Hot Fun in the Summertime

After the peanut gallery weighed in, our ride leader may have regretted that he had shared his route plan a few days in advance. I felt torn: Should I stay with the group on the official route, or occasionally deviate onto roads that I know are more cycling-friendly?

My conscience was salved once I dropped off the back of the group. My ride buddy and I warned the leaders that we are oh-so-slow, do not wait for us. We will watch out for each other. Along the way, we will chat, leapfrog one another, and pause for photos and bio breaks. We will have a civilized ride on a hot summer day.

We were pleasantly surprised to meet up with some of our group at the lunch stop (the turnaround point). Even more so, because most of them had opted for the faster, no-hills version of the route. (Of course, we did not choose that option.)

Outside the local market, we found a "bake sale." Befitting the tony town of Woodside, some enterprising young equestrians were raising funds to attend an upcoming competition. In France. On weekends, much to the dismay of the local residents, the place is overrun with cyclists—the girls were onto us! I made a donation and enjoyed a cupcake.

My plan for getting us back to the starting point was a bit hazy. Despite my uncertainty about the last couple of miles, I managed to home in on my ride buddy's car without leaning on a technological crutch (Google Maps).

But, wait—what about the bike? The bike with the broken cable?

Fixed, finally. New, improved shifters deliver responsive, crisp gear changes. I swung by the bike shop for a minor tweak and was happy to find my mechanic on duty. When he asked how many miles I had put on it, he was pleased to hear "70."

For the day, 73 miles and 2,955 feet of climbing.

Commute Train

All aboard! The South Bay, No-Rider-Left-Behind Local was scheduled to pull out of the Depot at 7 a.m. Two more stops and our train topped out at eight riders.

For this Friday tradition, I have habitually demurred in the interest of keeping my legs fresh for Saturday rides. After completing difficult back-to-back rides on two weekends this summer, that excuse was rendered null and void. Then there is the matter of a regular 9 a.m. meeting (for which there was a reprieve this week). We arrived by 8:30 a.m.; so much for that excuse.

The camaraderie makes for a fast trip to the office—conversation makes the time pass quickly, and staying with the group motivates me to keep the pace high.

The return trip was a bigger question. Could I ride home with enough margin to walk into town, where (at long last) my road bicycle was waiting for me, before the shop closed?

Answer: A resounding Yes! Evidently I can push myself harder at the end of the day. Less lollygagging, more determination. It helps to have a goal.

Madone on Loan

Another weekend without cycling? Inconceivable.

A mechanic who understands? Priceless.

And so it was that I found myself on a Trek Madone 5.2 demo for a day. The bike seemed to have been waiting for me to ride it: all that was needed was to install my pedals and shift the saddle back.

I had planned to join an ambitious ride over the Santa Cruz Mountains, but was apprehensive about the final steep climb of the day. The gearing on the Madone's compact crankset was not as low as the triple on my own bike. Plan B: Ride the first two climbs with the group; if that goes well, tack on some additional miles and hills without dropping down to sea level.

I was impressed with the Madone as soon as I loaded it into my car. There was no denying that it weighed substantially less than my own (carbon fiber) bike: 19.2 pounds, including my heavy saddle bag.

After a few nagging twinges on the first climb, my body settled into the fit and feel of the new machine. The geometry was a bit cramped for me—fine for a day, but not the right size for the long term.

The first hill climb was effortless. The bike is fast! By the time I completed the second climb (and descent), I was comfortable with the bike. My ride partner called it a day after our third climb; I was ready for a fourth.

Halfway through, I reached a confusing intersection. A road to the right was marked Not A Through Road. Clearly, that is not part of my route. Why was it so tantalizing?

Don't take me home to the shop yet!
They will just hang me back up in the rafters.

It was the Madone.

We're having such a great time!
I was built for this.

We turned. We descended to the "enda da road" and climbed back up, startling some quail and passing the largest redwood tree I have found outside of a public park.

After returning home, I rode my proud steed back to the shop—one hour before closing time. Fifty miles and 4800 feet of climbing to remember.

Bridging the Gap

My road bike, sadly, is still out of commission (awaiting parts). If I needed any additional motivation to bike to work, that was it. Bonus: it was a Spare the Air day. The cool morning air was refreshing; I was puzzled to see fellow riders sporting tights and jackets.

There would not be time to clean up before my first meeting at 9:00; ordinarily, I would not choose to bike in. To my advantage, my workplace is not ordinary. It is the sort of place where I can show up in my damp jersey and shorts, a bowl of fresh fruit in my left hand, a bowl of fresh yogurt and granola in my right hand, and have my VP open the conference room door for me.

The ride in was particularly smooth, my progress interrupted only twice by stoplights. Today was my first opportunity to introduce a new bike bridge to my route, one that grants direct access to the Stevens Creek Trail at its southernmost point.

First impression? We have a winner!

Riding the trail is always tricky, with the usual mix of pedestrians, joggers, cyclists, and suicidal squirrels. On the whole, though, it presented fewer challenges than my normal route. No stoplights. No right-hooking cars. No jockeying to stay out of the door zone. No waiting to cross the Caltrain or light rail tracks at grade. No need to merge across three lanes of traffic to slot into the left-turn lane at Central Expressway.

The trail was busier in the evening. To the mix, add oblivious dog-walkers and a woman on inline skates, with a jogging stroller, who planted herself smack in the middle of an uphill intersection.

Finally, this trail is is worth the trouble. What a difference a bridge makes.

Lesson Learned

Why is a good bicycle mechanic so hard to find?

