Wild Iris Roads

“What time are we rolling? 7:30?”

“8AM,” I reply.

“No, it was 7:30.”

“No, it's 8. Jim and I are in the Park and Ride parking lot and rolling at 8.”

“Balls. I'm going to be a few minutes late.”

But of course he would have been on time if we were rolling a half hour earlier?

Our party, this week being D-Squared Kjibby, headed to the Starbucks for our inaugural receipt on the Permanent that rolls from Novato to Cazadero and back. The route is a repeat of a Brevet we did in February with the Santa Rosa Cycling Club. The weather promises to be better than two months ago (wind! Drizzle! Rain!), but not as balmy as I had dressed for (sleeveless jersey and no knee warmers – it's APRIL!!!).

Over all, the route is moderately hilly, with 6,600 feet of climbing over 125 miles. The cruel part is the last climb is about 1.5 miles long and 12% grade for most of it at mile 108. But I can't start whining about  that now!

The marine layer obscures the sun. I'm committing the sin of wearing arm warmers and a sleeveless jersey, leaving the dreaded gap of my shoulder exposed. This is against the Rules, of course, but I am being practical about my poor planning instead of cow-towing to the absent governing body of the Velominati.

We roll at 8:25, heading out Novato Boulevard past Stafford lake. Short rollers cut through green hills dotted with Happy Cows ™. We drop to Pt. Reyes-Petaluma Road and cut to Hicks Valley Road, the approach to our first bigger climb of the day. I like having a good climb earlyish in the ride. The effort gets my blood moving and my muscles warm. Otherwise I feel somewhat sluggish for far too long. Wilson Hill is marked by a sharp blind right turn. If you haven't downshifted just before the turn, you will either fall over or break your chain, for you are turning into a wall. Fortunately (?) our group has done this climb many times and we are prepared.

The only way for me to tackle a wall like this is to get my legs spinning as fast as they can with whatever momentum I may have accumulated and then gradually slow to an impressive 2mph pace. For the first 100 yards or so, I'm out in front. Then Kurt passes me and I eat his dust. It's a fine dust. Only the best dust for me. Then Denise. I pace her as best I can, mucking on to her wheel from 30 feet back. Then. I hear breathing. Heavy, raspy breathing. Great. A freaking pervert is chasing me up Wilson Hill. He pulls just close enough to where I can see who it is literally breathing down my neck. I look over at him. He doesn't make eye contact. (Don't notice me coming up on your left to pass you. Whistle whistle). I push harder on the down stroke. Nothing is said. The grade levels (well, shallows) imperceptibly. I pedal harder and pull off maybe 20 feet. The sound of his breathing fades a bit. This effort puts me a little closer to Denise and I pass her. Alas, there is hill left. The slope kicks up again and she's now ahead. The breathing behind me is more distant. The top is in sight. I push harder again and find myself in front of Denise. I start to relax. I begin to let my guard down. The summit is right there! From nowhere, heavy breather is sprinting to the finish. Bastard! I dig down with everything I've got and pull away. I hear him laugh and congratulate me. We both hope we won't pay for it later in the day. Our friendly competition set the tone for the day. We traded wins and barbs most of the day and made each other work harder than we had to to get the job done.

With an out and back, what goes up must come down. And, alas, what goes down must also come up. The fun and fast descent on the north side of Wilson Hill would lurk in our minds for the next 8 hours. We would be climbing it at mile 108. Which is just plain rude, I say.

stock photo stolen from the internets

But in betwixt, there was bucolic countryside. And in between, fields of wild irises, Highland Cows, Tomales Bakery and lunch in Cazadero. But we needed to run the rollers between Tomales and Valley Ford. The first one is a sharp reminder that we have sat too long at the bakery and eaten too many cheezy-bread sticks (loaded with butter) and our legs have cooled off. It hurts. Soon the energy returns to our legs as the pastries enter our bloodstream. It's quick to Valley Ford. We lament as we pass Freestone Bakery. We lament as we reach the top of Bohemian Highway in Occidental that we're not stopping at Barley and Hops. Jim, Kurt and Denise are ahead. I check on Dave, see he has crested and take off down the hill after DK-J. When I catch them, I've got some speed up and I shoot on past. I maintain for awhile and then ease up. It's lonely out in front and more fun to ride with my buddies. We hit Monte Rio as a group and turn to the west and onto Cazadero.

