Another Lesson in Humility

So many – too many – lessons in humility. I'm competitive, sure, but mostly with myself. I'm lying. I'm competitive. Even though the people I usually ride with are faster than me. So if I beat someone I perceive as faster than me up a climb, or someone I think descends faster than me on a descent, it's a yardstick against myself but also a yardstick against my progress versus them. Any gain is a measurement of success. I'll never shove a pump through their spokes, but I am pleased if I have a great day and somehow beat their best.

So when I have a string of 3 or 4 weeks where I'm consistently getting my butt kicked on climbs, even if I'm having a second-best time by mere seconds (depending on the length of the climb), I feel like a Loser. Capital, Backwards L against the forehead.

And, alas, this has been my mantra for the past month. Sometimes I console myself by saying, “I'm riding with people faster than me.” Which is true. If I dissect my rides, I have a lot of personal bests in the first part of the ride and then faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaade. I've blown my legs out. I know that if I persevere, eventually, I will get stronger. At no small cost to my ego. But so many times in the past few weeks, we've started out fast, I've faded in the middle to just barely recover to finish. It's demoralizing. I'm sure my brake is rubbing or my tire is flat. Why? Why?? WHY??? is this so hard? Yet, if I quit, (a) it's a long walk back to the car and b) public shame and (c) I'll never get stronger or faster and (d) public shame. Mentally, it takes its toll, but riding when you really, truly want to quit is what makes you stronger in the long run.

I've been used to coasting. Somewhat literal, somewhat not. And now I'm being pushed again and it hurts my little brain and my big big ego. Even though I was never very fast, I saw myself as strong. And riding with stronger riders has opened my eyes. Reading back over prior posts, this need for comeuppance occurs with a far too regular frequency. I'll often be faster than some but always, always be slower than others. I hope that I am as gracious towards my cycling friends who are struggling as my faster friends are with me.

I bow my head, helmet in hands...  

11% Can Seem Flat

After I broke my elbow in April, I was determined to come back and complete the Death Ride. I began training again as soon as I got clearance from my doctor.

My first ride out was fairly short. I felt unsettled and unbalanced on the bike and completely vulnerable to cars, shoddy pavement, unseen road hazards – anything that might make me fall down and hurt myself again. My arm did not fully extend and downhills felt faster than they were; I didn't feel in control at first, but got better acclimated as the ride continued. I was pleased that I could still climb, but knew I'd lost some stamina and endurance in the 7 weeks I was off the bike.

The next week was one of my favorite loops up on King Ridge Road outside Cazadero. I had decided that I wasn't going to let my accident get in the way of my usual descent speed. I wasn't going to give in to fear. I did great up until around mile 60 when I rounded a corner and a fox ran out in front of me. I saw no way to avoid it. Coming to a screeching halt, I skidded and went down. Knocked out, I lay on the pavement until someone came along. I don't know how long that was, but was fortunate that a first responder on his way back from fishing was the first to find me.

I was placed on a backboard and bussed to the hospital to check my brain for concussion or bleeding. All clear, including my elbow, which I had banged pretty well. My biggest injury was from the face plant I did on the pavement, skinning my nose and upper lip. Very attractive. So, sporting a new Hitler mustache style scab, I ventured forth into the world and went shopping for my second helmet in 8 weeks. Hopefully the next one would get more than 120 miles on it.

Not letting a small brain injury (was relieved that the cat scan revealed that there actually is one in there) stand in the way of misery, I joined the team for one of the penultimate sufferfest rides of the season – our Monte Rio ride. I missed this ride last year but heard the horror stories.

It starts out fun and fast. We leave Monte Rio at the crack of the crack and head east on River Road. Turning up Westside Road, we travel the western side of Dry Creek Valley. The vineyards are just leafing out, holding their secret promise of voluptuous zinfandel bunches close to the vest, fruit set but still tiny and green under the canopy. A long way to the glass and anything can go wrong between this ride and then. I love the rollers on West Dry Creek Road, but it's easy to put out too much too early when major climbs and 100 miles still loom. Discipline is key and I'm wondering if I'm doing enough.

Dry Creek Valley is a long foreplay to the base of Stewarts Point-Skaggs Spring Road. It's a long time to anticipate the horror of the never ending exposed climb. The heat – did we leave early enough? We have SAG support so water isn't an issue. But the heat...

