tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13348828654574783422024-03-04T20:30:52.273-08:00birds, bikes, and beerstrong opinions about small mattersUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-17381657743382324312015-09-14T20:01:00.001-07:002015-09-14T20:01:05.718-07:00Finding my MojoIt snuck up on me, really. Tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Here I am. Let's go for a ride." It was a compelling enough invitation that I couldn't refuse. The mojo followed me down country roads. It challenged me to go a little faster. It pulled me into the wind and made me feel strong and capable again.<br />
<br />
Two days later, it said, "Let's do something harder." And I said yes again. Off I rode. The mojo luring me ever upwards. Staying just enough ahead to encourage and not so far as to discourage. And then I was surprised by the summit. "We're here already?" I wondered aloud.<br />
<br />
In both cases, the rides weren't my best, nor were they my worst. But I was once again having FUN on the bike and relishing challenges. And the fun factor made me say yes again to my first 200k in 6 months. Yes to committing and not flaking, yes to finishing instead of bailing, yes to Rule #5 when I hit a low around mile 85. Yes to taking my turn at the front of the pace line. Yes to the last 3 miles when my quads had nothing to give and my lower back was seizing and my ride buddies were 50 yards ahead of me and there wasn't a thing I could do to catch them.<br />
<br />
Who wants to ride?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-87917206019704122472015-08-09T22:09:00.004-07:002015-08-09T22:09:41.573-07:00Bee Stings and Broken Spokes<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a demoralizing ride a few weeks
ago after a hiatus from the bike after a downward spiral to a burnout
after going 19 months riding 200Ks... I saddled up again. Turns out I
committed to riding a 200K next weekend and thought maybe another
sojourn would be in order. I inveigled a hardy few who would be happy
to wait at hilltops as I trudged along in a cloud of self pity about
how out of shape I am. (fact: even on my best day I wouldn't be able
to climb with them).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Jason set the tone at the meet up: I
need caffeination. Where? Woodside Bakery. Ok. I hadn't been. I
didn't know. I wish I still didn't. We leaned our bikes outside and
entered into the lion's den. This, after I was saying that I'd soon
be wearing my cycling mumu because every day the scale has been
registering higher. Tray after tray of delights awaited - picture
perfect pastry porn. I settled on a cheese danish. The fluffy pillow
of mascarpone and who cares what else floated on a flaky pastry that
contained an entire stick of butter. Good coffee sealed the deal. We
ate, we drank, we took care of bidness.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We started up Old La Honda. It wasn't
long before Jason and Jenny were off the front, climbing like they
hadn't just done a climbing ride the day before. Denise and I were
still together, but soon she pulled away from me and I had only my
gasps for air to keep me company. Damn power-weight ratio, I thought.
Mine is upside down.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Old La Honda winds through wooded
slopes and horse property on the way to Skyline. It's a “pleasant”
climb on a hot day because of all the shade. The shade was a key
factor in deciding this route. It was gonna be hot and riding coastal
was the way to stay cool.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
About half way up, I was passed by a
cyclist. I looked – a youngster! He doesn't even have hair on his
legs yet! A little further along, I saw him stopped on the side of
the road. He may have been waiting for someone, or resting, or both.
I crept past at an impressive 4 miles per. It wasn't long before he
was back on the road. And passed me again. He was breathing a little
harder now. I heard his little tiny boy lungs trying to take in as
much air as they would allow. I took a wee bit of sick pleasure in
that. Twerp. So what he was one quarter my age and probably weighed
80 pounds. I'm not a nice person. But I pedaled anyway because the
hill isn't going to climb itself and my companions were probably at
the summit wondering how much longer... Another bend. He stopped. I
passed. I realized he knows nothing about pacing himself to make the
long haul. He was trying a big hill, probably for the first time, and
rode hard while his legs felt good and then they turned to crap and
he stopped. I started to feel a little more charitable but I couldn't
do the work for him. I passed him again.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He was now behind me. We were at the
street “Upenuf” - a more aptly named street doesn't exist. By the
time you get there, by God, you have gone up enough. I heard a man's
voice asking how he's doing and did he stop before. Yes, twice. I was
riding hard. The man (his Dad) gave him encouragement about how close
he was. He said we go to the left and then to the right and then
you'll see the mailboxes. Then you're at the top.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He misjudged it a bit but I wasn't
going to spoil that. The kid sat on my wheel. I lapsed into Coaching
/ Mom mode. I maintained my pace. Dad was happy to ride behind him
and I pulled him along. We went left. We went right. He looked up the
hill. More climbing! When is this going to end? You said.... Dad
replied that the bends all look alike and he was confused. The breeze
picked up a bit. I told him when the wind picks up it's a clue you're
near the top. Dad said You can hear the motorcycles on Skyline.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I pulled him to the mailboxes and the
stop sign on Skyline. Neither acknowledged my presence. Go me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the summit, my legs were trembling.
Jason, Jenny and Denise were having a chat with another cyclist. I
said to them I'm afraid if I descend I won't be able to climb back
out.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I descended anyway. Along the way, I
thought about the kid and his dad. So what they (the dad) didn't say
thanks for the pull. Having him back there was a gift. I focused on
something other than my own misery for the last section. That was
worth a lot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The descent down West Old La Honda and
84 is a hoot. The old road is technical and sometimes steep with
lovely views. We regrouped at the intersection to the main road and
hauled ass towards San Gregorio. The road is well maintained and well
engineered. Down we flew and stopped at the market in San Gregorio.
The pee stopped morphed into a soda, an admire-that-guy's-Steelman, a
snack, an exploration of a long dead fish with a flag stuffed in its
mouth dangling on a barbed wire fence.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said That Little F*cker isn't going
to ride itself. Jason said are you talking about Stage Road or is
that what you call your bike? He broke out into a That Little F*cker
song and My Little Bianchini had a new name which she would
obligingly live up to later.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We climbed Stage, descended and climbed
again. Denise kindly gave me the illusion I was keeping up with her
on the climbs. The final descent towards Pescadero ends in a two mile
(?) flat stretch. I was a few bike lengths ahead (The Little F*cker!
By a half wheel!) and I heard the three of them squeal (yes, really)
Pigs! They're so cute! Piglets! We were on a mission though. A
mission from Goat.
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWofcpZ-bWctZuXaW2Ak32TOXLF5DCd4HN1L9cR3hFuvr1TQChs-8XOLuMcIVqEBeTptqNr9SVgyRXZLFHqTTiOiy0aPiLuHO5B8TacEDiLnSXKqYgowaKo7lDWV5A0_nbw35GHKTEi9js/s1600/photo+%25289%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWofcpZ-bWctZuXaW2Ak32TOXLF5DCd4HN1L9cR3hFuvr1TQChs-8XOLuMcIVqEBeTptqNr9SVgyRXZLFHqTTiOiy0aPiLuHO5B8TacEDiLnSXKqYgowaKo7lDWV5A0_nbw35GHKTEi9js/s200/photo+%25289%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
A quick left turn before the Pescadero
Metro Area put us on the path towards goats. Specifically, Harley
Farms - a goat farm I've been visiting since the early 00's. (I held
a young kid there and fell in love). The road is gator skin and there
are lots of holes to dodge. OW! WTF! I just got stung by a bee! First
time in forever and maybe the first one on a bike ride?<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were disappointed that the goats weren't very accessible. There were a few does in the barn but it was
long past kid season. Still, we got to scratch a few nubbins and gaze
into their oddly slit eyes. Jason became the goat whisperer. We
consoled ourselves with a few samples of cheese and rode to
Pescadero.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXGgHqwlhBBoOiOAKbFxPwAb4lbbAWU1gKaSTe6SPWwUGQRXOYTIuanFat2AP27C_FFycWeB7d9RqKTZIbvgFQByHBb8xQLEIWjDllWECqIZqQUXiBtWOAFXLamE3bzP5p1qDl5cSyinB/s1600/photo+%252810%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWXGgHqwlhBBoOiOAKbFxPwAb4lbbAWU1gKaSTe6SPWwUGQRXOYTIuanFat2AP27C_FFycWeB7d9RqKTZIbvgFQByHBb8xQLEIWjDllWECqIZqQUXiBtWOAFXLamE3bzP5p1qDl5cSyinB/s320/photo+%252810%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason and the ArGoatnauts<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the market, the sandwich line was
slow, but no one was really in a hurry, especially us. It's taken us
about 4 hours to ride 30 miles. The market has tables and Kybos (Andy
Gumps, Porta Potties, Honey Pots...) in the back. Jason took a chance
on a cherry red soda thing. He said I hope it doesn't taste like
Robitussin. He tasted it – ugh. Like Robitussin. Like cream soda
and grenadine. I tasted it. Spectacularly awful. I was content with
my Snapple and fun fact (Pelicans can hold more food in their beak
than in their belly). Some bored teenagers were enthralled with the
yellow jacket trap and the handicap porta potty. I lamented how awful
it must be to grow up in Pescadero...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We explored our options back: Which way
is shortest? Which way is flattest? We must stop by the pigs! So back
the way we came. A dozen or more (too cute to count) pint size pigs –
bigger than true piglets but not full bore, um, boars. Black with
black snouts and big floppy piggy ears. At first they ran as we
approached the fence but then they relaxed and curiosity got the
better of them. They trunkled soft little grunts and snorts. Somebody
got stepped on and SQUEAL!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We worked our way back up Stage. My
amnesia prevented me from remembering how long the second climb was
even though I had descended it 90 minutes before. Starting back up
Highway 84 to Alice's Restaurant (not that one, but there is an
homage to it) we were blessed with a nice tailwind. We rotated the
pace line until the road kicked up a smidge and I fell off the back.