At some point during the ride, Jim has made a comment about the wind which I didn't hear. Based on Dave's reaction, it was something that would invoke the angry Headwinds Gods. Dave decides to teach Jim a lesson. After lunch, we head back whence we came. Kurt pulls for a long time, keeping us at a merry (personal record!) clip. Kurt rolls off the front and Jim maintains the pace. My butt is killing me, my legs feel fried and I'm whining on the inside. But I stay on. Jim leads us back to 116. We turn east and Jim rolls off the front. A strong pull for a considerable distance. Dave is now in front. He gives 3 pedal strokes and rolls off. As he passes, he says, “as soon as you are in front, roll off. We're going to make Jim pull.” Denise is now in front. She rolls off. I roll, and as I'm sliding back past Jim, I see him grinning. He knows something is up. Jim is out in front again, having had a 2 minute rest instead of the 20 or so minute rest he would have had.

We begin the climb back up to Occidental. It's mostly gradual and annoyingly long. I see my compadres pull away from me. I'm so weak. So pathetic. So tired. So-I have 50 more miles to go-whiny. Dave and Kurt are leading the way with Denise and Jim close behind. Kurt gradually pulls further out in front. I keep Jim and Denise in my sights, but am still a good quarter mile back. My quads are on fire, my butt is aching to the point of nausea. Finally, I pass under the Camp Meeker arch that spans the road. Close now, I tell myself. My psyche picks up a bit. “You're not tired, it says. This is what Getting Stronger feels like.”

So many of these rides I'm expecting to coast. Training for Death Ride the first season, every week was the hardest ride I'd ever done. So now I expect to be able to coast. I'm in shape! I tell myself. And yet, I see riders who are much much faster and stronger climbing the same hills and finishing the ride just as whipped as me. [But faster]. As a friend says, “Remember when you're whining, the other guy is whining too.” I've forgotten – or refused to remember – what training feels like. What it takes to get stronger. If the ride isn't hard, I'm wasting the day. When does it get easy? Recently I've been saying, “I don't want to work that hard” instead of Embracing the Suck.

The newspaper spins, the dates and headlines change and eventually, we find ourselves back close to the base of Wilson Hill (the hard way). [oh, you youngsters will never understand that reference]. Feeling low on life and low on confidence, I eat a shot block. We chat for another minute. Hmmmm. I'd better have a second one. The hill awaits. We pass a ranch driveway on the right. Hanging from the Bar is a life-size plastic (?) horse and a bicycle that has ridden its last ride. We take the fateful left bend that dips us down into the pits of despair where the Wilson Hill Dementors linger to suck out our life forces before the 12% grade. At least it's still light out, I say to myself. At least it's not raining.

Let the trudgery begin! I restart my new mantra. “I'm not tired....” Wilson is the last real climb. Once over it, there are the rollers on Novato Boulevard and then beer! Less than 20 miles to beer! Finally at the top, we negotiate down hill order. Jim is fastest so he goes first. I go next, then Denise. I tell everyone not to worry when I miss the turn, that I'm going to overshoot it and circle back instead of making that sharp left at speed or slowing down to take the turn. I lose a lot of momentum that way. It takes me a minute or so to catch Jim. We ride Hicks Valley pretty hard, having decided to regroup at the intersection. A jog back to Novato Boulevard and we're finished in 10 miles. 

A Permanent Tale of Del Puerto Canyon

When we rode this in November with the San Francisco Randonneurs, Del Puerto Canyon was a brown, dry dirge of a canyon. It was Bob Dylan without... no. it was Bob Dylan, complete with the nasally, atonal misphrasing that some interpret as genius. The writing is solid, but please, someone else sing it.

This day, we started at Starbucks (I know, I know, but the recipe called for it) at 7:45, duly retrieving our receipts at 7:31AM as instructed. Gulping our coffee, we headed off. The first leg is through the office parks of Pleasanton, through Livermore and then venturing out by a few wineries. Depressingly not open at 8:15AM – who doesn't need a major demotivator so early on?

