Bike Parking

Near the train station, I noticed a well-lit entrance with moving ramps descending below ground. An entrance to the Metro station, perhaps? The signage did not include an English translation.

After passing it a few times, the large blue “P” and bicycle icon finally registered. It's the entrance to an underground bicycle parking garage! You check in with your regular electronic fare card at a kiosk, and then check out with the attendants wielding hand-held scanners. If I understood them correctly, you pay only for the first 24 hours. There were plenty of spaces available; most people park their bikes on the street. But if you're headed away for a couple of days on the train, this would be the place to secure your bike. It's also possible to rent a bicycle here.

Most bikes are secured with two locks. First, a horseshoe-shaped lock, placed within the rear triangle, that prevents the rear wheel from moving (or being removed). Second, a heavy (and I do mean heavy) chain in a protective fabric sheath to secure the bike (and its front wheel) to rack, fence, lightpost, tree—the usual.

I'd say that I saw it all here, in terms of cycling, but I'm sure I didn't.

Most cyclists simply bike in their street clothes—wool coats, not even bothering with raincoats much less full-on cycling rain gear. I saw exactly three cyclists wearing helmets—and they were also the only ones I saw with road bikes, in full kit. I did see one middle-aged woman cycling in a fur (?) jacket stamped all over with Mickey Mouse heads.

I saw a boy standing on the rear rack as a parent pedaled.

An adult riding side-saddle on the rear rack (more than one sighting).

Kids in seats mounted fore and aft. I'm enough of a klutz just by myself; I wish I'd seen how you balance a bike while getting two squirmy kids into (and out of) their seats.

People commonly transport anywhere from one to three kids on a cargo bike, with or without a cover.

Biking with umbrellas. Biking with packages. Biking while carrying a piece of art. Bikes with baskets, crates, and panniers.

Seat covers are popular (what with all this rain). The bright pink ones advertised a grocery store, deep purple for a beauty salon.

A deluxe chariot, outfitted with a padded bench and straps to secure the kids.

I haven't noticed many overweight locals (much less, obese). The necessity of exercise helps with that, I expect.

La Bayadère

After relocating to a hotel in the business district (I am here for work, after all), I returned to explore more of the city.

It was—you guessed it—another rainy day.

I'd read that the views are stunning from the tower of the Westerkerk. Alas, that appeared to be accessible only to groups, by reservation.

Boat tours were running, but not enticing given the weather. I decided to visit the flower market, housed along one canal mostly in floating greenhouses. Of course, this is not really the season; the first stall had a colorful array of flowers. The rest? Tulip bulbs, mostly ... and lots of tchotchkes.

Having mastered the bus, tram, and train, today I tackled the Metro. I had picked up an OV-chipkaart to simplify my travels: keep it topped up, then just tap on, tap off. Tonight I have a ticket for the ballet, and their website warned of disruption at the nearest Metro station due to ... yet more construction.

The National Opera and Ballet was a short walk from the flower market, and the Metro would take me back to my hotel's neighborhood. Before puzzling out the route (and coping with an unexpected delay, a broken-down train), I wandered through a nearby street market.

At first glance, it was typical: Vendors hawking their wares on tables set up under portable canopies. At second glance, it was unusual. There were at least four stalls offering bicycle gear: saddles, locks, and heavy chains. I overheard one conversation: “I could sell you a cheaper chain, but you will be back in a few days after your bike is stolen.” There was also a bicycle mechanic in one stall, stocked with a vast array of wheels and other necessary parts.

Near my hotel, sparks flew as a well-dressed man applied a power tool to a chain. Presumably a chain securing his own bicycle.

After my trial run on the Metro, returning for the ballet was a breeze.

For me, this was a rare opportunity to see a full-length performance of La Bayadère.

In the first act, the male lead failed to stick a landing and came down hard (but gracefully). He seemed sheepishly grateful for the enthusiastic applause he got when he took his bows.

The final act unfolded behind a mostly-transparent curtain. Perhaps to contain the swirling clouds at the feet of the dancers? It dampened the luster and rendered the action slightly out-of-focus.

But it was Act III's “The Kingdom of the Shades” that I was most eager to see in context, having seen it performed separately by the San Francisco Ballet. I was surprised to recognize the music before the first dancer appeared, but I knew this piece had made a huge impression on me. The sight of the corps de ballet descending, zig-zag, onto the stage in a seemingly unending stream of arabesques is simply unforgettable.

