Bishop or Bust

For the past few years, some club members have been leading a set of fall rides in the Eastern Sierras. This year, I resolved to join them; my calendar was clear.

It's a long way to Bishop (314 miles). Road trip! But could I handle the drive? Plan A was to split the journey, driving about halfway on Sunday afternoon and finishing on Monday morning.

Paradoxically, it can be easier for me to bike 100 miles than to drive it. Freeway driving, especially in a warm sunny car, lulls me to sleep.

To execute Plan A, I needed to return from Best Buddies, load up the car, and go. In other words, I needed to have my act together ... which I did not.

The prospect of arriving at some motel in an unfamiliar town at night was not appealing, so I resorted to Plan B: Get a good night's rest and drive the distance in one day.

I avoided the route through Yosemite, with its sightseers and delays for road work, opting instead for the longer northerly route over the Sonora Pass. I drove for miles and miles (and miles) without seeing another human being, much less a vehicle, and was glad that my mechanic had inspected the car last week.

I made it! [Whew.] I didn't feel drowsy, and I think the scenic route helped with that. Eighty miles of winding roads through a national forest commanded my attention, and I didn't even get halfway through my collection of MP3 tunes. The views got more spectacular as I approached the summit; unsure how well I would manage the drive, I didn't stop as the photo opportunities rolled past my windows. [Note to self: Take the same route home. Stop often.]

By the time I reached Mono Lake, another destination long on my wish list, I was confident that I could complete the drive safely. I made a quick stop, and planned a longer visit for the return drive. Closer to Bishop, the afternoon sun delivered a rainbow in the hills behind Crowley Lake.

Little did I know that I would get a better perspective on that reservoir in a few days' time.

Love is All Around

One hour into the ride, I had the opportunity to chat with a Best Buddies Ambassador, Donna Gunn, and her “pet rat” Willard. [Quite the sense of humor, eh?] During the brief opening program before the Hearst Castle Challenge century riders started rolling, she had spoken about how Best Buddies had brought “the spirit of belonging” into her life. Donna was our host at the first rest stop, and she was bobbing with excitement to meet the cyclists in all our colorful gear.

I thought last year's pace was blistering ... ha! With George Hincapie, local race champions, and a smattering of Olympians at the front, I could barely hang on. Over the first 30 minutes, I averaged 20 mph. That included the first small hill, where I lost contact with the front of the pack. They were out of sight by the time I made the turn toward Highway 1. The next group flowed past me up a rolling hill, and I heard one of the retired pros call out “C'mon, Anthony, everybody is fast going downhill.” [Anthony Shriver was riding the full century this year for the first time.] They crested the hill and relaxed ever so slightly. I attacked. It was a proud moment when I passed the lot of them, and the retired pro called out “Nice work!”

Mother Nature presented us with the traditional morning gloom, but the sun found a way to break through to highlight this cove before fully beating back the marine layer. I was determined not to have the specter of the broom wagon dogging me this year, which meant riding faster and being less of a tourist along the way, but how could I not stop to capture this magical moment? A passing rider shouted “Great shot!” and then called out his email address so I could send him a copy. [Right. Like I would remember that.]

Of course, I can't sustain a 20 mph pace to finish a century in five hours. Over the first hour, I averaged 17.8 mph—which for me is pretty darned amazing, hills or no hills.

The post-lunch climbs were lonely; the fast guys were long gone, and there was not a single slow rider walking up. (These days, they load them onto vans at the rest stop and ferry them to the top.) The second climb is slightly steeper, but the first climb breaks your spirit. The contours obscure the road ahead; you round a bend only to see the next highest point. I hammered the last 13 miles and stopped counting the cyclists I overtook. Some, I passed more than once (after pausing for the occasional photo). I rolled across the finish line in 7:05 (moving time), averaging 14 mph. I could have passed the handful of riders ahead of me in the final stretch, but that would have been rude.

I thought the “race” announcer missed me in the scrum, but he had a sharp eye. As one of the top 25 fundraisers, my bib was yellow and my number was my rank: 13. The pros have a tradition for that number, and I followed it: I wore my number upside down. “Just like Fabian Cancellara,” the announcer proclaimed. “I learned that from Fabian,” I smiled.

After celebrating at the post-ride barbecue and concert (Bruce Hornsby, this year), I finished the night as an invited guest at the intimate party up on the hill. The first time I swam in the Neptune Pool, I expected that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. The next five times, I lingered as if there would never be another chance. Given the now-historic California drought, this year the pool stands empty. A good opportunity for some repairs, they say.

Next year?

Gimme a Lift

There are two sports in which I enjoy going down hills. One involves a lift that brings me to the top of the mountain. As I made my way to the summit of Morgan Territory Road, I dreamed of a rope tow.

We were looping counter-clockwise around Mount Diablo today, which entails a steeper ascent up the front side of Morgan Territory Road. In the full sun, it felt like my shorts were ablaze. It was just a little past 10:00 a.m. and the day would only get hotter. Our small group splintered early. I joined the faction that planned to climb the lower portion of Mount Diablo. That would be challenging enough.