We stopped at the La Honda market for a tinkle that ended up being
another extended stay. Who cares? We weren't on deadline and we
didn't need any receipts!!
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Little F*cker's name got cemented
here.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Climbing 84 was not nearly as fun as
descending it. At 3PM, the traffic was fairly constant but the
drivers were mostly respectful. Still, the shoulder was narrow –
especially at the steep bits? - and the sun and heat became a factor.
Again I was alone but I didn't mind.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was thinking about how I almost quit
at the top of Old La Honda. I realized that I've been having a crisis
of confidence for awhile. But climbing the last climb, yes the
traffic is unpleasant, yes it's hot, yes it's a slog, I realized that
I don't need to doubt myself. I'm not fast, I may never be a fast
climber, but I can get it done. Riding with faster people makes you
faster over time. Sometimes there's a psychological toll – always
being the one someone is waiting for begins to feel like a burden.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Speaking of, as I rounded the bend at
the turnoff to West Old La Honda, Denise was waiting. She said she
was unsure of whether we were to turn or not, but mostly she was
being kind. We rode and chatted between bursts of cars. I heard a
TWANG! Felt a little pop. Did I just break a spoke? Denise said,
well, you're still rolling. Then, you should check your rear wheel
when you get home. It doesn't look true. Yeah, I broke a spoke! Still
rolling, we determined that my spoke wasn't flopping towards my drive
train or creating any other hazards and we decided to check it at the
summit.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We met up with Jason and Jenny at the
top. Jason took preventive measures with my spoke. The rim was
hitting the brake but the tire wasn't rubbing the frame so a minor
adjustment, a wobbly wheel and down 84 towards Woodside we went.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Twas a fun day spent riding with people
I don't frequently ride with. Now Jenny is off to Paris for PBP and
Jason, Denise and I will ride a 200K next week with more friends.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I broke a spoke on That Little F*cker.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-36306263704680296952015-07-03T11:58:00.003-07:002015-07-03T12:01:05.915-07:00I got nuthin'I've lost my cycling mojo. My little Bianchini leans against the armoire in the living room and mocks me. Bike number two has become a dog gate to the bedroom and bike number three has flat tires and no seat. It's a sad state of affairs and I find myself inertial. Waistline expands, climbing muscles atrophy.<br />
<br />
What's to be done?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-82959665308089127132015-03-22T22:09:00.001-07:002015-03-22T22:13:14.689-07:00Maresy Dotes and Dozy DotesI met some 5 day old Nigerian Dwarf Kids today. It doesn't get much cuter.<br />
<br />
Video isn't great (sorry).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw2WOPbguElYRpJH3XLNmYQ5Eqo2c1IsfhvdkxwcA_mqaZ3Y2YR5aT6DqNgu757XdkyBSu07PB2aklvv8gdTg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-68439614245318313732015-03-11T21:01:00.001-07:002015-03-11T21:01:56.694-07:00A Permanent with Small Craft Warnings<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Davis to Rockville by way of Dunnigan
is supposed to be a fun, flat and fast ride. The idea is to start
early in the morning so the prevailing afternoon breezes work in the
cyclist’s favor. For these reasons, Rob chose this ride as his
reentry to Randonneuring after a foot injury. He needed to get his
200K for February continuing his streak to 74, making my 19 month
streak seem paltry. Based on his description of beautiful rolling
green pastures, tailwinds and a brewery stop (duh), I joined19
cyclists at 7AM in Davis for a 200K ride.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs2R4nSZ0WsnvyGr26F_75hS9Vcjv1-uPh0_ilw_q95F0zXk_nTAshoV96R9SA52hiFDvQM4x-TmzTtnKrWNbN-ahxQ3F1XGYdaCskvLVpZl64RGGXs0NfQ1hVap0k7TLdstBzLh_aqBKd/s1600/davis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs2R4nSZ0WsnvyGr26F_75hS9Vcjv1-uPh0_ilw_q95F0zXk_nTAshoV96R9SA52hiFDvQM4x-TmzTtnKrWNbN-ahxQ3F1XGYdaCskvLVpZl64RGGXs0NfQ1hVap0k7TLdstBzLh_aqBKd/s1600/davis.jpg" height="320" width="270" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The first clue something might be amiss
was a glance at the weather on my phone. Little “gust” icons
dominated the hour-by-hour breakdown beginning at 10AM. I hoped this
foretold of winds working with us. Driving to Davis at 5:30AM
revealed a different interpretation of time as it related to weather.
It was already gusty; the trees lining the highway stooped like old
men. The wind pushed my car around and my roof-mounted bicycle
functioned as a main sail. One does not simply tack upwind at 70mph.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In the parking lot, we prepared for the
day. I had dressed for 65 degree weather. Fortunately, I had brought
the arm warmers and leg warmers! My brevet card was anchored under my
phone lest it become airborne, never to be seen again. Best decision
of the day was buying coffee for my start control receipt. At least
it was warm.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Off we went. A strong cross breeze kept
us alert as we headed west. Too quickly, we turned north. Into the
wind. At first it wasn’t completely in our faces but the result was
the same. We struggled to maintain 9 and 10 miles per hour. After
Woodland, we headed northwest directly in to the wind. I found myself
off the back of the pack. I could see a group ahead of me. Like a
rabbit in front of the greyhound, just out of reach. I was operating
close to capacity and could not catch them. Rob stopped and waited
for me – on a fixie with one foot clipped in and his ortho-booted
foot on a flat pedal. He started up and I was quickly dropped again.
I battled the wind again, trudging head down trying to keep a low
profile. A bit later, Jason backtracked for me. He stayed with me and
patiently pulled me up to the pack. Once there, I vowed to stay
within the protection of the group. Unfortunately, Kurt got a flat.
Having fought headwinds alone for 5 miles, I knew I had to stay with
the group. If it hadn't been for Patrick, Darrell and Drew doing
major pulls....
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Three hours and 25 flat miles later, we
reached the first control which also marked a change in direction. We
sat on the sunny protected side of the building and waited for the
riders that had been culled from the herd.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the next few miles, we would have
cross winds and rollers. At times, the road cut below the lip of the
hill and we had a brief tailwind. But then we’d emerge from the lee
side and be blown asunder, sometimes across the full lane. I had to
be careful not to lean too hard into the wind in case it suddenly
stopped and I would find myself in a ditch.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At last, we turned south. Glorious
south. Our 25 mph headwinds suddenly became tailwinds. I found myself
accelerating up hills and wishing I had a 10 tooth sprocket to drop
into. The grasses showed silver as they bent with the wind. We flew
over the miles. Over time, our group of 19 fragmented. I found myself
riding with Denise and Kurt. John and Yogy leapfrogged us but we
arrived at the turn-around control together just as the faster group
was departing.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We steeled ourselves for headwinds on
the return. We had some exposed suburban riding that paralleled the
freeway – always windy but today was a special treat. Where we flew
an hour earlier, we again struggled to make forward progress. Turning
on to Pleasants Valley Road was a relief. Denise and Kurt and I were
spread out, not taking advantage of a pace line to rest. Instead we
were each pulling ourselves. We were too far apart and it was too
windy to suggest otherwise (in wind, no one can hear you scream).
Wind and a gradual ascent depleted my mental and physical reserves.
It was now mile 90 and not mile 20. It felt like a 1000 mile march.
Just. Keep. Pedaling.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pleasants Valley Road isn't completely
cruel. The first two mile straightaway into the wind was sadistic.
The road becomes more protected, although it's still a gradual climb.
There is a summit to Pleasants Valley masked by bends and trees.
Suddenly, the pedaling gets easier. A last little hurdle and we were
to Highway 128, which meant about three miles to BEER!
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I turned into the loose gravel
parking lot at Berryessa Brewing, my main concern was not falling
over in front of my cycling buddies. But then Sarah handed me a
double IPA and all was right with the world, at least until I got
back on my bike for the last 15 miles. Denise left before Kurt and
me. We, with our red taillights and bright headlights, opted to relax
and finish our beers. We pulled back onto 128 in twilight. The wind
had calmed itself a little. We ground out the remaining miles as the
sun set and the stars appeared. The lights on the horizon were our
destination and we monitored them closely to see if they were getting
any closer, any brighter.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Twelve hours later, we turned into the
starting parking lot and greeted our friends over a beer. Lanterne
Rouge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was a difficult day. The ride itself
was challenging. But I had prepared for a low key ride and rode hard
instead. The scenery was lovely, especially when we turned west of
Dunnigan. Rural California has its charms. And some really crappy
roads.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What I will remember from the day is
the wind. Wind. You can see where it's been, but you can't see it.
You can hear it though. So many different sounds of wind I heard that
day. A headwind is deafening. The roar in your ears obliterates
ambient noises. One has to speak purposefully to be heard. Tailwinds
are nearly silent. Subtle differences between the whoosh when the
breeze catches a mature leafy tree and the rustle in a smaller tree.