Not having done more than 60 miles in over 8 weeks, I'm wondering how my body and mind will do on this 100+ mile ride with 10,000 feet of climbing. I knew it was going to suck but that I could do it as long as I stayed ahead of the bonk. It did and I did.

The climbing sucked, for sure. What surprised me, though, was the nagging fear I had at the summit. I could look way down across the valley and see the road peek in and out of the golden hills. I had to get down there. If the first crash didn't play with my head, the second one surely did. At any moment, a fox/deer/dog/turkey could run out in front of me and take me down. I could miss dodging a hole or gravel patch and go down. The curve could be steeper than I estimated and I could go down. So much treachery! No matter that I've ridden thousands of miles since I started distance cycling and only once did I encounter wildlife. Really. What are the odds?

Finally, after more downs and ups, we reach the SAG in the shade near the road to Annapolis. I fortify myself as best I can because we will be climbing a 2 mile wall called Rancheria Road. It sucks. I knew it would be bad based upon how much I enjoyed descending it the week before. One switchback, if you were to take the inside track, is about 30%.

Another voice in my head tells me I can't climb too closely behind someone. If a car passes, I'm afraid I'll lose it and fall over. I'm behind Tony on a straight patch and I hear a car approaching. Must-be-in-the-clear. Must-have-an-out. So I turn on everything I have and pass Tony. My quads are now on fire and completely spent. A few yards up the road, I stop. This, it turns out, is a bad idea. I can't get back on the bike. The road is too steep for me to balance, spin the pedal and clip in. I trudge to a wider spot in the road to try again. Tony pulls over and we rest for a minute or four. We really hadn't ridden together much, so it was a nice break.

At last, I'm back on the bike for the final push. A small celebration at the top and then a really fun descent to the coast. Of course, Fort Ross Road is still out there.

The only, I mean ONLY, redeeming quality of Fort Ross Road is that it is shaded. It's steep, narrow, strewn with potholes and root humps and about 4 miles of 15% + grades. It sucks. No. It fucking sucks. And then? When you finally pull into the clear and start your descent back to Cazadero Road? Yeah. There's still more climbing there. I do not like Fort Ross Road, Sam I Am. I could whine here for hours about Fort Ross Road. Is it worse than Jamison Creek? Yes. Is it worse than Sierra Road? Toss up.

At last, we return to the cars. Most of the team is waiting to cheer us in, the Lantern Rouge. We commiserate at Stumptown Brewery. It is there that I discover I drove the 4 miles along River Road with my house keys on the roof of my car. Lucky!

Clearance, Clarence

I'm allowed to ride my bike again!

Benched

4 weeks and counting. I am not a nice person when I can't ride my bike.

Best Day Ever

This happened:

but I didn't tear my new cycling jacket.

Why I Ride on Unfamiliar Roads

Riding a bike is as mental as it is physical. Okay. Okay. It's more physical, but if your brain doesn't think you can do it, guess what. Your legs will prove your brain right.

One gets a certain comfort out of riding the familiar. You know what to expect. Even if you don't like the next section because you know it's about to suck, you have prepared your brain that (a) it's going to suck, but (b) you've done this climb before and survived it. That level of confidence gets you through that climb or technical descent.

On the flip side of that equation, knowing what's coming can fill you with a sense of dread. Oh, crap, we're climbing XXX and I remember how hard it was and how I could barely breathe at the top and my legs were on fire and, and, and. Have no fear, my dears. If you are a consistent rider and not one who is coming back to the sport after a long hiatus, you don't remember the climb the way it was the last time you did it (when you were strong), you remember it the very first time you did it. Early in the season or early in your cycling life. When you were sucking wind because you hadn't yet reestablished your climbing legs. So the second time, a few weeks or months later, it won't suck nearly as badly as you remember.

Not to say that it won't suck. It will just suck less than you think.

And you'll go home, upload your ride and say to yourself, "Wow! I did that faster than last time!"

Last year, when I trained for the Death Ride for the first time, I rode on many many roads that I hadn't ridden on. Two of us were doing the training for the first time, and the other two were repeaters. We'd hear what was coming but it's never the same as actually riding it. Some hills I had done before, but maybe I hadn't done them after 90 miles. All season I had to hold something in reserve for what might be coming next, and continually prepare for the unknown.

