Four Goats

Waiting for my ride buddy after sailing down Soquel-San Jose Road, I had a prime curbside view for a parade of vintage Thunderbirds. The one that pulled off into the park, I believe, dates back to the first model year (1955). Monterey Car Week is less than two weeks away.

The Pacific Coast fog machine was running full blast. We had climbed through the marine layer along the ridge, ducking patches of downpour from the redwoods, before descending into the summer coastal gloom below it. The shade was so dense in the redwood canyons that it seemed more like evening than early afternoon. Today's ride would be long, so we opted to climb four of the five designated hills (avoiding the steepest one). Having climbed up and over the Santa Cruz Mountains toward the coast, we would need our legs to carry us up and over to return home.

We stopped to check out some playful goats, and they returned the favor. Even though we were not there to feed them, they did not spurn us. Like many other animals, they seemed happy to have their ears rubbed. We kept our fingers away from mouths and horns. [They will chomp on anything. Anything.] They are smart enough not to catch their horns on the fence—they turned their heads sideways when they backed away.

There is something about the view near the top of Eureka Canyon that always takes my breath away. Looking back on the forest, and seeing all the visible hillsides covered with trees, makes the whole trip worthwhile. For the day, some 70 miles and 5,205 feet of climbing. I expected to feel exhausted, but it seems that my commuting regimen has begun to pay off.

Maybe I should have climbed that fifth (steep) hill ... [Nah.]

Staying Safe

Last week, a raucous debate erupted on a road biking mailing list. What started it? Some close call between a cyclist and a motor vehicle. Cyclists railed about bad drivers. Drivers ranted about rude cyclists. I considered weighing in, but my comments would only have been lost in the noise. Mostly, people wanted to vent.

It's a scary world out there. How can you stay safe? Two words:

Pay attention.

Why?

People can do stupid things.

It happens. Drivers run red lights. Cyclists run red lights. Watch out for the drivers, and do not be one of those cyclists.

People can make mistakes.

I have made mistakes. You have, too. The last time I hit the pavement, two people made mistakes. I saw a colleague confidently board a shuttle bus and I chose to glide past. But she had boarded the wrong bus. Without a glance, she stepped off backward and clipped me with her enormous purse. Bam! I should not have been riding there. She should have watched where she was going.

Do not depend on the kindness of strangers.

I was stopped at a stop sign this morning, waiting for a break in traffic to turn left from a residential street onto a busier road. A driver in a pickup truck stopped, yielding the right of way to me. Would he have done the same for a car? [No.] He had the right of way, no stop sign. I imagine that he thought he was being courteous. I stayed put and waved at him politely to continue on his way. Had I pedaled forward, I risked being run down by any of the vehicles behind him. Not only did those drivers have no clue why he stopped (Planning to turn? Mechanical breakdown?), they were probably annoyed and all-too-ready to accelerate and pass him.

If you anticipate that people might do stupid things and sometimes make mistakes, you will have a safer time on the road. And instead of feeling chronically irritated, you might enjoy some pleasant surprises. Like the time a driver made a sudden U-turn in front of me, then pulled to the side of the road and rolled down his window—to apologize.

If you do have (or witness) a close call, learn from it. Is there something you might have done differently, to be safer?

Some driver made a mistake, or did something stupid, on the freeway this morning [photo above]. Two lanes blocked, multiple ambulances and police cars, a big traffic jam.

Pay attention.

Toe the Line

Climbing up Mt. Umunhum after biking to (and from) work on the preceding three days is not a recipe for success. I struggled. I was dripping wet. At times, I walked. I admired the alignment of the setting moon with the Doppler weather station, on opposite sides of the Cube.

The good news is that they have patched most of the potholes up there. No longer is it necessary to choose your line up the hill by hunting for connected ribbons of pavement. The bad news is that when you climb as slowly as I do, you are prey. I was buzzed repeatedly by an enormous loud insect that flew circles around me. It may have been just the decoy, though; at one point I looked down and found blood trickling down the outside of my left knee. The hill hurts so bad, I never felt the bite.

You can only climb so far on this road. On the upper section, new signs have appeared. 1.2 miles to the preserve boundary. A third of a mile later: 0.9 miles to the preserve boundary. [They are nothing, if not precise.] Not that you could miss the boundary: there are multiple “No Trespassing” and stop signs.

And then there is the fabled “White Line of Death.” If you take a look at some satellite imagery, you will see that there is a second white line. It is the second white line that really marks the preserve boundary; beyond it, the road crosses private land on the way to the summit.

The last time I made it up here, there was a grumpy guy in a pickup truck on the “No Trespassing” side of the signs. Today, I was alone. I dared to venture the extra few yards past the signs, stopping at the first white line. The view across the valley was lovely.

The Bay Area is presently burdened with an overpopulation of California Gulls. On my return to suburbia, I witnessed the problem firsthand: hundreds of cacophonous gulls on the Guadalupe Reservoir (and its banks). With the landfill nearby, this must be a veritable paradise for these scavengers.

