires.

Our start was delayed when I noticed a rear flat tire on a fellow cyclist's bike just as we were ready to roll. Flats happen, but with a little attention I believe it is possible to minimize the number you will have to fix on the road. Here are some handy tips:

• Stay out of the gutter, which collects thorns, broken glass, and other debris swept out of the traffic lane by cars.
  
• After every ride, closely inspect your tires, remove anything that's embedded, and look for troublesome cuts. If you do this at the end of your ride, you won't be deflated at the start of your next one.

Those miniscule shards of glass you may have picked up on today's ride will be a problem on your next ride, or the one after that, as the tires keep rotating and drive them deeper through the tread. Sometimes, a thorn or tiny piece of wire will simultaneously pierce the tube and plug the hole, setting up a slow leak. Better to hear that disheartening sssss at home, as you pull it out, than to be stuck along the side of the road tomorrow.

My legs were good and the temperature was ideal, so I was hungry for some extra miles and climbing. My ride buddy agreed to join me, and we lured another rider along for a sustained climb up a nearby hill (a steady 10.5% grade from the base to the end of the road, a mile and a quarter later). On the ascent, I was impressed by the view down a precipitous canyon to my right. Note to self: stay very focused later on this curvy, technical descent.

A short ride today, 30 miles with 2,950 feet of climbing.

Ride of Silence

Tonight it was time for a somber event, the annual Ride of Silence. Around the globe, at 7:00 P.M. local time, riders set out to remember cyclists who have been killed or injured by motorists; our group included 24 people. In our thoughts were six who lost their lives in the past year, including a sixth grader who was run down on the last day of school in San Jose (Breanna Slaughter-Eck), a bicycle messenger in San Francisco (Kirk Janes), and two cyclists who were victims of drivers who hit them and drove away. Laura Casey was left lying in a Richmond street, crying out for help until her life was taken by a second driver who also fled.

Closer to home, a hit-and-run driver seriously injured Ashleigh Jackson in Saratoga just a few weeks ago. What goes through the minds of these drivers? It is beyond my comprehension. Those with such callous disregard for human life, I would lock away forever. But it is not up to me, and sadly they are not always caught.

We remembered Michelle Mazzei, killed in 2005 by a distracted driver in Woodside, and John Peckham, killed in 2006 by a driver who was recklessly impaired in Palo Alto. Our route led to the site of a memorial for three cyclists killed on Stevens Canyon Road: Jeff Steinwedel, by the careless driver of a gravel truck in 1996, and Kristy Gough and Matt Peterson, killed by a sheriff's deputy who apparently fell asleep at the wheel on a sunny Sunday morning last year.

I will never forget these cyclists I never knew, who lost their lives on the same roads that I ride. Twenty-four hours before the deputy smashed into Kristy, Matt, and a third cyclist (who was severely injured), I had rounded that same bend in the road. Now, whenever I approach that curve, I tense up for the familiar shiver that will run down my spine. I will never forget how heartbroken I felt, after riding with hundreds of other cyclists in the memorial for John Peckham, as I sat with my lunch in a park filled with joyful children. For taking John's life, so full of promise, there is no adequate penalty.

Every time you get behind the wheel, you are responsible for the lives of people all around you - sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers. Be alert. Be patient. Be responsible. Focus on driving your vehicle. Don't yak on your cell phone. Don't drive when you're impaired. Don't drive when you're sleepy. How hard can it be?

There is so little I can do, but I can hope that when we ride in silence next year, there will be no new names on our list of remembrance. And I can never forget the people we have lost.

Mmm, Strawberries

The hallmark of the Strawberry Fields Forever ride is (you guessed it), strawberries. After passing acres of them ripening in the hot sun, we were rewarded with heaping mounds of strawberries, along with bowls of chocolate and whipped cream, at the end of the ride. I easily ate a pint of them; but that's okay, there are plenty still out there.

Plan A today was to tackle the 100 mile route, which climbs the Santa Cruz Mountains from the coast. The route would bring me so close to home that I've often feared that I might just head that way, which would present a problem in that my car would still be parked in Watsonville.

When the temperature in my backyard reached 97 degrees on Saturday, it seemed advisable to check the conditions on the other side of the hill. With a forecast of 75 degrees at 3 pm, Watsonville was instead baking at 90 degrees. Given Sunday's forecast for warmer temperatures, Plan B was hatched. The sensible choice was to back off and ride the 100 km route. I don't perform well in extreme heat, and given my typical pace, I would be sizzling in the wide-open fields during the hottest part of the day. Even worse, I would run the risk of finishing too late to enjoy my fair share of strawberries!