After reading some good comments about the mechanic at a new independent shop, I headed there about a month ago. Shifting my rear dérailleur felt mushy, and the front dérailleur was over-shifting. I was ready to leave the bike with them, but they seemed eager to make some adjustments and send me on my way.

Had I ever replaced the cables? Yes, but I could not remember when. A good next question might have been "Have you put more than 3,000 (4,000? 5,000?) miles on the bike since then?"

With the bike clamped in their repair stand, the angle of the handlebar looked wrong to me. The mechanic had failed to notice that the stem's grip was not-quite-tight-enough, which had allowed the handlebar to rotate slightly, which affects the cable tension. Could that be the real problem?

They replaced the rear brake pads [it was time]. At home, I immediately saw that a pad dragged on one side of the rim. The mechanic had failed to notice that the wheel was slightly out of true.

Their dérailleur adjustments helped ... for a short time. The frayed cable finally snapped. With broken pieces embedded in the shifter, it will now be replaced; it is not designed to be disassembled.

The last time shifting felt mushy, a (better) mechanic at a different shop replaced the cables. Five years, and more than 10,000 miles ago.

Cables are cheap. Shifters are not. You have been warned.

Foiled on the Fourth

Bedecked in red, white, and blue, I headed for our club's traditional holiday pancake breakfast. Surveying the parking lot, you might expect that two dozen cyclists had turned out for this Fourth of July fest.

You would be wrong. Inside the courtyard, bicycles were stacked three and four deep. A small crowd sporting stars-and-stripes jerseys posed for a photo. Everyone pitched in to stack the tables and chairs before pedaling off the pancake poundage.

On the way to the first real climb of the day, there is one spot where I know to carry some speed to launch myself up the following short-but-steep bit. Halfway up, I start shifting. Rear dérailleur, down down down down. Front dérailleur, down. [Hmm, this still feels too hard.] Front dérailleur, down. [Shimano gave me gears and I will use them.] Why ... is ... it ... so ... hard ... to ... turn ... the ... pedals? [I am perilously close to stalling out and toppling over.] Almost there ... [Whew, just made it.]

Rear dérailleur, shift up. [Nothing happens.] Shift down. [Nothing happens.]

I muscled myself to the top of that hill with my gearing set at 30x12. My 52x21 would have been easier. [Not that I would try that. Ever.] My rear dérailleur cable had snapped; with no tension to hold it in place, the chain settled naturally on the smallest cog.

Game over. No more hills for me today. A mere 30 miles, 590 feet of climbing.

Sit-down Sunday

With yesterday's climbing behind me, sitting around on Sunday seemed like just the right thing. I could certainly enjoy watching some coverage of day two of Le Tour de France, for example.

The marine layer gave us a cool, gray-sky morning. Hmm, I do know a sure way to find the sun. And after all, the calendar had turned another page today. Can you guess where I am headed?

Why not complete the July ascent of Mt. Hamilton on the first day of the month!

Yes, I spent a good part of the day sitting (on a bicycle saddle, while spinning the pedals) around.

My cycling buddy graciously slowed her pace to match mine, allowing plenty of time for us to chat our way to the top. The marine layer evaporated above us, but lingered over some valleys to the north—the distinctive peak of Mt. Diablo rose above it.

The cooler temperature helped boost my climbing speed by 10%, getting me to the top some 18 minutes sooner than on my last trip. With no automotive obstacles, I can also answer the open question from my last visit to the mountain: What is my average speed on the tripartite descent, factoring out the two intermediate climbs? Survey says: 21.4 mph, 22.4 mph, 24.3 mph.

Over the weekend, I managed to climb more than 10,000 feet. More significantly, with this ride I have climbed more than 100,000 feet this year. You might think I am training for the Death Ride or something.

[Not this year.]

Deep Blue Sea

The coastal waters of the Pacific never looked so blue. [I was not alone in this observation.]

Five of us opted for a head start on the rest of the group; we knew they would catch us, but were surprised that we did not see them again until we had passed the half-way point. On a route that included roads with names like Smith Grade, Empire Grade, Ice Cream Grade ... you are probably not surprised that we did a fair bit of climbing (5,410 feet).

We paused for lunch in the tiny town of Davenport; with little else along the Pacific Coast Highway for miles, this is a popular rest stop—complete with a roadhouse.

Although we lounged on a patio a few doors away from the roadhouse, the town is steeped in its spirit: We chatted with a couple of women who were biking home to Half Moon Bay, having spent Friday night in Capitola. A curious young woman from Prunedale, with the mien of a lost soul, approached us to learn more about cycling.

But it was the three guys from San Francisco who made the biggest impression. They were on their way to Santa Cruz, having left the city on Thursday. On skateboards.

Musical Moonrise

Even a familiar route can play host to a surprise or two. The seasons bring out the blooms on different trees and wildflowers. On every ride, we will surely see a few animals (of both the domesticated and wild varieties). Tonight we expected to see both horses and deer, and we were not disappointed.

We did not, however, expect to hear (and see) a bagpiper—but there he was, facing the waters of the Guadalupe Reservoir near the middle of the dam, his music reverberating through the canyon.

There are occasional rewards for being a sluggish hill climber.

On a Clear Day

We couldn't see forever, but we could see the new tower on the eastern span of the Bay Bridge, and Mt. Diablo, and Mt. Tamalpais. The sharp-eyed among us spotted the campanile at UC Berkeley. The surface of the bay shimmered in the bright sunshine.

One of our riders had never seen the views from the top of San Bruno Mountain—until today. I have biked up this hill in fog so thick I could not see the edges of the road. On another day, I could see the Farallon Islands from the summit. When I offered to lead this ride for the club many weeks ago, there was no way to anticipate what the conditions might be on June 23.