Unforgettable.

Rijksmuseum

Another rainy day in Amsterdam. Having planned to spend time exploring the Rijksmuseum, I didn't regret the weather.

I did regret not bringing my proper camera. I expected that photographs would be prohibited; I was wrong.

I started with the Gallery of Honor, taking advantage of the laminated cards that offered an in-depth examination of a selected work in each alcove. These were always available in English as well as Dutch; for the most famous work—the Night Watch—cards were provided in many additional languages.

The first painting that caught my eye was Still Life with a Gilt Cup by Willem Claesz. How did he paint a cloth so realistically that I can tell it was silk? A close look at the light reflected off the surface of the pewter vessel and glass goblet reveals the outline of the window panes though which daylight streamed.

Many paintings captured ordinary scenes from daily life, like Woman with a Child in a Pantry by Pieter de Hooch. How does the painter decide which details to include? The decorative tiles at the base of a wall, pieces of straw and chipped floor tiles. Was it to portray life unvarnished rather than idealized?

I was similarly fascinated by another still life, Festoon of Fruit and Flowers by Jan Davidsz. de Heem. This one was unusual for his additional hint of the natural world—he tucked insects (and a snail) among the fruits and flowers.

And then there was The Threatened Swan by Jan Asselijn, dramatic enough without its political overtones. The dog's head and the nest itself are in the shadows, but the artist included details that are easily overlooked: drops of water on the bird's left foot, shed feathers flying.

There was so much to learn. About pigments that lose their color by the very nature of their chemical composition, dulling our impression of some works. About paintings created for particular spaces: a set of two lit from opposite directions because they would be hung on either side of a window. Rembrandt's Night Watch had been trimmed when it was moved to smaller space, and the cut-off pieces of the canvas unceremoniously discarded.

Schoolchildren sat attentively in circles on the floor, perhaps visiting as part of an ongoing effort to have all children in the Netherlands see the Night Watch before the age of 12.

There was so much to see: paintings, decorative arts, even some specimen animals native to Brazil (preserved through taxidermy). Four hours and the better part of two floors later, I called it a day.

The rest? Someday, perhaps.

Anne Frank House

As I headed out this morning, a middle-aged couple approached me on the street. “D-a-m” “S-qua-re?” they enunciated with great care. [Evidently I don't look like a tourist, which is good.] I smiled and apologized for not being able to help them.

Until I began researching things to see in Amsterdam, I had long forgotten that this was the city where Anne Frank and her family had lived, and hid (until they were betrayed). It's possible to queue up in the afternoon for a chance to visit the Anne Frank House without an advance reservation. But when I looked at the website last night, there was exactly one reservable ticket left for today. That was meant for me.

It's been a long time since I read The Diary of Anne Frank—probably around the same age as Anne was when she wrote. I wasn't sure what to expect. Historical narrative. Some artifacts. A glimpse of “The Secret Annex.”

I was surely not expecting to pass beyond the hinged bookcase and walk through the actual rooms where they'd lived.

Our group climbed the stairs and moved along in near silence, reading the explanatory placards. The rooms are bare, as her father wished them to remain. In the room that Anne shared, sections of the original wall covering have been preserved and hung in place—there were the images clipped from newspapers and pasted 70-odd years ago by a young girl clinging to hope for a return to normal life.

At any time, this would be a wrenching emotional experience. At this moment in world history, it was nearly overwhelming.

Among the artifacts in the museum is a book, a grim registry of typewritten pages, opened to the page recording the names of Annelies and the members of her family. The display draws your attention to their names; let your eye wander to the names above and below, through the columns to the left and right. Only then will you see that both pages are filled with the names of other Franks, which certainly spill onto the unseen preceding and following pages.

Anne's father tried to immigrate, with his family, to the United States. That door was shut tight. A few years ago, a New York Times article cited a 1941 State Department memorandum:

At a time like this, when the safety of the country is imperiled, it seems fully justifiable to resolve any possible doubts in favor of the country, rather than in favor of the aliens concerned.

The “aliens concerned” perished.

The nations of our world have yet to learn these lessons.