Never a fan of cycling on Ygnacio Valley Road, I had mapped out a shortcut in advance. Heading into the center of downtown Clayton, I stumbled upon the town's Labor Day party, featuring a display of shiny classic cars. This Ford Fairlane Crown Victoria brought a smile to my face, staged with a drive-in intercom next to the driver's window and a burger-and-fries tray perched on the passenger's window. (The car dates back to the year I was born, and it's in much better shape.)

It turned out that the path in my plan headed sharply uphill. No problem, I thought, I have gears. It turned out to be steep enough that a few steps had been placed along the way. [Surprise!] A short hike brought me to the back fence of an elementary school, and the gate was open. Playgrounds have drinking fountains ... I gratefully topped off my water bottles.

The rest of the shortcut was a big win, following a wide suburban street and the deserted campus roads of Cal State East Bay in Concord to cut off most of the unpleasant climb on busy Ygnacio Valley Road. The shoulder may be wide, but the traffic moves faster than the posted limit—including the tractor-trailers. It is decidedly not fun.

Our counter-clockwise approach afforded some splendid views: first, moving slowly up the wide-open side of Morgan Territory Road and later coming around the back side of Mount Diablo. It also meant that our climbs were exposed to the baking sun, while our descents were shaded. [Note to self: embrace the clockwise route.]

The dry hills shimmered in the sun. Look at North Gate Road—doesn't that just beg to be climbed? Mercifully, there was a bit of a breeze. The higher I climbed, the stronger it became. Don't get me wrong: on a hot day, this climb is no picnic. The local high temperature yesterday was 93F. I made a deal with myself to pause once per mile in the nearest patch of shade to hydrate and get my heart rate down. The road is never steep, but in the heat the best recovery I could manage was 137 bpm.

There is a school near the end of Mount Diablo Scenic Boulevard. Evidently, there is also a soccer camp. And so it came to pass that a soccer ball flew across the road, from my left. A fluke, or a deliberate act? I heard only the laughter of boys—no warning, no cry of alarm, no apology. Had it hit my front wheel, I would have crashed. Had it hit my head, I would have crashed. It struck my upper arm with enough force that it hurt, then ricocheted high overhead and to the right. I continued on my way without so much as a glance in their direction. I just wanted to get out of there.

For the day, nearly 56 miles with 4,615 feet of climbing. Mandatory stop on drive home: one ice-cold smoothie. Peaches, mangoes, and strawberries—oh my!

Steady as She Goes

Years ago, a friend of mine met her (then future) husband while climbing Old La Honda Road. Being the benchmark climb of the Bay Area, it's enormously popular. I was bracketed by two club members today when a familiar voice rang out: a colleague was sprinting up the hill. After he reached the top, he came back down to ride alongside me and chat. “Don't fall over,” I joked. For me, this was the most convenient way to reach a particular section of Skyline; I was not riding for a personal best, just hard enough to carry on a somewhat breathless conversation.

It looked like a party at the top—I've never seen so many cyclists there. Surely they didn't all pass me? I had admired one guy, in particular, who flew past me with grace and no apparent effort. My best time on this hill was a few seconds on the far side of 30 minutes, and thus it will ever be.

I wasn't planning to line up all the climbs west of Skyline between Highway 84 and Kings Mountain on successive cycling weekends, but that is how it turned out. I would tackle the most challenging climb today: Bear Gulch West. After dropping gently through the redwoods, the road pitches down more sharply through rolling, open fields. A fog bank lingered over the Pacific, but the sea was visible at one point.

The key thing to remember about this climb is to shift into your lowest gear before you roll to a stop at the end of the road. My memory served me well: when I saw the sign warning about the blind curve ahead, I shifted down, down, down. Moments later I had plunged from wide open space into the small redwood grove that shades the gate at the end of the road. Even in my lowest gear, I waited until my fellow riders had cleared the road before I started to turn the cranks. I think I can, I think I can ...

Having climbed triumphantly back to Skyline without a pause, my reward was a fabulous car-free descent of Kings Mountain. I passed another cyclist near the top, and he seemed dispirited that he couldn't catch me. Whenever he was within range, his noisy freehub made it seem like I was being chased down the hill by an angry bumblebee. Near the bottom, he blew through a stop sign and (thus) passed me. A bit farther down the road, he managed to drop his chain and (thus) I passed him. Karma?

I completed some 25 miles with 3,385 feet of climbing in less than 3 hours—averaging 0.4 mph faster than a comparable outing three weeks ago. Pleased with my pace, I am.

The Finder of Lost Things

All aboard for a trip back in time with New Jersey Transit, to the era of train travel in which a conductor rapidly punched an inscrutable pattern of holes in a little slip of paper and tucked it under a clip on the seatback in front of you. Not as creatively as the conductor on the Polar Express, but nearly as quaint.

