75 out of 100

The alarm went off too early. Laying in my bed, I heard drips on the roof. I hoped the gray I saw through the cracks in the curtain meant rain. Oh, to lounge around all day reading and listening to rain, maybe venture out for food, return for more lazing and a beer or glass of red at the appropriate time.

But it was fog. Thick, heavy fog which had condensed on the large tree overseeing the house and the drips were the very same, succumbing to gravity, giving false hope to this occupant under the eaves.

Coffee was started, the ride prep began. Clothes, chamois cream, heart rate monitor (corset)... what am I forgetting? I feel like I'm forgetting something. Out to the car to look over my stuff. Shoes, helmet, gloves, food, money, ID.... Back in. Perchance, to open the fridge. Water bottles! Sheesh! Various false starts later, we arrive at the start, which is when I realize I forgot my headband. There Will Be Sweat. Good thing I didn't apply sunscreen above my eyebrows or it would be a stinging, sticky sweat dripping into my eyes instead of just salt crystals. You know, clean sweat. (yeah, right).

The mass start was at 7:30. We ended up starting about 15 minutes late, playing catch up to the pack. We missed the pros and all but had the road to ourselves. It was still overcast and cool. Fortunately, the air was still, and the first 12 miles offered up one little bump which allowed us a friendly descent before we rolled into the first rest stop. The road cut through farmland and meadows, and Western Meadowlarks perched on the barbed wire and serenaded us with their flute-like calls. A male American Kestrel hovered then landed on an overhead line, its rusty body accented with blue-gray wings. Something large and back-lit kited above a hill, probably a White-tailed Kite, but it was hard to bird and ride, and safety seemed like a priority. The shape was wrong for a Red-tail, but that's all I could tell.

double decker bike. photo by Jason Henry, sfgate.com

It was between the rest stop and turning on to Highway 1 on the way to Morro Bay that we encountered an unusual site: a double-decker bike. The rider was a 20-something Burner (we assumed) and handled it pretty well. It looked like the bike to the left. It was obvious he was used to answering questions about his frame upon frame (but still with two sets of pedals – who cares about the extra weight?) and vertical drive train. He was riding with a group (on “normal bicycles”) and the height of his rig acted like a beacon for his group. Heck. It acted like a beacon for us. We speculated on the effect of the wind, how he mounted his 2012 version of a penny-farthing (right foot on the (lower) left chain stay, give a push like a scooter and climb up quickly while it rolls), the weight, center of gravity on downhills... and then, when we started the climb that punctuated the ride profile like a giant spike in the flats, Jim decided that he officially hated him as he watched this youngster pull away from us on his double-steel frame (with extra bracing) bicycle. The least of it being that he knew how late the others in his group were up drinking (past 2AM) meaning he had been up that late as well. And still kicked our butts. Youth continues to be wasted on the young.

So, of course, the aforementioned climb cut through a valley which was sheltered from the coast. We passed a large orange grove. I decided I needed to come back in February and ride this just to smell the blossoms. Nestled in this valley bracketed by impossibly steep slopes, there wasn't nary a breeze, either. As we cut through, the fog burned off the hillsides in front of us, revealing cows grazing precariously on nearly vertical pastures. Wisps of moisture lifted off the brown grassland like dry ice vaporizing from a cauldron. At one switchback, I turned and looked behind me at the golden hills towering above and the misty valley below, tiny tendrils of dying fog reaching skyward.

I'd done a little research on the hill profile. I knew there was about a mile and a half of 11-13% grade in near the end of the first stage, and I had already assumed it would be exposed based on what I knew of the topography. Translation, the sun shone upon us as we slogged and spun. Half the distance of the steep part of Tunitas Creek, I had said, but without the shade. Still, it wasn't as hot or exposed as climbing the back side of Ebbetts (and only a third of that) and there was some scattered shade here and there. The sweat dripped from under my helmet onto my route sheet. Spin. Grunt. Drip. Spin. Grunt. Drip. (mental whine). Drip. Drip. I watched the mileage and counted down to what I thought would be the end of the steep bit. Finally, I encountered a friendly photographer who told me three more bends and I'd be at the top. I chose not to believe him because I hate false hope. What if he miscounted? What does he consider a bend? What does he consider the top?

