Felton-empire grade and the lies that ridewithgps told me

We 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.

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). 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

 "That's a welcome sight," I said. 

"Felton-Empire Road," the street sign replied. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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? 

Yeah. Exactly. 

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. 

We were still mostly in shade, the canopy     protecting us from over exposure. 

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!). 

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. 

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! 

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!

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. 

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"

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. 

Wild Iris Roads

“What time are we rolling? 7:30?”

“8AM,” I reply.

“No, it was 7:30.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stock photo stolen from the internets

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Permanent Tale of Del Puerto Canyon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward to April.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Lesson in Humility

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

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

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

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

I bow my head, helmet in hands...  

11% Can Seem Flat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clearance, Clarence

I'm allowed to ride my bike again!

Benched

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