I rode most of the route with some friends who had reached the same conclusion, and met about a dozen more along the way. Overall, a much better day than I expected, with a mere 3,290 feet of climbing over 66 miles. The steep bit looks a little less daunting every year (11.5% grade for a quarter of a mile). I was grateful for the little bags of ice supplied at the lunch stop, but I never imagined that I would be happy about a headwind until our cooling offshore breeze arrived (ahead of schedule).

Bay Area Bike to Work Day

It has been a while since I checked my resting heart rate. Near the end of this morning's excursion, some riders in our group were caught behind at a long traffic light. As I waited for them, I glanced down at my receiver and saw it plummet to 59 beats per minute. While standing upright. Having just biked more than 20 miles. I never imagined that I could bike to work without breaking a sweat.

The rest of the country will celebrate Bike-to-Work Day tomorrow, but for some reason it is always held on the preceding Thursday in the Bay Area. I first tried biking to work as part of this event in 2006, and I was hooked. What better way to participate now than to lead a willing group of riders to work? Some were first timers, apprehensive about riding in traffic. Others could ride circles around us, including my ingenious co-leader - who mounts a box of donuts on his rear rack. Those with advanced skills can flip the lid and serve themselves while pedaling.
I mapped out a route with minimal climbing on wide roads with bike lanes and mellow traffic, a car-free shortcut, the new bike-ped suspension bridge, and two social stops at Energizer Stations. I was disappointed that the Cupertino stop had run out of canvas bags before we arrived, but at the same time that signaled a successful Bike-to-Work Day. There I was amused to see a guy with a disc wheel on a fixie; he didn't look the part, but . . . whatever.

By the time we arrived at the Mountain View Caltrain Station, our ranks had swollen to 14 riders. We missed all the hubbub (local news coverage), but were rewarded with our canvas goodie bags at last.

One experienced rider took me up on my offer to bike back at the end of the day, and we were both happy to pick up the pace. When I extended this offer two years ago, promising not to drop anyone, two riders joined me. Forgetting our dense population of high achievers, I was startled to learn that one guy competed in Half-Ironman triathlons and the other was a former member of the Cal Berkeley cycling team. They were gracious and didn't drop me.

One and a Half Hamiltons

Although we did have a full moon today, that is the dome of Lick Observatory rising above lupines on the hillside. It was a lovely spring day to take the advice of Eddy Merckx to heart:

Don't buy upgrades; ride up grades.

I chose a new challenge: climb Mt. Hamilton twice in one day. I didn't run out of steam or willpower, but I did run out of time. I ascended the upper segment twice and the lower section just once, with barely enough time to dash home and get cleaned up before heading to San Francisco. There I witnessed athleticism of a more artistic sort, ballerina Tina Le Blanc's farewell performance.

The evening felt more like a private party for friends and family, which explained the puzzling number of people we saw on crutches or with a soft cast on a lower leg. Injured dancers. I am in awe of their artistry and fitness, and respect their sacrifice. What appears so graceful and effortless, leaves them breathless.

The night opened with Balanchine's Tchaikovsky Pas De Deux. Paired with Tina was Gonzalo Garcia, whose performance was extraordinary in a very demanding piece. I often marvel at what the human body is capable of: the way the dancers move, the cyclists who climb hills twice as fast as I can, even my own capacity for propelling myself one-and-a-half times up Mt. Hamilton by rotating the pedals round and round. It wouldn't surprise me if Gonzalo could out-sprint Mark Cavendish. Dancers pitted against athletes from Cal Berkeley have actually won two out of three annual competitions.

As for me, I averaged 9.5 mph over 61 miles with 7,930 feet of climbing, enjoyed the views and wildflowers, and was ready for more.

Maybe Next Year

I've heard that the Grizzly Peak Century is a scenic and challenging ride. Maybe next year.

Last year, I developed a sore throat the day before the ride and opted to stay home.

This year, I drove up to Walnut Creek despite the ominous weather forecast. Too late to cancel my motel reservation, anyway. As I loaded my bag into the car this morning at 6 a.m., I was misted by the first sprinkles of rain. Not bad, I thought; maybe it will stop. As I loaded my bike into the car, the skies opened up and drenched me.

