Meadow Muffins

I've heard a lot about King Ridge Road over the years. The Gran Fondo rides up it, along with some other locally known organized rides. All well and good, for by now you know my former cycling mantra: if the road name has any of the following words in it, the road shall be avoided at all costs: Ridge, mountain, grade, vista, view, hill, summit, crest, peak. Ergo, back in the days of cycling the “flats” (which didn't often seem all that flat to me), I studiously circumnavigated these roads in favor of ones named valley, reservoir, river, flat.

Alas, this week's featured destination was a trek up King Ridge Road in Cazadero to Annapolis and back out to the coast. We rode just over 80 miles (my lap-counter beeping every 5 miles became a little surreal by lap 14) and climbed around 8000 feet, depending on whose computer you believed.

The cliff notes version is this – lots of climbing up front (to the actual ridge) and then rollers at the top before plunging back down into the abyss. From which you must climb. And then plunge. And then climb. (lather, rinse, repeat). And climb and climb until the final drop to the coast where lunch happens. Then some great rollers and well banked turns on Highway 1, an extended climb and then down hill back to the start.

Cliff notes don't do the route justice. King Ridge is a pleasantly wooded road with long arduous climbs broken up with a few downhills for respite. The climbs were fairly steep in places, where a 10 percent grade seemed like a break from the 12 and 14 percent immediately preceding.

After about an hour and a half, we peeked out of the trees and reached the actual ridgeline. There, we were surrounded by rolling hills and undulating pinot noir vineyards, the naked vines staked to their trellises in neat rows creating corduroy patterns on the landscape. Cows grazed on impossibly steep hillsides. A small herd gathered under a tree, calves peering at us from the safety of their mama's flanks. Green grasses yielded to red clay and sandy loam. The late morning sun shone indiscriminately on both well maintained barns and weather beaten, listing fence boards.

These cows were all “free range.” There weren't always fences keeping the cows from the road. It was their land. We crossed over many rumbly cattle grates, rattling water bottles and jarring kidneys. And we saw many, many meadow muffins in the roadway. Gosh, they were impressive.

Just this week, I was at the Hess Collection gallery, where I saw Andy Goldsworthy's Rock Pools – chocolate brown rocks he hauled back to his studio and heated in his kiln until they cracked, broke or melted. At the time I thought they looked like chocolate crackle cookies and as light as meringues. But after Saturday's ride, I have an entirely different perspective.

After the lovely, if muffin-dappled, ride along the ridge, we had a dizzying descent to the creek. I achieved my fastest speed ever on a bicycle at 49.9mph. It was incredible. Unfortunately, just after that, there was a grueling climb that was unrelenting in its steepness.

No matter how much training one does, climbing is still hard. (In my case, it's still whine-inducing). It's still one pedal revolution after another until the top. What training provides is the ability to recover at the top of a climb. And, as rides progress, the ability to do repeated long climbs over the miles.

Yes, the climbs are hard. But the views at the top are nearly always worth it and once you begin to pedal on relatively level surfaces, your mindset improves and the difficulty of the recent climb recedes. Kinda like childbirth—you forget the pain until that acute reminder and why did I do this again?! At least with hill climbing, you don't get the teenage years.

Training began February 4^th. I've been riding every weekend since then, plus midweek commutes and extra miles when I could squeeze them in. Last week, during my commutes, I felt like I was approaching ride-burnout. Every pedal stroke was an effort. I doubted my ability to continue in the training. I felt like I was at the peak of my endurance with 70 miles and 7000 feet. I've ridden 919 miles, climbed 75,235 feet over 54 rides since the beginning of February. Others on the team have ridden more, others less.

And then I remembered: Mental Toughness.

I can't just stop mid-season, in the middle of a humongous goal after all the talk, all my weekly updates, all the people who have supported me – morally and through generous donations alike. And there are the bragging rights when I successfully complete this ride in July.

Generations

Yesterday, I found myself being mothered. It was an odd feeling, but a comforting one. Since moving out on my own, lo those many years ago, I haven’t had all that many instances of being mothered.

When the inlaw(s) came to visit, I was the host. In addition to the tending of the children, I also tended to the houseguests. There was very little tending to me. And, when visiting the inlaws, I was a “good guest” who tended to the host. I seemed to pick partners whose parents needed tending to.