On the last afternoon of a brief family visit, I stopped at the local supermarket. Being more sports-car-than-minivan-experienced, I am uneasy driving the family Odyssey around. I found a distant, comfortably uncrowded section of the lot and parked without incident. On the way out of the store, something caught my eye: a small leather card sleeve on the pavement.

Last spring, I was biking to work when I spotted an iPhone face down on the street. I passed it before circling back. If that were my iPhone, I would want someone like me to find it, I reasoned. I picked it up; if I couldn't figure out who the owner was, I expected that an Apple Store could sort it out. At the office, I pulled out the phone. “Swipe to unlock.” [Really, people?] I passed the phone to a colleague with more iPhone savvy; the phone book was nearly empty, but within moments he found the owner's corporate email account. [She didn't even know that she'd dropped the phone.] Her husband presented me with a basket of kiwi fruit when he retrieved the phone later that evening.

I picked up the card sleeve. It was stuffed with credit cards and a transit pass, with an out-of-state driver's license on top. I thought about returning to the store and handing it in to customer service; but the owner might be long gone, having no idea where he managed to drop it.

Years ago, I found a credit card on the sidewalk in my town. It was issued by a Canadian bank, and all I could imagine was a much-inconvenienced (and panicked) tourist. I called the toll-free number printed on the back of the card and tried (in vain) to convince the bank to contact their customer so I could happily return the card. They would do nothing but cancel it. Now when I find a card, I don't bother calling; I just shred it.

This leather sleeve was different—with a driver's license, I had an address. Maybe I could get in touch with the nice-looking guy who lost it and return it. What an enormous pain it would be to replace his license and all those credit cards. If this were my wallet, I would want someone like me to find it.

Back at my laptop, I set to work. In the worst case, I would carry it back to the Bay Area in the morning and mail it. [At this point, anyone else would turn to Facebook. But I am not a Facebook-y type, so I turned to Google.] The name looked uncommon, but wasn't. Within a few minutes, I discovered that this handsome fella was not just anyone; he was a lacrosse player, with his own Wikipedia entry. There was his date of birth for all to see; it matched the one on his driver's license. I foraged for email addresses on websites where someone would plausibly know him. The first message paid off within 30 minutes; he was much relieved and came by to retrieve the goods.

He shared the story: He and his wife had just bought a house in a neighboring town. With his toddler in tow, he had wheeled a cart full of groceries to the cash register ... and couldn't pay. We shared a laugh.

“There are good, honest people in the world!” he thanked me. Could he give me something? I waved him off.

“Pay it forward.”

Little Pink Lady

Continuing with my theme of cool rides for hot summer days, we returned to Kings Mountain today to make a loop near the coast. As we descended into the marine layer on Tunitas Creek Road, I was oh-so-glad that I had brought my jacket for this ride. Long-fingered gloves would have helped. When would the Bike Hut come into view? The road seemed longer than ever.

A couple of our riders were grateful for the hot coffee brewing inside. [Supported by donations, on the honor system.] As we continued to Lobitos Creek, droplets of fog condensed on my face. Winding our way over the coastal hills back toward Tunitas, the transition always startles me. One moment you're admiring a vast open space of rolling hills; the next moment you've crossed into the deep shade of the redwood canyon through which Tunitas Creek flows.

Ferns were abundant on the banks of the creek, but there was not much creek to see. A few puddles of water, here and there; that's all.

In 33 miles, we climbed a respectable 4,300 feet. We began and finished our ride in the town of Woodside, which is renowned for being more accommodating to equestrians than cyclists. Much to the dismay of the residents, their town is a gateway to fantastic cycling routes in three directions.

One block before the end of our ride, we pass in front of a local market to stop at a busy intersection. Uncharacteristically, there were no vehicles ahead of us. I watched as a young girl on a shiny pink bike with streamers tried to start up, wobbled, toppled, and righted herself. A worried glance in my mirror assured me that she would be safe; uncharacteristically, there no vehicles behind us, either.

As I rolled to a stop at the intersection, two adults with bicycles appeared. It was not clear whether they planned to walk or ride their bikes across the street; the safest thing for me to do was simply to wait.

When they started shouting at the little girl with the pink bike (their daughter, evidently), my heart sank. “Hurry up! Get out of the road!” Her parents were completely unaware that she was struggling. My ride buddy wryly observed that their parenting license should be revoked. I deeply regretted not stopping to help the child. This intersection, with its four-way stop normally clogged with impatient drivers, is no place for a tentative youngster on a bicycle.

Wild Kingdom by the Bay

It started out like any other summer lunchtime. My colleagues had commandeered a nice set of tables in the shade.

I'm not really a tie-dye sort of person, but this week I thought I would try to drum up some action for the bi-monthly blood drive on campus. Each day I have sported a different Grateful Life Tour t-shirt—an annual gift from the Stanford Blood Center for mid-summer blood donors. Monday was blue, Tuesday green, today was orange.

