The First Saturday in Spring... NOT HARDLY.

It started off like any other Saturday. The alarm went off too early (for a Saturday). Looked outside - the ground was wet but there weren’t rivers running down the road. Coach made a good call, I thought. If he says we’ll ride, well, I’ll be there.

Still, it wasn’t exactly dry, either. There were wipers involved on the way to the start.

As each cyclist pulled in to park, the same comment was made. “I can’t believe we’re out here.”

It was misty as we rolled. And cold. I was happy for my 4 layers. A nice long climb warmed us up and then we had an incredible 14 mile descent. The curves were well banked, the road surface good and the turns arced gently enough that we could build up some speed.

Eventually, we pulled into Pescadero, stopping at the General Store. By that time, I was soaked through and getting chilled. The General Store is one interesting joint. As you enter, to the left is a bar straight out of a 70’s nightmare. The walls and ceilings are painted a metallic cerulean blue; the light fixtures could have been on the Jetson’s ship. A cramped convenience market is tucked behind that, with very basic basics. The main room is a deli counter. Customer service, for a town that size, depending on wayward cyclists and folks going to visit Harley Farms or Duartes for some of their pie or famous artichoke soup, was lacking any sense of interest or urgency in helping a pack of 20 cold cyclists get something warm in them. Snack choice of champions: a banana and a Snickers bar.

Remounting my trusty steed after the break, I was shivering as I pedaled east back towards Skyline. The creator of our route said we had a “bump” to go over before the real, 7.5 mile, climb up Alpine back to Skyline.

Perhaps I should have asked for his definition of “bump.” To me, a bump is a hill that makes me think a bit but one for which the crest is visible within a relatively short distance from the base. A bump is not 1000 foot elevation gain. But I’m told over and over again that my perspective on what is a flat ride vs a hilly ride will change as I continue my training. I am uncertain as to whether my legs’ perspective will also change.

The rain began in earnest when we were about 3 miles from the top of Alpine. The exertion of hard pedalling kept us from freezing but we were in no way overheating. When climbing, sometimes I just countdown pedal strokes until the end, waiting for the reward of the downhill.

This day, there would be no reward. As we crested Alpine and started back down towards Skyline, the wind and the rain on my waterlogged body made me feel like someone just dropped me for a swim in the Bay with no wetsuit. Shivers turned to shakes, taking deep breaths was a measured and concerted effort. I was terrified of getting a flat because I thought I’d get hypothermia and be unable to continue. The realization that I had 9 more miles of this frostbitten descent to go - water pouring down on me, water running in rivulets across the road, water water everywhere - was not a happy one. Frozen hands barely able to operate the brakes or shifters, I was cycling only by the grace of my autonomic system. Bank left, left knee up. Don’t brake in the curve. Bank right. Right knee up. Breathe. Brake. Brake? Feather. Feather. Dry your rims. Hands aren’t working. Hands aren’t working! Wide spot. Pull over and get some feeling back. Shake. Start again. Cars passing us. Drivers looking at us like we were nuts. Oh, right. We WERE nuts. We were also without a choice.

At last, we were down Page Mill and pedalling (!!!) again. Blood started flowing. Shaking reduced to shivers. We stopped at a trailhead with flush toilets. Life was good. Well, less intolerable. A little snack, a wringing out of the gloves, and back on the road for the last 7 miles. After we had regrouped at the bathrooms, we stuck together in a paceline. There’s strength in numbers. While it didn’t make us any warmer or snugglier, the paceline helped to cut the wind. The water shooting off the rear tire of the rider in front of me was immaterial at that point. How much wetter than wet can one get?

But wait! Please! Not another downhill! No!

At last we made it back to our cars.

(The adventure of changing out of wet cycling clothes into something dry in a compact vehicle is a story I’ll spare you. In addition to shivering and trying to peel sausage casing from clammy skin using frozen dysfunctional hands, you must also be a contortionist.)

We were officially bad-asses. And tired and hungry. But definitely feeling like bad-asses. We went for “lunch” (3:30? hey, it’s still lunch) at Jack’s Prime in San Mateo and ordered the Blue Lip special and a beer. And then, life didn’t seem quite so bad.

lust

keeping moo-ving

There was no channeling of Jedi Masters this week. After iffy weather reports all week, the clouds parted and we had a chilly, but calm ride through bucolic Marin county.