At last, the top and a nice little down to the second rest stop and Highway 46. It really was three bends.

One of the reasons I signed up for this ride, and the century distance in particular, was to do the downhill on Highway 46 that stretches for about 10 miles from about 1700 feet to the coast and about sea level. It's also how I sold the ride. I'd done it twice before on the AIDS ride and wanted to do it again with my new descending skills learned from all that Death Ride training. I wanted to fly, knowing I'd never really need to hit my brakes – the road is wide, the shoulder is wide, the grade gradual, and the corners sweeping. No hairpins, no poor visibility, no potholes or tire-eating crevices. I asked Jim to take my picture at the top – it's the half-way point on the AIDS ride and I wanted to acknowledge that little bit of my cycling history.

It would be the last time we saw the sun. Here, I'd worn my 5-Pass finisher jersey and it was hidden under my vest all day.

Knowing the descent would be cool no matter what, we pulled up the arm warmers, zippered our vests and pulled back out onto 46. Straight into a fog bank. And head winds. The fog was blowing in. Hard. Normally, this descent has amazing views to the coast, of golden hills, cows below, hawks above.

Instead, visibility was about 50 feet. Pedaling hard into the wind to maintain 30 mph (last time I did it, I was braking at 40+ mph), ghostly cyclists emerged from the fog as I approached. I regretted having turned off my taillight at the last rest stop, but I wasn't stopping to turn it on. My glasses were completely opaque with fog drops and I looked over the lenses, the wind whipping my eyes and making them tear. I felt as if I had been robbed. I'd been talking up this descent, forcing a recovering riding partner to do more miles than he felt up to, just so we could do this descent. And this. Headwinds, soaking fog. No thrill, just chills. Broken promises and shattered expectations.

When we hit the coast, considering the wind we just battled, knowing if we turned north for the out and back to Cambria we'd have an extra 12 miles of headwinds to chew through. As I told Jim at the rest stop, I was only in it for the down hill and didn't care about doing 100 miles. He was still recovering from the plague and why over do it?

We took a (unanimous) vote and headed south towards Harmony (population 18!) and Cayucos and shaved 25 miles from our route. We worked hard to push forward, fighting a headwind in a wind tunnel. After a few miles, we saw the ocean. Unfortunately, this only meant more wind. After what seemed like far too long, we arrived in the charming coastal town of Cayucos for our lunch stop. It was overcast and still chilly. I made the mistake of taking off my helmet, which meant it was cold and damp when I put it back on, giving me a further chill. In need of caffeine, we stopped at a market for a coke. Maybe we should have gone for an espresso.

Cayucos is a two stop sign town and tiny beach resort. Quaint shops line the road and you can almost feel the wooden sidewalks of yore. Hotels and motels border the shopping and dining “district” and cute bungalows are perched over the beach. Some folks have gone upscale, but the favorite was the house with the mural of a humpback whale (and entire under sea scene) breaching near an American flag on the garage door. If we hadn't been so cold, we might have searched for the NRA logo and Romney/Ryan campaign sign embedded in the mural, but instead, we pressed on.

This stretch of the ride incorporated far too much riding on Highway 1 – later in the day, the vehicles on the road were less careful of us cyclists than they were at 9AM. Cars and pickups that could have moved over into the left lane to give us a safety zone just plain didn't. However, Highway 1 led us through Cuesta College to the best rest stop of the day – somehow, it was connected to HTC Highroad. It was at a residence, and the garage was filled with framed, signed jerseys and photos of cyclists I didn't recognize (this is not surprising). The array of food was the best all day: the usual bananas, etc. buffet was supplemented with cookies (even gluten free), brownies, chocolate and, most welcome, strong hot coffee. It was also the only stop that had a semblance of a bike rack to hang our bikes on while we enjoyed the hospitality. The penned geese and chickens stared at our brightly colored clothing and silly vehicles (seriously – they watched all the cyclists who stopped very intently – I've been hissed at by geese before so I kept my distance). Overhead, Red-shouldered Hawks protested and wheeled, chasing off at least one Coopers Hawk in their airspace.