As for me, there was one more hill to climb in pursuit of sustenance: the club's annual ice cream social. One scoop of Rocky Road, one scoop of Cookies 'N Cream, and lots of toppings: Heath bar crunch, rainbow sprinkles, fresh strawberries and blueberries, a chewy brownie ...

Thirty-seven miles, some 3,615 feet of steep climbing. I earned it.

Catching Up

When the week began, I did not plan to bike to work four days out of five. After bypassing Monday's traffic meltdown, it made sense to do the same on Thursday and Friday. On those evenings, the roads near the office would be choked with cars heading for big concerts at a nearby venue. The forecast for Friday was particularly dire, with home games for both major league baseball teams (San Francisco and Oakland), another big concert at a venue closer to San Francisco, and protesters threatening to shut down mass transit. Not to mention the usual get-out-of-town weekend parade.

There were fewer cars on the road in the morning; not unusual for a summer Friday, but maybe some folks simply chose to avoid the predicted chaos. I did not commit to the group ride planned by some of my colleagues, unsure whether I really would get up early enough to rendezvous at 7 a.m.

I almost made it; after a quick stop at the bank, I was about five minutes behind schedule. If I hustled, I thought, I could catch them.

A few miles later, I spotted them ahead at an intersection. Now we were separated by one (long cycle) traffic signal. Which route would they take through the neighborhood?

I swung onto our “secret passage” street; there they were, passing through the gate! When all three of them headed up the gratuitous hill, they were mine. They certainly did not expect to find me lurking at the other end.

Conversation always makes the trip seem faster, and we enjoyed ourselves in both directions: Everyone rode back together at the end of the day, including our group's modest birthday boy!

My tally for the week (commuting, volunteer work, errands): 3,945 feet of climbing and 159 miles by bicycle, 50 miles by car.

The Bike Advantage

The office was deserted when I rolled in this morning. Where were my colleagues? Did I overlook an important meeting on my calendar? [Not likely, first thing on a Monday morning.]

The reason would become clear later, after I was re-fueled, freshly showered, and back at my desk. There had been some sort of traffic meltdown. I overheard one story of exasperation after another. Something about an overturned dump truck, local roads clogged with cars and buses seeking alternate routes. Taking the shuttle would not have helped. Biking to work this morning might actually have been faster. Imagine that!

My commute was, thankfully, routine and uneventful. I listened to the birds and admired the flowers. I climbed a gratuitous hill. I clocked in (below the limit) at 28 mph on an electronic speed sign. Stopped at one intersection, I picked up a stray wood screw and tossed it off the road. [Some unknown motorist can thank me for the flat tire he didn't get.] Stopped at another intersection, I spied a nickel (and happily pocketed it). I was passed by a couple of speed racers who confuse the multi-use trail with a time-trial course.

I dawdled on my way home, taking a longer route through the park. My ride was bracketed by egrets: the first had been perched on a trailside railing along the creek near my office, and the last was hunting for a lakeside dinner.

One side of the park is bordered by the freeway. I realized that I was moving faster than the vehicles, which were barely visible through the trees. When I crossed above them, the southbound cars and trucks were stopped as far as my eyes could see.

I guess many people found their commutes bracketed by traffic meltdowns today. I prefer egrets.

The Endless Climb

I know what it's like to climb Montevina on a hot day, and I have not gone up in a while. The full route for today's club ride included a ridiculous amount of climbing; I had no intention of tackling the complete set of hills. I know myself well enough to head for Montevina first; otherwise, I would surely talk myself out of it.

It is hard to convey steepness in a photo. I stopped at one promising switchback and almost missed the main event: turkey vultures roosting in a dead tree. Being alive, I was of no interest to them; nor was I a threat. They completely ignored me.

A passing (of course) guy struck up a conversation. “Tough climb,” he said. “Yeah, but it was my choice,” I replied. He was inspired by Le Tour de France (which was nearly done). We all suffer.

I had forgotten how high the summit is—the day was clear enough for a distant view of Monterey Bay.

I was determined to do a second hill climb, Soda Springs. I knew that my legs would be done after that; it was an open question whether my legs would be done before I got to the top.

What makes Soda Springs such a grueling climb? Its steepness borders on painful, without really crossing that line; the grade is relentlessly constant. On the upper section, there are few scenic views or landmarks; just climb the narrow road, through the trees. Surely the end is around the next bend? [No.] Keep climbing.

Another passing guy, sporting a Lotto kit, kindly gave me some encouragement: “Tough climb,” he said. Dispirited by then, I sighed “I thought it was five miles, and it's not.” “Almost there,” he replied.

Surely the end is around the next bend? [No.] “Good job!” he shouted to me as he descended. It's a trick, I thought; this hill grows ever higher and the road grows ever longer just before I round each bend. Until, finally, the magic sign materializes: Road Ends 500 Feet.

Thirty-nine miles, 5,535 feet of climbing. Crazy. But it was my choice.