Starlings know a good gig when they find one, and a bunch have taken up residence. A female hunting for some fallout caught my eye. A dried-out fragment of a redwood branch was stuck to her left foot, maybe tangled with some string. Her right foot was missing altogether. She hopped around awkwardly, and a few of us wished we could do something to free her left foot, but didn't think we could safely nab her.

The story gets better.

She hopped closer and closer to our table, and then we saw her eye on the prize: A praying mantis. Not just any praying mantis, but a white praying mantis. When she got close enough to peck at it, it reared up and spread its wings, Transformer-like. (Whoa.) The startled bird backed off. After nearly being crushed by an ill-placed footfall, the mantis headed for our table and perched on an engineer's jeans. We dispatched him to the grassy area, which encouraged the creature to move on. (Apparently they are white after they molt.)

It gets better still.

That's when a large bug buzzed my way: A HUGE green beetle, which seemed very interested in my bright orange shirt. I held still; it landed on my hand and proceeded to inspect my arm as it slowly crawled toward my elbow. It was a handsome creature, green with black legs. I'd say it was a June bug, but I don't think there are June bugs in California. [I believe it was a Figeater beetle.]

The story gets even better.

A couple of guys at the far end of the table were completely unnerved. They were ten feet away and ready to bolt. “I can't believe you're letting it walk on you!” It's not a stinging insect, it's not going to bite, I replied. “And most snakes aren't poisonous, either!” they exclaimed. The beetle lost interest in my arm and hovered near my shirt again. When it buzzed into my face, I swatted it away.

I was, after all, just trying to eat my lunch. Burger, not beetle.

Down There

With more warm weather in the forecast, I hatched a plan to seek more shady redwoods. Meeting some shady people is often part of that bargain.

Climbing up Native Sons, a woman heading down in a large pickup stopped next to me. “Did you come from down there?” she asked. Which, on the face of it, is a patently stupid question. I gave her a friendly “yes” and continued on my way.

“Down there” is a gate at the end of the public road. The gate happened to be open today, but we respect private property. I should have replied “We came down from the top and made a u-turn at the gate,” which might have allayed her suspicion that we had somehow trespassed “down there” on our way to Skyline. Or maybe not, since none of us are Native Sons of the Golden West.

It is easy to forget that, to a hefty person driving a beefy pickup truck, it is inconceivable that anyone would deliberately ride a bicycle downhill on a dead-end road just to turn around and ride back up. Today we did that not once, but twice: first on Native Sons, then on Star Hill. Having first climbed Kings Mountain, we climbed some 3,500 feet on our little 25-mile excursion.

These narrow back roads might leave you wondering why they exist, until you pass the decaying stumps of huge redwoods. It is a good guess that these were once logging roads; most of the towering trees are second-growth, but a few are large enough to suggest they were spared (back in the day).

The descents were—dare I say—cold. And that was oh-so-refreshing.

Extreme Commuting

July was a banner month. With the exception of one day (when, sadly, I needed my car), I commuted by bicycle on every day that I worked: 18 days, in all.

Along the way, I crossed paths with three cyclists I know. One ride buddy went out of her way to join me on the morning commute, just for fun.

I rode in my first green bike lane, which popped up this week on a busy, freshly-repaved thoroughfare.

I saw deer and bunnies, and so many birds—including the low-flying Canada geese that barely cleared my head tonight.

I discovered the namesake memorial to fallen soldiers at a community park, and watched some scouts learning to handle the American flag.

I smiled and said “Good morning!” to lots of solo walkers, and paused to wave to the engineer running a beloved steam locomotive through a local park.

I swept up broken glass, alerted maintenance crews to graffiti and spent firecrackers, and reported the occasional wayward gbike that had left the Google campus.

I wore out the rear tire on my commute bike, down to the threads, after some 7,900 miles over 7 years. The front tire carries less weight and is still going strong. (Continental Sport Contact, if you were wondering).

I realized that a shadow cast by the rail on our soaring bike bridge is a sundial, of sorts. The days are unmistakably growing shorter.

I burned an estimated 28,000 Calories, which I offset with pancakes, French toast, bacon, and plenty of dark chocolate. (OK, yogurt and fresh fruit, too.)

Factoring in some recreational excursions, I managed a 7-day streak of daily rides totaling 219 miles.

Counting all rides, I tallied 239 miles in my best calendar week. For the month: 902 miles, with more than 27,000 feet of climbing.

I spent about 77 hours bicycling. Sure beats sitting in traffic.

The Broom Wagon

Years ago, on the other coast, my co-workers and I would enjoy lunch al fresco during the warmer months. We had our favorite places: a magnolia-rimmed plaza with a huge fountain, a tree-shaded lawn, even the local cemetery. We would always leave a place cleaner than we found it—removing litter that had been thoughtlessly tossed by others.

As I climbed the ramp to the second bike/pedestrian bridge on my route on Monday, a wide swath of shattered glass glistened in the morning sun. There was no way to ride around it. [Lovely.]

