I believe the term is "sufferfest"

The question “what did they mine on Mines Road?” or was it named after someone named Mines prompted me to open the Interwebs and do a little investigation. It turns out there was coal in them thar hills back in the day. To the east of Mines Road, Tesla Road continues into Corral Hollow, which was a rich coal mining area. A little known fact is that before coal was discovered in 1855, the Vikings settled here, navigating their Viking ships through the Golden Gate and up the Sacramento delta, until they ran aground. Working southward, they made the lush hills of the Livermore area their home, ranging their cattle on the abundant pastures and using their horns for their helmets.

[More information on the history of the area can be found here.]

It is here that today's story begins. Starting just south of the Murrietta's Well historical marker, at hours known only to owls and hunters, we donned our cycling shoes, gathered our water and our strength, and mounted our trusty steeds in dreaded anticipation of the next 9 hours in the saddle. For, although we were out here in cowboy country, it was not on the backs of large beasts of burden that we'd be traversing this rugged landscape. Nay, we would be providing our own horsepower. One roasted potato or banana at at time. On a much narrower saddle.

Our route would take us 44 miles to the south and west, and then turn northward to complete the loop for 108 miles total.

When we began, we were handed a route sheet. Fearless leader thoughtfully provided an elevation profile. Mostly flat, with Jane Russell laying somewhere in the middle. What wasn't clear was that Jane Russell's ta-tas dwarfed the other “bumps” along the way, making some serious “bumps” appear like goosebumps.... I believe there also may have been some photoshopping to make the actual saw-tooth ride profile seem a little more derailleur friendly.

Mines Road – a pleasant ride in the early morning. The remaining scrubby wildflowers glow in the soft morning light. A few bunnies cross in front of us. Fluffy white tails scramble into the bushes. Later in the day, I'm told, the heat can be unbearable. The road trails a steep hill side with a western exposure. The sun warms the rocky facade and radiates the heat.

However, it also starts out with a climb. (there seems to be a pattern with our rides: always UP). The first little rise looks innocuous. Not so bad. I don't need to granny this. I can even stay in my middle ring for this. Until we make the first left hand bend. Oh. It's longer. Much longer. Better shift down and spin it out.

I actually like a little climb in the beginning of the ride – not anything huge, but something to get my blood flowing helps me to warm up much more quickly than 10 miles of flats where I just feel sluggish and inadequate. I might add that I often feel sluggish and inadequate, but at least when I'm climbing I'm distracted from that by my misery.

The authorities have thoughtfully provided mile markers to let us know how much longer our misery might continue. Ostensibly for air patrol in the event of fires, but we cyclists know (and it IS all about us, dontyouforget) it's really the count down to the summit of Mt. Hamilton (or Jane Russell's right....)

Once we climb for a bit, the road “flattens” into some rollers. We follow a creek bed for a bit. Climb some more. On one stretch, we see an A-frame sign (borrowed from a realtor, no doubt) with poster board taped to it. In large hand-written block letters, the word “Viking” with an arrow pointing right.

We look right. Behind a trail gate stands a Viking. WTF?! He waves. We wave. We continue on. Just what was slipped into our water bottles, anyway? If we hadn't all seen the Viking... but we did. He was real.

A few miles later, we pass a cattle round up. Lot's of cute little moo-cows and moo-calves in a large pen. Maybe a branding? Men in their summer straw cowboy hats stand on the rail. The calves stare at us curiously. Could we really be their first exposure to cyclists? Back country cows, not like those worldly urban Marin cows--cycling's in their milk... just as we pass, a single cow lows like a cellist in a subway tunnel.

Pedaling along, a man sits on a fire hydrant under a tree. With his brief case and a reusable grocery bag, he waits. He waves. We wave. We joke he's waiting for the Mt. Hamilton casual carpool. I'm beginning to feel like I'm in the middle of a Monty Python skit and soon shrubberies will begin exploding.

And this is all before our first “real” climb of the day. Delirium couldn't possibly be setting in already. It's not even 10AM!

Eventually, we make it to The Junction – the nexus of San Antonio Valley Road, Del Puerto Canyon Road and Mines Road. The Junction. Serving such fine wines as Burgundy, Chablis, Chardonnay, Chillable Red, White Zinfandel, they also offer burgers, sandwiches, fries, cheese fries, chili cheese fries... and strawberry shortcake! Perhaps sometime I'll be lucky enough to actually be by there when it's open. Meanwhile, they generously allow cyclists to use the porta-potties. Our SAG gods had pulled out into the wide spot in the road next to their driveway. Our first opportunity to refuel, refill, reapply and empty, not necessarily in that order.

In the San Antonio Valley, I see Yellow-billed Magpies, Acorn Woodpeckers and an unidentified Oriole among the usual sparrow suspects. We ride past hundreds of ground squirrels who race us and dodge into their underground bunkers.