Just for Kicks

Way back in 1992, an ad on a local radio station caught my attention: a bike shop in a nearby town was having a sale. At the time, I was without a bicycle, having sold my Raleigh 10-speed to a friend. The Raleigh had carried me through grad school, to and from campus in a hilly urban environment (without a helmet, in those days). With my short legs, I barely cleared the top tube. After earning my degree and entering the workforce, I do not remember riding it again.

With its wider tires, a hybrid bicycle seemed much more practical. I studied the Trek catalog; the 720 Multi-Track became the object of my desire. There was even a “ladie's” diamond frame, with a sloping top tube. The bike's knobby tires let me take a short cut on a dirt trail to the local park.

It would be many more years before I became seriously interested in cycling. I added a rack, and a bag ... and quickly found that I could not keep up with the group on club rides. I visited a local bike shop and nearly tossed a bike over my head when I tugged it off the rack—no wonder those people on carbon fiber bikes were so fast! Their bikes weigh nothing—compared with my “Cro-moly” (steel) frame. [Well, that, and they were in better shape than I was.]

Twenty-one years later, that steel bike gets more action than I ever dreamed it would: it is the workhorse of my commute (40 miles, round-trip). I traded the original knobby tires for slightly narrower slicks, flat pedals for SPDs, added some lighting options, replaced the saddle. But it is not a finicky machine; consequently, it has not gotten a lot of (mechanical) love.

I really should do something about those shrieking brake pads, I thought. And then I would forget, until the next ride. I should find some time to take the bike for service. And then I would forget.

The Bike Doctor! [Duh.] The Bike Doctor is a mobile mechanic; he will come to you, or better yet—to a workplace near you (in the Bay Area). I marked my calendar for his next visit and booked my bike on his schedule.

I wrote out a list of things that needed attention. He read my list, smiled at me indulgently, and tossed it in the trash. “Don't worry, I know what your bike needs better than you do.” [This was true.]

Fresh (quiet) brake pads. A new red rear blinkie, at my request, securely mounted to the rack. The silly plastic ring between the cogset and the spokes? Gone! [It was cracked, he noted.] Tuned up. “Your rear dérailleur hanger was bent, I straightened it,” he said. “Have you crashed the bike?” [No.] “It must have been dropped at some point,” he said. [I racked my brain and came up empty.]

Inspired by Ladyfleur, we added a kickstand. The bike posed proudly with some trailside flowers on the way home. And speaking of home, the bike stood tall in the middle of the driveway—no need to balance it precariously against a tree while unloading it.

The driveway ... now I remember ... the day I was so proud to have completed a long ride on the local trail, clipped into my new SPD pedals, without toppling over. They were campus pedals (flat platform on one side, SPD socket on the other). When I left the trail for the road home, I was careful to unclip (lest I unceremoniously topple over at a traffic light). Not being the most coordinated person, it was taking some time for me to master that clip-in/clip-out business.

That day, I coasted into my driveway, came to a complete stop and ... just like Arte Johnson, toppled over. That is how my dérailleur hanger came to be bent.

The Bike Doctor knows all.

Trifecta

If you love your dog, I implore you: put a tag on your pet's collar—stamped with your phone number.

Somewhere above Holy City, a German Shepherd materialized. We were climbing; she was faster. Luckily, she was not aggressive. She seemed to want to play with us, running alongside our bikes and stopping to pick up a stick as a hint.

I have been meaning to tuck some rope into my saddle bag ... The dog had a collar, but there were no jingling tags. She stopped following—perhaps she knew her territory? The best I could do was to report a lost German Shepherd when I found a county worker in his truck at the Summit Store.

The other key item missing from my kit today was a vest. The Santa Cruz Mountains were draped in fog, and we were heading for the coast. I should always carry a vest in my bag of cycling gear. I know this. The redwoods rained on us near the summit, but it was not as cold as I feared.

What a merry band of riders we were! Plenty of conversation, plenty of lingering at each re-group, and plenty of patience when we found our lunch stop overwhelmed with an at-capacity crowd.

For one of the riders in our group, three of the four hills we tackled were terra incognita. The best, of course, comes last: the soul-crushing ascent of Mountain Charlie Road. That photo at the top was taken looking back at a section I had just climbed. No, that is not a dead-end road—it drops off that steeply. Fifty-one miles, with some 4,615 feet of climbing (same route we traced in 2009).

Whose idea was it to climb Mountain Charlie today?

[Oh, wait, it was my idea.]

But look at who was waiting for me at the top! Three fine, friendly firemen!

You chose the wrong ride today, Miss C.

Fryin' on the Fourth

I needed to burn off those pancakes, heat wave or no. After joining more than 150 fellow club members for our annual July 4th carb-fest, my ride buddy and I headed for Stevens Creek Canyon.

It is a modest climb, but not as cool as I had hoped. In the winter months, the sun is too low to penetrate the canyon. By noon on a summer's day, sunshine is abundant.

We did the sensible thing after reaching the gate: we retreated! Even though it would have been shorter to return via Redwood Gulch or Mt. Eden, we would have melted on either of those climbs. With a flat route, we could manage enough speed to generate some evaporative cooling. And, we were drenched.