Biking 73 miles in the rain is not my idea of a fun day. Slippery roads, flat tires, treacherous descents. I drove to Moraga to check out the start.

There was no shortage of parking, but more (fool)hardy souls in bright jackets heading out than I had expected. I ran into two racers I know from the Low-Key Hillclimbs. I told Janet she is a tougher woman than I, but she thought I might be the wiser. Jennie had raced the Cat's Hill Criterium yesterday. Nothing like a miserable day in the rain after that, eh? I'm not sure which I'd prefer, but I am sure that Jennie is a much tougher woman than I.

Being on their home turf, Plan B was to ride 30-odd miles and wind up at Peet's for some hot coffee. Luckily I had changed out of my biking clothes, or I might have been tempted to join them.

Cat's Hill Criterium

Standing on the other side of the registration booth for a bicycle race was different in a way that I didn't expect.

January 1, San Bruno Hill Climb:
This is a real race. Is it really okay for me to enter a race? Look at all these serious racers.

May 2, Cat's Hill Criterium:
Look at all these serious racers. But anybody can enter - they pay their money and they take their chances. There is an element of swagger, a sense of tossing one's hat into the ring.

One dude saunters up to register 15 minutes before the start of the Men's Pro/1/2 race, still wearing his street clothes. Just decided he had the legs for it? Spotted Jackson Stewart (BMC) wearing number 1 and thought he might beat him? (He didn't. Jackson won.)

The registration table was well-situated behind the finish line and the stage, which faces the notorious Cat's Hill (Nicholson Avenue, 23% grade). The top of the hill was not visible from my vantage point; instead, that stretch of Nicholson looks like a cliff face.

The Pro/1/2 men are the last to race around the circuit. It's a fast bunch today, completing each lap in a little over two minutes. They stop 75 minutes after they start, which translates into 35 or so trips around the course, up that brutish hill. Before the race was over, at least 40% of the field had abandoned. Some of my racer friends tell me the hill isn't the worst of it; it's the pace after you reach the top that gets you, no time to slack off. A scant two minutes later, you're doing it again. And again.

Having fulfilled my registration duties, I watched the final race. This year I planted myself near the bottom of the hill, where I could see them fly around the corner toward me at high speed, hear the gears shifting, and watch them climb out of the saddle, rocking their bikes left-right, left-right. Wow, do they fly around that corner! They threw off a draft so powerful it made the tree branches sway. Helps to carry some momentum going up that hill.

The Siren Song of the Suspension Span

Some of my Cupertino friends were dismayed when I told them that I really didn't need that fancy bike bridge being erected over Highway 280. It's not along the most direct route for me, and a nearby surface street (with bike lanes) passes safely over the freeway.

By the time the much-heralded bridge opened (yesterday afternoon), curiosity had gotten the best of me. I wanted to cross the span while it was fresh and shiny, before the graffiti vandals inevitably defile it.

Could I manage a Friday morning commute to work? Rain in the forecast. Out late on Thursday night and not enough sleep. A crick in my back. Set the alarm for an early wake-up, but expect to stay in bed.

The skies were threatening, but the streets were barely wet. With visions of the bridge dancing in my head, I headed out. The new span did not disappoint. It soars over the freeway and might be worth the slight detour for inspirational value alone. More than eight lanes of traffic below send up an impressive roar.

Surprisingly, it may also save some time by sending me on a route with fewer traffic lights and less congestion. The north end of the bridge leads to a busy thoroughfare, and it appears that a design for efficiently crossing that was not factored into this project. Unfortunate, but not insurmountable.

My return commute was more prosaic. I opted for a shuttle ride back to my home town, thus facilitating a short, 2.5-mile bike ride home. With the benefit of some good karma, the light rain turned into a downpour only after I stepped inside the house.

pep Gets Lucky

After returning from San Luis Obispo on Sunday, I spent some quality time pulling weeds in my backyard. You know the old saying "All play and no work ..." Or is that the other way around? Being a good little multi-tasker, I talked with my family on the other coast as I uprooted oxalis and burclover. Which meant that I happened to have my phone in my pocket when a nervous yellow lab appeared in my neighbor's driveway.

A lost pet is a heartbreaking thing. Sure enough, this one is a wanderer. I'm really not a dog person, is he menacing? He wags his tail and bounds over to me as soon as I call him. He's friendly, with a collar and tags ... I can help ... my neighbors step outside with some guests, and he bolts.