But yesterday, I was a guest at a friend’s gathering. Her parents were there, taking care of business. I kept offering to help but was denied opportunities. So I relaxed while they grilled the chicken, sauteed the mushrooms, prepared the pasta and all the other what-have-yous. I was gently teased that I didn’t know how to grate parmesan if I wasn’t Italian. Once I looked up through the kitchen window and saw Dad washing some dishes while Mom sat and relaxed. What a nice partnership, I thought.

It made me realize how tired I was. Tired of being the caretaker. Tired of directing the show. Tired of being responsible. Even when you have a loving and caring partner, as I had so recently, there’s still the background noise of “being responsible.” The worry of where the kids are. What they’re doing. What they haven’t done that they’ve been asked to do 13 times. Bills that must be paid, shopping to be done and WHO IS GOING TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS and am I the only one who cares.

How nice it was to be a “kid” again while the older generation took care of details. How lucky my friend is to have her parents living so close that she occasionally gets to be a “kid.” Parents who pitch in to help without being controlling.

The richness of multiple generations at parties has always enthralled me. Making conversation with “The Grownups” -- as a kid, I often enjoyed my friends parents as much as I enjoyed my friends. I love hearing stories about what my friends were like in their youth. Watching my friend with her parents, I could imagine the fun and playfulness that existed in their household. I understood her humor a bit better, seeing the roots of it. Mutual teasing belied mutual respect with a bit of “I knew you when.”

It reminded me a bit of being back home -- a place I haven’t gone all that frequently in my adult life. But when I have, I’ve treasured the mutual eye-rolling of acceptance and acknowledgement when someone acts true to form. The we-love-you-anyway-eye-rolling. Every visit, trying to piece together the family tree. No matter how many times we made Daddy tell it, so much of that oral history died when he did. Who is going to remember his summer job at the Campbell’s soup factory unless we pass it down.

Pay attention, youngsters. One day, this will be important to you.

The First Saturday in Spring... NOT HARDLY.

It started off like any other Saturday. The alarm went off too early (for a Saturday). Looked outside - the ground was wet but there weren’t rivers running down the road. Coach made a good call, I thought. If he says we’ll ride, well, I’ll be there.

Still, it wasn’t exactly dry, either. There were wipers involved on the way to the start.

As each cyclist pulled in to park, the same comment was made. “I can’t believe we’re out here.”

It was misty as we rolled. And cold. I was happy for my 4 layers. A nice long climb warmed us up and then we had an incredible 14 mile descent. The curves were well banked, the road surface good and the turns arced gently enough that we could build up some speed.

Eventually, we pulled into Pescadero, stopping at the General Store. By that time, I was soaked through and getting chilled. The General Store is one interesting joint. As you enter, to the left is a bar straight out of a 70’s nightmare. The walls and ceilings are painted a metallic cerulean blue; the light fixtures could have been on the Jetson’s ship. A cramped convenience market is tucked behind that, with very basic basics. The main room is a deli counter. Customer service, for a town that size, depending on wayward cyclists and folks going to visit Harley Farms or Duartes for some of their pie or famous artichoke soup, was lacking any sense of interest or urgency in helping a pack of 20 cold cyclists get something warm in them. Snack choice of champions: a banana and a Snickers bar.

Remounting my trusty steed after the break, I was shivering as I pedaled east back towards Skyline. The creator of our route said we had a “bump” to go over before the real, 7.5 mile, climb up Alpine back to Skyline.

Perhaps I should have asked for his definition of “bump.” To me, a bump is a hill that makes me think a bit but one for which the crest is visible within a relatively short distance from the base. A bump is not 1000 foot elevation gain. But I’m told over and over again that my perspective on what is a flat ride vs a hilly ride will change as I continue my training. I am uncertain as to whether my legs’ perspective will also change.

The rain began in earnest when we were about 3 miles from the top of Alpine. The exertion of hard pedalling kept us from freezing but we were in no way overheating. When climbing, sometimes I just countdown pedal strokes until the end, waiting for the reward of the downhill.

