I believe the term is "sufferfest"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post ride beer was an Anderson Valley Oatmeal Stout.

Colliding with Denial

Way back in December, I thought it would be a swell idea to do this thing called the Death Ride. I may have mentioned that the thought of this ride held me at bay for 12 years until some sweet talker thought it would be the perfect next step in my cycling apprenticeship. Easily swayed (why now?), I set the alarm on my google calendar so I wouldn't miss the 10AM registration opening. It sold out within hours because there are just that many people as crazy or crazier than I.

[I define those crazier as those who have already done it once and are electing to repeat the experience.]

Then, I was chomping at the bit to get started training. February finally rolled around. The training schedule got emailed out. Oh, gee. By May, we'll be doing centuries regularly. And 11000 feet of climbing. What have I inflicted on my dear Bianchi?

She's a trooper, my little Celeste Veloce. She's still unnamed. There's two kindsa people – thems that name their bikes and thems that don't. I guess I'm a don't-er since I still haven't come up with anything clever or meaningful to either her or me. Celeste – c'mon – every celeste green bianchi is probably named Celeste. Snore. I met someone who un-ironically named their bright yellow bike Sunshine. It was sweet and she rocked the climbs, so who's going to argue? In my mind, I've started to refer to her as my Bianchini (my garbled Italian for Little Bianchi). So maybe that'll stick. Essence of pepperoncini – a little fire and heat and a dash of snarky vinegar (that would be the rider) mixed with the elegance of Italian machinery.

The other ride, when I had my little Bianchini upside down while changing a flat, Jeff K looked over at me (he was also on a Bianchi) as he rode by, shook his head, “...those old Bianchis...” like it was an old FIAT on the side of the road with its hood up. So dry. So perfect.

And yet, my bike is old. It's one of the few steel bikes on the team. And I adore her. People now come up to me on large rides and tell me how much they love my bike. They used to have one and now it's …. doing something else and they're riding something newer and shinier. One ride, every time one woman passed me, she'd call out to my bike, “hello, beauty!” (at first, I thought she was flirting with me, but I realized she was coming on to my bicycle). My bike is on its way to becoming a classic. Sorry about the minor dents and scratches. It won't make it into the Bianchi museum in mint condition, but well-used and well-loved. I said to (whoever would listen) that early in the season I was self-conscious about my old bike. But now? She gets me up the hills. And she gets up faster than fancier bikes. She has great reliable components. Her geometry is fantastic. She downhills well and corners like a champ – probably better than I allow her to do. And her age? It shows my years of cycling. I'm not a Jane-come-lately to this fine sport. I've been out here awhile. Just don't ask why I haven't improved any.

Aw shucks. There I go rambling again. What was my point? Senility?

(pssst – don't get the old lady talking about cycling, you'll be stuck here for hours!)

Oh, yeah. Denial. So when a ride is seven months away, it's easy to think you're going to do all the training rides, go to the gym, lose 20 pounds and be totally buff and strong and look like Peter Sagan instead of this middle aged woman with a little more roundness than she cares to admit at this late point in the season. Too late to diet now!

It's easy to think there's plenty of time to build the climbing muscles and endurance and saddle-proofing.

And then the training schedule comes out. Well... That's ambitious! Okay. What have I signed up for?

And the weeks go by. I've only missed one-half of a training ride all season. 40 miles. Which I kinda made up for in distance one weekend, but not in height. So in that respect, I've been faithful to that part of the program. On our training website, there's a countdown ticker at the bottom of the screen. Starting at over 5 months, it gradually reduced. For awhile, I thought, there's still time. Time to build. Time to train. Time to get ready. And then it became three months. Okay. Still lots of time! Almost 12 weeks of training! And then two months.

Yikes.

Now, we're under two months. We have a month of Centuries (May) which will build our climbing up to 12,000 feet. There will be unpleasantness in the remaining 6 weeks of hard training before we start to taper. There may be tears. Frustration. The possibility of failure looms large. I hear talk of Ft. Ross Road and Meyer's Grade. I've driven Stewarts Point-Skaggs Spring Road. I'm not entirely sure I wish to ride it.