Another rider, new to this route, inquired about the title of the ride listing (Trains, Planes, and Bicycles). "I understand that you started by taking the train," she said, "but where do planes fit in?" You will see, I replied. One of the things I enjoy most about this route is the element of surprise.

After leaving the mountain, we take a road that appears to head straight for the freeway: 101 South to the left, 101 North to the right? Surprise! The right turn heads south on a narrow strip of land between the freeway and a small body of water backed by hills.

For most riders, the biggest surprise is biking through the airport (San Francisco International). That might sound intimidating, and perhaps a bit crazy. But, we stay on a perimeter road, several levels below the approach to the terminals, and usually manage to enjoy at least one jumbo jet take-off at close range.

Following a picnic along the shore of the bay, we travel south for miles on a paved trail at the water's edge. There are only a few sections, near residential neighborhoods, where we need to cope with people who move unpredictably. I actually enjoy riding this trail. [The brisk tailwind helps.]

Straight Up

Ice would have been nice. It was about 83F degrees at the top of Mt. Hamilton by the time I got there. My friends were drawing straws to decide who should be dispatched to look for me.

They know me; they know I am a slow climber. On the way up, I had suggested that they could descend the backside if they got bored waiting for me to arrive, but they were having none of that.

Down in the valley, it was about 10 degrees cooler than yesterday; which is to say, hot. The temperature at the summit was about the same. So much for the forecast.

After yesterday's adventure, what possessed me to climb Mt. Hamilton today? Well, it is past mid-June and I am not ready to end my climbing streak. So far, I have missed only the month of March. (Hmm, I need to double down once before the year is out.)

If you are looking for a good day to climb Mt. Hamilton, mark your calendar for June 16, 2013 (Father's Day). I have a hunch that, like today, traffic will be about as light as it gets on a dry weekend day. Bicyclists outnumbered even the motorcyclists, today.

I was surprised to find some wildflowers, still, near the top. I enjoyed the company of my friends, then lingered a while longer on the patio. After wondering what the SPF rating would be for the salt on my skin, I decided to slather on some more sunscreen of the conventional kind before heading down.

Ten minutes or so into my descent, I caught up to a knot of cars. I did not envy the driver of the minivan at the front, who certainly was not having a good time driving down the mountain. Technically, with only two cars stuck behind him (and one bicycle, of course), he was not obliged to pull over. But, still ... be polite, have some common sense, and pull over.

That is what I did, at Kincaid Road. I could not get a clear line of sight to pass all three of them, and I was not about to ride my brakes and eat their brake dust until the first uphill section (where they would, finally, pull away). I gave them a four-minute head start, and that was enough to be clear of them.

For the day, the usual 4,765 feet of climbing over 39 miles. My fitness has improved dramatically. I completed the ride in virtually the same amount of time as I did in April, but my heart rate was 18 bpm lower today (both average, and peak). That is huge! And, I did this one day after riding 53 miles and climbing 5,525 feet.

Average pace? 6.0 mph on the way up, 16.6 mph on the way down. I wonder what my pace is on the pure downhill stretches, excluding those pesky intervening uphill bits (where it dips to 5-6 mph)?

July is right around the corner.

Shade and Solitude

Mother Nature turned off the air conditioning today and the Bay Area baked. Flags told the story: the wind was blowing the wrong way—from the hills toward the sea. The high temperature was just under 103F at my house (in the shade).

What better day to head for a state park? California's oldest state park, in fact: Big Basin Redwoods. And, since a Spare the Air alert was in effect, we rode our bicycles to the park. Of course, there were the usual warnings about not exercising in the heat, so we were careful to wear light colors and drink plenty of fluids, and took a somewhat shorter route than originally planned (53 miles, 5,525 feet of climbing, for me).

Did I mention that it was hot?

I weathered it surprisingly well. My bike computer registered an average temperature of 91F. We had the redwoods and oaks to thank for some shade along much of the route, but waves of heat radiated off exposed cliffs (and the road surface). It was hot enough to make the tar snakes sticky; the first time I hear the buzz of my tires on those, it always gives me pause.

Off the back of the group, I did not appreciate how much I cherished the silence of the forest until we came back together at the bustling center of the park. Loud, annoying people. Shrieking, whining children. I ate quickly, wandered off to admire an enormous redwood, and got a head start on the return climb (eager for peace and quiet). I do prefer to hike this park from the coast.

It was a good ride, albeit slow. I did not feel tired, or sore. I did feel hungry and regretted not bringing more food, but never bonked. Climbing back up Highway 9 on the return from the park, I passed a serious cyclist (look at those wheels!) who was stopped at the side of the road. He must have been hurting, but said he didn't need anything. He never caught or passed me—and there was plenty of time for that, at my pace.

Did the heat make me crankier than usual? [Sounds like a good excuse to me.] Probably not as cranky as the folks who hoped Highway 9 would be a faster route to the coast than Highway 17 today (especially those in the cars that overheated and broke down). Traffic signals control access to two one-lane construction zones on the hill. There was little traffic when we climbed up this morning, but in the afternoon there was a solid one-mile line of cars waiting for their turn at the lower traffic light. This was not surprising, with the light cycling so rapidly that only four or five cars could get through. Even at my pace, I believe it would have been quicker to bike than drive, at that point. Or, to have taken Highway 17.

Ride Like the Wind

Heading back toward our starting point tonight, a ride buddy asked if I thought it was windy. "No," I replied, "the air is quite still." We were generating the breeze.