This day, there would be no reward. As we crested Alpine and started back down towards Skyline, the wind and the rain on my waterlogged body made me feel like someone just dropped me for a swim in the Bay with no wetsuit. Shivers turned to shakes, taking deep breaths was a measured and concerted effort. I was terrified of getting a flat because I thought I’d get hypothermia and be unable to continue. The realization that I had 9 more miles of this frostbitten descent to go - water pouring down on me, water running in rivulets across the road, water water everywhere - was not a happy one. Frozen hands barely able to operate the brakes or shifters, I was cycling only by the grace of my autonomic system. Bank left, left knee up. Don’t brake in the curve. Bank right. Right knee up. Breathe. Brake. Brake? Feather. Feather. Dry your rims. Hands aren’t working. Hands aren’t working! Wide spot. Pull over and get some feeling back. Shake. Start again. Cars passing us. Drivers looking at us like we were nuts. Oh, right. We WERE nuts. We were also without a choice.

At last, we were down Page Mill and pedalling (!!!) again. Blood started flowing. Shaking reduced to shivers. We stopped at a trailhead with flush toilets. Life was good. Well, less intolerable. A little snack, a wringing out of the gloves, and back on the road for the last 7 miles. After we had regrouped at the bathrooms, we stuck together in a paceline. There’s strength in numbers. While it didn’t make us any warmer or snugglier, the paceline helped to cut the wind. The water shooting off the rear tire of the rider in front of me was immaterial at that point. How much wetter than wet can one get?

But wait! Please! Not another downhill! No!

At last we made it back to our cars.

(The adventure of changing out of wet cycling clothes into something dry in a compact vehicle is a story I’ll spare you. In addition to shivering and trying to peel sausage casing from clammy skin using frozen dysfunctional hands, you must also be a contortionist.)

We were officially bad-asses. And tired and hungry. But definitely feeling like bad-asses. We went for “lunch” (3:30? hey, it’s still lunch) at Jack’s Prime in San Mateo and ordered the Blue Lip special and a beer. And then, life didn’t seem quite so bad.

lust

keeping moo-ving

There was no channeling of Jedi Masters this week. After iffy weather reports all week, the clouds parted and we had a chilly, but calm ride through bucolic Marin county.

“Deceptively difficult” is how Coach Jim describes the ride. No painfully long climbs to attack, just a lot of rollers and “roads like this” - ahead of me I saw the road meander up the hillside and disappear around a bend that felt like a 30% grade (it was “only” 15%).

Our route took us out the western side of Tomales Bay through some Marin dairy country. The hills were just sprouting their green Spring fur and the cows still reached under the fence to eat what grew over there. The cows stared at us unabashedly. Chewing, they lined up to see the silly humans garbed in garishly colored clothing on shiny two wheeled machines. They were in black and white – the formal receiving line – we were the red carpet stars making an ungainly entrance to the party. Gasping, cursing, whining to stay upright at 3 mph. (Okay, I speak for myself – others were far more graceful).

Because I'm a little odd, I always carry on conversations with cows I ride by. They seem receptive.

When you see a sign saying “Not a county maintained road,” ummmm. Believe it. Some of our downhills (yes, there were times I actually got to coast) were on bone-jarring pothole patches and alligator pavement. Avoiding the holes and ruts at 3mph is simpler and less consequential than at 30mph. But we persevered. No teeth chipped, no tongues bitten off.

The second leg of our route took us to the Point Reyes lighthouse. I haven't been out to the lighthouse in at least a decade and probably longer. The point juts 10 miles into the Pacific Ocean. The National Park Service claims it is the windiest place on the Pacific Coast and second windiest on the North American Continent. We were lucky yesterday! This leg also brought rolling hills, but with scrubbier vegetation. Unsheltered, the plants cling low to the ground and the grassland isn't as plentiful as the northern part of the peninsula.

Still, there were cows. Some wearing their pretty plastic earrings. “Hello, Ms. 144, how are you today? Thank you for the fine cheese.”

And.

There were cattle grates. And dirt. And other brown substances we rode through. I haven't decided which is worse – cattle grates on a climb (must.keep.wheel.straight.) or cattle grates on a descent (I hope my bike doesn't fall apart!). Neither is optimal, but we're tough Death Riders! A cattle grate won't deter us!

Becky, one of our team honorees, was just around every corner, cheering us on and taking our pictures. She cheered us on the flats, she cheered us at the top of climbs. Seeing her smile at the top of a climb was such a fine reminder of why we were out here punishing ourselves while others were already having green beer and corned beef. We rode 65 miles. Becky must have driven 100, giving up her Saturday to stand out in the cold while a bunch of crazy cyclists ride by. Thanks, Becky!

