Cycling Through

Moving Forward

2012-02-12T00:33:00.000-08:00

Martinez and the Sacramento River Delta from the top of Mt. Wanda

A small retaining wall parallels the uphill side of the Mt. Wanda trail near Franklin Canyon Rd. An uneven assortment of rail road ties forms an abrupt set of steps leading from the sparse gravel parking lot up to the head of the main trail. Sufficiently warm and sweating, I had been looking for a good spot to drop my long sleeve jersey, now soaked and clinging to my sleeveless base layer, and the split branches of a miserable little tree peeking from behind the wall seemed perfect to guard the sweat-soaked shirt as I ascended for a round trip run to the top of Mt. Wanda.

John Muir, whose historically preserved home sits just across the highway, named this mountain after his daughter. With the dramatic prominence of Mt. Diablo within sight and the intimate knowledge he had of the Sierra Nevadas, I am perplexed at Muir's defining of this particular rise with the prefix "Mountain." The ascent is not easy, but neither is it particularly daunting.

Having abandoned the shirt and repositioned my cap, I began the steep climb on a muddy, rutted trail. The original plan for today was to cover a total of 11 miles on my systematic return from a debilitating shin splint. In mapping this route on Friday night, it somehow seemed reasonable to extend it to 13 miles. But now 7 miles into the run and climbing with relative ease, ambition began to gnaw at the edges of common sense. I added a loop at the top of the hill, not an original element of the route, and then detoured again to the summit for another quarter mile. By the end of the run, I would succumb to 2 more detours and cover 14.5 miles.

The descent of Wanda was quick, but controlled, as I can't afford another injury this close to race day. The ease of descending, the glimpses of the horizon through leafless trees, and the fresh rain-washed air lulled my mind into meandering. I had soon advanced to the end of my run and was planning the balance of my day based on that ever present mental checklist. High on the list was the bunk beds I needed to get started on before July and the arrival of the new baby.

Then the pain, a tightening in my chest, a hint of a tear mingling with the perspiration. The bunk bed isn't needed any more. Such a random thought had led back to the pain. But don't all of my thoughts eventually end up there right now?

Just 24 hours earlier in a hospital practically visible from the summit, my wife and I had cradled a tiny, lifeless form, no larger than my hand, our latest angel. Glorietta Janice was an unexpected addition to the upcoming summer events, and an even more unexpected absence.

When I jogged out of the neighborhood an hour prior, I had left my wife and 2 daughters at home to make waffles and give the house its daily thrashing. It was time for my weekend run, so I ran. I also ran in hopes of dulling cognition, or maybe to sharpen it - I'm not sure. Now as I ran I remembered what a miracle my girls are and looked forward to being back with them.

I stooped over the wall and retrieved the black lump of wet fabric and tied it like a sash around my neck and under one arm. The miles were racing past now, as if the world were rotating beneath me and I, merely lifting my feet, was standing still. I thought about the 2 lovely girls romping around and driving their mother nuts at home, and then about the 3 beautiful children waiting for me on the other side, and realized how spectacularly blessed I am.

The whole run lasted just over 2 hours but felt like minutes. An 8-year-old mop of blonde hair met me with the typical post run disdain and distance, but nevertheless condescended to tote my cap and shirt between 2 fingers back to the laundry room while I dispatched most of the mud. A 2-year-old fist began beating against the window through the blinds, and the little person it belonged to, perched atop the toy chest, giggled shyly each time I glanced her way.

I spent the whole day with them - and the next.

Sneak Peak and Preview

2012-01-17T14:43:00.000-08:00

Mt. Diablo silhouetted by the fire of dawn.
Briones Regional Park - just south of the summit.

Tamalpais Island
The top of Mt. Tam as seen from the Sea View Trail in Berkeley's Tilden Park - above the fog.

How many times have I said "you can't get these kinds of views without working for them." Ok, so maybe there are roads to magnificent vistas that facilitate loafers. But, one certainly appreciates the views more when they are hard fought. Both of the above pictures were shot during my 23 mile run from Martinez to Berkeley and made possible by some rough climbing.