Climbing Sanborn Road is anything but a breeze. Steep hills are always more intimidating when the road stretches up straight in front of you. It was a treat to ride it as the evening cooled down, rather than in the heat of the day, even though it meant tangling with the tail end of the weekday commute traffic. Rocketing back down the hill, though, was the tastier treat.

The hill was tough, but tougher still was resisting the urge to indulge in the tastiest treat of all: an ice cream cone. Dinner was enough. Another family strolls past our table. That looks so creamy, I wonder what flavor? More calories in one scoop than I just burned on the bike? Surprisingly, not true! Aha! Next week I'll know better.

Giving Back

Once a year, my employer sponsors a week of global community service. Each employee has the opportunity to pick a project and spend part of a day working in the community instead of the office. The projects are diverse; rather than choosing something related to technology, I gravitate toward Something Completely Different.

The first year, I joined a large group helping out at Sunnyvale's Full Circle Farm. This being Silicon Valley, we had no shortage of ambitious engineers. The group that tackled the irrigation task quickly optimized the trenching and laying of pipes; the rest of us mulched seedlings and planted corn (by hand). We did a month's worth of work in half a day.

The projects expose us to new local places and services. In later years, I weeded and mulched at Overfelt Gardens and cleaned cat housing at the Humane Society.

This year I felt it was time to turn it up a notch and lead a project, and I had an organization in mind: the Youth Science Institute. My colleagues made it easy for me: I had a full team (and a waiting list) as soon as we opened registration.

Students will show up next week for YSI's summer camps; our mission was to clear the grounds of weeds and (of course) spread some mulch around. I felt discouraged as we surveyed the area; weeds have a way of making a place look shabby, and I thought we could make good progress today—but not complete the job.

"We get a field trip, too!" exclaimed one volunteer, as we started with a short tour of the facility and learned about YSI. Then, we set to work.

It is easy to lose track of the time, outdoors. How many afternoons have I spent in my own yard, thinking I would work outside for an hour? Taking a break to rehydrate, I checked the time—only an hour and a quarter had passed? It wasn't even close to noon.

I underestimated the enthusiasm of my hard-working volunteers. We ran out of weeds before we ran out of time, and moved on to spreading mulch and relocating picnic tables for the upcoming campers.

The first time I saw acres upon acres of strawberries along the California coast, with the ripe fruit being pulled by the hands of a dozen or so workers, I had a new respect for the food on my plate. Tired and sweaty, dirty and sore, we had much to be grateful for today: we helped a deserving local institution, we work for a generous and thoughtful employer, and we normally get to exercise our brains at work and our bodies at play.

Did I book an afternoon nap on our calendars?

Homeward Bound

I made it home safely, despite meeting an unusually high number of dangerously clueless fellow humans. First, the trail: The guy holding a cell phone to his left ear, pedaling slowly and blocking the lane. The cyclist who planted herself in exactly the worst place on a sharp curve with poor visibility on a bridge; my wrist brushed the tip of her flat handlebar as she stood there saying "Oh! Oh! Oh!" (Had I stopped, the guy behind me would have taken us all down.)

Then, the road: The two drivers who turned right across the bike lane at traffic lights (cutting me off; one without signaling). The cyclist in the bike lane who paid no heed to the red traffic light at a T-intersection (yes, dude, it applies to you) as a green arrow granted me the right-of-way. The guy on a mountain bike (helmetless, of course) who unpredictably veered off the sidewalk into the bike lane without regard for a red traffic light or the approach of another cyclist (me).

Nearly home, the road was too crowded to negotiate the merge across three lanes of traffic for my customary left turn. Having faced enough challenges for one evening, going straight held a certain appeal. Nothing wrong with a little more climbing, is there?

My morning ride was as peaceful as the evening was perilous. As soon as school lets out for the summer, the number of vehicles on the road plummets.

I held up remarkably well, in both directions, considering that I was short on sleep. 11 p.m., midnight ... why I am still awake? Barely dozing off, then snapping back to full awareness. It is fire season ... I smell smoke, but hear no sirens. 5:15 a.m. ... beep beep beep; some vehicle is backing up.

For the day, the usual 39 miles, 925 feet of climbing (having skipped the gratuitous hill climbs en route). Almost back to a normal pace: 14 mph average, this morning! Regular riding pays off.

Biking to the Beach

Call me a curmudgeon, but why do I have to wake up at 4 a.m. every year when the DJ for the local high school's all-night graduation party cranks up the amplifier to 11? (I live a mile away and my windows were closed.) This year it was David Bowie and Queen's Under Pressure. Really? A 30-year old song for partying teenagers? "This is our last dance ..." [I wish.]

The song looping in my head on today's ride was a tad more contemporary: OneRepublic's Good Life. We were headed to the beach on a breezy, crystal blue sky day.

This has gotta be the good life ...

Thoughts drifted back to my high school days, and a faded memory of biking to the beach one summer's day with a boy who was ambiguously not my boyfriend. That would have been my longest ride: a flat 17-mile round trip on a different coast. Today's ride would have been unthinkable: 63 miles, none of them flat (4,680 feet of climbing).

The stunned bee that pelted my forehead and briefly clung to my sunglasses did not sting me.

This has gotta be the good life ...

The coast was clear, redwood trees shaded the climbs, a strong breeze kept me cool, the rushing waters of the creek soothed my ears.

Oh yeah, good, good life

A beautiful day, with friends old and new.

Please tell me
What there is to complain about?