I meant to alert the town's Public Works Department, but that slipped my mind until I faced my second trip through the field of glass on my way home. After picking a half-dozen fragments out of my tires, I filled out their online form.

I meant to pack a small broom on Tuesday morning, but forgot. I grimaced on my third trip through the glass. The Public Works folks dispatched a crew to sweep up, and I was relieved that I would have a clean ride home. [Not.]

In sweeping the ramp, they managed to disperse the glass over a wider area (and remove little or none of it).

On Wednesday morning, I tucked a well-worn whisk broom under my cargo net (a recent acquisition). I parked my bike on the ramp and proceeded to sweep both sides of the path, from the center line to the edge. Shards of clear glass were scattered over some 15 feet of the ramp.

Five passing cyclists thanked me.

You're a very good person!

One pedestrian was impressed and stopped to chat.

It was a slow, tedious job with my little broom, but my calculation had been more selfish than selfless. Spend 20 minutes to sweep the bridge once, or spend time every day picking glass out of my tires (or worse). Dealing with just one punctured tube would take more time.

I remembered to send some polite feedback to the Public Works Department. They needed to know that their clean-up attempt was not only ineffective—it made matters worse. And I wanted to make sure they didn't re-distribute the glass the next time they swept the bridge.

They got the memo. On my way home, the glass was gone, gone, gone!

Up on the Ridge

Where would you like to be on a hot summer day? (Hint: A swimming pool is not an option.)

On the ridge, it's peaceful as can be

And there, the world below can't bother me

Some of our club members headed for Henry Coe State Park. Such a long, exposed climb was not enticing; a frolic in the redwoods sounded much more appealing.

Our convivial band of riders hung together pretty well, with faster riders doubling back at times to check on the slower folk.

There was no drippy fog to cool us, but ample shade as we headed into the Santa Cruz Mountains. We dipped over the summit before returning to the ridge, and found a bit of a breeze as we traced our way south. Heading back, we looked down at a freeway clogged with cars heading toward the beach. Descending toward the valley, our last mile felt like riding toward a blast furnace.

At a comfortable pace, we climbed some 3,205 feet over 39 miles. My backyard thermometer topped out above 98F. Nothing that a bowl of ice cream and a cool shower couldn't fix.

Lassen Volcanic National Park

I had longed to visit Lassen Volcanic National Park for years ... but it is so far away. When I aspired to ride the Fall River Century, I saw that I could make a mini-vacation out of the trip and realize my dream. Better still, my biking (and now, hiking) buddy was of a similar mind.

Our research suggested a few sites to visit in the park, given that we could afford a single day: Lassen Peak, of course; and then the volcanic action at Bumpass Hell.

Our cooler packed with ice and sandwiches from the local market, we headed for the park on some roads that were familiar from yesterday's bike ride. First hike: Lassen Peak. Regrettably, our visit did not coincide with one of the days when the trail to the summit is fully open. We enjoyed our climb nonetheless. I made it to the turn-around point at Grandview, which was just below the level of the remaining snow fields (elevation: ~9,400 feet). Fellow hikers, who have frequently visited the park, told me that this was the first time they had seen Lake Helen without a surrounding ring of ice.

The landscape is fragile; near the bottom of the Peak trail, there are signs describing the “scar” on the mountain created by defiant visitors who trek straight up the rocky slope, off-trail. You would think that people making the effort to visit a National Park would have respect for the land.

And you would be wrong.

As I descended the trail, I came upon three dusty young people. One was clinging to the branches of a tree, scrambling to reach the trail. “Are you okay? Did you fall?” I asked. No, they had come up the rocks—tramping the scar yet deeper into the hillside. They had not gone without notice, however; I met a pair of rangers hiking up the trail to find them.

I re-joined my hiking buddy, who had paused at a lower elevation, and we continued over to Lake Helen. True to all accounts we had read, this park is not crowded with visitors. We enjoyed our picnic spread at a table with a view of the clear blue lake and the peaks beyond.

We were next determined to witness some volcanic activity first-hand, so off to Bumpass Hell we went. A whiff of sulfur and the loud hiss of steam venting from the earth heralded our approach to the site. And what a sight! Bubbling circles of mud, oddly-hued streams and pools, and clouds of sulfurous steam thick enough to condense rapidly on your skin. A vivid reminder that our planet is alive, and harbors strange and wondrous secrets underground.

The hike to Bumpass Hell is relatively easy, and the volcanic features draw a crowd. We chatted with a pair of hikers who trailed us on the approach. “You did what yesterday? Biked 86 miles?!” We're only here for the day, we explained. “And you hiked Lassen Peak before this?” they exclaimed. Only halfway, of course, the upper part of the trail is closed. These exertions did not seem extraordinary to us, and so we decided to leave the crowds behind and venture past Bumpass Hell.

I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Cold Boiling Lake was our destination. The terrain had changed completely, from the barren, rocky slopes of Lassen Peak and the fumaroles of Bumpass Hell to alpine meadows of wildflowers and towering evergreens. The trail became progressively rockier, narrower, and more overgrown.