When I trained for the AIDS Ride in 1999, I had no idea what I was getting into. I hadn't been south of Monterey / Big Sur except for a weekend trip to San Diego - a flyover trip. I'd lived in San Francisco since 1985 and never been to LA. I thought it was pretty cool that the first time I was going to Los Angeles, I was arriving by bicycle.

Not knowin' nuthin' I knew I'd continue to not know nuthin'. Something in my little brain told me that if I always rode routes that were familiar, my legs might be ready but my mind wouldn't be. I didn't read it in a book and Al Gore had barely invented the Interwebs back then. The whole darn ride - all seven days and 565 miles - was going to be unfamiliar. I sought different training rides to stay mentally fresh.

Fast forward to 2012. Training, training, blah blah blah - lots of blog entries about that already. (see left side bar). One of the best things about doing Death Ride training with Team in Training is the Altitude Camp that happens about a month before the ride. We camp just outside Markleeville and ride three of the passes (four if you get there early enough). Saturday morning, as we set out to tackle Ebbetts Pass, I was filled with dread. Here it was, a moment of truth. What if I wasn't ready? What if I had to stop? What if I simply couldn't make it all the way? The Altitude. The Unknown. I remembered driving it. It was a monster. This huge weighted black cloud clung to my psyche like the lead blanket at the dentist's.

Imagine all that anxiety if it were event day. I would have already climbed 6,000 feet on my way to climbing another 5,000 on the front and back side of Ebbetts before a slight break until Carson Pass. That's the advantage of Altitude Camp.

Fast forward again. The black and white newspaper spins on the TV screen and lands in the future. It is August in Mt. Shasta. It's hot. I'm with a group of riders from the Team and we're going to do the Mt. Shasta Summit Century. The 200K(+) has 16,500 feet of climbing. Most of us signed up for this, leaving our options open. The 100 miler has 10,000 feet of climbing. You've read about the corsets, the bear, the blue knee socks. I bring up Shasta again because nearly all of us riding together were first time Death Riders. This meant, of course, to put as dull an edge on the point as I can muster, that all season we rode unfamiliar roads and had to mentally prepare, accept and adjust to the unknown.

We didn't know what was coming and sometimes it just plain sucked. The scenery was divine. The first  climb was fairly friendly and the climbs built in intensity. But here's what happened. The seasoned Death Riders who had spent all season riding routes they had ridden before had a much harder time mentally than the riders who had been constantly riding unfamiliar routes. Especially as the heat intensified and the climbs kept, well, climbing. Because their minds weren't trained in the same way.

It's easy to slip. Your body will seek the way of the least effort, the greatest efficiency. It's survival. It's why there are plateaus in strength training, in dieting, in cycling or running. If you always ride the same hill, your legs will get stronger. Absolutely. But you have to change the game to keep your mind engaged and to be mentally strong.

You need to try new routes and test yourself. To keep your brain fresh and find new obstacles to overcome. Even if it's as simple as riding the same old route in the opposite direction.

Route 806

“It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle.”- Ernest Hemingway

I first read that quote a few years ago, but this Saturday, it rang true like it never had before. I rode a 200k (126 miles +/-) with most of the usual suspects. We were in Healdsburg for a Brevet with the Santa Rosa Cycling Club. At 7:02AM we departed Healdsburg and headed north towards Boonville, east to Ukiah, and then dropped south back to Healdsburg.

We started off at a good clip, with Kurt and Phil setting the pace. As we headed into Alexander Valley, the wind was blowing out of the north straight at us. Phil dug in and kept pulling briskly, to the point where I wondered aloud if he had a lunch date he was trying to meet after riding 126 miles. By noon. Since none of us admitted to being on EPO (but then, who does?), I hoped we'd slow the pace a little, or my legs would be toast by mile 40.

Many of the early roads we were on were quite familiar to me. I'd ridden them several times before, but in the other direction. So while the road is the same, the ride is completely different. Especially when there's a headwind. Canyon Road connects Dry Creek Road and Highway 128. It goes over the ridge that separates Dry Creek Valley (Zinfandel-land) and Alexander Valley (Bordeaux-land). I've ridden Canyon Road from west to east, bombing down the east side into Alexander Valley. On this day, however, we were riding it the opposite direction. Knowing I hit over 40mph on the down slope, I wasn't really keen on climbing it. It turns out (as it usually does), the climb wasn't nearly as bad as I anticipated; however, descending into Dry Creek Valley sucked. What could have been a sweet, long gradual descent was marred by strong headwinds and I was literally tucked against the wind, pedaling hard to make progress. Down hill. I bellowed, "This sucks!" and the next thing I knew, Andy had pulled in front of me and took the wind.