Sometimes you just have to slow down and take the picture.

Round Valley Regional Preserve

This is the sneak preview of the Diablo Trails Challenge I plan to run in April. I was in the Brentwood area and hunted around till I found this spot - the starting line for the 50k. It was exhilarating to gaze up that trail and imagine 31 miles.

Now all I have to do is get this shin splint to heal so I can get back to training. I haven't run in 5 days, and the down time is agonizing. Maybe 1 more week - then more beautiful vistas.

Matt's First Summit

2011-12-31T17:11:00.000-08:00

Matt's First Summit via Bicycle

Way to go Matt. I never grow weary of taking people to the top of Mt. Diablo. It's a chance to vicariously relive that massive sense of accomplishment. We have put in quite a few miles together over the past few months, and even rolled up as far as the ranger station, half way up, a few weeks back. But in reaching the top at last, today's success was a great way to finish the year.

Total mileage for the day was right around 50 miles, so his first attempt at climbing to the top was not half baked by driving to the base of the mountain like some of the rest of us have done. The winds were variable throughout the day, but nothing like the gale force winds that beleaguered us on our last visit to the the mountain. In total, the weather was splendid, with temperatures topping out in the 60's and nothing but sunshine.

We discussed options for his first century coming up next year, and at this rate, he'll be ready by spring. Looking forward to many more miles in the next year. Ride on.

It Takes a Long Time

2011-12-26T16:13:00.000-08:00

7:16 am - Day after Christmas - Briones

It sure takes a long time to train for a marathon. Yes it takes months to prepare, but I mean it takes a lot of time out of a week too. My training for the Mt. Diablo Ultra - a 50k - has brought my long weekend runs up to well over 20 miles and finding time to run those distances means more than flirting with creativity.

Thursday of last week, my wife and I sat at the kitchen table discussing the best time for my weekend's long run. I didn't want another out and back route and was hoping for a route that would reward me with an end point over the hills and far away from my start. That meant I needed some form of a ride home.

Friday night was an option, if my friend Jeremy was willing to chauffeur me home. With their home several hours away, he and his family were staying the night at our house so I could take them to the airport early Saturday morning. I suppose we could have squeezed it in Friday night, but Saturday morning was certainly out. Saturday being Christmas eve, there were all day yuletide preparations, so I didn't bother to mention it as an option. Christmas day? I've managed similar feats of courage in the past but have always been more heavily invested in emotional capital and had the doghouse better stocked.

That pretty much toasted the weekend. I had given my employees Monday off, so when I recommended that I finish at a Starbucks where my girls and I could have breakfast after the run, a compromise for Monday morning was signed.

My workout took me from my home in Martinez, completely across Briones Regional Park (bagging Briones Peak at 1486', plus another 1000' in accumulated elevation gain), through the Lafayette, Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill corner, and on to the Railroad Starbucks in Danville - 22.5 miles.

Last week I took off - as a rest week - after the weekend prior riding 105 miles on Saturday and then Sunday morning running 21 miles with over 1500' of elevation gain. That cost me not only all day Saturday, but also Sunday and Monday in an irritable half-comatose recovery state. A week off was well-advised and inevitable since my wife was out of town for 5 of those days, and I had charge of our progeny. I managed to rest most of the week with only one slip-up on Friday, running 5 miles behind the jogging stroller.

So now it's half way through this week and I'm searching for that next block of free time in the vicinity of the weekend. Yet, somehow that block of free time isn't all that's required. Preparations begin a couple of days in advance by rearranging my sleep time to be sure I'm getting at least 6 or 7 hours of rest per night. The evening before the long run is serious prep time, with water bottles laying about the kitchen, tennis shoes by the door, and various layers of clothing strewn conveniently about for most efficient application in the dark of the next early morning. I'm basically lost to my family for small segments of time as I mentally check off the required items and lay them out where a 2-year-old won't purloin them, but where I can't miss them.

Then I run.

Home again, the process works in reverse. The ice bath, consumption of large quantities of breakfast, and shower take at least another hour. A load of laundry (because my wife flatly refuses to touch my soggy clothes) is also recognized as part of the weekend run.