Not to mention the opportunity to stop for a cold smoothie along the way. [It's all about the food, this cycling thing.]

There was no reason to hurry home, as the day (and my house) would only get hotter (98F). I claimed my piece of shade under a redwood tree and enjoyed the last 30 minutes of the San Jose Wind Symphony's Independence Day program.

Duke Farms

During the last gubernatorial race, I could not help but compare the legacy of a 21st century billionaire (Meg Whitman) with that of a 20th century multi-millionaire (Andrew Carnegie). Ms. Whitman spent some $144 million of her own money on her (unsuccessful) campaign to become the governor of California. Andrew Carnegie spent, for example, $56 million establishing more than 2,500 free public libraries around the world (~$706 million in Meg's 2010 dollars). Of course, Ms. Whitman and Mr. Carnegie were free to spend their wealth however they saw fit; the entirety of Mr. Carnegie's legacy inspires awe to this day.

If you owned one of the largest private parcels of land (2,700 acres) in our most densely populated state (New Jersey), what would you do with it?

There are many municipalities in the state that are smaller than Duke Farms. It is hard to imagine the value of this land, were it to be sold off and subdivided into plots for several thousand McMansions. I lived, for a time, in a townhome built on what once was farmland. I used to fantasize about what it would take to buy back the farm, to raze the garden apartments and townhomes, the condominiums and single-family homes, to grow tomatoes and corn and potatoes again.

Doris Duke had no need for greater wealth; she did not sell her land. She bequeathed it to all of us.

The price of admission? $0. Spend the day hiking, or hop on a Breezer and pedal along more than 13 miles of paved and gravel paths. $0.

As I passed through the first gate, an indignant wild turkey flapped and clambered over a high fence. They can fly, when they're motivated.

Keeping an eye on the threatening skies, I spent most of the afternoon exploring the larger, northern section of the grounds. The paths are essentially flat, but I appreciated the Breezer's fat tires (and gears!) when I followed a gravel path uphill. At the top? A pet cemetery?!

Lakes and meadows, woodlands and marshes, a community garden. The sound of wind in the trees, water tumbling over rocks, the chattering of birds. I did not have to travel far to escape the bustle of neighboring suburbs and highways.

I expected to leave at 3 p.m. (I stayed till 5.)

Thank you, Ms. Duke, for preserving this land and opening it for all to share.

Freeway Freewheeling

How many more surprises are tucked away in Golden Gate Park? I have seen the bison. Windmills? In 1902 they had the good sense to take advantage of the wind to pump water for the park. Later, they adopted a more modern solution (electric pumps). Perhaps they should reconsider?

Our club runs an annual week-long tour, Sierra to the Sea, which finishes in the park. Three of my friends (and fellow European travelers) were riding in the tour this year, so I joined a small group for the trek to San Francisco to surprise them.

About one-fourth of the freeway miles in California are bicycle-legal. For example, we are granted access for a short distance on Interstate 280 in Millbrae (between two exits), as there is no alternate route through that area. [Technically, I see a detour through the local neighborhood that looks eminently reasonable. Next time ...]

As they fly past at 65+ mph, what do the motorists think of us? Most probably imagine that we are confused, at best; flagrantly disobedient, at worst. Sharing the on- and off-ramps with accelerating vehicles provided the most stressful moments, but in general the freeway is not a place for novices or Nervous Nellies.

Things get tricky for cyclists again around Daly City, where our route on Highway 35 (aka Skyline Blvd) intersects Highway 1 and you must merge left across the multiple lanes that feed onto Highway 1. Wherever you see a “Freeway Begins” sign, look for the accompanying “Prohibited” sign to confirm that bicycles are not listed.

My friends were suitably surprised to see me, and joked that our European visitor was looking for more climbing and should ride back with me. Common sense prevailed, however, and I set out on a solo return trip. At a busy intersection, barriers blocked the route forward on the Great Highway; all vehicles were forced to head east. There were no signs posted. I biked on through, and quickly encountered the deep sand that had drifted across the roadway. After walking that stretch, I had the rest of the Great Highway (and its glorious view!) to myself.

For the day, 64 miles with some 3,845 feet of climbing. Good thing I chose not to follow my “Plan B” for the return trip (via Caltrain); a fire near the tracks had shut down service for much of the afternoon.

To the Junction

The first time I biked out here, I was not convinced I would do it again. The Junction (where Mines Road meets San Antonio Valley Road at Del Puerto Canyon Road) is a long way from anywhere. Twenty-five miles from Livermore. Twenty-five miles from Patterson. Thirty-eight miles from San Jose (up and over Mt. Hamilton).

This time of year, the stream bed is dry and the hillsides are golden. The road curves and rolls through the canyon; miles and miles of solitude.

Past three horses inexplicably packed side-by-side in a field, the outer two flanking the one in the middle, shoulder-to-haunch. I would have stopped for a photo, but figured that would only spook them into moving. Like the young bull resting in the shade next to the road, who stood up and pointed his hind quarters at me, all the while eying me with suspicion.