Mile 26.5. The top of Hamilton comes at mile 44. We still have a few bumps before the climb begins in earnest. And then it comes. Bianchini, meet Jane Russell. Up we go. Up. Up. Up. Please level just a little, I plea to an immovable anomaly in topography: rocks formed in the Upper Cretaceous period at least 65 million years ago. Like the rocks care about this tiny speck trying to scale its exterior. I'm on roads created from trails broken hundreds of years ago. These roads weren't built for cyclists. They were built for sure-footed creatures who could navigate steep slopes, not pathetic hairless creatures on two feet who think it's a great idea to ride two wheeled vehicles for entertainment.

But there I was, seemingly on purpose. Like I signed up for this somehow. Please, I said. I just don't have enough pain and suffering in my life. Make me go on bike rides that take me up mountains when it's really hot. Make my teammates suffer so much they completely cramp up. Or throw up on the climb. Yes, this is what I want! I must have this!

Eventually, a breeze slips through some trees and down the hill. I am encouraged by this because I allow myself to be deluded by the notion that mountaintops are windy; ergo, wind = top. So as the breeze increases, besides cooling my overheating head and feet, it gives me hope that I can finish this #$%%$#$##!! climb without stopping or falling over. But there's a twist. Always one more twist. At the top of Mt. Hamilton, the last mile turns steep again. A nice little F-You to the cyclist. Nature laughs last.

Our SAG from Jane's armpit hopscotched us and was waiting at the top with more water and soda. Nothing like a coke after a 6 mile climb. Or even a pepsi. We congratulated each other for a job well done and cheered in those arriving after us. A last little burst up to the observatory (bathrooms!) - I wash some of the salt from my face and reapply more sunscreen. Life is now good – we have a 20 mile descent in front of us with a few minor climbs.

I wish I were better at descending than I am. I bank right better than I bank left and I can't figure out why that is. Maybe it's being on the outside of the curve vs the inside. I know I frustrated a few folks that got stuck behind me (sorry) and I'll continue to work on it. Still, 20 miles of downhill is not a bad way to spend the better part of an hour, even if your hands cramp up a bit. Even if Jane's Left is waiting for you in another 15 miles.

Sierra Road. This would be Jane's Left if we were to continue this tortured analogy, and we are. I think the second worst part about Sierra Road is the psychological toll it exacts from the very beginning. I cycle along on Piedmont Road, content in its flatness. And then I make the turn onto Sierra Road and am confronted by the road going up at what appears to be a 90 degree pitch in front of me – with no top in view. I believe the first words out of my mouth were … unprintable. Okay, I tell myself. Lisa says it's steep but levels out briefly in a few places to give little breaks. So in this case, “leveling” means going from 14% to 10% grade. Briefly. How I wanted to stop! But the hill was so steep I knew that if I stopped, I could never get back on my bike and start pedaling again. I wouldn't be able to spin and clip fast enough to get moving without falling over. If I stopped, I'd be doomed to walking. I'd rather ride at 2mph then walk it at 3...

At a flat spot near the top was a clump of trees. I promise myself I will stop at the tree and catch my breath and cool down some if I just don't stop now. The GU I did at the last SAG stop, not 5 miles ago, is gone. I am eating Honey-Stinger jellies on the way up. The heat, the hill. The heat, the hill. I am so tired. I can't go on. I am so tired. I don't think I'm cut out for this after all. This #@#$%!!^%$@ hill! I used to like Jim, but not so much any more. This is unbearable torture. What am I doing? Just to the tree. To the tree. To the tree.

The tree! The tree! The tree at last! I stop. Guzzle water. I think I take off my helmet? I know it's not the summit but I don't care. I say to Phil, who is waiting for some teammates, I don't care that it's not the summit but I promised myself I would stop if I just made it this far. Lisa and Jim pull up shortly. I see Jim is really suffering and it almost makes me feel bad for taking his name in vain a few minutes prior. Second GU of the hill and we climb the rest of the way. The GU hits Lisa and me at the same time and we quasi-race the last 20 yards to the summit. Our roving SAG is there with more water. Yay Kurt!

The downhill is worth it. It's not too technical so I can keep up pretty well. Feeling good, we're on the home stretch with one little wall (half-wall?) before strolling along Calaveras reservoir. Atop one of the high-voltage power towers, eagles have built a penthouse suite. One parent was babysitting. Even without binoculars, we could tell that there was activity in the nest. Eagles are not small birds. A photographer had a 600mm lens trained on it from the roadside. On the other side of the road, two small falcons (prairie? Merlin?) flittered along. Aaah, Spring.

One more SAG stop (Popsicle!!) and then the home stretch. By this point, my shorts were fused to my skin and my butt was fused to the bicycle seat. It would be a delicate operation to dismount. Back at the car, I extricated myself from the vile shorts while hidden between two open car doors and a hedge. No energy for inner-car gymnastics to change, or for false modesty.

Post ride beer was an Anderson Valley Oatmeal Stout.