We headed north up Dry Creek Road. I was struggling to stay on the back of the pace line. We're pretty evenly matched (at least early in a ride) but if I lagged even a little, the wind blew me off the back and I had to decide if the work involved to get back on Andy's wheel would be balanced by the energy saved by being in the pace line. And then it became moot because I got blown further off and couldn't catch them.

I was climbing Dutcher Creek Road into the wind without any protection. I saw the trio pulling away, their strong legs enhanced by the synergy of group riding. My legs ached. I couldn't believe how I was suffering. My legs felt like cement. I said to myself, well, I guess I'll be riding a lot of this alone today and I better get used to it. I trudged on, feeling pathetic and spent. Did I mention pathetic? or the wave of self-pity that enveloped me as I climbed? Alone?

At last, I crested the mountain that was Dutcher Creek Road. I dropped down the other side. Three riders in matching kits were sprinting up the back side. Of course they were. They weighed 40 pounds and their bikes weighed 12 and they had a tailwind. And testosterone. Jerks. They waved happily. I waved begrudgingly. Near the bottom, I was heartened to see Phil's familiar red jacket, and Kurt and Andy all waiting for me. We rode together into Cloverdale. I explained The Plight of the Headwind and how it was all good if I was on, but if I lost 'em, there was no catching them.

I have driven Highway 128 from Cloverdale to Boonville many times. I have driven or ridden in a Ford Explorer. A Subaru. A BMW. A Miata. A Golf. A Ford Marshmallow rental car. But, before Saturday, I'd never ridden it on a bicycle. Why, several times I had even commented on how I wouldn't want to ride it on a bicycle, as I rode comfortably in a car.

What I remembered from driving was: turn onto 128. Immediately hit a steep switchback of impossible steepness and then flatness until you hit rollers to Boonville.

aaaaaaaaaaaahahahhahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

heh.

the.joke.is.on.you.

Because, as Mr. Hemingway indicated in one of his pithier moments, you don't know a road until you've ridden it on a bicycle. First, there is a long gradual energy-sucking 2% uphill grade to the switchback I dreaded. And the headwind continued just to add to the fun. Finally, we made the first sweeping arc to the left and started to climb. The switchbacks were done and I told myself, "this is where it levels out." No. It drops to 6% or 8% but continues up until the county line. I've noticed in my 3-4 mph empirical studies that many county line boundaries happen to cross roads at ridge lines. So I was watching the Sonoma County mile markers count down in .02 mile increments (and did the math - .01 = 50 feet approximately, so .02 = 100 feet) to the Mendocino County line. It is excruciating the slowness at which the miles count down when being measured in 1/100ths at 3MPH. This time, I wasn't too far (I like to tell myself) behind the Boys who were waiting for me at the summit.

At last we rolled into Boonville, bypassing Anderson Valley Brewing Company (twice, I might add), collecting our prized receipt for proof that we were there in the time frame allotted. We replenished. We emptied. We fed. We rolled.

The next leg was on Route 253 into Ukiah. This road was completely unfamiliar to me. I'd seen it, sure -- a mystery turn-off to ??? I'd been through Ukiah, but on 101. There seemed to be a small impediment between Boonville and Ukiah. Large hills, coastal-ish ranges... Kurt previewed that there would be a sustained climb. He wasn't lying. We must have climbed for 5 or 6 miles before there was any relief. Kurt and Phil got ahead of Andy and me. We passed a group that had just finished changing a flat. Finally, there were some flat sections and slight downhills. I managed to gain a little ground on the gap between them and me. Still, I was behind, and when I saw Phil pull over and stop on a climb (that never happens) I knew something must be up. Broken spoke.

The spoke took Phil's wheel out of true. It was rubbing on the brake, it was rubbing on the frame. Fixing one messed up the other. He completely opened the rear brake and tried to set the wheel in just off enough that the tire wouldn't hit the frame (tires rubbing are way worse than rims rubbing). I joked that at least now I'd be able to keep up with him. Oh, Phil. Just can't resist a challenge can you. So to make sure we wouldn't drop him from all the extra friction, we let him set the pace. And still, I couldn't keep up. After dropping down one particularly steep descent, Phil's wheel was looking really whacked, so he took the entire brake pad off one side.