All said, I suspect that the time spent running is less than half the time invested in the run. Add the reduced efficiency in limping about for the next 24 hours, and the inevitability of waking up halfway through a bedtime story with a 2 year old beating me with another book and an 8-year-old jamming her elbow in my ribs, and I would say my family is likely as heavily invested in my running (and cycling) as I am.

I wouldn't have you think that all is mission oriented though. Our happy little tribe is bustling with activity, so the integration of more is always taken "in stride." And, there is plenty of carefree time for all of the family. As a matter of fact, some of that free time has contributed to the recent expansion of the tribe. Well, actually only one of us is expanding currently, but soon enough we will be squeezing in time for another little member. I thought we had dodged the double jogging stroller - maybe not.

Happy New Year.

Ice Bath

2011-12-05T13:26:00.000-08:00

People raise eyebrows and bystanders begin backing away slowly and quietly when I say that I will take, or have taken, or recommend that they take an ice bath. Otherwise pleasant and engaging conversations turn - well - cold at such an innocuous reference.

I mean what's the big deal? We converse fondly of going home to take a nice hot shower, or to soak in the tub. What is it about an ice bath that spins this in such a socially unacceptable direction? Like you've never settled into a tub of ice water? No?

So I ponder... What is the percentage of humans who have intentionally lowered themselves into a bathtub of frigid water? Probably a very small number. That small number is no doubt just a shade smaller than the percentage of humans training for ultra-marathons right now. Broadly recognized as bunch of self-destructive lunatics, both of those cohorts include me in their number. Along with other shorter runs, I am now consistently mapping runs of over 20 miles at least once per week - and after those runs I sit in a bathtub chilled with ice cubes for upwards of 20 minutes. I recognize that most Americans find it hard to understand why anyone would choose to run any distance further than that between security and their gate at the airport, and am thus likewise impelled to understand their similar aversion to an otherwise unlikely means of perpetuating the ability to run distances far in excess of the airport itself. What I just said was, if you can't figure out why we run, then you probably won't understand the ice part either.

My understanding of cycling, running, and endurance sports in general has developed over the years - in direct correlation to my list of injuries. A misconception I harbored for many years was that a sore muscle or joint (overuse related) should be heated to relax said muscle or joint. I have since learned that immediately after a workout, heat is the enemy. In the past I have inadvertently been exacerbating the inflammation in those sore muscles with heat and thus furthering the damage. To my chagrin science has proven that ice is the solution.

So, you see, contrary to popular belief a nice hot relaxing shower or bath immediately following a hard workout is not a really great idea. It seems really great - believe me - especially on those bitter cold mornings when the water I'm carrying has frozen and I've been running for hours alternating between sweating my way up hills and freezing my way down. A hot bath just beyond the finish is spectacularly motivating after the tears caused by the cold dry air have frozen my eyelashes together. Unfortunately a diabolical little interlude has become modus operandi.

After learning of my need for ice I began strapping on ice packs after a long run, and I thought that was torture. When I realized that our collection of ice packs stored in the door of the freezer was shy of sufficient, I feared I was missing something. My fears were realized when I learned of The Ice Bath.

OK, so I started out thinking they were nuts too. One website I read recommended letting your family and friends know when you are going to be entering the ice bath, lest they hear your howls, come running, and inadvertently rescue you. Oh boy do I understand.

Now my routine is typically along these lines:

Finish running and lightly stretch all leg muscles.
Remove all unnecessary clothing items (Hat, gloves, jersey, shoes) because everything is completely soaked with sweat. Steam rises in clouds from my body as the cooling begins. Yes even on those sub freezing runs, my body can't figure out that maybe shutting off the spigot would get me more lovin when I get home. Even my 2 year old has no affection for daddy when I waft in after a hard run.
Fill mug with leftover coffee, place heating pad in microwave for 2 minutes, begin grabbing whatever doesn't move out of my way - and eat it. The cooling process has been effective and I begin to be more or less comfortable.
Begin running cold water in bathtub while microwave is doing it's job, and add 2 trays of ice cubes. Goose bumps begin forming.
Assemble my phone (To surf the web and keep track of time), phone charger, coffee, food, and heating pad near the tub.
Place heating pad over shoulders. I'm now getting cold.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
I sit perfectly still, because after 5 minutes everything under water is numb. If I move...
But it takes 5 minutes before I can sit perfectly still. I'm shivering so violently that the bathwater is trembling and my coffee is breaking over the edges of my mug. I don't touch my phone until I've regained fine motor skills lest I drop the phone and become famous as the first person ever toasted in a tub of ice water.
15 minutes pass and I'm struggling my way out. I've never made it all the way to 20 minutes.
I cannot walk normal, but not being able to feel your legs after running 20 miles is sort of OK. My daughters know to steer clear of Frankenstein.
More coffee, Breakfast, More coffee.
Then at last, a long hot shower.

See that's not so bad. I strongly feel that folks shouldn't judge what they haven't experienced themselves.

The beauty of ice is that - it works. No it's not fun, but then so much of what we do can't be classified as fun or any other derivation of a good time. Sometimes we have to do things because they make us better. Not to mention, if you think a hot shower would feel good after a long cold run, just imagine how nice it feels after the ice.

A Run in the Desert

2011-11-26T19:41:00.000-08:00

We spent Thanksgiving with family in Nevada. With a long run (17 miles) scheduled for this weekend, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to get in a run with some new scenery.

I scoped out my terrain on Friday via 4 wheeler guided by my wife's cousin's husband David. We stuck to the road I was planning to run until it began to bore him. Suddenly, to my great pleasure he abandoned the road and led us out across the desert. "Through", "over", and "among", were the adjectives which preceded our route as opposed to more docile adjectives like "around" and "between" as I was erroneously expecting. More than once I commented to him that I had no idea a 4 wheeler could possibly handle what now had wheel ruts traced across it. The scrub brush and tumble weeds had to be pretty big before he would bother to avoid them. More than once I watched him ride away, emerging from what I had just been looking for a way around. I gamely followed.

The down side to our foray was that it really didn't scope out my route. There was no way I was going to run the baffling matrix of canyons, gullies and salt flats we had explored on 4 wheels.

So I stuck to the original plan and on Saturday morning, headed out on Power Line Rd. straight into the heart of the desert. I had literally planned to run nearly 9 miles due west following (you guessed it) an endless stretch of power poles to a reservoir at the base of the distant mountains, then turn around and follow the same path in reverse.

Running west the sun rose behind me, and after several dim miles, well beyond the last house or fence, I noticed the first tenuous rays of sun light reflecting off the mountains 10 miles away. With eager anticipation of its warmth, I monitored the line of yellow light as it charged down the mountains and then raced across the desert toward me. We collided somewhere around mile 4 and with pleasure I felt the penetration of the radiant rays through the back of my tights and balaclava. The crackling dry air was well below freezing and had long since caused my Camelbak water valve and supply hose to freeze solid. The balaclava I had thrown into my backpack "just in case" had been hastily thrown over my frozen ears before even 2 miles had ticked past and now began to absorb some warmth into the dark fabric. I slung my Camelbak hose stiffly out to the side and held the valve in my hand hoping it would also absorb some heat and melt the cylinder of ice blocking my hydration. It would be 10 more miles before I could extract enough of a trickle to wet my lips.

Warmth made room for thoughts less related to survival and more along the lines of form and focus. The sections of loose sand plus the elevation (4,000') were taking a toll on my pace and I knew it. I checked in on my pace between miles 3 and 4. No land speed records were in jeopardy. My only objective was to keep running until I found the reservoir, then turn around and do it again, in reverse, with the sun in my eyes. At around 5.5 miles I realized the plan wouldn't happen just like that.