My Comedy of Errors

After sitting on a plane for some 11 hours, with only a few hours' nap, it was perhaps not a surprise that my brain was not firing on all cylinders when we landed in Amsterdam.

Getting on the wrong bus was not my first mistake. It looked just like the one I'd missed, just like the one they said would be along in five minutes. Luckily I was relying on the navigation feature in Google Maps and got off at the first stop after I realized the bus was not following the expected route. As I handed my ticket to the driver to transfer onto the bus that would return to the airport, a gust of wind blew it out of my hand.

Back at the airport, I bought a new ticket and boarded the right bus. They provided a note with each ticket, explaining that we would need to transfer to a different bus to reach the city center; construction would force the regular bus to veer off on a detour. The driver of the airport bus knew the drill and made sure we all got off at the right stop; the driver of the local bus ... not so much. Having missed the optimal stop for my hotel, I had a longer-than-expected walk.

My hotel was conveniently located near the museums (and, as it turned out, boutique row). Relieved to have found it at last, my heart sank at the sight of a steep flight of stone steps leading up to the front door. Just as they seemed insurmountable, a passing gentlemen stopped and offered to carry my bag to the top. Chivalry is alive!

As I settled into my room, an email message alerted me to the first mistake I'd made in Amsterdam. “Had I left something on the airplane?” it asked. Had I? I didn't think so. What might it be? My e-book reader! I replied with a description; the airline explained how to reclaim it.

My addled brain somewhat revived by a hot cup of tea, I decided to venture out. If I could stay awake until a natural local bedtime, perhaps my body would adapt more readily to this new timezone.

The Netherlands, and Amsterdam in particular, is a world-renowned capitol of cycling infrastructure. Bicycles are everywhere. I have never seen so many bicycles. Space being tight, there are even floating facilities for bicycle parking.

The city was busier than I expected, the cyclists rode faster than I expected, and the rules of the road were utterly unclear. Tourists didn't always distinguish the bike lane from the sidewalk. Cyclists (and motorbikes) seemed to flow in all directions, rounding corners without signaling. Each intersection played out like a game of “chicken;” who had the right of way? No one appeared inclined to yield. Riders without bells whistled to get your attention.

All of this in street clothes, without helmets. This would not be the time or place for me to rent a bicycle. Walking was challenging enough.

One Handsome Fella

It was a splendid day for what might be my last long ride of the year.

And there was a ride on the calendar that was just right: the fall “graduation ride” for the latest crop of riders who've completed our club's “academy” for new cyclists.

The grads led us out for the first mile or two, before the jackrabbits jumped ahead and dropped us all. My ride buddy and I were caught up in a small group that got stopped at Every. Traffic. Light. (We never saw the front of the pack again.)

The new grads did a fine job of calling out “slowing!” and “stopping!” as needed. They positioned themselves well at traffic lights—leaving the right lane clear for right-turning cars—and pointed out other riders who might [ahem!] need a refresher course.

Our route was a tweak on a familiar one, though not during a familiar season. The green hills of spring were the brown hills of autumn. The air was fragrant with garlic, and the fields filled with red peppers. Cattle, sheep, and goats grazed nearby.

Another common sight in the foothills this time of year is the tarantula. This fine fellow was walking along Cañada Road on the outskirts of Gilroy.

And how do I know that was a male tarantula? [No, I didn't pick him up to inspect his anatomy. Not that I would know what to look for, in a spider.] I know he's male by his behavior: he's on the prowl for a mate. The females stay in their burrows, patiently awaiting their gentlemen callers.

Flying down the back side of Cañada, I thought I heard the faint sound of a siren through the whoosh of the wind in my ears. [Indeed.] I got to practice decelerating and stopping, safely, four times. Two fire engines carrying paramedics, one patrol car, and one highway patrol SUV came roaring up the hill. Just like a vehicle, a bicycle is required to stop until emergency vehicles pass.

Naturally, we worried that they were racing to help someone from our group; later, we were relieved to confirm that was not the case. There were only minor mishaps today: a rider who failed to unclip and toppled over. [Been there, done that.] A bike fall that bent the rear derailleur hanger. [Done that, too.]