If I didn't give birth to you, don't call me Mom.

Last week, I walked into Large Financial Institution to deposit some money into Number One Son's account. It's not something I do with regularity, much to his disappointment, but he called saying he was down to his last $10.

Large Financial Institution has a stolid, red granite facade. The interior of the bank also resonates somber permanence. More granite. Spaciousness. Luxury. Volume. “We're here to stay,” it said. Except that the building above the bank lobby, 55 stories of undulating windows, was sold several years ago and the bank's headquarters are now in the Deep South -- not illustrious San Francisco.

I stand at the table and write out my meager deposit.

At last it's my turn. Perky Teller at Number One Window beckons me. And immediately starts chatting me up. I'm not here for a conversation. I'm here to make a freaking deposit. We commiserate about the week, happy for the weekend and then she complains about how busy the weekend is. Like, honey, would you rather work 7 days? Because I've done that. Recently. Notsomuchfun.

I make the error of revealing my mission.

“I would like to make a deposit into my son's account.”

“Okay, Mom! Can you put his address on the deposit slip?”

My mind goes into programming abend. Mom? MOM? Tell me, Who the F**K are YOU?

I smile nicely, telling her I'm unsure as to which (of 3) addresses might be the correct one. So I guess one and she rewards me with a big smile telling me that's correct and could I please fill that in the deposit slip.

(Mom).

We come to the big finish. The Money shot.

Mom, since you'll be making deposits like this for the next 3 or 4 years, would you like to open an account with Large Financial Institution?

No, thanks. I'm happy with my credit union.

“Oh,” she says weakly. “They have good rates.”

“Yes, and their fees are much lower, too.” I reply.

AND THEIR TELLERS DON'T GET ALL PRESUMPTUOUS AND OVERLY FAMILIAR CALLING THEIR MEMBERS “MOM.”

It's the Death Ride, not the Death Star

Climbing for nine miles makes me a little buggy, I've discovered. The 11% grade, with little 19% walls thrown in for good measure, and curves which, when passed, reveal another bit of climbing, tend to weigh on one's mind after 20 minutes – knowing there are still 5 or 6 miles left. On this climb.

Yesterday, I pulled slightly ahead of my ride group as I was climbing. I found myself alone with my thoughts on the hill. As cycling is 90% mental and 75% physical, this left me with much too much time with my own brain. Suddenly, I was channeling Luke Skywalker.

Me: Oh, Jedi Master, I'm alone on this hill. Will anyone know if I stop?

Obi-Wan: You will, young Jedi. You will.

Me: How much longer is this F**KING hill?

Obi-Wan: Patience, young Jedi. Regard the power lines. As the power lines go, so do you.

Me: I really need to stop. I don't think I can go any further.

Obi-Wan: Don't go to the dark side. Pedal, young Jedi. Ride on.

Confronted with a wide spot in the road, I pushed on. I'll just make it to that bend and hopefully it'll flatten to a 6% grade instead of this heinous 12% I've been climbing. The last mile marker showed 2.9. Is that from the bottom or to the top?

The bend revealed more steep climbing. Argh.

Near the “top” (ie, bend in road which hid more climbing), was another turn out.

I confess. I stopped. I drank water. Glorious water! I ate a few almonds and three chunks of a bar. My heart rate came down to manageable levels. My team mate Lisa caught up to me. Trudged past and did not stop. (Gold star for Lisa).

That 3 minute stop was the best gift I could have given myself. I got back on the bike and started pedaling again. The nourishment kicked in almost immediately and the energy flowed back into my muscles. I caught up to Lisa and we rode the rest of the climb together.

At the top was our fabulous SAG stop. And a bathroom. No better reward!

This was the Team's 6^th training ride. We still have four months left to train before the big event. So far, each week has prepared me for the next week. Before I signed up to do this crazy ride, I never thought I'd be doing 6500 feet of climbing in one ride and not feeling dead at the end – even looking forward to next week's punishment!

I ride with a great group of (crazy) dedicated people dedicated to helping fight cancer. I'm honored to ride with and learn from them all. We all could have selected a shorter ride or a flatter ride. But we chose this one. It's hard. Heck, if it were easy, everyone would do it!