With no markers to hint at the distance remaining, we prudently chose to turn back when we reached a point above Crumbaugh Lake. [We had made it about halfway to Cold Boiling Lake, as it turned out.]

For the day, about 8 miles of hiking—and some very sore legs. Biking muscles are not hiking muscles, for the most part. More cross-training needed.

Burney Falls

Given that our sojourn in Fall River Mills would be brief, it was a hard task to choose which sights to see. After biking back to the motel and getting ourselves cleaned up, there was plenty of daylight left to head back to McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park (this time, by car) to see the famous falls.

That's right: After biking more than 86 miles in the heat, we went hiking. [Crazy people.]

There is a parking lot near the falls, and it is safe to say that most visitors don't venture much farther than the overlook, or the vista point near the base of the falls. We followed the Falls Loop Trail counter-clockwise, descending to the base of the falls before heading downstream, across some bridges, and then climbing back above the falls. Hiking 1.2 miles in the cool canyon felt great. [Seriously.]

We owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the McArthur family for having the foresight (and the means) to preserve this natural masterpiece for the generations to follow. If not for them, PG&E would have constructed a dam to generate more hydroelectric power, cutting off the flow to the falls. With some 100 million gallons of water pouring over the cliff each day, it is easy to understand why. The water ends up in Lake Britton (created by the Pit 3 dam we crossed earlier in the day).

On the opposite bank, high above the falls, something out of the ordinary caught my eye. A pair of birds surveyed the activity below, sitting in an enormous nest at the top of a very tall, very dead tree. From a distance, they were mere silhouettes. Without a ranger to consult, I tried a worker in the gift shop—clueless. [Do you look at the world around you? I wondered. Silently.] At full resolution, my trusty point-and-shoot had the answer: Ospreys.

Hazy, Hot, and Homey

Twenty years ago, a few cyclists up in The North State thought they might attract some tourists if they hosted a biking event. They were right. The Fall River Century made it onto my radar screen three years ago; this year I was determined to do the ride. One of my ride buddies took the bait: Road trip!

The festivities began on Friday evening, with early check-in and local fare (live music, fresh produce, and barbecue). Some riders choose to camp; these two riders chose the comfort of a local motel. We kept bumping into a retiree who had returned for the event; he was a fount of knowledge about Fall River Mills, being a third-generation (former) resident.

Our plan for the day was to follow the 100-mile route, trimming off a 20-mile segment that was conveniently out-and-back. The total climbing for the day was not a challenge, but we knew the heat would drain us. The longer we were out there, the hotter and less happy we would be.

The Lions Club served up pancakes, eggs, and more for breakfast. Chatting with a couple from Ashland who happened to sit at our table, we were stunned to discover that we had mutual (non-cycling) friends. [We then surprised them by sending a picture of the three of us, in our biking attire.] What are the odds?!

We rolled out at 7:00 a.m., buzzed overhead by a colorful flock of powered paragliders. We would see few other cyclists en route; with a little more than 300 participants spread over four courses, that was not surprising. The longer-distance riders got an earlier start. So did the people who wanted to beat the heat.

At the first rest stop, a SAG driver started chatting with us. “Were you the folks I saw on 299 this morning, riding to the fairgrounds?” [Indeed.] By the time we would have loaded the bikes, driven there, parked, unloaded the bikes, and assembled our gear ... well, we did the math. Just bike it (4.5 miles).

The first 13 miles of the course were ... flat. We made good time, despite some lollygagging to admire the scenery. I had been dreaming of riding around all day with glorious views of a snow-capped Mt. Shasta. Alas, that was not to be. The air was hazy, and sometimes thick, with the smoke of a distant wildfire.

The big climb of the day came early. I watched a fellow rider serpentine up the hill, which presented us with a whopping 3.6% grade for four miles. [No, I didn't forget a digit there.] The descent was splendid! With smooth pavement, clear sight lines, and no traffic I topped out at 42 mph.

Before entering McArthur-Burney Falls Memorial State Park, we followed the shoreline of Lake Britton and crossed the bridge above the Pit 3 Dam. We looped back toward Fall River Mills and were a stone's throw from our motel at mile 61. The temperature had climbed well into the mid-90's. I checked in with my ride buddy: Keep going, or call it a day? She was a trouper. She doused her arm coolers with cold water and we pedaled on.

We nearly bypassed an unexpected water stop until they called out “We have ice!” They told us a climb was ahead, and explained how we could bypass it. We were having none of that.

We crossed from Shasta into Lassen County. The volcanic terrain of Lassen Bench was other-worldly. And exposed. And baking. Climbing up the Bench, the whir of my tires was different. A hot day leads to hot pavement leads to soft rubber leads to ... easy punctures. My front tire was completely flat. Had been flat for some time. No wonder I was crawling up the hill.