For me, happy to report an uneventful 63 miles with a scant 2,040 feet of climbing. I thought the point of this ride was more to accompany the graduates than to applaud them, but it appeared that most of them would spend the day with their fellow students (and instructors). I hope they enjoyed their big day.

Arthritis Bike Classic Pescadero

The plan today was to support a charitable cause by cycling some local roads. [For some definition of local.]

Pescadero is a coastal farming community, and while it doesn't seem far away, it is a 50-mile drive to get there. I invited a bunch of friends and coworkers, hoping some would join me. [A few did.]

I was game for an easy day—the 29-mile ride sounded good to me (mostly due to its later start time). But when a biking buddy said she was up for the 47-mile route, I made the early morning sacrifice. With showers in the forecast, I hoped we'd be done soon enough to stay dry.

I met Ms. J in 2005 on one of the first organized rides I rode solo, the I Care Classic (100k route). As the day wore on, I found myself aligned with the pace of three riders; we chatted at a rest stop and stayed together. The following weekend, at a different charity ride, I ran into the same group again. This time, we exchanged contact information, and soon I was drawn into a circle of East Bay cycling friends. Some cycle less these days, but we stay in touch.

I was excited that Ms. J wanted to join me today, as it's been a while since we shared the road together.

The 47-mile route today combined two shorter loops: the 17- and 29-mile routes. We passed fields and farms, pumpkins on the vine and free-range chickens, before heading up the coast to return to the starting point at Harley Farms (a goat dairy). As we approached the Pigeon Point lighthouse, the clouds parted just enough for the sun to spotlight the tower.

After a rest stop at the farm, we headed out on the second loop—continuing up the coast to Highway 84 and Pescadero Creek Road, heading through the redwoods to climb Haskin's Hill on the way back to the farm.

Biking up Highway 1 afforded some expansive views of the cliffs and beaches along the coast. Where are the photos, you ask? Ha! You know better than to expect me to stop on a ripping downhill! Especially when I need to carry that speed up the other side.

My coworkers had opted for shorter or longer routes, so at best I thought I might see them at the finish, over lunch. The first one caught up to me as I waited for Ms. J at the bottom of Highway 84; having been led astray by some friends, he now found himself doing the 47-mile route and was happy to fall in with us. At the next rest stop, a second coworker materialized and we got a team photo—we couldn't have pulled that off if we'd planned it.

We were splattered with a few raindrops as we headed onto Pescadero Creek Road. Would I now regret having shed my rain jacket after the first loop? After cresting Haskin's Hill, I was surprised to find a slick roadway through Loma Mar—and most grateful that we missed the downpour.

Back at the farm, we were treated to a fine hot lunch ... but alas, no pony cart rides.

In all, 46 miles with a scant 2,260 feet of climbing—a milestone for one of my teammates: the longest ride he's ever done. And ... he's ready to sign up for next year!

How Accidents Happen

When I bike to and from a commuter shuttle, the most direct route is on a busy thoroughfare with three lanes in each direction.

In the morning, there is little traffic and the biggest threat is from the drivers who run red lights. Every day. During the evening rush hour, biking the same route is a death wish: vehicles dart in and out of parking lots, change lanes, speed, and run red lights. Every day.

In the evening, I go out of my way to travel on low-traffic, residential streets. I do pass a couple of back-parking-lot driveways, always with care.

I saw the woman in the giant white SUV and slowed down. I saw her looking only to her right as she turned left out of the Whole Foods parking lot.

There has been a long thread recently on a cycling mailing list at work about engaging with drivers who do stupid things. The prevailing sentiment is: Let it go. Say nothing.

The woman in the giant white SUV spoke first. “I'm sorry. I didn't see you.”

“Please look,” I replied in a firm, but even, tone of voice.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“Please look,” I replied.

“I apologized twice, you don't have to be a bitch about it!”

Now, that's rich.

If she had mowed me down, they'd call it an accident. She probably wouldn't even get a traffic ticket, much less be charged with so much as involuntary manslaughter. And then she'd get on with the rest of her life.

I, on the other hand, would not get on with the rest of my life.

So please look. In both directions.

That's what I learned in Driver's Ed, albeit in the last century.

B-Day Ride

The friendly young clerk in the local market asked me what I was planning to do this weekend. [No, it wasn't a pickup line; he's young enough to be my ... well, let's not go there.]