At last we pulled into the designated control (Safeway) and got our receipt. We flagged down a native who (a) not only knew where a bike shop was (b) told our grateful ears that it wasn't even a half block away.

Ukiah is the home of Masonite. I did not know that.

Fast forward to Dave's Bike Shop. They didn't have Phil's special spokes, but they re-trued his wheel to compensate for the missing spoke, sold him a used tire, dropped everything to get it done, charged him $18 and had us on our way within a half hour. And offered, were they not able to fix it, to drive him and his bike to Healdsburg. How awesome is that?

We'd ridden 70+ miles and had 50ish left to go. We had reached the tailwind portion of the ride and were pleased that the wind had not shifted during the course of the day. We rode through vineyards in Sanel Valley (not yet an AVA in Mendocino county, but they're working on it) along Old River Road to Hopland. Shortly after, we turned onto Mountain Home Road, which would connect us back to 128.

Loyal reader knows that once upon a time, I avoided roads with the following words in the name: mountain, grade, alpine, heights, vista, view, hill, slope, peak, ridge, upper, sky. Bike friendly road names have words like: valley, river, lake, canyon, basin, lower.

So... Mountain Home. At first, innocuous. Some up, some down. But then, became up. and up. and up. and jesus. really? more? Don't I hear cars on 128? No? Where's the "stop ahead" sign? Is that it? Is it?
Aw, f--k. That says "slide ahead."  Holy mountains, Batman. When will this end?

At last, we're at 128, but all I can think of is we're not done climbing yet. We have a lot more climbing to do. I was kissing the glorious fresh pavement that is the Mendocino side of 128 when I found that I was wrong and we'd already done the majority of the climbing while on Mountain Home. Thank you Hay-soos.

And WHAT a fun descent back down to Cloverdale. When doing an out and back and I'm descending what I climbed 10 hours ago, I'm always amazed. Wow, I did that ? No wonder I was tired! No wonder I was struggling!

We hauled it back to Healdsburg through Dry Creek Valley. It was twilight. The mustard glowed between the dark gnarly old vines. Over the ridge to the west, the sky radiated pinks and oranges and the fog was backlit in gossamer peaches. It was a living pastel painting.

Post ride beer: Bear Republic Apex (strong IPA) - worth the drive. Worth the ride.

Trainings and Brevets

As mentioned in my previous post about my successes and failures of the past 17 days, I rode 372 miles in that time period. While I'm sure my single reader would love the mile by mile account, I fear it would be as arduous a read as if it were a golf narrative and I scored a 372 for 18 holes. You're welcome.

The new cycling "season" is upon us. Death Ride training started up on February 2nd (just like the movie). Much of the team are "alumni" from Team in Training, schooled in cycling etiquette, safety and skills, but new to the Death Ride. There is trepidation, anticipation, and blatant fear (or respect) of the event exhibited by the team. Last year, Coach said that the event was hard, but the training was harder. Truer words not spoken. The training is what makes you a Death Rider, completing the event gives you bragging rights and permission to buy a really cool jersey which speaks on your behalf when you ride in it. And a certain expectation to live up to when you do ride in it. But your mind and your legs are forever altered during the training. When every week you're doing the hardest ride you've ever done and living to tell about it, you become mentally strong and sure. If your brain is in, your legs are in. That simple.

So, on a chilly Groundhog's Day morning, our intrepid crew set off on the "sorting ride" - I swear some of the fast kids must have donned the invisibility cloak and hopped a ride on an owl up Wildcat Canyon - the time trial in which Coach determines which group everyone will ride in. We did our 30 mile loop and hopped over to Creek Monkey in Martinez for post ride beers (no, really!) and a meal.

I may or may not have mentioned Coach Phil in the past. Phil is one of the assistant coaches with a quiet and unassuming manor. A sly smile, a dry comment and an ass-kicking route are hallmarks of Coach Phil's personality. So, on week two, flush with the success of having done FOUR HARD CLIMBS the week before, Phil decides to take the team up Mt. Tam. All the way, and then drop to Alpine Dam and climb out of that back to Fairfax. The poor dears go from 3,000 feet of climbing to 4500 feet of climbing in one week. Hey, this is the Death Ride. HTFU. But everyone did great on such a challenging route. Riding hard sh-- stuff together is what bonds the team. The team that suffers together... stays together. Coach Phil. Team Player. Uh Hunh.