“Deceptively difficult” is how Coach Jim describes the ride. No painfully long climbs to attack, just a lot of rollers and “roads like this” - ahead of me I saw the road meander up the hillside and disappear around a bend that felt like a 30% grade (it was “only” 15%).

Our route took us out the western side of Tomales Bay through some Marin dairy country. The hills were just sprouting their green Spring fur and the cows still reached under the fence to eat what grew over there. The cows stared at us unabashedly. Chewing, they lined up to see the silly humans garbed in garishly colored clothing on shiny two wheeled machines. They were in black and white – the formal receiving line – we were the red carpet stars making an ungainly entrance to the party. Gasping, cursing, whining to stay upright at 3 mph. (Okay, I speak for myself – others were far more graceful).

Because I'm a little odd, I always carry on conversations with cows I ride by. They seem receptive.

When you see a sign saying “Not a county maintained road,” ummmm. Believe it. Some of our downhills (yes, there were times I actually got to coast) were on bone-jarring pothole patches and alligator pavement. Avoiding the holes and ruts at 3mph is simpler and less consequential than at 30mph. But we persevered. No teeth chipped, no tongues bitten off.

The second leg of our route took us to the Point Reyes lighthouse. I haven't been out to the lighthouse in at least a decade and probably longer. The point juts 10 miles into the Pacific Ocean. The National Park Service claims it is the windiest place on the Pacific Coast and second windiest on the North American Continent. We were lucky yesterday! This leg also brought rolling hills, but with scrubbier vegetation. Unsheltered, the plants cling low to the ground and the grassland isn't as plentiful as the northern part of the peninsula.

Still, there were cows. Some wearing their pretty plastic earrings. “Hello, Ms. 144, how are you today? Thank you for the fine cheese.”

And.

There were cattle grates. And dirt. And other brown substances we rode through. I haven't decided which is worse – cattle grates on a climb (must.keep.wheel.straight.) or cattle grates on a descent (I hope my bike doesn't fall apart!). Neither is optimal, but we're tough Death Riders! A cattle grate won't deter us!

Becky, one of our team honorees, was just around every corner, cheering us on and taking our pictures. She cheered us on the flats, she cheered us at the top of climbs. Seeing her smile at the top of a climb was such a fine reminder of why we were out here punishing ourselves while others were already having green beer and corned beef. We rode 65 miles. Becky must have driven 100, giving up her Saturday to stand out in the cold while a bunch of crazy cyclists ride by. Thanks, Becky!

If I didn't give birth to you, don't call me Mom.

Last week, I walked into Large Financial Institution to deposit some money into Number One Son's account. It's not something I do with regularity, much to his disappointment, but he called saying he was down to his last $10.

Large Financial Institution has a stolid, red granite facade. The interior of the bank also resonates somber permanence. More granite. Spaciousness. Luxury. Volume. “We're here to stay,” it said. Except that the building above the bank lobby, 55 stories of undulating windows, was sold several years ago and the bank's headquarters are now in the Deep South -- not illustrious San Francisco.

I stand at the table and write out my meager deposit.

At last it's my turn. Perky Teller at Number One Window beckons me. And immediately starts chatting me up. I'm not here for a conversation. I'm here to make a freaking deposit. We commiserate about the week, happy for the weekend and then she complains about how busy the weekend is. Like, honey, would you rather work 7 days? Because I've done that. Recently. Notsomuchfun.

I make the error of revealing my mission.

“I would like to make a deposit into my son's account.”

“Okay, Mom! Can you put his address on the deposit slip?”

My mind goes into programming abend. Mom? MOM? Tell me, Who the F**K are YOU?

I smile nicely, telling her I'm unsure as to which (of 3) addresses might be the correct one. So I guess one and she rewards me with a big smile telling me that's correct and could I please fill that in the deposit slip.

(Mom).

We come to the big finish. The Money shot.

Mom, since you'll be making deposits like this for the next 3 or 4 years, would you like to open an account with Large Financial Institution?

No, thanks. I'm happy with my credit union.

“Oh,” she says weakly. “They have good rates.”

“Yes, and their fees are much lower, too.” I reply.