Transit of Eden

Bicycles traversing the mountain; not nearly as dramatic as yesterday's passage of Venus across the face of the sun. You did not miss the chance to witness that, right? Venus will not pass that way again in your lifetime. It was a thrill to see—with the naked eye (well-protected, heavily filtered) and close up, through a proper telescope. When you spend most of your day staring at a computer screen, watching the transit "live" on the web just does not have the same power.

As many times as I have paused at the summit of Mt. Eden Road, I am not sure I understood it offered a clear view of Mt. Umunhum (until tonight). In the evening light, the Doppler radar sphere and the concrete monolith were plainly visible.

Tonight's after-work adventure attracted two out-of-town guests. Strong riders, they were sharp and funny and very outgoing. My hunch was spot-on: sales executives. Visiting the area on business, they found our ride listing and joined us. That is the power of the web—not to mention a high level of commitment to cycling: They traded their suits for bike gear and joined us for the ride and post-ride Mexican fare, when you might imagine they would spend their evening kicking back in some hotel lounge.

Twenty-three miles, with 1,695 feet of climbing. I struggled up the hills as my legs rebelled at being stressed for the fourth ride in five days. Shape up, I say!

Even Odds

4:15 a.m. At just the right phase of my sleep cycle, I woke up. Wide awake. At a most unnatural hour. Despite my best effort not to engage my brain, eventually I could not deny that the sky was getting lighter and the birds louder.

Another unnatural occurrence: Fifty percent chance of rain showers. I peered at the radar map before setting a foot on the floor. A bright green band was approaching the coast; in all likelihood, I would stay dry. Almost as an afterthought,I donned my rain jacket. [Which ensured, of course, that I would not get caught in the rain.]

With my building in sight, a few sentinel drops arrived just as I exited the trail. As I expected, the real downpour came later. First, there was breakfast: Greek yogurt parfait, fresh melon and strawberries, and a mini croissant with freshly ground peanut butter. Next, a videoconference: Here, it is completely unremarkable to be clad in sweaty bike clothes. Finally, time to clean up: A hot shower, soap and fresh towels provided. Elsewhere, any one of those benefits would be treasured by the typical bike commuter. I fully appreciate this, and more.

The cold front having passed through, my evening ride was actually chillier than the morning—and briefly, wetter. A mysterious burst of rain on the trail was, thankfully, short-lived.

A pleasant pair of rides to bracket the workday: the usual 39 miles and 1,000 feet of climbing, including one gratuitous morning hill climb (for the view across the valley). Traffic was light ('tis the season), and there were surprisingly few fellow cyclists on the road. Put off by the threatening skies? Ha! Fifty percent chance of no rain.

Resistance Training

It is possible to find some straight, flat roads in the Bay Area (though, mostly this is a hilly place). My average pace on a long, flat stretch today was slower than 10 mph. If you think that sounds more like a hill-climbing pace, you are right. Wide open spaces are windy.

Near Uvas Reservoir, a cyclist heading in the opposite direction recognized me and called out. That explained the steady stream of cyclists on the road—a triathlon event was in progress. With their tents and gates set up, the parking lot was closed (much to the dismay of some passing motorcyclists).

Our club is large enough to support a few distinct subcultures. The long distance riders comprise one such group. As they train for their double/triple/quad centuries, they rarely cross paths with the rest of us. By biking to the start of our ride, they could almost stretch today's 68-mile route into something suitable.

Even though we claimed a head start after lunch, they caught us. Wistfully, I watched their train go by; if only I could hang onto the end of that paceline! Unable to match their speed, 22 miles of headwind was my fate. Determined as I was to head northwest to San Jose, the wind was determined to push me southeast to Gilroy. I was sorely tempted to hop on a number 68 bus ... but I resisted.

The temperature was perfect and the breeze felt good. [Really.] It was refreshing. [Honestly.] It builds character.

Simply Sheldon

I do remember this spot. I stopped here the last time I climbed this hill, and I confess it was not just to admire the view across the valley.

The road, quite steep at this point, bends sharply to the left and continues sharply upward. I was teetering on the brink of stalling when one of the strong riders in the group chose to demonstrate his hill-climbing prowess by repeating the steep segment, effectively blocking my precarious ascent by riding across my path. I stopped.

It was a friendly group, with a few Wednesday night regulars and a couple of unfamiliar faces. Not the most coordinated crowd, though—especially one woman who paid no heed to calls of "Car back!" and persisted in riding alongside her partner, blocking traffic. The more direct "Single up!" seemed to get her attention.

Another pleasant little after-work ride, offering 1,640 feet of climbing over some 18 miles. Warm enough for shorts, with the half-full moon casting some bonus light to ease the after-dinner ride home.

The Drip Zone

My car offered the first warning of the day when the heater kicked on, automatically. A rare cold front passed through the area yesterday, lingering long enough to give us a taste of winter on this Memorial Day weekend. Cycling up the east side of the ridge, it is easy to know when you pass under the tallest redwoods: the pavement is wet beneath them. On the west side the entire roadway was slick, and we rode through the occasional downpour wherever the trees excelled at collecting (and dispensing) the fog.

The temperature dipped to 44 degrees F. My brake levers were cold; so were my fingers and toes. The slippery (and frigid) descent of West Old La Honda demanded so much caution that the climb back up seemed quicker. (I am sure it also helped that we were generating heat instead of battling wind chill.) With such low visibility, riding through the forest was positively spooky—gnarled limbs and rock slides and eerie animal noises (oh my!).

Why would anyone head for the hills on such a day? Ah, well, we were committed: my ride partner and I were leading this one for the club. As for the three riders who joined us ... their motivation remains a mystery. [A long, flat ride that stayed in the valley attracted a sizable crowd of sensible people.]