I have other cycling goals this year besides Death Ride (how can that be, you ask?). I'm also training for my first Double Century near the end of March. 200 miles, 17 hours or fewer. Oy. So Sunday after our fun Tam ride, I joined a friend and we did some of the hallmark Peninsula hills from last year's training. Up Old La Honda, down to San Gregorio, up Tunitas Creek and down Kings Mtn Road. I rode with someone much stronger (and very gracious). She stayed with me until the Tunitas Creek Climb. I said, "do this at your own pace." I saw her again an hour later as she was coming back DOWN the hill to check on me.... Show off. The way to get stronger is to ride with people that are stronger than you.

The team ride this week was the first ride we were synced up in our ride groups. What fun! I got to ride with two women I rode with two and three years ago, and it was like the intervening one-year gap never happened. We have a fun role reversal in that this season, I'm coaching one who had coached me in the past. We cruised out to Nicasio Valley, and had to suffer past the horse farms and the cute town of Pt Reyes Station, before lumbering back up Sir Francis Drake and beyond to return to our cars. We finished hard and fast (I love storming back to the barn) and arrived exhilarated and flush with success. Post ride beers and burgers at Moylan's appeased the cycling savage in all of us.

Which brings us to Sunday. Sunday, which broke my resolve to have a Facebook Free February. Because Sunday was amazing in so many ways, I needed to publicly acknowledge and thank the folks I was riding with.

[Aside: Saturday, I mentioned that I was riding a brevet. Who are you riding with? I listed off names. Oh, you and the Boys. Yup. Me and the Boys. Mostly the same Boys I've been riding with all off-season. Because I like them and they challenge me to ride harder. I like to think I can mostly keep up -- or could -- and that they weren't holding back too awfully much. But as the season progresses, the Boys keep getting stronger and stronger, and I'm afraid I'll soon be left behind, no matter how hard I work. I only have so much muscle fiber to work with.]

So, Sunday at 5:15 the alarm goes off. I load the car, walk the dogs, eat breakfast and head to Crissy Field for the San Francisco Randonneurs 200K Brevet up to Valley Ford /Two Rock. I scream into the parking lot a good 5 minutes after the appointed meet up time, struggle to get arm warmers, leg warmers, jacket sleeves on... Food on the bike, bottles, helmet, gloves, whatamIforgetting?

We check in, have the pre-ride meeting. We take the solemn Randonneur Oath. (I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you.) And we depart, with five of the six having ridden 50 miles the day before. The sixth doesn't count because he's a freaking cycling monster. "Oh, I wasn't pulling. I was just riding my bike." 15 miles. Into the wind. What-Ev-ERRRRRR. (love ya, mean it).

Off we go. Over the bridge, through the "junk miles" of the stop and go called Sausalito and beyond, the quaint and spendy Marin County towns a blur with the exception of unclip, tap, go, reclip at nine MILLION stop signs between Corte Madera and Sir Francis Drake Boulevard in Fairfax. Which we also get to enjoy on the return trip.

Finally, a few climbs and we're in Nicasio (weren't we just here yesterday?) and the porta-potties are still in the same fine condition they were a mere 24 hours before. Joy.

Our first checkpoint is in Petaluma. Peets, of course. (duh. cyclists and coffee!). I'm stunned and amazed that we have made it here in 3.5 hours. Psychologically, Petaluma is so.much.farther. It's all the Boys, and I'm happy to be hanging on their wheels. Tanks filled, tanks emptied, we head towards the turn-around control at Valley Ford. I have forgotten just how much I love West Sonoma County. The wooly sheep. The little lambies. The cows and their painfully full udders (poor girls!). February-green grass that defies color descriptors. And peeking between two hillocks, a range in the distance sporting the vivid yellow of wild mustard flowers. Did I mention the Ferruginous Hawk I saw just before we dropped into Petaluma?

