Finding my Mojo

It 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.

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.

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.

Who wants to ride?

Bee Stings and Broken Spokes

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I pulled him to the mailboxes and the stop sign on Skyline. Neither acknowledged my presence. Go me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Jason and the ArGoatnauts

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...

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!

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!!

The Little F*cker's name got cemented here.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I broke a spoke on That Little F*cker.

I 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.

What's to be done?

Maresy Dotes and Dozy Dotes

I met some 5 day old Nigerian Dwarf Kids today. It doesn't get much cuter.

Video isn't great (sorry).

A Permanent with Small Craft Warnings

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Twelve hours later, we turned into the starting parking lot and greeted our friends over a beer. Lanterne Rouge.

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.

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.

What I will treasure from the day is the sense of community. We worked together, we suffered together. We celebrated together. It was epic.