There are a few roadside call boxes; don't even think about cell phone coverage out here. I recently learned that the huge numbers on the road surface (mile markers) are painted so the helicopter crew will know where to find you. My ride buddy and I kept each other (mostly) in sight.

I rounded a bend to find a deer staring me down, some 50 feet ahead in my lane. A red Corvette had been holding back for a safe place to pass me; the driver was rewarded for his good judgment when that deer scampered away.

Not too hot, not too windy: a just-about-perfect day to enjoy 58 miles with a mere 3,615 feet of climbing. I will do this again.

The Oberbürgermeister of Tunitas

It must be the flower. Evidently the little yellow splash of whimsy on my saddlebag is misleading.

“Are you okay?” asked one guy who passed me on Tunitas Creek. “Yes, I'm just slow,” I replied. If I had been stopped at the side of the road, that question would be most welcome. But I was moving. Uphill. Albeit slowly.

Then there was the Enforcer, Der Oberbürgermeister von Tunitas. It was his self-appointed duty to tell me where to ride on the road (viz., farther to the right). He had been hit by cars twice on this road, he shouted. [Twice? And I should take advice from you?]

If a cyclist rides through the forest and no one passes her ...

Seriously, dude, I am not an idiot. I stay on the right side of the (imaginary) center line. On a quiet backroad like this, I am not going to teeter on the edge of the pavement or pick my way through the debris fields left by mini-rockslides. If there is a car approaching, I want the driver to see me and slow down before passing. Hang too far to the right, and you invite cars to squeeze past, at full speed, when they shouldn't. I readily share the lane when it is safe to do so. And if I hear someone driving aggressively, I will stop and step off the road entirely.

The forecast called for an inland heat wave; I gambled that a ride over the hill toward the coast would be cool. Descending Tunitas was beyond cool—it was downright chilly. The distance to the Bike Hut seemed longer than I remembered.

I was reprimanded on Tunitas by Der Oberbürgermeister not once, but twice: he started his descent while I was still on the climb. Good thing he wasn't out this morning, mixing it up with clumps of cyclists (all over the road) from the Sequoia Century's workers' ride. He would have been positively apoplectic.

My estimate for the elevation gain was spot on: Thirty-three miles, with 4,205 feet of climbing. Next ride, the flower stays. But instead of a club jersey, I think I will wear this one.

Shade, or Grade?

The Plan: One friend would meet me at my place (arriving by bicycle, of course), and together we would bike to meet the rest of the group. Had I not incited three friends to turn out for today's ride, I would have stayed home—I was decidedly under the weather. I could ride to the starting point and back home. Probably. Maybe farther.

Even with a generous head start, the hardbodies caught us before the first big climb. The day would get hotter and I was already drenched with sweat. I was fully off the back by the time I reached the Almaden Reservoir, which was startlingly blue in the morning light.

I paced myself slowly up Hicks Road, my heart pumping at a moderate rate. Choices, choices: Take the shallower line [in the blazing sun] around a steep bend, or suffer the grade in the shade? This is a tough climb to the summit in either direction; heat doesn't help. I talked myself through every uptick: It's short. It levels off. It's not as steep as Bear Gulch. I'm almost there. I made it without stopping!

And I know when to fold. Much as I wanted head up Mt. Umunhum, I would not push my luck today. Another cyclist joined me for the ride back to town; when we crested the final hill, we smiled and congratulated ourselves on making the right choice. Then, the ultra-hardbodies caught us. [Yes, we did linger to chat. But, still ...]

Twenty-eight miles with some 2,550 feet of climbing. As the rest of the group straggled in to lunch, they were surprised to find me already there. “She led the whole way,” the ultra-hardbodies deadpanned. [In my dreams.]

Drippity Drop

The color of the sky was Ominous Gray. I considered my options over breakfast. Rain is possible in the Bay Area in May, but the showers on the radar map were well to the north. Any rainfall would likely be brief, and light; if not, I could easily find shelter and wait for the storm to pass. Thinking back to being soaked in a downpour last fall, why would I hesitate over mere clouds this morning?

With a late start for a short ride, I opted to bike there. After we completed the second climb, our leader suggested we chase a few more hills. My fellow cyclists hemmed and hawed; today being a holiday, they had slotted this little ride ahead of their picnics and barbecues. After I cast my lot with the leader, most of the group came around. A departing rider assured us the hills ahead were less steep than the hills behind.

He was almost right. (I nearly stalled out on the last one.)

From the street, this structure looked more like some mod hotel, but we were definitely in a residential zone.

For the day, a healthy 48 miles with some 2,550 feet of climbing. On the way home, I got a little wet. Hardly worth mentioning. Really.

Biking to Sunshine

Herewith, a tour of Bay Area microclimates. First, we rolled through the dry golden hills of the peninsula on a breezy day.

Up and over the ridge, we skirted along the edge of the El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve. Wet pavement, blustery winds, and green fields were gifts from the marine layer above us.

The public segment of Bear Gulch West ends in a redwood grove. It is essential to shift into your lowest gear before you stop; the first mile of your return trip is a tad steep (12.3% grade, on average).