Today was also the day of the Valley Spokesman Cinderella Ride – an all women ride supported by the men of the Valley Spokesman Club. We got a few friendly waves from the SAG support waiting for the 'Ellas to ride through as we headed towards our first climb.

Tesla Road is a gentle warm up climb. It starts fairly gradually, giving a few fits and starts to push on with some rollers to recover by. After a bit, the road kicks up and downshifting is in order. We are passed by many trucks hauling dirt bikes. Nearly if not all are very polite and give us lots of room. At the summit, there is a bike club gathering, having approached the peak from the other side. Only a few (the first arrivals) are there, waiting for the rest. I feel pretty good on the climb. I have good energy, it's not too hot and I'm paying attention to my nutrition. We haven't ridden very far so I'm not vulnerable to falling behind as yet...

Descending Tesla into Corral Valley is somewhat technical but not overwhelmingly so. The curves are banked properly. There are two turns – a right, then a left – that corkscrew down on you as you are in them. The cornering becomes tighter and tighter as you move through it. No spacing out here (or on any descent). Eventually, the road opens up into this incredible run-out. You're going fast, you have a 1-2% negative grade and you can haul ass.

For me, the first descent of the day is always a bit squirrelly.  It takes me a bit to remember how I fit on my bike, how my body moves with it, relearning my confidence in turns.... With Tesla, every time I've descended it, it has been at the beginning of the day. I'd like to correct that so I feel more comfortable!

Kurt climbed Tesla faster than us. He's a stronger rider and has been for some time. We're used to this.

On the back side, I descended last. I love a good run out. I love momentum. I will take that momentum as long as it will effing allow me to do so. As a short woman who carries some dead weight, I need to capitalize on my strengths. Jim hit the flats before me. No surprise. He always kills me on the downhills. On the flats, I knew I had my work cut out. I love love love sprinting. Give me a high gear and let me mash it. With a -1-2% and a tailwind? I'm invincible. So I hauled along. Eventually, I caught Jim, hollered “hop on!” and kept going. He accelerated and we paced along at a mighty fine clip, still wondering where Kurt was. After another few miles, I saw Kurt a bit up the road. We didn't sprint, but we gave no ground and closed the distance. “There you are,” he said.

The Central Valley is flat. It's really hard to know just how flat it is until one rises over a freeway interchange and sees the entire region from an elevation of 20 feet above the valley floor. F-l-a-t. We needed to traverse this from Tracy to Patterson before climbing back over the ridge(s) to Livermore.

“Oh, flat riding? What could you possibly say about this?” I hear you cry.

Crappy pavement. Tailwinds enough to make you think you're strong and glorious. Then headwinds to humble you. Your ass parked in the exact same position for 30 miles. Turn the corner. Cross winds. Turn again. Headwinds. More crappy pavement. Amazing how that improved once we crossed into Stanislaus County. Almost like the Sonoma/Marin border.

Finally, we reached Control #3, the highly delectable Subway spot in beautiful freeway-interchange Patterson. We ate, we quaffed, we did-the-necessary. And we were off. First turn is up a frontage road with crazy lumpy pavement (after all, it's really just a freeway on/off ramp, what's it matter?), under the freeway.

We approach the segment we've been looking forward to all day – and really, for the past six months. We rode in November. The clocks had just been changed to standard time, the light was flat back then. It was not a photographer's dream, shall we say.

Fast forward to April.

The first turn into Del Puerto Canyon reveals rustic countryside. This day, five or six cows were grazing in scrub near the road. Like meth addicts who weren't willing to venture further up the hillside to where the sweet grass might be. THIS IS HERE NOW! I heard them cry.

The canyon is broken up into several topographies. The road literally divides two. On the east side is orchard land. It's stony and rugged with steep hillsides.  Undergrowth almost makes it look neglected, but you know it's not. To the west, steep to rolling grazing land. Further in, the canyon morphs to more grazing, but with many many bee-boxes to give one hope about our agricultural future. There are amazingly steep slopes, some with bovines, some not.