But.

I will because that's what will make me successful on the Death Ride.

And I'm not going to embarrass my little Bianchini. She's been training hard this Spring and she deserves to succeed.  

Up on a Tightrope

My bike has been making these weird creaking noises for much longer than I care to admit. It mostly happens while climbing. Since I've been doing that a lot lately (go figure), I've been hearing a lot of creaking. At last, it came to the point that I thought my handlebars may end up in my hands, detached from the stem, on this or the next climb. Time to call my friends at Freewheel.

I called. I think it's the headset. Lots of creaking, blah blah blah.

Bring it in, we'll take a look.

I trolled for parking and got lucky. Only a block away from Nina's! (what happened to the tree?!). I left the She-Divvil in the car and rode (helmetless!) the block and a half to the bike store. Weird riding in jeans and sneakers on my pedal-stumps, with no helmet. I was without armor! Without anchor!

All the same, I rolled in. Buddy the dog greeted me. He is a black and white pit mix with a very sweet disposition and icy blue eyes. Buddy was very interested in whatever had been in the plastic bag in my jacket pocket. We'd met before, he and I. The folks at Freewheel are lucky he hasn't gone home with me. Yet.

Travis looked at my bike. I described the symptoms again. He leaned on the handlebars and reenacted the creaking sound. Not the headset. The stem bolts need to be regreased and tightened and if that doesn't work we'll look further. Come back in 45 minutes.

Back to the car. Retrieve the She-Divvil. Off to the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park for a poopwalk and who knows what else.

Today was Bike to Work Day. I enjoyed the sheer volume of bicycles on Market Street as I commuted to work this morning. The San Francisco Bicycle Coalition counted over 1000 bicycles in one hour on Market Street. Whoo Hoo! Even if many of them coasted down the last gasp of a hill before the flats of downtown. Like 4 mph. Downhill. (I will not be an ass I will not be an ass I will not be an ass Oh My Fucking God I Have To Pass These People!!! which I did mostly politely, calling out as I passed and anticipated that not all of them would be familiar with the traffic flows of Market Street.)

Over all, it was lovely. I did overhear one woman say how much she loved her bike and how this Bike to Work day helped her remember that. I hope we get more bike commuters out of it. Even though it will probably be a Muni rider giving up her spot in the sardine can for fresh air and endorphins, vs giving up a car, maybe that free spot will enable someone who once drove downtown to take Muni instead. The trickle up effect. And at least one more person will arrive at work in a good mood.

But I've digressed. She-Divvil and I were at the park. She, lunging from tree to tree to read the news. Me, lurching after her. She, investigating gopher holes. Me, checking out the bicycles that travel by. She, inquiring after a puppy. Me, WHAT?

Imagine two trees about 50 feet apart. Between them is a taughtly stretched royal blue ribbon. I look more closely. The blue ribbon is ratcheted down to the tree with a moving strap type apparatus. The tension is enough to keep the ribbon taught, but not pulling the trees in any way. Not like these are saplings, but physics is physics. The ends of the ribbon are about 4 feet from the ground. A young man straddles the ribbon and then climbs onto it. From thin air, there's a mini-circus going on in Golden Gate Park. I watch as he practices, balancing, working with the give of the tape, managing the sway. A woman in black sits on the grass about 100 feet away and watches. I look around. Does anyone else see this? I watch some of the passing bike commuters. One has noticed and I watch him watching. I appreciate observant people and wish I could somehow make the connection: Yes! I see it too!

How can I ride through the Panhandle every day and never have seen this?

She-Divvil and I walked a few blocks west and circled back to the tight-rope. A companion has joined him and they are busy hanging another tape to form a right angle with the original one. I am out of time to watch that unfold.

I love this town.

My New Best Friends

You know it's going to be a good ride when the first Rest Stop has 5 gallon dispensers of Peet's coffee. And coffee is what I needed for this hilly 102 mile ride I was to do after riding 62 miles yesterday. Inadvisable, perhaps, to schedule back to back rides, but that's how the calendar fell and I planned accordingly.