When I added a flower to my seat bag on Bling Your Bike at Work Day, I did not imagine how popular it would be. Even on Old La Honda Road, where cyclists often take themselves far too seriously, I caught some compliments and smiles.

The winds were fierce at a particular elevation on both sides of the ridge. I enjoyed a lovely car-free descent of Kings Mountain, with a little extra caution for unpredictable gusts.

By the time I reached the historic Woodside Store, some 31 miles into the ride, the water in my bottles was refreshingly chilled.

42 miles, 4360 feet of climbing—and don't it feel good!

Grade Inflation

Over the past 10 years, I have sampled many organized rides. For some, once was enough. But year after year, I eagerly register for Strawberry Fields Forever. The first time I signed up, it rained and I skipped the event altogether. One year, it was so blistering hot I packed my bandana with ice and wore it around my neck. Another year, the cold fog drizzled and made us miserable for the first few miles.

Today, the weather was perfect. Just warm enough for the fragrance of ripe strawberries to waft across the fields.

Before meandering through the farmland of Monterey and Santa Cruz counties, our first rest stop is always hosted at Calfee Design. The airstrip must be seeing more use these days; there were new gates and signs (look both ways, indeed). When was the last time you bicycled across an active runway?

The water in the Pajaro River was beautifully clear, despite the colorful patches of growth on its surface.

The event organizers must be getting soft on us; this year, they dropped the challenging Tustin grade from the traditional route. The climb to lunch at Royal Oaks Park, however, is unavoidable. I dropped into my lowest gear and motored along, passing a few people who opted to walk. When a woman riding nearby asked me about the climb, and the rest of the route, I could tell her this was the toughest part. Based on my perceived difficulty, I told her I thought the grade was 9%-10%. At lunch, another woman insisted it was 17%. [No way.] People take great pride in the instantaneous readings of their cycling computers; unfortunately, such readings are unreliable.

You can count on seeing some unusual sights at this event. Women decked out in pink feather boas or tutus, as if they had cycled in from the Cinderella ride. One guy riding with a full-sized floor pump protruding horizontally from his backpack. As this unicyclist approached a paddock, I watched a horse saunter over to the fence for a closer look; after he passed, the horse turned tail and walked away—not the least bit interested in the recumbent.

After my hiatus from cycling in March and April, I was concerned about how I would fare on this ride; that motivated me to step up my training. A tad over 61 miles, with some 2,935 feet of climbing—at an average speed of 12.3 mph (whew, same as last year).

Oh, and that climb to lunch? Surprisingly, two-tenths of a mile averaging 13%. [It didn't feel that bad.]

BIK LAN

Reacting to several tragic accidents on California State Highway 9 between the towns of Saratoga and Los Gatos, funds were found for critical safety improvements. Bike lanes have been in place for a couple of years; more recently, a few sidewalk segments have been introduced.

While I am happy that accommodations are being made for pedestrians, these should not come at the expense of cyclist safety. The bike lane is slowly disappearing: swallowed by the hillside in one section, obliterated by the new sidewalk in others.

More frightening than the narrowed bike lane is the new curb that separates the sidewalk from the bike lane: both are formed of black asphalt. The construction signs and cones have been gone for some time; can it be possible that they have no intention of painting the curb, or at least the sloped, leading edge of the curb at intersections? This is an accident waiting to happen. It seems just a matter of time before a cyclist runs into the curb and crashes—unable to see the curb at night, or having been intimidated to the far right of the narrow bike lane by fast-moving traffic.

Having explored the relevant section of the California Highway Design Manual, it seems clear to me that this (Class II) Bike Lane no longer complies with the standards.

The speed limit on this section of the highway is 40 mph or less; Section 301.2 states that the minimum width of the bike lane should be four feet. The width can be reduced to three feet if there is an adjacent concrete curb and gutter. There is certainly no gutter (which would effectively widen the available lane for bikes), so the bike lane should still be four feet wide. [It is not.]

The speed limit is 45 mph on the section of road where the hillside is overtaking the bike lane; per Section 301.2, the minimum width of the bike lane there should be six feet (!). [I assure you that you will not need a measuring tape to see that it is not.]

Of course, I am not a highway design engineer, so what do I know?

The Music Man

Some of my fellow cyclists find their rides more enjoyable with a soundtrack, and might pedal with earphones and an MP3 source. [One earphone is legal; two are not.] I prefer the natural sounds around me, which included some lovely mockingbird solos today. Or I can tap into the vast trove of songs in my memory bank.

On most of my recent commute rides, the refrain of one song was (inexplicably) stuck on replay in my head. I do not own a copy, and I could not name the artist. Something about rain in Africa, and things we never had. I don't even like the song. Eventually, I managed to displace it.

I headed for a short club ride this morning, certain that we would have a nice little group. Little, indeed—just two of us, plus our leader. The other rider's bike was set up with a tablet computer mounted on his handlebars and a small loudspeaker fitted in one of his water bottle cages. We enjoyed some Vivaldi before an abrupt switch to 80's pop (Eye of the Tiger).