The whine of overhead electrical wires. The lonely squeal of a rusty
gate straining against its lock. The hiss of grass blowing.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What I will treasure from the day is
the sense of community. We worked together, we suffered together. We
celebrated together. It was epic.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-34634535224993471162014-12-15T22:52:00.001-08:002014-12-16T10:28:32.541-08:00The No-Cheese-Stick-No-Goat-Flatbread-125-Mile-Two-Flat-What-Am-I-Doing-Here-SB2-Birthday-Ride<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Woke up. Rear tire was flat. Changed it quickly but the good floor pump was in the car. Arrived on the verge of late. Snap decisions –Reflectorized vest and ankle straps, purple vest… Don’t need the other jacket, it’s not going to rain. Pumped tire, checked food stash. Rode to the Safeway meeting spot. Five minutes to spare! Made a pit stop, grabbed a banana and got my start receipt. Phew!
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">The low, dense fog was not a warm welcoming blanket. I realized that maybe I should have brought my jacket sleeves; descending Lucas Valley was g</span><span style="line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">oing to be c-</span><span style="line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">c-c-c-old. I consoled myself with the idea that the sun would break through and it would be a great day.</span></span></div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1418698208273_2228" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">We took off. I knew I was riding with a fast field. Good mudders, they were. The gates opened and the pack sorted itself. I drew an outside slot and was several lengths behind the leaders by the first turn. Then the climb up Lucas Valley began in earnest; while I could see their blinking tails for a bit, it wasn’t long before the field stretched out. My compadres waited for me at the Rocks. Descending, it was still darkish. Lucas Valley Road is often damp in the summer with some slick shady corners. Although I anticipated wet roads, I was surprised to find it drier than summer conditions with a few trickles crossing the road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">At Nicasio, the reservoir - nearly dry for months - was at last replenished. It shimmered silver in the mist. We got our first taste of the greens we’d see all day; the happy cows hungrily grazing the tender shoots. Next, the long side of Cheese Factory Hill, and the second of many climbs. While I could keep up on the flats, mostly, the climbs were going to break up our group of five all day, with mostly a 4 – 1 result. I inwardly hoped they wouldn’t lose patience with me. The sun shone briefly and we soaked up the warmth of the few rays squeaking through.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKR5f20xlYm435c7lfkuuvpxVrPhcE0q63-MiA2Ongg3uhyphenhyphenU-ghm0axjnURlJKzxc8qkG83Y_S1mOGWMH4BWeddG9oDpZpt8Uhs6pNrF_P7u6xOxxASfmoNYYWsXq7pD2i9T-IVITpddgm/s1600/hicks+valley+-+senter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKR5f20xlYm435c7lfkuuvpxVrPhcE0q63-MiA2Ongg3uhyphenhyphenU-ghm0axjnURlJKzxc8qkG83Y_S1mOGWMH4BWeddG9oDpZpt8Uhs6pNrF_P7u6xOxxASfmoNYYWsXq7pD2i9T-IVITpddgm/s1600/hicks+valley+-+senter.jpg" height="185" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">photo by Eric Senter @2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">Hicks Valley Road led us to Marshall Petaluma Road – a winding and scenic drawl through Marin countryside, leading up to the Marshall Wall. As we approached the climb, a flock of pheasants trickled across the road making gentle clucks and landing in field below the road. Skies were brighter, but not yet blue. The climb warmed me some, but I was still glad for my knickers and arm warmers. Looking ahead at the group, I saw their fluorescent-pastel jackets muted by the fog. Scott in blue, Sarah in coral, Ann in orange, Eric in yellow, and me in purple. We were a basket of Easter eggs climbing silly two-wheeled machines up a steep hill, allegedly because it was fun. Crows cackled overhead, mocking our foolhardiness. Crowing, really. I reached the others as they made good use of the stop time to grab a quick bite.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Tomales Bay</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">Descending the west side of the Marshall Wall is always a treat. Lots of straightaways mixed with some fun turns, a few rises for natural braking and then the last plummet to Highway 1. Right after the turn onto Highway 1, we have a short climb which is always an insult – It’s short, but steep enough to get your attention. As we descended the north side, BANG! Scott’s front tire blew off the rim and down he went. Fortunately, he had a soft landing and a few scratches, popped a tube in and off we went. And rode north to Tomales. And past the bakery. (gasp!) Wait. What? We are riding PAST the bakery? This ride has just become a dirge. No bakery?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iprDUa-N2FGbhJiHVdBw_IwToClrib0IkxH1t89gCZK5XfeY7KD6iGvSm1Lnr0qD3MhqyDUzKtv-sLNQrh0uWk1yfwMGBAlqtAyutsLwudiSvnZRrV4UmpMdPJ1oR9Hjgearc-FctDfz/s1600/highway+1+cows+-+brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iprDUa-N2FGbhJiHVdBw_IwToClrib0IkxH1t89gCZK5XfeY7KD6iGvSm1Lnr0qD3MhqyDUzKtv-sLNQrh0uWk1yfwMGBAlqtAyutsLwudiSvnZRrV4UmpMdPJ1oR9Hjgearc-FctDfz/s1600/highway+1+cows+-+brown.jpg" height="131" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">photo by Scott Brown @2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">I don't think I've ever ridden up 1 past Tomales-Petaluma road, not stopped at the wonderful Tomales Bakery and just continued up the hill towards Valley Ford. Mentally I had prepared - Sarah had an agenda - something about finishing by midnight - and rode on we did. Although I was feeling the miles without a true break, my legs felt pretty good on that steep little bump. I'm usually trying to digest a nice buttery cheese twist while climbing. Over the second rise, ahead on the left, cows were purposefully moving towards the road and fence. Black and white bovines began to trot and were picking up speed. Making whipped cream? The ladies broke into a sprint towards the fence. As I got there, I saw. Across the road, the horses had just been fed hay. The cows saw The Man With The Hay and thought it was for them, forgetting about the fence and the road. As much as cows can, they looked displeased and lowed in protest.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloauQbjbMQyhWvCuRRJtbhymJdHPy1cNObWJA6rCVrUsbnP833OTwPdeYSZlzexNJdtQ9JioM_yOcNiAMsD8uG1zStblUU3KE7Y-gMOkX06zQokD4yDkPT-41cXSn6C0dT5IWy8tGSFil/s1600/bovines+-+senter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloauQbjbMQyhWvCuRRJtbhymJdHPy1cNObWJA6rCVrUsbnP833OTwPdeYSZlzexNJdtQ9JioM_yOcNiAMsD8uG1zStblUU3KE7Y-gMOkX06zQokD4yDkPT-41cXSn6C0dT5IWy8tGSFil/s1600/bovines+-+senter.jpg" height="182" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Eric Senter @2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">next to the Valley Ford Market</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: inherit; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">Valley Ford Market offered us warmth, hot coffee and cocoa and sandwiches. And Alvin & The Chipmunks doing Christmas Carols. I said to Ann, “If I lose the Little Drummer Boy game on an Alvin & The Chipmunks version, I think I will shoot myself.” We held our breath as each new song came on. Made it out alive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">On the road again. Last report showed Valley Ford Freestone Road was closed due to flooding. It was dry as we passed through except for some water running across at the top of the rise. We made the left onto Bohemian Highway towards Occidental and the next two climbs. And passed by the Wild Flour Bakery. Okay, this is Sarah’s Weightloss Plan No Bakery Ride today. Up to Occidental. I said to Sarah, “I guess we won’t be stopping for a Winter Warmer at Barley and Hops, either.” Left onto Coleman Valley, past Barley and Hops.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">Coleman Valley is a gorgeous road – as in you climb up to the lip of a gorge, drop down into the gorge, and then get to climb back out of the gorge. The flat spot at the bottom gives the legs a chance to rest and the scenery is, um, scenic. Now we were in Sonoma County which meant poor road surfaces. Much of the road was shaded; the recent rains sent small branches, debris and leaves to the road. Picking our way up the climb became a welcome distraction to the 25% grades we were negotiating (too frequently); maintaining traction while pulling myself up the hill was a challenge. I thought to myself, “I’m not sure if it’s good that I know I can stay upright at 2mph on a bicycle.” </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Scott Brown climbs Coleman Valley - photo by Eric Senter @2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">The last nasty pitch I was talking myself up. “This is gonna suck, but you can do this. You’ve done it twice before. It sucks, but you can do it.” About the time I thought my heart would pop, the 28% “leveled” to a reasonable 11%, then a tiny downhill through some trees and finally some rollers. The road broke out into the open. At last, the rendezvous point at the Info control where the speedy kids were waiting. My quads were quivering. I stretched. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBHb0eeCjoNt_ZUclWTCLUx6z72d6USqCfZGz5vS1fGnBEEh0PtNRvomnOai_vm2PmqsibSkhfU6nvO1n4BWl_AODNXwNkLHXKQGQhJnmhN0hUuBicccHlh0SAklBezs62MWWFRXaYuWj/s1600/coleman+valley+-+brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBHb0eeCjoNt_ZUclWTCLUx6z72d6USqCfZGz5vS1fGnBEEh0PtNRvomnOai_vm2PmqsibSkhfU6nvO1n4BWl_AODNXwNkLHXKQGQhJnmhN0hUuBicccHlh0SAklBezs62MWWFRXaYuWj/s1600/coleman+valley+-+brown.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Scott Brown @2014</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333320617676px;">We did our paperwork and departed. Eric needed to replace a battery. He said he'd catch us; we agreed to wait at the foot of Coleman Valley Road at Highway 1. He's a strong rider. So the four of us took off - Sarah and I in the front and Ann and Scott a little behind. We encountered a small lake (at the top of a very large hill, yes) that we coasted/pedaled through. And then the first cattle grate. I was a little nervous; wet tires + cattle grate = broken elbow. Made it through fine. Sarah and I tootled along at a good clip, passing a Highway Patrol Officer parked on one side, a PG&E worker on the other side. We gaped at the view. I've written about it before, but the top of Coleman Valley Road is a very special place. Maybe because you feel like you're gonna die getting there. But 360 views - we could see the amazing and powerful flood plume of the Russian River pushing mud far out into the Ocean. Luscious green undulations to the East, Ocean to the West. It's why we live here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">As we descended, a team of cyclists was coming up the "hard way." I held my steel bianchi in check down that monster wall, only to let it go towards the flats. So much energy was held back that the Little Bianchini charged ahead nearly out of my control. I reined her in, the frisky filly. Not without a tad of adrenaline. Sarah and I waited at the foot of Coleman. Scott arrived next and Ann shortly after. And then we kept looking up the road. And checking out the ocean view. And looking up the road. What if. Do you think? Who's going to? Then a woman popped her head out of her car window. "Eric's ok. He had a flat. We offered to give him a ride down, but he said, 'No! I won't get credit if I do!'" We laughed and thanked her and settled in for a little wait. It was chilly, though. We walked to the cliffs. Then we dug the mud out of our cleats. Chatted some more. Finally, Scott said, "What if he had another flat and he doesn't have a tube or something? I'll ride back up and see if he needs anything." We sent him with provisions (a tube anyway, it wasn't Donner Pass after all) and he bravely rode back up Coleman Valley towards the Wall. Twenty seconds later, he reappeared with Eric in tow. Bullet dodged, boyscout points logged. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">Once on the road, I realized I was quite chilled and called for a stop in Bodega instead of waiting for Valley Ford for a water stop. Coffee warmed and energized and off we went again down Highway 1. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">Out of Bodega, Highway 1 is a long gradual climb for quite a ways before it turns to rollers. Some times of year there's a nice tailwind to accompany it, but we were happy to not have a head wind. We were tight together at this point, trudging along on a mild grade. Even I felt like I could keep up. A car passed us. A straw hit my face. Cold. Chocolate. Ice. Someone had thrown the remains of a chocolate milkshake at us. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">Yes. Really. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">I caught most of it. We decided to have a Rorschach moment later. Having stopped in Bodega, we bypassed Valley Ford and headed up 1 again. Ann dropped her chain; Scott waited with her. I knew I needed to keep riding, being the slowest of the group. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But at the top of the hill, I stopped anyway. Took a picture. The greens were calling to me all day. Brighter than emerald. Shamrock, someone said. Yes. The color of the grass at Tinturn Abbey in September. My tiny phone lens didn't capture it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">My legs were pretty toasted at this point. Fat girl on a heavy bike. GREAT for downhills. SUCKS for uphills. Flats were fine once I got the freightrain moving. We headed back towards Petaluma. Once Coleman Valley Road was out of my way, I was free to have anxiety about the next climb, which was Red Hill out of Petaluma. Technically, Petaluma - Point Reyes Road, but sheesh. On a bike who has time to say all that? So another shorthand, along with Wilson Hill, Marshall Wall, etc, is Red Hill, which precedes Cheese Factory Hill. I mean, duh! So this beast. Red Hill. Done it a few times. Once feeling pretty good. Once feeling pretty bad. Today, going into Petaluma at a snail's pace and feeling pathetic... Looming. Looming. Insurmountable. Who can I call. Then I ate. Had more coffee! (Coffee! did someone say coffee?). We mounted our steeds. Left the parking lot. Oh, wait! I forgot to turn on my helmet light. Crap! I don't have my reflector vest on! The party of four moves up D, unawares. I fumbled, hurried, got the jobs done. As I approached the first bump, I saw that one of the blinking lights ahead of me wasn't moving. Waiting. Eric. Thanking him, I explained what happened and we chatted for a bit about how we got into the crazy sport of randonneuring. He pulled ahead. I caught up to Ann on the descent; her lights didn't have the power mine did and she didn't want to outrun her headlight. We rode for awhile, til the road kicked up again and off she went. I was fine climbing alone. I had lights, I knew there weren't any 28-effing-percent-grades and I'd get there. At the top, the Fab Four were waiting for me. They had taken a vote: I had the best lights, I should go first. And, besides, I was riding a tank. Finally, I felt like I could contribute something and pulled for a wee bit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">We climbed Cheese Factory, descended the fun part and turned onto Nicasio. We were now on the home stretch. Once I got over Red Hill, my brain shifted. Oh, I can do this. I've done this part a 1000 times. I know what's left and I can do it. May not be pretty, but I've got this. For a tad, I kept up with Sarah and Eric. At Nicasio, they rounded the bend and were just tiny red lights in the distance. I turned around, saw white lights trailing me. I love riding at night! At the turn onto Lucas Valley Road, Sarah and Eric didn't stop to regroup. Okay! I'm the weak link, Scott and Ann will catch me. If I waited , I'd be struggling to keep up. So I plodded up Lucas Valley. Frogs frogulated. Kept pedaling. Turned around. No lights. Hmm. Well, they're together. Kept pedaling. Whiff of skunk. Oh. Must be a skunk around somewhere (thinking I was in my car going 50 mph). Interesting, I thought. Til I saw this black and white creature trundling along the side of the road with its tail up. Now a skunk's maximum speed is about 10 mph. I was probably going around 8.5. I was tired and it was a mild incline. When the skunk registered, I crossed over into the other lane as far as I could, thankful for lack of traffic, and rode on, not knowing (at that moment) how fast skunks could run. Fortunately, they are not predators who chase down foe. They dig for grubs and do hand stands for defense. Still, riding the next 10 miles smelling of skunk was NOT on my agenda. Sorry, no pictures. Behind me - still, no lights. Hmmm.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">Finally, the last little pitch before Big Rock Hill (the, er, top). Turned around. Saw a light. I'm doing my best caterpillar impression as Scott graciously called out how nice I was to let them catch up. Me, a wheezing caterpillar with legs like jelly after 120 miles. I said I was stopping at the top for a second and that I take this descent v-e-r-y slow. They went ahead. My light was on bright. I went slow. Hit a rock. Something hit the deck. Shit! What was it? I stopped, realized it was just food in my bento box and not my phone or wallet, and continued on. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">Scott and Ann's lights beckoned and teased me from afar. I tried to catch them. Saw Bambis on the right. Thanked them for not bolting in front of me. At last, the turn onto Galindo. I climbed that last little bump hoping to latch on. Descended towards the Safeway. They had been caught at the light. It was green. I powered forward to catch up. Just before I entered the intersection the light turned yellow - red as I crossed. I had caught up. We finished together. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.3333330154419px;">When you are chilled to the bone? Irish Coffee is the best post ride beer. Just Sayin'. </span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-78457298150378175482014-11-16T09:42:00.000-08:002014-11-16T09:42:25.653-08:00Right Church, Wrong PewA Series of Unfortunate Events (apologies to Mr. Snicket)<br />
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8:30PM Saturday<br />
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I shouldn't be writing this right at this moment. I should be sitting with the other randonneurs who participated in the Dart, a team event in which teams design their own 200k route to converge on a meeting place at a specific time (namely, 13.5 hours after they started). Teams must not exceed 5 bicycles and of those, at least 3 must finish together.<br />
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Team Will Ride for Beer started with four riders, one with a hinky back. For a change, I was first to arrive at our meeting spot - the Martinez train station. From there, our filed route was up to St. Helena and then over the ridge at Lake Berryessa to drop to Winters and then on to Davis for the convergence on Sudwerks.<br />
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We rolled out shortly after 6. Almost immediately, Kurt exclaimed (well, maybe something less family friendly), and stopped to examine his bike. His rear shifter wasn't working and he only had two speeds--slow and slower. Or spin and spinnerer. Levers were flipped and released, cables examined. Kurt knew he couldn't ride 125 miles with two gears. None of us could blame him.<br />
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6:15AM and then there were three.<br />
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After obtaining our start control receipts at Safeway, the fearless trio was underway. Phil set a challenging pace up Franklin Canyon. We turned on to Cummings Skyway as the sun appeared. The clouds had a Wild West, high chaparral feel to them and were daintily pink-tinged. One of the Richmond refineries pumped out pink steam. The parched hills glowed in the donzerly light, appearing far more lush then a closer inspection would reveal.<br />
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After a wicked descent down Crockett Boulevard, we turned our attention to the Carquinez Bridge. The light was still muted, the Strait calm and reflecting pastel blues and pinks far below us. A small craft headed south, its wake disrupting the reflections.<br />
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Barely halfway across the bridge, I heard a familiar voice muttering something about silly cyclists who are willing to ride 13.5 hours just for beer. Don't they know you can buy it in stores? Mr. Hawks, our illustrious RBA, and his team of three rode with us for a bit. We visited and discussed our routes, potential meeting places for the final (beer) control in Winters. And then he apologized in advance for not leaving any tomato basil pesto pizza at the Model Bakery in St. Helena. Hmmph. We stopped at our control and off they went.<br />
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Our route took us through familiar territory. First, Lake Herman Road. It's a series of rollers that starts with a modest climb that is over rewarded by the following descent. Then a few little steep bumps that can be powered over with accumulated momentum. Finally, a last little climb and fun downhill to Lopes Road.<br />
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Lopes Road is one of those roads that has headwinds in every direction. No matter which way you ride, the wind is in your face. Or maybe blowing you sideways. This morning, the wind was absent. Strange but true. We appreciated the favorable conditions as we rode towards our next control. I spotted an American Kestrel (male, for those keeping score at home) and pointed it out. "Kestrel?" Jim quipped. "I thought they just made bikes."<br />