Forty-two miles, 3,990 feet of climbing. Having just cleaned and lubed my bike last weekend, it is already time to lather-rinse-repeat. [After a nice mug of steaming hot chocolate, methinks.]

Bunch o' Bumps

We set out to explore some dead-end roads in the neighborhood tonight. I have cycled past each one more times than I can remember, never choosing to make the turn. Where might they lead? Too steep to climb? Too short to be interesting?

A bemused homeowner, pulling out of his driveway near the base of the first significant climb, encouraged us. "That's quite a hill, up there," he said. "That's what we've heard," I replied.

He was right. Still, upon reaching the end of the road, some of us could not resist the temptation to climb just a little bit higher ... the attainable summit beckoned from a short side street. [Extra credit.]

The steepest pitch presented a grade approaching 15%—tough enough, but also short. We climbed some 1,885 feet over 17 miles; five summits on a fine spring evening.

Lately, the spin class at work has been setting up their cycles outdoors. Out of the saddle, straining at the pedals, the instructor shouting "You're almost to the top of the hill!"

No, you're not. You are on a stationary bike, facing an office building, with your back to the view of some real hills. So sad.

Timing is Everything

Homeward bound, I pedaled for more than 46 minutes straight, without a need to unclip and plant my feet on the pavement. The challenge: flow with the traffic, and calculate whether the best approach for a given traffic signal is to accelerate or slow down. Luck helps.

My evening commute starts out on a trail, near the spot where Stevens Creek flows into San Francisco Bay. Not a big fan of biking on trails, it is expedient to follow this one over a wide swath of expressway, light rail, and Caltrain tracks before veering off onto surface streets. In the morning, I use even less of the trail.

Hungry for some variety this morning, I decided to pick up the trail where it begins. In theory, this could be a quicker route to work: no traffic signals, no stop signs, no cross traffic. In practice, it added time—and distance—when compared with my tried-and-true route.

It seemed pleasant enough on Bike to Work Day, when we guide our little pack of commuters to the head of the trail. But then, we reach that point somewhat later in the morning than my normal routine dictates. And that makes all the difference.

Getting to the trail involved multiple violations of one of my cardinal rules for a suitable morning route:

Avoid schools.

Riding through largely residential neighborhoods, I found myself immersed in the morning chaos for three different schools. Distracted parents in minivans and SUVs, driving every which way. Crossing guards blocking traffic. Gridlocked right-turning vehicles. The only feasible escape? Move out into the lane and pass them on the left.

A month from now, a new bridge promises to extend the trail to the town on the opposite side of the freeway—obviating the need to navigate this messy maze. It is safe to say that I will not pass this way again.

Strawberry Fields Forever

Just when you think you have seen it all, some new stupid human trick packs a surprise.

Soquel Avenue is four lanes; much of it, a boulevard. A couple of miles from the end of today's ride, I was attentively approaching an intersection in the bike lane. The signal had just turned green, and the cars were starting to roll. This is a perfect set-up for the dreaded right-hook crash: without signaling, a driver suddenly turns right in front of you.

Two motorcycles were also approaching, and saw no reason to slow their pace. One veered left, splitting the left-most lane to pass the cars. The other veered right, splitting the bike lane with me. Nothing about that maneuver was legal. There was no time to panic; he was gone in a flash.

That moment aside, it was a day of uncommon beauty. Nothing marred the saturated blue of the sky—no fog, no cloud, not even a contrail.

I started out with some friends who planned to ride only part of the the 100km route, and later caught up with another friend at the final rest stop. Notable riders along the way:

• A guy on a large-wheeled unicycle, holding a cell phone to his left ear and chatting away. I guess if you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, you are coordinated enough to ride a unicycle, talk on a cell phone, and probably chew gum at the same time.
• A group of five women wearing jerseys that featured purple peaks and flowers across the front. Posing for a photo, they formed a mountain range.
• A rider stopped under the redwoods along Hazel Dell Road, re-inserting his seat post ... with no saddle attached. There is a story there, and it is not a happy one.

On the way to lunch, I flew past a few riders on a nice downhill. I do not understand why it is even possible for me to pass other riders who are tucked into their most aerodynamic posture on the bike, but ...
I pass them, nonetheless.

Climbing into the park for lunch, one rode up to me. "How fast were you going?" he asked. I checked my bike computer and gave him the answer. [44 mph.] His girlfriend rode up, saying "She's not the one who passed us." [No one passed me. Mystery woman was, therefore, faster than the speed of light.] "She was wearing gray shorts." [Have you ever seen gray shorts, apart from the Radio Shack kit?] Whatever. I have nothing to prove; I just happen to go downhill fast.

The end-of-ride meal was served about five miles before the actual end of the ride, and it is not to be missed—for that is where we gorge ourselves on the ride's eponymous strawberries (and chocolate ganache). The cruel joke was this: They eliminated the Tustin Grade, but Aptos High School is set high on a hill. Two steep climbs separated us from the food; many cyclists dismounted and walked. With any luck, I consumed fewer calories than the 2100 I burned today ... but, maybe not. A bit more climbing than the old route—overall, 3400 feet and 65 miles.

Plenty of time to get home, cleaned up, and then wow the neighbors with the best way to check out the solar eclipse (sans l'équipement spécial): Shadows.

Hard-wood

The Question: Would you like to climb it?
Correct Response: No, I hardly would.

That's Harwood.

Some people head home from work to kick back in front of the television.

Others head home from work to kick the heart rate up to 184 bpm on a steep hill.