Just then, the maroon pickup of our friendly SAG driver came into view. Was it a mirage? “We're less than two miles from the next rest stop, do you mind if we head there and fix the flat where there's some shade?” I scrambled into the air-conditioned comfort of the cab. He offered a lift to my ride buddy, too, but she was having none of that. By the time she arrived at the rest stop, my bike concierge had my bike ready to roll again.

Triumphant, we arrived back at the fairgrounds for the post-ride feast. Our SAG driver was relaxing with his buddies, and I thanked him once again. I told them we'd seen a buck on a rural road near the fairgrounds. He had run through the field, stopped in the middle of the road to eye us, and then leapt away. Everyone laughed. “The tourists are coming, roll the buck!” one of them joked.

One of the volunteers asked if I had enjoyed the ride. “Very much,” I gave him two thumbs up. A few minutes later he delivered a gift—a huge bag of leftover strawberries.

A few minutes later ... I remembered that we had biked to the start. [Sigh.] I looked longingly at those luscious berries.

A bit of begging scored a paper grocery bag, with handles. I looped it over the left side of my handlebar and tested my balance. The lower curve of the bar conveniently kept the bag from swinging into my front wheel. This just might work! My ride buddy fretted that I would crash. “I'll take it slowly.” [As if I would be moving fast in that heat anyway. Ha.]

For me, 86 miles and 3,300 feet of climbing for the day.

The small-town hospitality extended through the weekend, with our retired friend insisting that we join him for breakfast on our last morning in town. He led us on a brief local history tour, giving us a deeper appreciation for this old town that is unknown to anyone who just passes through.

We journeyed to Fall River Mills with no greater expectation than to enjoy a biking adventure in new territory. We got so much more.

Milling About

Close on the heels of last week's Pancake Breakfast, our club hosted our annual Ice Cream Social today.

The party site was convenient for launching a foray up to Skyline along a route I have not traveled in a while: Page Mill Road.

We avoided the high-speed traffic heading for the freeway by forking onto Old Page Mill. I kept expecting the grade to get steeper; it is a climb, after all. I arrived at the merge back onto Page Mill feeling puzzled. [Not that I should complain about an easy ascent.]

“I'll stop on my way back,” I called out to the kids hawking lemonade with their grandma at the side of the road. [And I did.] One dollar for a cup of ice-cold lemonade and some trail mix. What a deal.

The temperature was in our favor; the steeper parts of the climb are exposed and no fun on a hot day. Whether they are fun on any other day, well ... let's just say that might be in the eyes (and legs) of the beholder.

In solidarity with my compatriots in Markleeville, I sported my Five Pass Finisher jersey. My outing would be considerably less daunting or scenic, climbing a mere 2,600 feet over some 28 miles, affording ample time to enjoy a bowl of ice cream (or two) and assist with the clean-up.

Strawberries. Blueberries. Gooey home-made brownies. Sprinkles and nuts and chocolate bits. And of course, Rocky Road.

Bike Go Fast

Weight matters.

Instead of the workhorse, I rode the racehorse today: unladen carbon-fiber road bike instead of steel frame hybrid with its rack and bag. The comparison? Night and day. Think sports car vs. minivan.

My typical pace heading to the office lately has been 12.4 mph on the hybrid. On the road bike today? 14.4 mph. My average heart rate was a tad higher. [The bike made me do it.]


There was a reason for commuting on the road bike, and that reason was The Bike Doctor.

I think it's important to support our local bike shops. Over the years, I have entrusted my bikes to the mechanics at seven different shops, including four in the town where I live. [Two of those are no longer in business.] Even at a single shop, the quality of the work has been uneven—a good mechanic works on the bike during one visit, a not-so-good mechanic handles it the next time.

My last visit to a shop in town went like this: I wheel the road bike into the shop first thing on a Saturday morning; it needs a new chain. Best case: they'll install it while I wait, or at least on the same day. Reality: They tell me it won't be ready till Monday. [Sigh.] “Is it slipping?” they ask. “Sometimes,” I reply. A mechanic mounts it on a stand, spins rapidly through the gears, and announces that I need a new cassette. [$$$] “Let's start with the chain,” I reply dryly.

And that was the last time I will bring my bike to that shop for service.

I did not need a new cassette. I did not wear the chain to the point of damaging the cassette. When I did get the bike back, it was badly tuned and occasionally the chain jammed when I up-shifted the front dérailleur. Was that a deliberate misadjustment to send me back to the shop, thinking I needed that new cassette? Or just bad wrenching?

The Bike Doctor is a local bike shop (in a sense). His shop is a truck (low overhead). He visits various corporate campuses in the Bay Area on a regular schedule; he also makes house calls. You schedule an appointment, he fixes your bike, and you get it back within hours (not days). He is a good mechanic, he's honest, and his prices are fair.

And that is why I pedaled the road bike to the office today. Its dérailleur cables were two years old, and I would prefer not to suffer another snapped-cable incident. “Ah yes, Shimano cables will do that.” He understood.

He was on the phone delivering the bad news to another customer when I picked up my bike. The chain on that bike had worn the teeth on the cassette so severely that he marveled it would work at all. He showed me the effect—on some rings, the teeth were barely nubs.