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After Cordelia, our next hurdle was Wooden Valley to Highway 128, which takes us up and over (and down) into Napa. I have always enjoyed the scenery in Wooden Valley. Vineyards and goats. What's not to like? But the road itself has always sucked my soul. It seems flat but climbs at 1 or 2% and sometimes 4. Nothing huge, but when a road looks flat but still feels hard, I question my abilities, acknowledge that I must indeed suck at this bike thing and whine a little more inwardly. My riding companions may differ with the "inward" statement. Whatever.<br />
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But recently, I had the chance to do Wooden Valley in reverse. And experienced a really fun and fast ride back to the flats from 128. I realized the net downhill on the segment and forgave myself for past and future suckiness. This mental shift made Wooden Valley downright pleasant today. And there was no headwind.<br />
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At the T of Wooden Valley and 128, we stripped, denatured, and prepared for the climb to Napa. It was cool, but not too, breezy, but just enough, and travelled, a bit too much. Cars passed briskly and a bit too close, but then a good citizen would come along and remind us that not everyone is a freaking douchebag.<br />
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At last we hit the Silverado Slog - I mean Trail. It's pretty and smells nice. Wine fermenting, lees and must composting near the vineyards. Vines decked out in their Autumn best, creating a patchwork tableau of oranges, greens and yellows depending on the grape variety. In the morning it's fairly pleasant. The wine tourists haven't arrived yet.<br />
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Things were starting to go South with Jim. He kept falling back. We realized his back must really be hurting. We got to St. Helena and he fessed up. He couldn't put any pressure on the pedals and could only spin. He was done.<br />
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1:45PM. And then there were two.<br />
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We all had lunch - or cupcakes - and, yes, I got a piece of that pizza, and discussed our options. The two of us could finish the ride and not receive credit, or we could ride back to Martinez and call it a day. We decided it was 125 miles either way so we opted to finish at our car instead of in Davis, which meant missing the bike party.<br />
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We saddled up and started down the Trail, taking turns pulling and maintaining a robust pace. We elected direct over scenic. Traffic and urban was our game. We got a tour of Vallejo. Our plan was to ride the revamped bike path along the Carquinez Strait. It's flat and along the water, they said.<br />
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It's not, and getting to it isn't either. Then Phil mentions the road might be closed and we may have to ride the short steep section of McEwen. I say, if the road is that bad, can we walk it? We arrived at the barricades and shined our lights at the closure. Let's try. What's the worst that can happen? We turn around? We made it through and continued on to where the road closed for the bike path. We carried our bikes over the one-way spikes. I tripped and gave myself a flat shoe - damn spikes. We started (up and) down the road. Past the bollards and onto the path. A dream surface. The lights of Martinez shimmered on the water. A few small lizards warmed themselves on the pavement's retained heat. They didn't run - the path was just opened and they weren't conditioned to the lights and sounds of bicycles. We were not perceived as a threat, and we did our best to dodge them and not become a threat. Leaving the path deposited us on some crackly road and a few more little bumps.<br />
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6:46PM. And then we were finished.<br />
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12 hours, 26 minutes and 120 miles later, we were back at the train station. We did the distance, ended with a beer, but didn't end up in the right place. Two November attempts at my 200K (R-16) and now the real test is on to maintain the streak.<br />
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It wasn't the ride we planned, but it was a great day on the bike. I'd never ridden to St. Helena just for lunch, but I'd do it again.There's something satisfying about being under your own power and self-determined in your pace and destination. As I said to Phil on the home stretch, I keep doing these rides so I can <i>keep</i> doing these rides.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-40031699131318359002014-11-02T14:39:00.001-08:002014-11-02T17:29:52.026-08:00A Brief BrevetWe watched the weather all week. Early on, I said if it was raining at 6AM, I'd roll over and go back to sleep. That's me, a dedicated Randonneur. Fortune would smile upon us. It was clear and I arrived uncharacteristically early to the start.<br />
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We rolled at 8 after taking the Secret Randonneuring Oath, which is a morally and legally binding contract. The solemn ritual completed, we mounted our trusty steeds. Not too far into the ride, Jim noticed his derailleur was rubbing. New bike, cable stretch. Some fellow randos stopped and looked for pliers in their kit-no luck. We kept on. Jim's back was hurting, so in addition to the extra resistance, it was painful to pedal. Jim regretfully threw in the towel and Kurt and I rode on.<br />
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Descending Tesla, I heard a bang and an "oh, shit!" From Kurt. I stopped and turned around tentatively. Kurt was okay, but had a front blow out. We used his last tube. My pump didn't seem to be working right. He couldn't find his CO2 thinger (technical cycling term).<br />
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What to do? Call Jim! No reception. I rode back up the hill in search of reception. Yay! Tesla repeats!! Nothing at the top. Damn you, AT&T. I descended to the first driveway and reached Jim.<br />
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We made a plan and up Tesla I rode to relay the info to Kurt. Near the top, I got waved down by a truck. Kurt was in the passenger seat. He had trudged to the top and then hitched a ride. I gave them the driveway address where I had had reception and we waited for Jim there.<br />
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24 miles and 2100 feet of elevation, great company and post ride beers a little earlier than we thought. We didn't do the 200k but it was a great day anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-4245821110124267552014-10-31T11:51:00.001-07:002014-10-31T11:51:56.631-07:00Happy Halloween!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKqJod-rJZE35ZwDgIzyd9aC85htOjz6g84fp-xeHLevwJnHeokvMMUoKt2NUnqp7a28-4hyphenhyphenTndfc6cX66Fph8L8QllZeqDDxuRmq8_7xsShAPvgCJvrcV50FVBcKOvjCs0JIqQsGELZC/s640/blogger-image--1814748839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHKqJod-rJZE35ZwDgIzyd9aC85htOjz6g84fp-xeHLevwJnHeokvMMUoKt2NUnqp7a28-4hyphenhyphenTndfc6cX66Fph8L8QllZeqDDxuRmq8_7xsShAPvgCJvrcV50FVBcKOvjCs0JIqQsGELZC/s640/blogger-image--1814748839.jpg"></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-48822840453989275472014-09-28T13:03:00.002-07:002014-09-28T13:03:42.513-07:00The Bianchini Rides Again - A Ride for ALSLast week, I DNF'ed a 200K because the bike was feeling squirrely. Tire rubbing, chain clanking and chattering, spokes pinging. My legs were fine but I lost my mind. I mean my mental discipline. Confidence in my steed. No time to get the bike looked at or the wheel trued before Saturday. It was the Bianchi's turn in the sun this week.<br />
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The alarm chirped crickets at me at 4:45AM on Saturday. I was riding a century for ALS (why freeze with a bucket of ice water when you can sweat? and, oh yeah, you get to eat more this way) -- roll time 7AM in Napa. Even after all this time I wonder why I willingly get up earlier on Saturdays to sit my ass on a bike seat for 10 hours than I do during the week to sit in a comfy office chair. Monday - Friday, snooze, snooze, snooze and maybe one more snooze? Then Sunday rolls along and I awake without an alarm and in a panic because surely I have overslept for something!<br />
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It was chillier in Yountville than it was at home. After having ridden so many self-supported rides, participating in a supported century ride with SAG stops meant I could travel light. A small amount of packed food - the usual energy bar chopped up into bite size pieces in the bento box, some GU blocks for quick energy and the mandatory caffeine, but no bananas and PB&J, trail mix, hard boiled eggs (food I tend to take on a 125 mile tour and return to the car with it still in my bag). So advance preparation, while minimal, still afforded me the opportunity to forget my arm warmers. Corinne offered me a spare pair but I decided to tough it out. It wasn't that cold and I tend to run warm when riding. I regretted my decision only briefly.<br />
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Much of the route was familiar, set in eastern Napa County. We started out Sage Canyon and climbed gradually by Lake Hennessey. From Lake Hennessey, we climbed gradually through Pope Valley. I had ridden this way once before on a sweltering day in June when I first returned to cycling. I suffered on the climb - hills were much harder back in 2010. We passed through golden hills, vineyards still adorned with glittering purple jewels, followed a creek through cool woodsy areas.<br />
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Where my familiarity ended was the turn up Ink Grade. I'd heard lots about it since 2010 but this was my first time up it. It's a long climb with a section of pitchiness. Various parts reminded me of other climbs I'd done: Old La Honda, Tunitas Creek, Morgan Territory, the lower part of Mix Canyon; Even in its unfamiliarity, it was familiar. Seeing the sign "You're halfway to the top!" was a bit discouraging. That's a data point I'd rather not know. Ink Grade is a taste of wild Napa County. Grassland and Live Oaks, modest country houses scattered hither and yon. After 4.3 miles and 1058 feet of climbing, we reached the top.<br />
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More important than hearing about the climb, I had also heard what a fun descent Deer Hill Road was. I was not disappointed. Descending the 7.5 miles made me realize how long we had been climbing. It also reminded me of just how freaking fun my Bianchi is. She's a bit heavy, especially with the rack on the back (and the girl on the seat), but corners like a dream and picks up speed like a freight train. Days like this make me wonder why I abandoned her for flashy titanium.<br />