Sammiches and cokes from the Valley Ford Market (and our precious receipts!) and we're back on our way south to Pt. Reyes Station and the Bovine Bakery. We arrive there just after 2PM. Still making amazing time although we're all experiencing some degree of fatigue here and there. The strongest are waiting for the ... less strong ... a little more frequently, but in a very generous and team spirited fashion. We start together, we finish together. The Randonneurs have a saying: If you want to fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go with others. I am heartened because it is at this stop that I learn that we don't have to do Olema Hill and cut back over to Pt Reyes-Petaluma Road. Mentally, that's one pain-in-the-ass climb I did just sitting there with my peanut butter and jelly and coke. Check!

Anyway, up and down, up and down, stop start stop start lather rinse repeat and we find ourselves on Bridgeway in Sausalito - we have just left the bike path and are headed towards downtown proper. We're at mile... 115? The cars are backed up through Sausalito. I guess they thought jumping off 101 and avoiding the Waldo Grade by driving through Sausalito to the Bridge would be quicker. At some point, we've picked up "Popeye" - a muscle-bound gent on a pretty white bike. He got into the midst of our pace line. 4 in front, 2 behind him. So Andy went to pass him to keep the group together. Then I did. Next thing I know, he's passing me. But does he pass the whole group? No, he just catches up to the front line and stays with them. I guess being passed by a girl was too much for him.

So I blew his doors off up Alexander Avenue to the Golden Gate Bridge. And was so adamant that he wouldn't pass me again that I had my best time ever, even after 115 miles (+/-). It was fun.

We finished as a group, 10:35 after we started, spent and happy.

Post ride beers were at Kate O'Brien's - a Speakeasy Big Daddy and a Lagunitas IPA. Awesome day, awesome ride group.

What I did on my Facebook Vacation

I rode 372.3 miles.
I read 584/685 pages of Bonfire of the Vanities.
I discovered new and different ways to waste time on the internets.
I forged some new friendships.
I watched the Super Bowl.
I did not clean the house top to bottom.
I did not catch up on laundry backlog.
I did not catch up on paperwork.
I did not write meaningful and thought provoking blog posts.
I did not make gourmet meals for myself or others.
I did not watch Downton Abbey.
I got a lot done at work.

The Bro

I looked all over the men's department. Didn't find one bra there.

Mu

On a bike, friction is not your friend except when cornering and stopping. Then, a little friction is, at the least, helpful.

In a relationship, too much sameness can make things a bit dull and familiar. A little friction is required to create a spark, but too much friction creates chafing.

It's a fine balance.

Facebook Free February

I'm weakening... help.

Best Laid Plans

So... tomorrow is the beginning of a new season of training for the Death Ride. I should be waxing poetic about how none of us knows what's going to unfold, the friendships that will be made, the challenges overcome, the personal triumphs and failures from the relentless march of training pressures. Instead, I sit here, typing under the influence of a 2 hour telephone conversation, most of of bottle of wine, and marveling at the perfection of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich - on toast. Here's to the idea that the insomnia, the misfiring car alarm, and the alarm clock will, for once, sync up.

The Ride That Wasn't.

Did a scouting ride today with Kurt and Jim  to see whether this "interesting" road that Jim discovered a few weeks ago would be a good training ride candidate. Fresh meat! Let's go! 

Nearly every ride I've done in the off-season has been on roads I've ridden before. I knew what to expect, what to dread, how much energy to put forth and how much to keep in reserve. Today's ride had the element of surprise - a road only seen on a map and by an elevation profile. It looked okay... And Jim drove it... 

Sure the road was pretty. The creek tumbled and burbled next to us as we climbed and climbed. Loosely dotted with homes ranging from ostentatious mini-mansions to what-are-they-cooking-in-there shacks, the narrow road winded its way up and up. Yellow-billed Magpies laughed at us as we struggled by. Even as I watched 14, 15, 17 and, yes, 26% grades flash by on my Garmin, I still had the lung capacity to bellow at Fearless Leader just how much I loathed him at that particular moment. Besides the truck with boat trailer passing me closely on a particularly steep and narrow stretch where I could have used the wiggle room to stay upright (I didn't - haven't rolled a bike in awhile!), and Jim's bike issues which cut the day short, it was a perfectly pleasant cold, gray day on a freaking steep hill, punctuated with a Lagunitas IPA and a fine burger at The Good Heifer. 

Mix Canyon: 3, Intrepid Riders: 0

As always, a bad day on the bike beats any day not on the bike.