Thank goodness he's had some training. He comes back when I call him, and this time I get a grip on his collar. Sit. Good dog. Petting him as I fumble for his tags, he immediately drops and rolls onto his back for a belly rub, squirming with delight, and starts licking me enthusiastically. Having read Marley & Me, I smile at this goofy lost lab. Lucky, I see, is his name.

I call the first number on his tag. "Hi, I have your dog. Yellow lab?" An open gate. Where's Lucky?! "No problem, I've got him." Lucky is soon reunited with a beaming ten-year-old boy.

A happy ending, but pretty tame in comparison to the rescue one of my biking friends had shared over breakfast that very same morning. Biking out on Calaveras Road, she came upon a crowd of cyclists, some cars, and one very frightened cow. Call 911? Not much cell coverage out there. She spotted the gap in the fence, herded the cow back through it and mended the fence with some zip ties. "You carry zip ties?" Nonplussed, she replied "Oh, some of my friends are emergency responders and they always carry zip ties." Her zip ties are still out there in a fence along Calaveras Road, if you know where to look.

The Long and Windy Road

This weekend's adventure involved a trip to San Luis Obispo with some friends, old and new, to ride the Wildflower Century. This was to be the first century (100-mile ride) for three of them; a couple of us pointed out that the Wine Country Century would have been a friendlier option (shorter, with less climbing). But that's just not how we do things, is it?

I was grateful for the opportunity to tag along and bike through new terrain. Strange as it may sound, it is easier for me to bike 100 miles than it is to drive 100 miles. San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles, and Solvang - tantalizing, but out of range. Unless I can be a passenger.

Three loops of rolling hills comprised the route, which covered about 107 miles and 5,750 feet of climbing. I was able map the first half of the route before my G1's battery ran out of juice.

Favorite street sign of the day: Random Canyon Road. I missed the wandering pig, but met the cows on Shell Creek Road. (The creek, by the way, was utterly dry.) The San Luis Obispo Bicycle Club volunteers were wonderful, warning us at the cattle grates and regularly cruising the route with SAG vehicles.

I would soon learn what so many others already knew: strong headwinds on the road to Shandon. Shift down. That didn't help. Shift down. That didn't help. Fifteen miles of this? Luckily, I found a buddy (Jerry) who suggested we work together. We took turns pulling and drafting; my average speed actually went up through this section, as a result. Gradually we caught and passed other riders, who turned down our offer to rotate in with us (because they didn't know how). Moral of the story? Learn to draft. It works for pro racers. It works for mere mortals.

At the end of the day, our group of five spent cyclists celebrated together; every one of us completed the long route. I slept for ten hours that night.

Primavera, Poached

The Calaveras Reservoir looked invitingly cool this morning, but today it was my lot to simmer in the heat. Yesterday I volunteered for the Tierra Bella, doing my fair turn to support my fellow cyclists. I congratulated a guy who completed his first century, and another who rode the event with clipless pedals for the first time. I watched two guys fall into a deep sleep despite the bustle around them, and chatted with many familiar faces as I handed out jerseys and t-shirts.

I wisely abandoned my plan to ride the century route for the Primavera today, much as I enjoyed it last year. I settled for the metric century (100 km) instead, given that my cold symptoms are lingering. Not to mention the heat advisory. With a later start and a more relaxed pace, I still finished with plenty of time to enjoy lunch at the end of the ride. 3515 feet of climbing, 63.5 miles.

I admired a red-tailed hawk that soared overhead, and was paced by the shadow of a turkey vulture that judged me an unsuitable meal. A pair of quail darted back into the brush as I approached, leaving me to wonder why do these birds prefer to walk, when they can fly?

Early in the day, more people were walking up the Calaveras “wall” than pedaling. If they could fly, they would not be walking. Late in the day, climbing Palomares seemed to take forever.

The summit is around that next bend, I'm sure of it.

Eager for some advantage, I swept past the clutch of cyclists huddled in the shade of the oak tree at the top to claim my reward: a cooling, rip-roaring descent. Palomares leads to Niles Canyon Road, which has an idyllic ring that Highway 84 lacks (sadly, they are one and the same). There may be some lovely vistas, but the traffic is too treacherous to notice them. With a narrow, shoulder-less underpass ahead, I had the good sense to check my rear-view mirror in time to see an enormous RV approaching. If ever there were a time to “take the lane,” this was it. I am riding as far to the right as practicable. At the moment, "practicable" means not giving that RV an opportunity to sideswipe me.