Reasonably refreshed, we hopped back on the bikes for the last 10 miles. Turning inland towards San Luis Obispo, while I can't say we had a tail wind (which means we probably did...) we were no longer battling against wind. A bit later, we were back at the car, having done our own version of a Medio Fondo which incorporated nearly all of the climbing of the full Century and more mileage than the metric that was offered. A fine job on the bike making the best of less than ideal circumstances.

Post ride beer: Lagunitas IPA.

Sunday Observation

Why is it that when one kicks the water dish, it is never nearly empty?

Humility? It's on back-order.

It’s always fun to ride some place new. There’s a certain mental challenge to it. Not knowing the route, what’s yet to come as far as frequency of climb and steepness of climb, means holding a little back (but how much!) for later in the day. On a familiar route, you can hammer it in certain areas because you know what’s left and you have the confidence of having done that segment before.

But on a new route, even with an elevation profile examined beforehand, it’s hard to judge.

Take the Templeton Wine and Roses as an example. Jim and I signed up for the full century, but thought we might end up only doing the metric. Friday night before the ride, we decided, nope, we were going for the full monty. It’s “only” 6800 feet of climbing. (that, of course, depends on whose Garmin you’re using… but that’s a topic for another rant).

The day started earlier than we wanted, but later than the Death Ride (!!) -- at Starbucks (yeah, no Peets in Paso Robles) for a coffee and bagel at 5:30AM to ready ourselves for the short drive to Templeton. It was still pitch black and we didn’t have headlights. So maybe we undershot our start time by about a half hour. Used to large check-ins, we arrived at the Templeton Community Center / Government Building / Firehouse located on the Central Square. We parked right in front and entered the building at 6:02AM on the heels of the volunteers roped in to check us in. The air was still cool, making wardrobe choices challenging. We knew it would get hot, but when??

Shortly before 7, we embarked on the route. The roads were mostly in decent shape, but there were definitely some dicey sections and alligator pavement with large craters blown out.

I love riding in the early morning. Hated getting up for it, but enjoyed the long shadows which formed in the amber morning light, making our bicycles and legs look like Wilt Chamberlain’s against the golden pastures and meadow fencing. This day, we were out with the morning deer. Being some of the first cyclists on the road at 7AM, the deer were not yet inured to cyclists.  We passed a young doe and buck. Seeing us riding either spooked or energized them to start running along the fence with us. Not being able to resist the challenge, I stood on my pedals and began to ride with them. Race them, even. I sprinted along for a bit while the little doe and young buck ran, too, at 20 MPH. A fun little interval, and I hoped then that I hadn’t blown my legs out at mile 10 by giving too much with 90 miles to go.

Normally, when you do a ride, like long road trips on the highway, you tend to encounter the same folks again and again. When you do a ride with only 350 people, and maybe 10% of them are doing the century, you definitely bump into the same folks. So when Terry at the registration became Terry at the first SAG stop and Terry at the second SAG stop and then Terry at lunch and then Terry at the Nth SAG stop bathroom line… Not that I got introduced, but heard him introducing himself to others…Social fellow. 

A ride with 6800 feet of climbing can be more or less difficult. 6800 feet isn’t chump change to most anyone, for sure. This one, despite looking at the elevation profile (no climbs longer than 500 feet!), was deceptively difficult. As I said to Jim, it was like riding a saw. The road was constantly up and down, with many rollers and short climbs followed by short descents. In some respects, the route was a real endurance builder of interval training. No descent was long enough to really recover. Much of the ‘negative’ incline was at 1 or 2% where pedaling was still necessary to maintain forward progress as opposed to 5-6% up and similar grades down. The low grades kept our average speed up, but if there had been headwinds, it would have been brutal. The first 50 miles (East Side) was this type of terrain. Gorgeous golden hills, ranch land and some vineyards, dotted with Live Oaks and cut by country roads.