Unlike the songs in my head, which can loop indefinitely, a real song plays for a few minutes. A fast beat can encourage you to ride with a faster cadence, but I actually found the music disheartening: as each song ended, I was reminded that I had not traveled very far in the interim.

I climbed the hills without stopping. [I wanted to stop. I kept going.] A little over 17 miles, with 1440 feet of climbing, before the day heated up.

As we parted ways at the end of the ride, guess which song was blaring from the other bike?

Africa. [By Toto.]

It's Bike to Work Day!

I started the morning with some safety basics: give each other space, call out when stopping, and don't take chances with traffic signals. If some of us don't make it across an intersection, I will stop and wait. I promised not to lose anyone, but handed out route sheets just in case. One rider was wearing her helmet backward. [No wonder it felt weird!]

At the halfway point, there was no shortage of enthusiasm. [Or was it a coffeecake high?]

When you can bike to work on any ordinary day, what could be extraordinary about some official Bike to Work Day?

Let me count the ways.

Fourteen smiling co-workers ready for me to lead them to the office at 7:00 a.m. (20 miles).

Ten riders who had never biked to the office before today. (A few rented bikes for the occasion!)

Thirteen-plus riders added en route.

Twenty-seven (or more) smiling co-workers delivered safely to the office.

One piece of Hobee's coffee cake (thank you, Cupertino Energizer Station).

One chocolate-dipped doughnut (courtesy of my co-leader's bike-mounted Energizer Station).

One flat tire (on the rear wheel of my very capable co-leader's bike). [We left him, and the doughnuts, behind. He caught up.]

One huge festival of cycling at our workplace. Massages, foam rollers, and mats for stretching. Bicycle-powered blenders (smoothies). Food. Schwag. Bike mechanics for minor repairs. Booths to recruit riders for local charity rides (including, of course, Best Buddies).

Two bicycle-powered carnival rides.



Three smiling co-workers ready at 5:00 p.m. for me to lead them back home.

Forty-two miles, 855 feet of climbing, and more than 1100 kcal burned.

My energized riders make Bike to Work Day extraordinary for me.

Monday Monday

Monday morning: Do people forget how to drive after taking a weekend off? Like the guy on my left, who accelerated only to brake hard (in surrender) as he pulled even with me. By gosh by golly, a bicycle can descend a hill at the speed limit and the right place to change lanes is behind it. [Just like a car.]

The rest of my ride to work was less eventful. I like it that way.

A lucky green signal at a major intersection afforded me the chance to route through a local park. I paused to smile at two pairs of ducks and their broods. The pesky Canada geese were nowhere in sight, but they are still resident.

I dawdled on the way home. It was the headwind, I tell you. Another routing variation took me over a freeway on a neglected bike/pedestrian bridge, littered with fallen leaves, trash, and blotted-out graffiti. It would make sense to use this bridge regularly, but I prefer to avoid it. If it were my neighborhood, I would take a broom to it.

Completing four consecutive round-trip commutes (interrupted by a weekend), I was curious about my average speed (mph).

	Morning	Evening
Day 1	13.1	11.5
Day 2	13.9	12.8
Day 3	12.8	10.8
Day 4	13.0	10.5

I am pretty consistent in the morning; the air is still and, after the initial climbs, my route is principally downhill. Which means, of course, that the return route is ... uphill. Not to mention, into the wind.

Trading my steel bike, with its rack and pack, for my unladen carbon frame on Day 2 made quite a difference—especially in the uphill direction.

Weight matters. Even for slowpokes, like me.

Sky View

Even if this were not my fourth consecutive day on the bike, I doubt that I could have powered my way up the steep pitches of Skyview Terrace. Most of the riders in our small group had not visited this hill before. Before we made the first turn, we stopped to confer with the ride leader: “Are you sure this is the right way around the loop?”

Then we plummeted toward the nadir. The road dropped 440 feet in 6/10th of a mile.

Good thing we were taking the “easier” way. [Egads!]

Momentum carried me up the first pitch. Not bad, I thought ... until the next pitch loomed above me. Time to use my feet in a different way. (I walked.) Two-tenths of a mile at an average gradient of 14.5%. The pace of the riders ahead of me was barely faster. The terrain relented to about 6% before kicking back up; I dismounted again after a taste of 14.2% and walked another 2/10 of a mile. Steep is not my forté. There was margin in my heart rate, but the muscles in my legs were done, done, done.

This was a social ride, and one of our riders regaled us with stories of her role in a legendary Death Ride stunt. The Rolling Bones, a large group of Hewlett Packard employees, included a guy who would pilot a tandem with a full-sized skeleton for a stoker. When the engineers rigged Ms. Bones with a walkie-talkie, she provided the voice. Trailing at a respectful distance, she would wait for some serious rider to pull alongside the tandem. “Mmm, nice legs!” she'd coo. Ms. Bones retired in 2004, after joining the ranks of the five-pass finishers.