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The Deer Hill descent ended abruptly at Silverado Trail. We were half-way done and turned north to find Sterling Vineyards and the next SAG stop. We were back in the "flats" again. Silverado Trail is busy with car traffic, but the vineyard scenery is nothing to take for granted. The road rose gently above the valley floor. An updraft perfumed the air with the smell of fermenting must. I nearly got weak in the knees thinking about the reds I smelled burbling from juice to wine. We ambled along Bennett Lane. We rode past Clos Pegas. I was stunned at the clunky grey concrete; battleship meets walmart meets federal penitentiary. Heavy and foreboding and trying too hard.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtYc5rBtCJqMYACFj_r-1zb4CGKfbQGSenfD2LdKRuQK0QEp0uwLYCDiPCj6qheIzg-r0JZ74P2XlPOeEYAVEYYOX3vK8gTUBhyphenhyphenlwO5ln5orSHHqIjdAkDjka1kWqj29U-0bL0x22bjPt/s1600/IMG_2672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtYc5rBtCJqMYACFj_r-1zb4CGKfbQGSenfD2LdKRuQK0QEp0uwLYCDiPCj6qheIzg-r0JZ74P2XlPOeEYAVEYYOX3vK8gTUBhyphenhyphenlwO5ln5orSHHqIjdAkDjka1kWqj29U-0bL0x22bjPt/s1600/IMG_2672.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a>Crush! Grape trucks carrying loads of full half-ton bins, porta-potties (kybos!) being towed to vineyards being harvested. Fruit dropped in the vineyards that was moldy or unevenly ripened and didn't make the harvest bin.<br />
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I passed a church and idly wondered where the church ladies were and why no one was selling pie. Don't they know there are cyclists out here who need pie??<br />
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Oft times, the Trail is plagued with headwinds in every direction. We had a good day. Breezes were mild, there were cautionary signs telling drivers that there were cyclists on the road, the sun was warm but not too warm. I pulled us along for a bit. Every stop delayed TTFB (Time Til First Beer). I was getting impatient and ready to be done. Maybe the caffeine was finally catching up, but I felt stronger at mile 70 than I did at mile 20. There must have been a tailwind...<br />
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We happened upon a group of strong young cyclists. Somehow, we were passing them. Wow! We must be having an amazing day! Corinne dropped her chain and we pulled off to fix it. They passed us. A mile or so down the road, we caught up with the first (technically, last) cyclist of the group. I noticed. No shifters. No brakes. Fixie. Ok, so that's why we caught him... and we kept catching other members of the group. Fixie. Fixie. Fixie. Finally, we passed the leaders of their pack. I slowed and said to them, "I knew I had no business passing you before, but now I see the Fixies." We had a laugh and continued on. I praised the Goddess of Derailleurs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bJGuZHC3GA3VTuY9PcO1lha7MpflBTge8J81q4kzOYeeuN6zOOqCZWrrHZqQVwyah4K0EPgvylICNzFJxSZS6ZUZze4Fz9uWB7-yucIypmoHPPwALUr5P8fLGWa5te9RdVv8WVARB5-w/s1600/IMG_2674.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8bJGuZHC3GA3VTuY9PcO1lha7MpflBTge8J81q4kzOYeeuN6zOOqCZWrrHZqQVwyah4K0EPgvylICNzFJxSZS6ZUZze4Fz9uWB7-yucIypmoHPPwALUr5P8fLGWa5te9RdVv8WVARB5-w/s1600/IMG_2674.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>At last we were back at the start. We had a warm welcome and cheers which always makes me feel a little silly. My goal: find the beer before it's gone. <a href="http://www.lagunitas.com/" target="_blank">Lagunitas</a> is very generous with their charity events. There was still some IPA left. Life was good.<br />
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Corinne and John and I noshed a bit and celebrated our efforts.<br />
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He is why we rode: <a href="http://www.pressdemocrat.com/home/2850759-181/a-cyclist-in-need-a" target="_blank">Paul Stimson</a> and others affected by ALS.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-89018641182399158282014-09-26T11:38:00.001-07:002014-09-26T11:38:39.871-07:00Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAtBFM4roMxKwAVPOv_-7tP1SCBv22yiLjOQn_XvhI3Up1sBx4AquctG7Y11YUlpXIc7fFboAUPtqlkuE4i1ekfo9FvjWfAtHvh3ToKIWe_sxCFv5w36h7VdS3UIC96ASG-0qAzJG9aD_/s1600/distance+chart.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAtBFM4roMxKwAVPOv_-7tP1SCBv22yiLjOQn_XvhI3Up1sBx4AquctG7Y11YUlpXIc7fFboAUPtqlkuE4i1ekfo9FvjWfAtHvh3ToKIWe_sxCFv5w36h7VdS3UIC96ASG-0qAzJG9aD_/s1600/distance+chart.JPG" height="400" width="227" /></a></div>
This here is a visual representation of my rides since I got my Garmin in February 2012. The green dots at the bottom represent my commute distances. The orange-brown dots at mile 125ish show my R-12 efforts.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-81922044774591432552014-09-08T13:59:00.001-07:002014-09-08T13:59:20.544-07:00Doing it in the DarkLights were assembled and mounted. Tail lights were charged. Bottles filled, drive train cleaned, dog transferred for the night. A short nap, dinner and a last minute stop at Trader Joe's landed me at the appointed park and ride with scant minutes to spare. As this is my usual unfortunate modus operandus, I hustled into my warm layers, pumped my tires, tried to remember what I might be forgetting and headed over to hear the pre-ride download.<br />
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It was 7:50PM.<br />
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I was about to embark on my first full overnight ride: a 230K brevet from Hercules to Davis. Mostly flat with a few bumps but no epic climbs to speak of.<br />
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The group of 29 riders left promptly at 8 after taking the sacred Randonneur oath. The first climb sorted us into different pace groups. We had five: Ann, Denise, Ed, Eileen and me.<br />
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We passed the oil refineries in Crockett. It smells better at night, or it was the wind.... Crossing the new Carquinez Straights bridge was a treat in the dark: far less traffic noise and less wind than in daylight. I was surprised to see people walking it at 8:30. Where could they possibly be going? Perhaps they thought the same of a cadre of neon lit, reflectorized and redundantly illuminated cyclists who passed by with a friendly "on your left."<br />
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Our next town was the badlands of Vallejo. Poor roads cutting through an older depressed shopping district. Although: Royal Jelly Donuts. Do they think it means what I think it means?<br />
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A few minutes later and we turned onto Columbus parkway: a left and immediately up. It was here that I discovered I may have overdressed. As we climbed, I heard a rustle to my left. A surprised raccoon crouched and stared from behind a wire fence, while trying to interpret the sights and sounds of five bicycles and their humans.<br />
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Lake Herman road is so pretty in the daytime with steep golden hills and happy California cows. An initial climb is followed by a fun descent which morphs into rollers and a final pop to the top. From there, you can see Suisun Bay, what remains of the mothball fleet and a refinery in the distance. At night, the colors muted to greys in the moonlight and the sodium vapor lights shimmered on the refinery towers. The road surface is spotty, however, so the downhills were approached more cautiously than in full sun.<br />
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We turned north onto Lopes. The first 100 yards or so is sheltered by a knoll. We turned the bend and were hit with it: headwind. A sturdy one with some nice cross gusts to keep us honest. Or swearing. Lopes is only about 8 miles, but felt longer due to the wind and knowing that we would soon be at our first control. Food! Caffeine!<br />
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We found some fellow randos at the first control. Hi-dee Ho's exchanged, they pulled out as we got organized. Receipts to be gained, body fluids to be lost/replaced and a little nutrition to keep us going til the next control.<br />
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Our next control was just outside Cordelia. The trail of breadcrumbs from faster randos began here. Most of a jug of water was left for the followers. We didn't dawdle - our next control was at the turn around at the Safeway in Davis.<br />
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Passing through Cordelia, we at last left the suburbs and industrial/office parks and were now riding rural. A deer started on our left and raced in the field ahead of us, allowing distance to cross safely in front of us. Good Bambi! My thoughts briefly visited other wildlife that had crossed in front of me on other rides: bear, fox, coyote...<br />
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Riding at night is timeless. There are few external cues to mark the passage of time. Shadows don't shorten and then lengthen. The light doesn't transform from soft to harsh and back to soft again. Cows aren't waiting at the gate for the grain delivery.<br />
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The moon follows our turns and migrates slowly across the sky. We felt that it was getting fuller as the night progressed. We couldn't see our computers. We rode off the grid. We went as fast as we wanted without the pressures of maintaining a certain speed, although we weren't riding slowly. At times my quads felt fatigued from the pace but then there would be some relief. Each little dip and ride presented a new nano climate. Warm, cool, cold! The cool air kept us alert. Ed was a good sport and pulled us through much of the wind.<br />
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When we arrived at the turn-around, I was surprised to discover it was 1;45AM. Time passes even in timelessness. Of course riding nearly 40 miles takes time, but mentally, it was still 11:30PM, just as it was when I last looked at my Garmin at the last control, in the way that you forget children continue to grow even though you haven't seen them in a few years.<br />
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At the Safeway, the Rando Fairies had left us part of a package of cookies. Life was good. I diagnosed what was rubbing on my wheel and Denise came to the rescue with a zip tie to button down my light cable. Ed scored some twist ties from the produce department - how was it that he saw them and I never did??<br />
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We embarked, stopping a few times to check the route sheet. Are we going the right way?<br />
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A large heavy winged bird crossed in flight ahead of us. "An owl!" I exclaimed. It landed on a telephone pole above us and peered down. I shined my headlamp on it. Ed said, "You saw that?" "Um, yeah. I'm always birding when I bike." I replied. It was too dark to identify and it never made a call. And I don't know my owls very well....<br />