The West Side, or second 50 miles, was hillier and had more shaded roadways, which benefited us as the temperature climbed. The hillsides were blanketed with orderly vineyard rows and the roads were lined with oaks, meaning that the roadbeds were strewn with acorns and the occasional squirrel who misread the speed of an oncoming car.

Confession time:

Much of my identity in cycling is wrapped up in My Little Bianchini. She’s 12 years old and steel. So when I’m keeping up with all the fancy carbon or titanium bikes and the legs on them, I’m feeling pretty good and strong. Butch, even. And when I see custom bikes, embellished with the rider’s name, and a real matching bike kit on his (or her) back, I think, must be nice. But when one passes me (especially without calling out ‘on your left’) I get just the teensiest bit resentful. Bike manners are bike manners: whether you’re riding a Huffy from Target or a $10,000 bike built to your exact body geometry, custom painted and loaded with the highest end components.

At the 70ish mile SAG stop, I noticed a white steel (?) frame bike – custom. Custom paint, even in white, beautiful. Built for a tall guy.  We may have even left the rest stop with him. He got ahead of us and stayed there for quite a while. But Death Ride training has made me a decent descender (much improved, although still nowhere as good as many on the Death Ride team, but better than your average bear), and at a point, we passed him at near the bottom of a downhill. Just when I was feeling good about my riding prowess, the road began to tilt upward again. This was the Peachy Canyon Climb that we’d heard a bit about at the SAG stop. Gradual, but about a mile long.

Here comes my comeuppance for screaming past this guy at the bottom of a downhill. Thought of Lisa T (humility…) and was prepared to be humbled. Because while I’m a good descender and a decent sprinter on short steep climbs, eventually on the long climb, I hear “on your left” far more often than I say it. And not 300 yards into the climb, Mr. White Custom Bicycle passed me. What-Evs, I thought.

I trudged on. It was long; the grade was gradual. Just kept spinning. We hit a pitch that was about 8%. I looked ahead about 200 yards. Mr. W-C-B was walking his bike. I couldn’t wait to pass him on my 12 year old Bianchi. But, alas, he must have heard my ego advancing upon him because when I was about 50 yards away, he remounted his custom steed and started pedaling again. Frustration!

I kept spinning, keeping him in my sights: Mr. I’m 6’2” and simply have more muscle fiber than your 5’3” frame could ever hope to have. Rounded a bend and rounded another bend. Now we’re in the shade and it’s a bit cooler. Ahead, I see Mr. W-C-B again walking his bike. I look ahead. I don’t know this road at all, but I can tell just by terrain we’re near the summit and it’s not a false one. The summit is in sight and he’s walking. Out of 6’2” legs, I guess. It happens. Thank You, Death Ride Training. And I pass him. Screaming by at a blinding 4.8 mph on my short little legs and my little steel pony. The road begins to level, I start upshifting in anticipation of the downhill. Perversely, I wanted to do that within his earshot. But didn’t. Humility.

So much humility that I gloat here. But hey, where else can I?

The ride down Peachy Canyon was a joy. It was a descent but not in the traditional downhill way. I was hooting and hollering the whole way. It twisted, turned, rose up to meet you in a way you could stand on your pedals for 4 cranks and be back on the next down hill – I hollered out more than once it was like riding your bike on a roller coaster. I can’t wait to do it again. That descent made the previous 86 miles worth it. Seriously. What fun.

After a nice down hill and a rude hilly bit back to the finish (really? Rollers with 10%+ pitches in the last 10 miles?) we were loading the bikes onto the car and in search of some really nice barbecue.