“I'm going for a bike ride tomorrow.” He smiled, but when he asked ”Where?” he wasn't prepared for my answer: Up Mt. Hamilton. “To the top?!” he asked, incredulous.

Of course, silly boy.

I had a birthday recently, and climbing my favorite mountain seemed like a good way to celebrate. When a club member listed a ride for today, even though it was much earlier than I would normally start, it seemed ordained. One downside of the early start was that, heading east, we were riding into the sun.

One of my regular riding pals joined me (no small sacrifice, at such an early hour)—and further surprised me with some lovely flowers, which elicited birthday greetings from the rest of the group.

Sunday is the better weekend day for climbing Hamilton, as it's less busy. I was surprised that a few motorcyclists were also getting an early start, and even more surprised by cyclists already coming down the hill. Did they start before dawn? Maybe; the moon was nearly full, and the skies were clear.

The rest of the group was embarking on a century ride, and we wished them well. It would be a hot day; just doing Hamilton would be enough for me. A fellow cyclist pointed out that “just” doing Hamilton wasn't exactly sitting on the sofa playing video games, as it's nearly 5,000 feet of climbing.

There was an uncommon amount of roadside junk: faded sofas, broken furniture, large pieces of rusted equipment. My guess is that some authority has hauled this detritus out of the ravines for pickup. Hopefully soon, since that sort of stuff is a magnet for more.

I've seen a lot along this road, but today I spotted something I'd never found before.

Right there along the edge of the road, its pink ribbon caught on some brush, was a Mylar balloon. A Happy Birthday balloon.

What are the odds?

I tugged it free and tied it to the back of my helmet. [And no, there wasn't enough helium to give me a lift.] This inspired many more passing cyclists to wish me “Happy Birthday,” making this climb one that I'll always remember.

The usual 39 miles with 4,715 feet of climbing. As someone recently reminded me, growing old is a privilege.

Shades of Gray

Mystery solved: The reason I never see two folks I know on the road—the reason I never see them pass me on this ride—is that they start off with a shortcut. Instead of turning right at the start with the rest of the pack, they skip the first six miles and head directly toward the coast.

Tempting. But I have always done the full route, and today is no exception.

Last night I broke with routine and attended the opening festivities. The invitation said “cocktail casual,” so I turned to the Interweb for fashion advice. I forgot how cold it was likely to be; my nice dress ended up hidden under a less-than-cocktail jacket. [Most of the guests paid far less attention to their attire.]

The marine layer was thick in the morning; with that, we trade a visible sunrise for warmer temperatures. The gray fog, however, would shroud us all day. Around Big Sur, we climbed high enough to feel the tiny droplets ping our faces. The yellow flower that adorns my saddle bag was often the only spot of color in the landscape, and it drew many comments. “It makes people smile,” I'd say each time. And that's true. One rider recognized me from last year (well, he recognized the flower).

The route down the coast is up and down, with a just a few extended climbs. Big Sur is the first, and that's where I begin reeling them in. Riders from flatter places, or those who haven't sufficiently trained, start blowing up there. One was already off the bike, walking up the hill. [That did not bode well for the tougher climbs after lunch.]

There were a few short stretches of pavement that had been scraped and grooved, as if in preparation for re-paving. I took extra care on each of these, wary that I'd catch a tire and go down. Later I would learn that at least one rider required a trip to the emergency room to get his arm stitched; his bike was damaged and his helmet destroyed, but he had no broken bones or concussion.

The Soberanes fire was still burning; having consumed more than 103,000 acres, it was only 60% contained. There was a hint of the sour smell of damp ash as we reached Big Sur, and signs for firefighter staging areas and encampments. The fog denied us great views of the coast, but I knew it could only help suppress the fire.

On the east side, near Fernwood, the fire had burned down to the edge of the road. Homes, and the life of one firefighter, have been lost. All because some selfish fool lit an illegal campfire on July 22.

Hearst Castle itself was closed just 10 days ago, and some of the Hearst Ranch property was scorched by another wildfire (dubbed “Chimney;” cause, as yet, still under investigation). Battalions of firefighters defended the historic property as the flames advanced to within a mile or two.

We were quite fortunate indeed to be able to proceed with this ride.