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Passing by Winters on Putah Creek Road, I remember back to the first time I rode it. How miserable I was. Exhausted and a little peeved and no doubt bonking. It was five years ago when I was first returning to cycling. At the time I had ridden 30 miles and was tuckered out. Tonight, I felt pretty perky despite the hour and the miles already in my legs. Mentally, I acknowledged my progress.<br />
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Meanwhile, the same demons follow. We have to ride back Lopes Road in that wind! We have to ride Lake Herman Road into a headwind! When is the next control? Okay, I'm whining. I must need to eat.<br />
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We began speculating where we might be when the sun came up. But first, a Bio-break. Who needs one? Ed was a little ahead so we elected to stop. We were riding on Pleasants Valley Road; it was about 4:30AM. We hadn't seen a car in about an hour. We pulled over to a wide spot on the roadside that wasn't someone's front yard. We heard a rumble. Saw lights. Right then, our hands poised on our respective waist bands to get ready to let fly, a large pickup slows. I thought he might pull into the shoulder to see if we were okay. Ann! Your bike! She pulled it out of harm's way. The driver slowed and then drove off.<br />
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What are the odds? A road empty for hours and the one time you want a little privacy in the darkness...<br />
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We reached Cordelia. I craved an Egg-type sandwich. You know which kind. Ann mentioned a breakfast "burrito" at 7-11. I stayed with the group. I looked longingly at the Denny's. We each devoured a dry and tasteless burrito of a non-breakfast variety. Yum. I continued to look longingly at the Denny's. The Rando Fairies have left us water and a Mexican Coke!<br />
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The moon has set over the western hills. Now at Lopes Road, we were getting the same head/cross winds we had eight hours earlier. Ann worried about the headwinds on Lake Herman Road. "We'll do it no matter what," I said. Ann replied, "But one way it won't suck." </div>
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And we got through Lopes Road. And it wasn't as bad as I had been dreading. And we got through Lake Herman Road and it wasn't as bad as Ann had been dreading. And now we reversed our course through the badlands of Vallejo in the donzerly light. People were starting their Sunday as we finished our Saturday. At the end of the Carquinez Bridge, we met some cyclists waiting for their ride group. 'Morning! Did they think we were just starting out, I wonder, as we chugged up the hill to the Vista Point. </div>
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It's frustrating to hit a bunch of red lights on the home stretch.<br />
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But then we pulled into the parking lot where Kimber and Bruce had fresh coffee and fresher donuts waiting for us, the Lanterne Rouge.<br />
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I can't wait til next year!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-41807256392024612662014-08-19T23:01:00.001-07:002014-08-20T00:12:04.714-07:00Felton-empire grade and the lies that ridewithgps told meWe pulled out of The Farm promptly at 10:15, only an hour and a quarter past our planned start time. Morning delays and a let's-change-that-tire (a good thing since the tire we removed was disintegrating as it pulled off the rim) and a round up of the wily shepherd, lightening of the load and other preride bidness and we were off! Being a chicken-shite, I pushed my bike up the gravel driveway hillock while JB rode. Show off.<br />
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Then we were off down the driveway, through the gate and further down the hill to the main road. (I said to myself, this is going to hurt on the return). </div>
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The first turn put us onto a lovely shaded road, dappled sunshine and a dry creek bed. I got a little ahead (guilty again of starting out with too much vim and vigor, hopefully not paying for it later). JB called out "left on Bean Creek". He passed me at the turn and took off fast. I was wearing my sunglasses and in and out of sharply contrasting light and frustratedly couldn't go as fast as I wanted to keep up. I tend to take first passes at a descent conservatively, not knowing angles and road conditions. </div>
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Bean Creek seemed a popular thoroughfare. Several cyclists were climbing as we descended. Although it wasn't killer-steep, I was happy to be on the downhill side of things. </div>
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I was, however getting concerned. I knew we had a big climb ahead. I knew the numbers. I had drawn the route. Still, As we continued to plummet into the abyss, the tangible aspect to the climb ahead was becoming increasingly - er - tangible. As in, I'm going to have to climb the f*ck out of this on my way to the Coast. </div>
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Our next turn put us on a fairly Trafficky street. The name escapes me at the moment. A great descent into Felton. The pavement was grooved; I worried a bit about a groove catching my tire but really, the traffic was more of a concern. I'd like to return and do the descent at 7AM instead of 11AM. Even at a conservative pace, it was fun and fast. </div>
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The road leveled out as we approached Felton. We stopped at the traffic light and waited our turn. Across the street, coincidentally the exact direction we were headed, the road turned into a wall.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> "That's a welcome sight," I said. </span></div>
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"Felton-Empire Road," the street sign replied. </div>
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When JB proposed the ride, I said, I can climb. I'm okay with steep as long as it's not 4 miles at 15%. Give me the major roads. I drew the route on ridewithgps - the site I normally use for routes. It tends to inflate overall climbing. I magnified the climb on F-E and traced it with my cursor. A few glimpses of 11 & 12% but mostly 7 & 8%. Doable, I thought. </div>
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And so we cross the intersection and immediately climb at 15-16% for a good quarter mile. THIS was NOT on the menu! Leveling out to single digits (ie., 9%) seemed flattish. </div>
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The road became slightly more forgiving for a bit. But then I remembered. We have 2000 feet to go and about 5 miles to do it in. Which means.... Flat here = suffer there. Soon the road turned into the trees. We wound around. Hairpins became a little tighter, a little steeper. I was scared to look at my Garmin. I frequently saw silly readings of 16, 17, no! 21%! grades. Then 12% seemed like a relief. </div>
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At one point I saw the grade creep over 30% - even to 35% - but I believe that had to be bogus. Or I was in deep denial. Fortunately, whatever the truth, it didn't last long. Like many other roads, as we neared the summit, the climb became more gradual and our energy returned. My inner stinker surfaced: I'd been ahead by maybe 50 yards the entire climb and when it came to reaching the summit, I wasn't about to give that up. I up shifted and stood in the pedals and sprinted at a whopping 8mph to the stop sign. Want my autograph? </div>
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Yeah. Exactly. </div>
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We crossed Empire Grade and descended Ice Cream Grade. I've heard of this - it's a hard climb and there's no ice cream! WTF! However, "luck" was with us and webhappened to be traveling in the proper direction on Ice Cream Grade. A fun and steep descent turned into a gradual climb as we approached Pine Flats. </div>
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We were still mostly in shade, the canopy protecting us from over exposure. </div>
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A left turn onto Pine Flats started us on our way on the true descent to the coast. Fast, sweet, fairly good road surface with decent sight lines made for a fun drop towards the coast. I have ridden in the area before but have always descended Empire Grade (also fun!). </div>
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Forgetting that Pine Flats turned into Bonny Doon, I mistakenly turned us to the right when I saw the Bonny Doon street sign. I figured it out quickly without too many bonus miles (thank you, Death Ride training) and we resumed on course. </div>
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I had forgotten the two 2 mile stretches of Trucks on Cheese: descending 10% grades that awaited us as we screamed to highway 1. What a blast! </div>
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Highway 1 greeted us with magnificent tailwinds. We hauled ass to Santa Cruz in a personal best kinda way. To maintain the scenic nature, we followed West Cliff Drive past the lighthouse, down the slope and by the Boardwalk. Lemmejussay, if you've ever ridden your bike across the Golden Gate Bridge on a Summer weekend, you will understand my pain at riding by the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. OY!</div>
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After tootling through Santa Cruz (because you just can't race through there: Banana Slugs don't race) we had one last bump before the home stretch bump. It was getting warm and the road more exposed. We took it slow. </div>
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Finally, we were back at the approach road. Surface: bad. Turkeys: present. Hills: f*ckyouverymuch. You know those houses with the driveways that are long and steep and you see those and say, "damn, I'm sure glad I don't have to ride up *that* at the end of a ride"</div>
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So on my way past the turkey and the gnat cloud, which was quite enamored of me, and before I almost veered into a ditch and fell over, I saw at least one 25% grade flash on my Garmin display. It was precisely at that point I realized that we had failed to purchase post-ride beer. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-85999388838469628742014-04-15T09:10:00.001-07:002014-04-15T09:10:06.268-07:00Wild Iris Roads<div class="MsoNormal">
“What time are we rolling? 7:30?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“8AM,” I reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, it was 7:30.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, it's 8. Jim and I are in the Park and Ride parking lot
and rolling at 8.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Balls. I'm going to be a few minutes late.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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But of course he would have been on time if we were rolling
a half hour earlier?<o:p></o:p></div>
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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!!!).<o:p></o:p></div>