What I noticed most was that the slopes, whatever their purpose, or wherever they were located, were blanketed with nearly the same green hue. What changed my perception was the under painting. Soils ranged from dusky to roan to mauve to rusty. Overlayed upon that was an airbrushing of emerald green with occasional highlights of yellow. The mix of the two presented a delightful palette that varied with soil, the angle, and steepness of the slope and how it faced the light. An artist's treasure.

As we rode, the hillsides grew steeper. Some places, the grasses didn't flourish beyond a certain altitude. Or the rain-facing slope was green but another plane was browner. Deeper in the canyon, the hills became rockier and the soil more gravelly. The road followed a creek which flowed gently away from us.

Because we were climbing. It wasn't steep – 1, 2 or 3% mostly for 17 or 18 miles. Of course, it looked flat. And the wind was blowing down the canyon, right in our faces. I commented that we'd like this breeze when we got to the Wall. Meanwhile, I felt pathetic and beat down and so so weak. I couldn't keep up and didn't want to try. I sat in the back, grinding it out in gears too low for the grade, having my own personal suffer-fest pity party. For 18 miles. That's a long time to be in your head in negative space. I called a time-out and we stopped at the park. My sit bones were aching, making me a little nauseous. I needed time out of the saddle. We regrouped and proceeded on. I dropped off the back again but I was okay with it. I needed to fight my own monsters.

At last, the sharp right-hand bend before the wall. I stopped, ate a GU block, took off my vest and redistributed my water. Beyond the bend, a 17% grade awaits. And when you can't go any slower and stay upright, a cattle grate. When you really need to keep your front wheel perfectly straight and your bike wants to weave. I held my breath and... made it! Loyal reader will know that this day marks the one-year anniversary of my cattle grate incident, so I'm especially wary.

Whether the GU block actually helped physically or mentally doesn't matter. It helped. Period. Once I was finally on the wall instead of dreading it, I felt better. It is steep. I told myself about all the other steep climbs I've done that are longer than this one. Sierra. Ebbetts. Rancheria. Ft. Ross. Last time, I stopped on this climb. I promised myself I wouldn't again. Ever. I looked for the markers that indicated distance from the summit. I remember roads and bookmark personal landmarks, even when I don't think I am. Sometimes I'm happy – oh, I'm here already? Other times: Where's the bloody mailbox with the thing?? Other people watch their Garmins – they know the peak altitude of the climb and watch how many feet they have left. Sometimes, they feel compelled to share that information with me. I don't want to know the numbers in advance. I don't want to count down: 1100 more feet, 1000 more feet, 750 more feet. That crushes me.

The summit opens up to grass lands and rolling hills. Finally to the Junction. A brief stop here, two more climbs then descents and flats, I reassure myself. Headwinds on Mines Road require us to pedal on the low grade descents. The same wind that had us ticking along at 24-25 mph in the morning was now in our face and we were pedaling fairly vigorously to maintain 17-18. As I said to Jim, at least we're getting a return on our efforts! 

Kurt had somewhere to be and rode on ahead. Jim and I enjoyed the brief downhill after the Junction and started up Horseshoe Hill (at least that's what I call it – the summit is a major horseshoe type turn that starts downward at the apex of the shoe). It had been a while since I rode Mines (6 months, to be precise) and I couldn't remember which came first: Horseshoe Hill or Ruthie's Hill, as we've dubbed it. Trudging along another freaking low grade climb that maxxed out at around 8% here and there. My quads were protesting, my ass was protesting, my stiff elbow was protesting. I was having an entire Berkeley experience whilst on my bicycle. Protests everywhere! I was lagging behind Jim. At the summit, he stopped to put on layers. I checked in: “You mind if I get a head start?” Nope. Off I went. We hooked up again fairly soon and pulled each other through the wind, trying to make the most of the elevation loss. The last sharp climb was beckoning and we pushed on. What were our options? At last, the top of the final real climb. From here on, it was flats and short rollers until the fantastic plunge back down into Livermore.

Jim led the way down and then pulled us back to Tesla Road in a show of power and determination. I clung to his wheel. 15 miles to go until First Beer. I could smell the hops. I could taste the Pliny. Life was good. Except for the freaking wind.

We pulled into Starbucks at 6:30, 10 hours and 45 minutes after we had departed. Happy to be done, happy to have done it.