For nearly half a mile, the average gradient on Harwood is 12.9%—with some significantly steeper sections. Pass through a gate, continue steeply uphill, pass through another gate, continue steeply uphill ... This is how to travel a short distance (1.2 miles) and fit in a good climb (some 500 feet). How economical!

Along the way, we persuaded a solo rider to fall in with our group. A strong guy, he passed me with confidence as we started the climb. When we reached Really Steep Part No. 2, he zigged (but did not zag) across the road. Once. Then he got off the bike and walked. [We really know how to treat a guest!]

Much to the confusion (and amusement) of the group, I covered an extra mile when I blew past a turn on the return route. Off the front, descending at roughly 30 mph, the closest rider in my wake shouted ... something ... which must have been "You missed the turn!" The group was confused, wondering if I decided to add another hill. And later amused, because this is my own neighborhood.

They waited, patiently, for me to sort it out and re-join them—at the dear cost of a delayed dinner. The hallmark of true friendship!

Both Sides, Now

It seems that I have inadvertently signed up for the Hamilton-of-the-Month club. January, February, April, and now May (sadly, I did miss out in March).

Wildflowers are still blooming, but the hills are fading from emerald to olive on their way to dry summer golden. Time passed quickly, as a friend and former colleague unexpectedly appeared and was content to match my pace and chat. Not having biked to the top in 20 years, he had forgotten the stunning views. I had forgotten that he had studied geology; he opened my eyes to the significance of the sheer rock faces.

As the first descent approached, I apologized in advance. "You know what happens next," I said. "Go," he replied, "this is your specialty." Resuming our conversation after he caught me on the uphill, he followed up with "You're so smooth, the best descender I have ever seen (at the amateur level)."

Today's "Free Lunch" ride is an annual tradition, wherein our intrepid ride leader hauls sandwiches (and more) to the top on a trailer attached to his bike. And yes, even with my 20-minute head start, he still passed me on the way up. This is one strong guy ... Sixty-five riders showed up, and every one of us got something to eat.

My goal today was to reach the summit twice: first, the front side (approaching from San Jose), and then the back side (approaching from the San Antonio Valley). Soon, the back side will bake dry and present a formidably hot challenge. After a brief pause for more water and a snack, I flew down to the turnaound point at Isabel Creek.

What a different world, back there! Fields, foothills, canyons, and mountain ridges as far as the eye can see. A robust breeze kept me cool, and I delighted in the isolation. A few riders were climbing out as I descended, but I would not see more of the group (descending) until I was nearly halfway back up the mountain.

I startled a jackrabbit, and paused at will to enjoy the sights: flowers, distant ridges, a handsome (but dead?) garter snake, a fabled roadside spring. I was pleasantly surprised to make it back to the top before the lunch crew departed, and was lucky to enjoy the last strawberry with some cake and whipped cream. Top that!

Some 7,100 feet of climbing over about 51 miles, same route as last year.

June is but a few weeks away.

You Can Ride Your Bike to Work

Time for that annual May tradition, leading co-workers to the office on Bike to Work Day. After all, simply riding my bike to work is no special achievement. Getting a small crowd to work, safely and smoothly? That is a worthy challenge.

This year my co-conspirator and I offered separate starting locations, converging at our rendezvous point with perfect synchronicity. Other riders fell in with our group along the way, knowing our route in advance. True to Silicon valley, technology played a successful supporting role as we invited our riders to track us with Google Latitude.

A flat tire put us a bit behind schedule, but we still managed to sweep up a third small group that wanted our leadership. With that, our ranks had swollen to 32 riders (rather more than I co-lead on a typical club ride)!

We swarmed a couple of Energizer stations in search of sustenance, and left one dad (biking his daughters to school) speechless.

You're all going to the same place? To work?

The prize for Most Creative goes to the company that set up an impromptu "feed zone" (strategically placed along a well-traveled route), where they skillfully handed bright drawstring bags to passing riders, stocked with goodies ... and a list of open positions they seek to fill.

Our record-breaking morning crowd was followed by a smaller, but still record-breaking evening crowd: six riders accepted my offer to lead them back home. We paused to wave at the drivers stuck in the traffic jam on the freeway below us. When one rider fell victim to a flat tire near the end of the ride, everyone readily agreed to circle back and stay together. What a fine group of people!

I always enjoy biking to work, and (almost) always enjoy biking back home. What I love most about this day is proving, to so many less experienced riders, that

You can ride your bike to work!

For the day, 44 miles and 1000 feet of climbing.

Active Adults

In the home stretch for today's ride, we passed a van emblazoned "Moraga Movers, Activities for Adults 55+." They did not seem to be shuttling cyclists home from the Grizzly Peak Century, though. [Not my tribe.]

The stars finally aligned for me to tackle this ride. I was pretty new to cycling the first time a friend suggested riding Grizzly Peak. How many miles?! How many feet of climbing?! She was a weaker rider than I was, and I knew I was not ready. A few years later, illness nixed my first attempt, rain washed out my second ... third time's the charm?

A guy in a colorful Voler jacket failed to unclip at the first traffic signal and toppled over. [We have all been there.] No lasting wounds, other than to his pride. I was relieved that I had stopped behind him; this is not something I would expect to see on a ride of this intensity, and I wondered how he would get through the day.

High atop the ridge, we enjoyed multi-million dollar views of San Francisco and the Golden Gate in the early morning light. I recognized the parking lot where we celebrated the Lomas Cantadas Low-Key Hillclimb, and smiled later when I cruised past El Toyonal on a lower slope.

I was more than a little surprised when our route took us through a refinery—certainly an ironic place to be, on a bicycle.