Saturday's ride was a gorgeous stroll through the vineyards. A postcard loop through Russian River Valley, Dry Creek Valley and Alexander Valley. We rode up and down lots of fun rollers and had a few bumps along the way, but Death Ride training has paid off, and I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the summit to “the hill” arrived. Still, 62 miles will take a toll and I was a tad worried about how I would do today, on 102 miles and 8000 feet of climbing in the East Bay Hills (all of the East Bay Hills, it seemed).

Today, I started off slowly. I always do. It takes that first climb to get the blood flowing to my legs and my lungs to open up. But even after Pinehurst I still felt sluggish and struggled a bit to keep up with the team. Seeing the Peet's made my morning. If you're not familiar, Peet's is a local coffee roaster and purveyor and they make their brew wicked-strong. Richer, deeper, stronger than McStarbucks. It'll take the varnish off your chest. And you'll be happy about it.

We meandered around the Berkeley hills and descended to San Pablo Dam Road. Then talk turned to McEwen Road. Have you “done” McEwen? No, I don't think so. Oh, you'd remember. McEwen loomed large in my mind for the next 18 miles, as unknown hills always do. They take on Everest-like qualities: steep, inhospitable, long, arduous. Not everyone makes it up... McEwen... in my mind.

The second Rest Stop comes about about mile 40. At the bottom of McEwen. So we get to start a climb from a dead stop. No momentum to help us – momentum is my only biking skill. Lisa tells us how good the chocolate GU tasted. I was already having trouble keeping up with her – those workouts on Diablo were paying off – so I figured if I ever wanted to see her tail feathers again on this ride, I'd better do a GU, too. It was the first one I've done all season, although I'm no stranger to the allure of the gel.

GU is my new best friend.

I forgot the legendary combination of caffeine and sugar, all tucked in to a little foil packet that sometimes tastes like what the label says. There have been long discussions over beers about bourbon flavored GU and so forth. I did an “Espresso Love” with 2X caffeine. Espresso Love is my new best friend.

McEwen. Starts out with a yellow sign emblazoned with a squiggly arrow and “Next 2 miles”. Ugh. The first mile is somewhat of a wall, and steep and narrow with a crappy surface. At least when climbing, the surface doesn't matter so much. A bump at 3.5 mph is different than at 35 mph. Still, a bump is a rise in the road that has to be climbed over. Yes, sometimes it is just that trivial. You think it's never going to freaking level off and then bing! the GU kicks in. Out of nowhere, a little more juice in your legs. Pedals turn more easily, the mind eases as the caffeine circulates to the brain and muscles. You start passing people. Not at lightning speed or anything, but this energy has to be sold and the quads make their purchase. I imagine that GU for women must be what it's like for men all the time – their muscles constantly bathed in performance-enhancing testosterone. Jerks.

Not really, of course.

Around mile 80, it came decision time. Do we do the full 109, or do we do the 102 option? Either is difficult. The seven miles in the 109 route involves an additional 500 or so feet of climbing and tours the Oakland Zoo and back around to Redwood Road. A route we did in late February. (Seems so long ago). The shorter option involves going up and over Redwood Road and then back over. The classic out-and-back which means you don't enjoy the downhill side as much knowing you have to climb back up it in a very short while. After the descent, we start climbing to the last Rest Stop. At this rest stop, the group that did the 109 miles meets with the group that did the 102 miles. And the best part? Popsicles.

First, however, you have to reach the stop. On the final ascent, Coach Jim and Vivek pulled ahead. I said to K.Sue, “and that's where the testosterone kicks in.” She laughed. But something was amiss. My bike seemed to be making more noise than the usual rattles and squeaks. Am I riding on gravel? What is with all this resistance? I look down at my wheel, but can't really see it past my water bottle. I'm starting to feel every eucalyptus nut and pebble. I look down again. Is it? Really?

Finally, I ask someone following me. “Is there something wrong with my rear tire?”

“Yes,” he responds. “Actually, it's looking a little low.”

Aaaaaargh. I haven't had a flat since I started my training in 2010, when I changed my tires after having two flats in one commute. Which is an exceptional record. But I guess I hit some thorns because I found two sticking through the tire. My teammate Vivek was gracious enough to stop and help me get it changed – it's always faster with two. Ironically, we were only about 100 feet from the rest stop, but it was still faster to change it and ride than walk the bike and change it at the stop.