Today marked my tenth foray down the coast for Best Buddies; by now, the route is very familiar. The speed sensor on my bike was acting up (as in, not functioning), which meant that I needed to rely on memory (and the event signs placed at 10-mile intervals) to gauge where I was, between rest stops. I focused instead on the elapsed time from one stop to the next, and tried to keep each stop to a minimum. Ten minutes at the first stop, fifteen at the next two.

Past Rocky Point, where we used to descend a steep hill to our first rest stop. Past the private home that hosted us, one special year. Over the Rocky Creek Bridge, the iconic Bixby Creek Bridge. Past Andrew Molera State Park, closed as a staging area for firefighters. Through Big Sur, past Ventana and Nepenthe. Over the Big Creek Bridge, through Lucia and Gorda. Past the Piedras Blancas Elephant Seal Rookery, to the finish line at William Randolph Hearst Memorial Beach.

100 miles in all, with 6,205 feet of climbing. My legs were a bit sore afterward, despite my recent 500-mile tour of Greater Yellowstone (more, and steeper, climbing on this route).

This year, after several moving speeches, we were entertained by The Beach Boys. [A subset of the original band, of course.] They rocked us with one hit after another, projecting images of the sixties on a giant screen at the back of the stage. Pictures of their own youthful selves, of cars and surfer girls. Their music is just fun ... [fun fun fun till her Daddy takes the T-bird away ... ]

The sweetest moments came when a very talented Buddy, Marlana VanHoose, joined them for vocals on “Help me Rhonda” and “Barbara Ann.” And when Maria Shriver (and more) flooded the stage for “California Girls.”

And now, a word for my sponsors ...

I wouldn't be here for the tenth time without the generous support of all the friends who respond year after year when I reach out for donations (and my employer, who matches them). I learned a valuable lesson about fundraising years ago, when I was too timid to solicit a single contribution. A more gregarious colleague, with experience in sales, counseled me: “Just ask.”

Even then, I agonized over the list of people I would approach. There was one, in particular, that I almost skipped—someone I knew professionally, but hadn't seen in years. “What's the worst that could happen?” I thought. “Someone might tell me never to ask again?” Okay, I could handle that.

Not only was he the very first person to donate—less than an hour after receiving my email message—in later years, after I started riding for Best Buddies, he went on to hire a Buddy.

There is no better outcome than that.

The Full Monte

I turned out of the parking lot, leaving the group to head home after our post-ride snack. My rear wheel felt squishy and slipped—did I just ride over something I hadn't seen, or ... was my tire flat?

Bad karma. After being dismayed at the sight of five discarded CO2 inflators and two empty inner tube boxes on Montebello, I had a flat. Note to the unknown rider who left the trash behind: You carried it there—carry it out.

It was a day for mechanical failures. One rider had met us at a rendezvous point, Cupertino Bicycles, with a broken spoke. He had tried to repair it with duct tape (which, MacGyver, does not solve all problems). This being a Monday, and Labor Day to boot, the bike shop was closed. Another rider in our group flatted (twice); the cause had not been found. (Hence, the second flat?)

It's been a while since I've gone up Montebello, and today it hurt. Whoa, that lower section was steep. I kept watching for the landmark mailbox (American-flag themed); the grade eases up at that point. Did I miss it? Maybe it's gone.

Whew. There it was. A welcome break, till the crux stretch near the top.

We had a large group today, and the men were outnumbered! (A nod to our ride leader, another woman.) Apparently one of the guys appointed himself ride sweep and kept me company on the climb. People charged past, panting and gasping for air, and I was just spinning along. My sweep was surprised when I rode strong up the the steep bits at the top, nosing ever so slightly ahead of him. “I'm impressed at the effort you put in up there!” he remarked. [Uh huh.]

There wasn't much of a view today; there was so much haze across the valley that the Diablo range wasn't visible. Wildfire smoke, still? I could smell it. The sun reflected off the hangar at Moffett Field and the white peaks of Shoreline Amphitheatre. That was about all you could distinguish.

I was relieved to discover my flat tire after turning away from the group; otherwise, some of the guys would have felt obliged to stay and help me fix it. I found a shady alcove and set to work.

The cause of my flat wasn't obvious, either. Ah, well. Plenty of time to sort that out later, at home.

39 miles, with 3,435 feet of climbing