And yes, I am slower than a team of guys hauling a skeleton on a heavy tandem—I pedaled for 12 hours, 55 minutes to finish the ride in 2009.

For the week, about 202 miles with 8,650 feet of climbing. Riding my way back into shape.

See the Other Side

A common question from non-cyclists at the office is “What route do you take?” One colleague could only imagine taking the freeway [which, as a rule, is forbidden—not to mention, dangerous].

If they insist on more detail than “lots of quiet streets,” their attention will stray before I am halfway through the route: I make 27 turns on the way to work. Curiously, the most direct route to the office can be an 18.9 mile drive on the freeway, or an 18.9 mile bike ride on surface streets and a creekside trail.

How do you find a bike route that will get you to work? A reasonable start is to take advantage of the “bicycle” option on Google Maps.

How do you find the best bike route? Explore! [On your bike.] Over time, I have optimized my route along several dimensions: More direct. Less travel on busy roadways. Fewer stop signs and traffic signals. More shade.

Late on this hot afternoon, the freeway sound wall cast a cool shadow. Smell the flowers.

Bling Your Bike at Work Day

Our Bike to Work Day is a week away, and my workplace gets an early start on the festivities. Today there would be a free “Learn how to fix your own bike” clinic at work, plus a station with a colorful array of doodads and raw materials for decorating your bike.

At a previous company, an enthusiastic colleague had collected a handful of garage-sale castoffs to transport us from building to building; my sentimental favorite had a frame covered with something that resembled blue Astroturf. [But I digress.]

I thought I would take advantage of the clinic to learn how to put a new chain on my road bike. Which meant I needed to ride that bike to work. [Or load it on the shuttle. But why would I do that?] Which meant that I needed to do a little extra planning, to avoid carrying a change of clothes in a sweaty backpack.

One mile from home, I discovered that I could not shift my front dérailleur. The chain was on the big ring and it would not budge. There were hills ahead.

Should I turn back and switch bikes? I would be late for my first meeting, and I would not learn how to replace my chain.

Should I turn back and head for the shuttle stop? I would miss out on a nice morning bike ride.

Should I tough it out?

I climbed the hills. I shared a quiet residential street with a coyote. Around mile 7.8, the dérailleur spontaneously shifted down to the middle ring. Biking home entails more climbing—no bus for me today!

At the clinic, they set me up with a visiting “expert.” When he told me I didn't need a new chain because I am lightweight, I sensed this exercise would not go well. Then he mounted my bike on the stand with the drivetrain facing the support post.

Upon learning that we could not shift the front dérailleur, he proclaimed the superiority of friction shifters [pointing to his bike]. Not only did he give up on brifters, he ditched his carbon fiber frame as well. [Behold, the Retro-Grouch!]

His next observation was that my wheels need more spokes. I was ready. “I am lightweight. I don't need a lot of spokes.”

Finally, we tackled the task at hand. He looped the new chain onto the bike and prepared to connect the ends. “Shouldn't we make sure it's the right length?” I asked. [That much, I know.]

A colleague wandered over and finished my lesson in bicycle chain replacement. The Retro-Grouch made himself scarce.

At the end of the day, I made it home before the bike shop closed. My front dérailleur needed a new cable—it was bent, causing too much resistance inside the guide. They admired the yellow flower adorning my seat bag. Did you say “Bling Your Bike at Work Day?” Yes, I did.

Green Means Go

The Anything Goes Commute Challenge may be finished, but this bicycle commuter rolls on. I am determined to bike to work more regularly: once per week, at least.

I have followed a heated debate on a cycling forum recently, in which runners and cyclists square off about whether it is appropriate for runners to use a bicycle lane. I learned that the California vehicle code states:

No pedestrian shall proceed along a bicycle path or lane where there is an adjacent adequate pedestrian facility.

Pedestrians, by the way, are elsewhere defined to include people on skates, skateboards, scooters, wheelchairs ... specifically, anyone not riding a bicycle.

This morning I had ample room to swing out into the traffic lane to avoid a woman walking toward me in the bicycle lane ... right next to a perfectly good sidewalk.

A few miles down the road, as I prepared to make a right turn in a quiet residential neighborhood, I was so focused on a large construction vehicle approaching from the left that I was startled to find a guy jogging around the corner toward me, next to the curb. There was no bicycle lane, but there was a perfectly good sidewalk.

Not 10 feet later, a woman stopped her SUV in the middle of the roadway. A mountain biker on a dirt trail was waiting patiently to cross the road; the driver had the right of way and should not have yielded. This is how accidents happen.

There was something amazing about my commute this morning, and it had nothing to do with sloppy drivers or pedestrians. [Those are routine hazards.]

My entire 18.6-mile trip was interrupted by exactly one red traffic signal. [This will likely never happen again.]

By looking ahead, I can moderate my speed to roll up to an intersection just as the light turns green, or sprint to avoid losing a green. In some places, I can choose to shift my left turn strategically, turning onto a side street to avoid waiting for the upcoming light to cycle through to next green arrow. This morning, with lucky timing and these techniques, the lights were as green as the park I enjoyed on my way back home.