AND THEIR TELLERS DON'T GET ALL PRESUMPTUOUS AND OVERLY FAMILIAR CALLING THEIR MEMBERS “MOM.”

It's the Death Ride, not the Death Star

Climbing for nine miles makes me a little buggy, I've discovered. The 11% grade, with little 19% walls thrown in for good measure, and curves which, when passed, reveal another bit of climbing, tend to weigh on one's mind after 20 minutes – knowing there are still 5 or 6 miles left. On this climb.

Yesterday, I pulled slightly ahead of my ride group as I was climbing. I found myself alone with my thoughts on the hill. As cycling is 90% mental and 75% physical, this left me with much too much time with my own brain. Suddenly, I was channeling Luke Skywalker.

Me: Oh, Jedi Master, I'm alone on this hill. Will anyone know if I stop?

Obi-Wan: You will, young Jedi. You will.

Me: How much longer is this F**KING hill?

Obi-Wan: Patience, young Jedi. Regard the power lines. As the power lines go, so do you.

Me: I really need to stop. I don't think I can go any further.

Obi-Wan: Don't go to the dark side. Pedal, young Jedi. Ride on.

Confronted with a wide spot in the road, I pushed on. I'll just make it to that bend and hopefully it'll flatten to a 6% grade instead of this heinous 12% I've been climbing. The last mile marker showed 2.9. Is that from the bottom or to the top?

The bend revealed more steep climbing. Argh.

Near the “top” (ie, bend in road which hid more climbing), was another turn out.

I confess. I stopped. I drank water. Glorious water! I ate a few almonds and three chunks of a bar. My heart rate came down to manageable levels. My team mate Lisa caught up to me. Trudged past and did not stop. (Gold star for Lisa).

That 3 minute stop was the best gift I could have given myself. I got back on the bike and started pedaling again. The nourishment kicked in almost immediately and the energy flowed back into my muscles. I caught up to Lisa and we rode the rest of the climb together.

At the top was our fabulous SAG stop. And a bathroom. No better reward!

This was the Team's 6^th training ride. We still have four months left to train before the big event. So far, each week has prepared me for the next week. Before I signed up to do this crazy ride, I never thought I'd be doing 6500 feet of climbing in one ride and not feeling dead at the end – even looking forward to next week's punishment!

I ride with a great group of (crazy) dedicated people dedicated to helping fight cancer. I'm honored to ride with and learn from them all. We all could have selected a shorter ride or a flatter ride. But we chose this one. It's hard. Heck, if it were easy, everyone would do it!

Evening Observation

too many energy bars during a bike ride are not conducive to domestic harmony.

Today's Commute

Much more pleasant with a clean drive train.

Making Up in Public

Not having ridden public transportation on a regular basis the past several years, coming back to Muni has opened my eyes to some changes.

The biggest difference is the number of women applying makeup during their morning commutes. I find it captivating. When she pulls out her full regalia and starts primping, I find I cannot look away. I realize I'm staring, and yet I can't stop.

I witnessed my first Muni Makeover a few weeks ago. Ms. Makeover was sitting quietly, doing the muni-stare-vacantly-at-no-one-thing. She sat while I stood and occasionally caught my haggard morning look in the window glass. Ms. Makeover had gotten on at least a stop before me. She was settled in. In my scan of the other passengers, she didn't stand out as an “unfinished project.” She looked like a normal, pretty woman enduring the vagaries of the timeliness of the subway line.

To my surprise, she pulled out a bag. And started darkening her eyebrows. Her face became a little more in focus. I hadn't noticed that her eyebrows were lacking. Ms. Makeover then added some base makeup. Suddenly her skin looked fresher. A little mascara and her eyes appeared. Finally some lip gloss. Her bag of tricks was very very subtle. So subtle that you wouldn't have thought she was wearing make up if you had met her when she got off the train.

What is so fascinating is this the intimacy we're exposed to in this very public setting. Ms. Makeover didn't mind leaving the house in (in her mind) an unfinished state. She didn't mind boarding the train. And she didn't mind sharing with a hundred strangers her process of adopting her public face. It was only important to her what she looked like when she arrived at her destination.

But when I looked at her initially, I thought she looked just fine.

I prefer tailwinds, thank you.

Headwind slog on the commute home. Worked real hard to go 7.4 mph.