I hopped on my well-tuned bicycle, shifted with my new cables and returned to my building, a happy customer.

Ornery Arnerich

The crux stretch on Arnerich is steep. Painfully steep. With my heart rate at 186 beats per minute, I took refuge at the base of a driveway. No strenuous exercise for 24 hours. This was almost exactly the 24 hour mark since I donated a pint of blood. [565 grams, actually. They weigh it.] Time for a little recovery before continuing up the hill.

As if Wednesday's demonstrations of idiotic driving weren't enough, a white SUV gave us a refresher course. On a deserted little side street between two busier roads, a white SUV pushed the pedal to the floor to roar past us. Except that we were nearly at the intersection, our left arms outstretched to signal our turn. Seven cyclists, one SUV. In a fit of bad judgment, the SUV swung past us, over the double yellow line. When she arrived at the stop sign, there she sat: completely on the wrong side of the road as we finished our left turn. (She wanted to turn right.)

What goes through the mind of such a driver? I hope she felt like a sitting duck, set up as she was for a head-on collision. I count four moving violations there: speeding, unsafe passing, crossing a double yellow line, driving on the wrong side of the road. All this before 10:00 on a Sunday morning.

Arnerich got the better of one cyclist; walking, she announced that she wouldn't go to the top because she didn't want to ride back down it. “Yes, it's a tough one,” I reassured her. Quite the view, though.

Most faces in the group were familiar ones, yet I learned something new about each one today as we regrouped at the top of each climb. I begged off when they headed for a post-ride snack, wanting to stock up for the coming week at the local farmers' market.

For the day, a mere 14 miles with some 1,740 feet of climbing (by bike) and another 3 miles on foot (half of that, laden with produce).

I figured that old “Don't food-shop when you're hungry” adage didn't apply today. After filling my basket with fresh fruit and salad fixings, I settled in the shade of a redwood tree with a savory crêpe and cold raspberry lemonade. [Yum.]

Powered by Pancakes

It was time. Time for Redwood Gulch. I didn't climb it last year. Or the year before that. The first time I climbed it, my heart rate peaked at 199 beats per minute. I zigzagged across the grade and paused after each steep section to recover. At least I didn't topple over.

First order of business was our club's annual Fourth of July Pancake Breakfast. After a couple of pancakes and some fresh fruit salad, I set out with three ride buddies to climb a few hills. They were itching to climb Montebello; if I followed them, I knew that would be my only climb for the day. I wanted to explore some less-visited (for me, at least) terrain.

There was not much water in Stevens Creek; the creek bed was completely dry in places. The pavement continues beyond a gate at the end of the road. I was curious, but decided to save that for another day. Heading back down, the stop sign came into view much sooner than I expected. Was there a one-way control I overlooked as I climbed through the canyon?

No. This was it. Redwood Gulch. I shifted down and made the turn.

As another cyclist remarked at breakfast, it's as steep as ever. But I am in better shape. No need to tack across the grade. No need to stop. No risk of toppling over. And my heart rate peaked at a manageable 181 bpm. I was drenched with sweat, but happy. The familiar landmarks are undisturbed. The most curious sight was a faded plastic toy, a model of the Golden Gate Bridge, standing upright next to the road. (Too steep to stop for a photo.)

Why not tackle Sanborn, too?

Let me tell you why. You make the turn off Highway 9 and there it is before you: straight up. I didn't climb this one last year, either. This time, I ventured past the gate and the algae-choked pond to the Youth Hostel (closed since 2010). The building (now 106 years old) appears to have been shrink-wrapped in white plastic. It is unclear what its future might be, and I'm sad that I didn't see it before they shuttered it.

I was surprised to discover that the paved road continued. Uphill, of course. San Andreas Trail, read the sign. (Yes, that San Andreas—the fault.) I turned back at the bridge over Todd Creek. The pavement was pretty sketchy by then, and the road ahead looked steeper than I might want. I wasn't far from the end at that point.

My return to civilization was abrupt. Stopped at the lower one-lane traffic control light on Highway 9, four rude motorcyclists advanced themselves to the front of the line. All the windows rolled up in the leading car, but I had no way to seal off their noxious exhaust. I could move, though. Just far enough to be ahead of them—technically, off the road. [Whew. Fresh air.]

Let me say this: I won't be visiting Highway 9 again soon. When the light turned green, I waited for the line of cars to pass. Two stragglers approached ... one got through, and the light was already red. Yikes! I had pressed the button, back at the light, which supposedly allows more time for cyclists to pass through. Now what?

I decided to go for it, and that was the right choice. The one-lane section was longer, and narrower, than I expected. But the signals were red in both directions [thanks to that button press]. The line of cars waiting to head uphill was ... long. Really long. Let me say this: I won't be visiting Highway 9 again soon.

For the day, 41 miles with a virtuous 2,670 feet of climbing. Powered by pancakes.