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.