On Being Called a Bitch

Yesterday I got called a stupid bitch while on my bicycle. Probably for riding my bicycle. It was my second near miss with a car in the space of 3 miles – both entering the intersection while I had the nerve to still be occupying that space. I used my biohorn to call attention to the situation. One backed off graciously (and looked a little surprised that I was there at all) and the other called me a stupid bitch.

Nice example for your kids, lady.

I considered writing a near-missed connection on craigslist to finish our thoughtful conversation.

Feeling a little Evelyn Couch-esque: I'm older and have more insurance.

I've been driving a vehicle since 1979 and riding bicycles, successfully with cars, since at least 1973. I treat both as non-impact sports and behave accordingly. Thus far, I'm winning the game.

A little math for your consideration: I estimate I put 60,000 miles on my first car, 70,000 on my second and another 70,000 on my last car, and about 2,000 on the current one. Plus odd miles on other vehicles. Let's say 210,000 miles, averaged at about 40 mph = 5,250 hours spent driving, or 218.75 24 hour days.

On the two bikes I currently own, I have almost 15,000 miles. Averaging, say, 11 mph is 1,363.6 hours of riding, or 56.8 24 hour days.

In other words, I am well qualified to assess a traffic situation and determine who is behaving properly and who is violating the vehicle code.

If you're 30 and calling me a stupid bitch for being in the intersection when it is my right of way, you've only been driving for 14 years – 6 of those you were in high school or college and probably not driving too much. Therefore, in the 8 years since you were graduated from college, you'd need to have driven 26,250 miles per year to have the depth and breadth of driving experience that I have.

In conclusion, I'm not stupid bitch for riding my bicycle. I'm a smart bitch.

Thanks for kicking my butt yesterday.

I remember after completing my second AIDS ride and choosing not to do another one (I'll just ride casually and keep in shape, I thought – hahahahahahaha), the subject of Pinehurst Road came up.

My reaction to that was, “I really don't see the need to do that again.”

I've ridden Pinehurst the past two Saturdays.

I have a feeling that I will be riding quite a few hills that I didn't see the need to do again. Kings Mountain Road, the Marshall Wall, etc.

The irony is that Pinehurst was probably the easiest climb we did yesterday. Shaded, a nice gradual grade (except that nasty bit at the top) and fairly little car traffic. I was gratified to have climbed it 7 whole seconds faster this week over last week. Cadel Evans, you're on notice.

I have a theory about hills and perception about the difficulty of them. A rider doesn't remember the last time she has done a hill. She remembers the first time. When she wasn't in as good condition. The beginning of the season or the beginning of her cycling 'career.' Doing a hill for the first time is always more challenging. A rider doesn't know where the top is, whether it's steep at the bottom or if it finishes with a nice wall. Where to give it all or whether to save some for later. Besides being out of shape, the mental energy spent in doing an unfamiliar road or route can be taxing.

Approaching a hill for a second pass puts all that in mind. In her mind, the hill is very long. And very difficult.

And at the top, she says, “Oh, that's not as bad as I remembered.”

But take a season (or several) off. How is that same hill remembered? As it felt the last time she did it. In her glory days. When she pinged up climbs like a springbok on the Serengeti. (Oh, honey, you were never that good). When did this stupid hill get so damn steep?

It's not like she got old or out of shape or anything in the interim years.

As with every sport, cycling has its own vocabulary. Climbs are broken into categories based on length and average grade. Many of the climbs in the Tour de France are (a) off the chart (b) category 1 and 2 climbs. Low number = higher difficulty. Many of the hills I ride are not even on the chart (on the lower end – they don't even rate). Yesterday's ride had two Category 3 and 6 Category 4 climbs.

Ironically named Happy Valley Road is a Category 3. Unhappy. Not Valley. Road. At mile 40. Followed quickly by a Cat 4 starting from a dead stop.

But they say... That which doesn't kill you only drives you to drink. So after the ride we had a nice brewski at some seemingly oddly-placed Hofbrau house in tony Orinda. And gave Coach Phil a bad time about the hills, road surface, cars... Whatever we could think of. Just our way of saying thanks for kicking our butts.

Remedial Education

It looks like we're going to have to do a refresher course before the big Parking Exam this week. People have forgotten how to park already.