Finally, we get to the stop, meet up with teammates, eat popsicles and take care of the usual rest stop activities. Back on the bikes for the second to last climb. A long one, exposed to the sun for most of it. The heat and the sun concerned me more than the actual climb. My legs felt... ok... after 90 miles, 1 GU, 1 pepsi and a popsicle (among other things, but those were the treats). But the sun...

At last, the uphill, downhill, uphill and downhill were done and we were on the home stretch back to the start. Pulling into the parking lot gave me a strong sense of satisfaction. Training was working. This was my longest ride of the season and the most climbing of the season. And, maybe it was all the caffeine (and who cares if it was?), but I felt tired but great, and happy it was in the books. The second Pepsi of the day didn't hurt, either.

Post ride observation

If you insist on wearing underwear with your bike shorts (completely undoing the idea of the seamless, moisture-wicking chamois), don't add injury to insult by making it a thong.

A Slice of Mortality

After the ride last week, one of my teammates said, “I hadn't done Tam before. Another place to put on my Memorial Ride.” It gave me pause: someone thinks that far ahead (I never thought about a ride – I'm too busy figuring out where my ashes should be scattered and that changes daily because I have a short attention—what?).

Death Ride training is truly different from any other cycling training programs I've done. Our training rides are rides other people's end-games. The rides take us to the far reaches of the Bay Area. Countryside you just don't get to on a regular basis. Sure, we get up at 5AM (on Saturday!!) to drive for up to 2 hours to reach our starting point, but we are always rewarded by incredible scenery.

Our rides are long. They are difficult. Since February 1, I've climbed over 105,000 feet. Doing a little math, that's 9 times from Base Camp to the top of Everest. I've ridden 1298 miles: longer than from Seattle to San Diego or from San Francisco to Denver (and nearly twice the elevation. Including the Rockies). Only 9 miles shorter than from New York to New Orleans. And by this weekend, I'll have ridden from Chicago to Miami.

Anyway... enough about me.

Riding gives a lot of time to think. There's so much time spent on the road. Personally, I can't sustain an 8 hour conversation with anyone. So, besides grunting up hills and saying wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! all the way down hills... there's a lot of void to fill. We comment on the scenery. Political topics. Current events. Body functions. Popping new muscles. Listen to our own breathing. Heartbeats pounding in our ears.

This past week's conversations centered around a graphic video that made the news late in the week: a car hitting two cyclists on a popular cycling route in the Berkeley Hills. Different emotions and reactions were expressed, but my underlying reaction was a feeling of vulnerability.

We are out here, our vital organs protected by a thin sheath of skin, musculature and bones, sitting atop a vehicle that weighs a fraction of our body weight and offers no external protection. Our very important brains are protected by highly engineered styrofoam covered by brightly colored plastic. We take precautions. We wear bright, even garish, colors. We call out road hazards: holes, bumps, gravel, rocks, glass, twigs. We call out cars behind us, ahead of us, cars coming at us from the right and left. We stop when we should, we roll when it's safe.

While we are highly lithe and maneuverable, we can't avoid what we don't see coming at us from behind. We are at the mercy of every driver on the road. Motorcycle, crappy old beater, minivan, shiny new Lexus or sleek and sexy Maserati, distracted, drunk or sober. We depend on each driver to give us a wide berth, or wait until it is safe to do so, for our lives are in their hands. We ride to save lives and, in doing so, put our lives at risk every time we do. On narrow roads, we are doubly at risk from oncoming cars and cars from behind. We are the pinch point and we are the ones that will lose. In car vs. cyclist, we cyclists will always lose.

So I ask, if you are a cyclist, you understand. If you are not a cyclist, as a driver, please treat each cyclist you encounter as if he or she were your partner or your child. Give us room, be patient. And if you have just driven up a long hill, so has that cyclist – what took you 10 minutes may have taken him an hour. Give us the down hill. We may go as fast (or faster) than you in a car on the way down, but give us the space. We worked hard for it.