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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!<o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <a href="http://www.velominati.com/the-rules/">Velominati</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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 <b>had</b>
to to get the job done. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPY28po_nHz3q0fvXak9sdu7_yOn0hZOK8Ce9XGV-ZWJDMBzwr4JOhkIjfKMmPEyMowlzPQqaAkCJjLFfXAQjgTTS9MuD7IYsaxbXXkt2WPfEgqVuojZeE97nQs8pl23k64YbOVMnF3bV/s1600/highland+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPY28po_nHz3q0fvXak9sdu7_yOn0hZOK8Ce9XGV-ZWJDMBzwr4JOhkIjfKMmPEyMowlzPQqaAkCJjLFfXAQjgTTS9MuD7IYsaxbXXkt2WPfEgqVuojZeE97nQs8pl23k64YbOVMnF3bV/s1600/highland+cow.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">stock photo stolen from the internets</td></tr>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-34394214748880075302014-04-11T09:38:00.001-07:002014-04-11T09:38:15.010-07:00A Permanent Tale of Del Puerto Canyon<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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?<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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...<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kurt climbed Tesla faster than us. He's a stronger rider and
has been for some time. We're used to this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh, flat riding? What could you possibly say about this?” I
hear you cry. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fast forward to April. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <b>longer</b>
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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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! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-90484207609887560452013-11-26T12:17:00.000-08:002013-11-26T12:17:37.568-08:00Another Lesson in Humility<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I bow my head, helmet in hands... </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-38129783968261321942013-09-21T13:16:00.002-07:002013-09-21T13:16:38.476-07:0011% Can Seem Flat<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Not
letting a small brain injury (was relieved that the cat scan revealed
that there actually <i>is</i> 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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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... </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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. </span>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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?</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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%. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The
only, I mean <i>ONLY</i>, 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. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">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!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-71711087179760731052013-05-10T09:29:00.003-07:002013-05-10T09:29:36.689-07:00Clearance, ClarenceI'm allowed to ride my bike again!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUrwblMInF4QyJTIsyNa5mqEhZgmOWTGB8w0QQMsZWU-7__1iYhyL89Vmu-4wVdFev1yuEN8WadgGKlUJ-AUXqhNvuZDPLsm5450V0Gh6GoTcaEajs4F4vdR3LNlj-EusBfI2C7wvinhn/s1600/snoopy.dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZUrwblMInF4QyJTIsyNa5mqEhZgmOWTGB8w0QQMsZWU-7__1iYhyL89Vmu-4wVdFev1yuEN8WadgGKlUJ-AUXqhNvuZDPLsm5450V0Gh6GoTcaEajs4F4vdR3LNlj-EusBfI2C7wvinhn/s1600/snoopy.dance.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-11787716399445445792013-05-09T07:16:00.002-07:002013-05-09T07:17:32.075-07:00Benched4 weeks and counting. I am not a nice person when I can't ride my bike.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-27383072562667633092013-04-08T09:29:00.000-07:002013-04-08T09:29:59.513-07:00Best Day EverThis happened:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7sT9nWRh-pjxtBPYVoaQcvCSTu1ZuYeFUyDfRgPJpTdR7UoY3ByMG7lHfgFyXDb9hq2HTjKtihAzSGJIvT9wIAWP6rFe44ANqJqpXDXsR6Qsv2X2YOPL7m7nQ6544319wI4NAXycRtg3/s1600/531906_10151425629608005_1523759244_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7sT9nWRh-pjxtBPYVoaQcvCSTu1ZuYeFUyDfRgPJpTdR7UoY3ByMG7lHfgFyXDb9hq2HTjKtihAzSGJIvT9wIAWP6rFe44ANqJqpXDXsR6Qsv2X2YOPL7m7nQ6544319wI4NAXycRtg3/s320/531906_10151425629608005_1523759244_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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but I didn't tear my new cycling jacket.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-18061314295880460382013-02-26T21:52:00.001-08:002013-02-27T08:48:52.195-08:00Why I Ride on Unfamiliar RoadsRiding 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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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Not to say that it won't suck. It will just suck less than you think.<br />
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And you'll go home, upload your ride and say to yourself, "Wow! I did that faster than last time!"<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-24024202042304341712013-02-25T23:28:00.001-08:002013-02-25T23:35:38.205-08:00Route 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<br />
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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 <a href="http://srcc.memberlodge.com/">Santa Rosa Cycling Club</a>. At 7:02AM we departed Healdsburg and headed north towards Boonville, east to Ukiah, and then dropped south back to Healdsburg.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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aaaaaaaaaaaahahahhahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa<br />
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heh.<br />
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the.joke.is.on.you.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <sigh> </sigh> After dropping down one particularly steep descent, Phil's wheel was looking really whacked, so he took the entire brake pad off one side.<br />
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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.<br />
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Ukiah is the home of Masonite. I did not know that.<br />
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Fast forward to <a href="http://www.davesbikeshop.com/">Dave's Bike Shop</a>. 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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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? <br />Aw, f--k. That says "slide ahead." Holy mountains, Batman. When will this end?<br />
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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.<br />
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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!<br />
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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.<br />
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Post ride beer: Bear Republic Apex (strong IPA) - worth the drive. Worth the ride.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-47208552039649950532013-02-18T19:10:00.002-08:002013-02-18T19:10:22.218-08:00Trainings and BrevetsAs 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.creekmonkey.com/">Creek Monkey</a> in Martinez for post ride beers (no, really!) and a meal.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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 <a href="http://www.moylans.com/">Moylan's</a> appeased the cycling savage in all of us.<br />
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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.<br />
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<i>[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.]</i><br />
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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 <a href="http://www.sfrandonneurs.org/">San Francisco Randonneurs</a> 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?<br />
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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).<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=ferruginous+hawk&aq=0&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hl=en&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&ei=1-MiUYWpJsazigKFyYCoBw&biw=1095&bih=512&sei=2-MiUd-8GeyVjAKqqoCoDw#imgrc=aC8Nrg85YJILKM%3A%3BL9ESI0Lkhyj5PM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.desertmuseum.org%252Fvisit%252Fimages%252Fferg02_450.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.desertmuseum.org%252Fvisit%252Frff_ferruginous.php%3B450%3B368">Ferruginous Hawk</a> I saw just before we dropped into Petaluma?<br />
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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 <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/bovine-bakery-point-reyes-station">Bovine Bakery</a>. 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!<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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We finished as a group, 10:35 after we started, spent and happy.<br />
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Post ride beers were at <a href="http://www.kateobriens.com/">Kate O'Brien's</a> - a Speakeasy Big Daddy and a Lagunitas IPA. Awesome day, awesome ride group.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-49356718352208496702013-02-18T13:16:00.001-08:002013-02-18T13:16:43.892-08:00What I did on my Facebook VacationI rode 372.3 miles.<br />
I read 584/685 pages of <i>Bonfire of the Vanities</i>.<br />
I discovered new and different ways to waste time on the internets.<br />
I forged some new friendships.<br />
I watched the Super Bowl.<br />
I did not clean the house top to bottom.<br />
I did not catch up on laundry backlog.<br />
I did not catch up on paperwork.<br />
I did not write meaningful and thought provoking blog posts.<br />
I did not make gourmet meals for myself or others.<br />
I did not watch Downton Abbey.<br />
I got a lot done at work.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1334882865457478342.post-90440709928481198192013-02-13T21:07:00.000-08:002013-02-13T21:07:04.016-08:00The Bro<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB34cjidf1L7JfyMhgzVHxCZbsSVepy1TKyu8IIvjVlT5K4H32auuuZeU8wKtaHZj-uklVC1B57v9hhq9McopibUZ2JzPc_m0hCZoCD8Ks7cO9qHBARJ9YItsDrs9nf2EExoOKhKU9jB4/s1600/photo+(23).JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjB34cjidf1L7JfyMhgzVHxCZbsSVepy1TKyu8IIvjVlT5K4H32auuuZeU8wKtaHZj-uklVC1B57v9hhq9McopibUZ2JzPc_m0hCZoCD8Ks7cO9qHBARJ9YItsDrs9nf2EExoOKhKU9jB4/s320/photo+(23).JPG" /></a><br />
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I looked all over the men's department. Didn't find one bra there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0