Around mile 44, I finally met the Mighty McEwen. At the rest stop, I asked "What is the grade?" No one could answer. People shuddered, and muttered. One woman insisted it is "stand-up steep." [I am a seated climber.] At first, my ride partner could not recall the climb, having done it only last year. Had she blocked it out? I worked at calibration. Sierra Road? Montebello? Harder than Montebello, she thought; easier than Sierra, and short.

Her calibration was quite good. I measured a grade of 10.6% for a little more than half a mile. The grade is somewhat uneven, starting out sharply and then tapering somewhat. McEwen? Meh. It's a hill. On a hot day, at mile 44 (with some 2800 feet of climbing in the legs), it is a modest challenge.

The greater challenge was that, at mile 44, we had completed about half of the overall climbing. The "rollers" [ahem] along the rest of the route were extended climbs (3-5 miles apiece), with shorter downhills.

A string of riders that had passed me were still in view as I crested the next climb. I was gaining on them ... could I take them? All of them? The downhill was not steep. With a little turbo-boost kick to the pedals, I sailed past one. The pavement was smooth, the lane was wide and straight, there were no cars. Aggressively aerodynamic, I topped out at 40.9 mph and coasted past two, three, four ... all of them. "You were speedy," they chortled (when they caught me on the next uphill). Yes, I descend like a rock; unfortunately, I also climb like a rock.

For this active adult, a splendid day with her tribe: 76 miles, 5,435 feet of climbing. No people-mover van required.

For the Birds

As I was sitting down to breakfast this morning, a loud ruckus erupted outside my window. I recognized the desperate cries of a baby bird, and the angry squawking of Scrub Jays. I pulled back the curtains to check out the unfolding drama.

Hopping near the street, a pair of scrub jays was mobbing a crow, who was not giving any ground. Then I saw the sad little heap of downy gray feathers, tinged with blue, lying under the oleanders.

My breakfast could wait.

I knew these jays had nested nearby, though I never puzzled out the spot. They have been diligently scolding my (indoor-only) cat for a couple of weeks. Like the crow, they are smart; they have spied the cat in various rooms and harassed her through windows on all sides of the house.

Also like the crow, they are aggressive and will raid the nests of other birds. What goes around, comes around?

I stepped outside for a closer look. The crow winged it up to a higher perch, and the jays divided their attention: one kept after the crow, the other landed a few feet from my head and squawked incessantly.

First rule for observing wildlife: If you change the behavior of the animal, you are too close. Yes, but ... It is one thing for the crow to shadow me in the garden, swooping down to gobble the sowbugs and earwigs I unearth; it is another thing entirely to tear a juvenile bird apart. Even if it is a jay.

I turned toward the garage; I would need a shovel. Suddenly, the air exploded with the sound of wings beating into chaotic flight. I looked back to the spot where the (evidently, stunned) bird had lain, and smiled.

I returned to my breakfast. The crow, driven off by the jays, left hungry.

Kindred Climbers

I was psyched for another after-work ride last Wednesday, until I saw the first raindrops splatter the windshield on the way home. The roads were dry but the sky was threatening. Within one minute of deciding to stay indoors, the ride leader canceled; within thirty minutes, the rain came pouring down.

Better luck, this week, for a couple of short climbs with a few challenging pitches. With a name like Overlook, you might expect some nice views (and, you would be right). On the way up, I noticed this elegant little bridge for the first time. [It's private. Guess the size of the house on the other side.] We joked that they could have saved money on their security system had they opted for a drawbridge, instead.

Focusing on the uneven road surface as I descended, my peripheral vision registered ... something. A quick glance to the left confirmed it: there stood a doe, calmly watching me glide past. The vole I saw had been less fortunate; surprisingly so, given how few vehicles travel up this dead-end road.

As much as I enjoyed socializing over a warm bowl of tortilla soup on this chilly night, the real reward was the sunset that warmed my spirit.

Calaveras Cognoscenti

As we approached the turn to climb "the wall," not one (but two) cars made a U-turn and headed back toward Milpitas. At that moment, I knew that today's trip along Calaveras Road would be one to remember.

Big orange signs warn that the road is closed at the county line. And that is true ... on weekdays. The Powers-That-Be appreciate the popularity of this route for cyclists, and they kindly sweep the construction zone and re-open it every weekend. Spelling out such details on a sign could get, well, complicated. Let's just say that the drivers who turn back are exactly the type of driver with whom we would rather not share this road.

Earlier in the week, my ride partner suggested that we lead an "impromptu" ride today, and we tossed out an announcement on the club's email list. We knew that two other riders planned to join us, and expected a small group. (Surprise! Twenty-one!)

The reservoir shimmered under a vivid blue sky. With the late spring rains, the hills are still emerald green and the wildflowers still in bloom. With the passing of each dry day, the colors will fade; today we would enjoy this valley at its peak.

We invaded downtown Pleasanton for lunch, fanning out to explore the Farmers' Market and blending into the crowd on the plaza. On this day, not a single rider regretted that we would make a U-turn of our own to return on Calaveras.

I dawdled so far behind the group that it seemed I could not catch them, slow climber that I am. A photographer with a very long lens was set up to view the bald eagles' nest; I stopped to peer through his viewfinder. At the base of "the wall," a motorcyclist hesitated; I did not. By the time he chose to turn right, I had enough of a lead to keep him at a distance. Then, one by one, I rocketed past the rest of our group and led the way back to the start.

Smiling, one guy remarked: "I think I know which part of the ride was your favorite! I couldn't catch you. I tried."

One mph over the limit is all it takes to make the electronic sign flash at the base of the hill. Good to know.