At a right angle to the triple strands of power line I had been following, lay a wire fence across my path. A cattle grate lay across the road with a fence post sporting a "No Trespassing" sign. "In the middle of the desert?" I thought. As if this were not enough, a large black dog emerged 1/8 mile down the road atop a small hill. He disappeared and then reappeared one hill closer at full volume. A detour was becoming likely. As the dog continued to approach and call for reinforcements, I beat a hasty retreat with glances over my shoulder every few hundred feet. The pursuit ended long before I ceased looking for it, and every groan or pop of my backpack spun me 180 degrees prepared for battle.

I was now forced to calculate with difficulty some simple sums in spite of acute oxygen deprivation. If I had turned back at 5.5 miles (I had), then I was going to lack 6 miles. Taking one of the side paths in the desert seemed about as wise as getting off the highway in San Francisco without a GPS, so I considered my options as I retraced the last few miles. The best I could come up with was to follow a road I had crossed near mile 2 which followed a small creek still flowing with several inches of water. I had jumped the icy water at a narrow point and wondered at the fact that Power Line road seemed to approach both sides of the creek, but had no crossing. In time, I jumped back across and began to follow a new road north. By my advanced mathematical calculations, I needed to cover 3 more miles before I turned back to again retrace my steps.

I followed this creek as prescribed, noting a layer of ice spanning the entire width in wider slower sections. But, I misjudged my distance and turned back short of 3 miles. Because it was "out and back" my error cost me double.

I finished in just over 2 and a 1/4 hours but fell just shy of 17 miles. I was ready to be done running by the time I jogged into the gravel drive way, and the sight of my family sitting at breakfast sealed the deal.

3 cups of coffee, an ice bath, and a monstrous breakfast put the finishing touches on a splendid run.

2011-11-20T16:10:00.000-08:00

I have decided to re-post this - edited slightly from last year. This coming weekend will commence the slaughter of another generation. Merry Christmas!!

Tis' the season to be chopping.

And for what? For why?

Is it not lunacy to assault a healthy, young tree just reaching the glory of its youth, yank it from its moorings, and impel it to a service so ghastly unnatural?
See, here stands young fir - struggling to survive in a vast and brutal world of wind, ice, rain, and sun, remarkably resilient, handsome and proud.

See, here comes you - accelerated by stress, absent in mind and unwittingly conspiratorial in the pretense of holiday festivity.

An innocent falls to the ground.

With morbid ceremony it's strapped to the roof of your sedan, and what was once established and secure is now jostled and catapulted. No longer the wind gently caressing its boughs, or flexing its bark in a torrential storm. Rather now, a frightening gale assaults its skirts, or its crown if by some merciful stroke you strap it on head first.

The victim will now subsist on chlorinated tap water with a brew of chemicals designed to prolong the process of slow death. As if the Creator had not worked perfection, you will then bedeck it with bows or ribbons, and without exception, an array of gaudy lights - blinking in such random sequence that the subject appears always indecently clad.

Then Christmas being past, as if it had not served you well in your festive revelry, you reject it with disdain and abandon it to a troop of Boy Scouts - for what purpose only they know.

But don't be so self righteous and smug thinking of your plastic tree.

You are no better, yea, possibly worse with your synthetic replica. You give false expectation to the choppers who will insult, prod, and cajole our Creator's otherwise beautiful trees that may lack "perfect shape," or may be "too airy," or "too dense" in comparison to the manufactured forest. Though insulted, these are the lucky ones. Though none is ever deemed perfect, the unlucky chosen are paraded before their 6', 7', and 8' "pre-lit" counterparts -- lopsided, flocked, and accoutered with a fishnet stocking without even the courtesy of a cardboard box to hide their shame, over the river and through the woods to a house of horrors inconceivable to so noble a creation.

You will call yourself festive for erecting such an atrocity. Yes, you'll likely even claim a moral high ground above those abstaining from this ritual. But herein I admonish, and even boldly recommend a cessation of such unnatural acts. Is it not possible to spare such noble creations? I acknowledge it is not my place to change your mind or your customs, but at least for my part I choose to resist this annual slaughter.

I choose - to pout whenever my wife talks of "going to get the tree."
I choose - to lobby for the lesser of 2 evils - the 6' pre-lit version (That takes less than 2 minutes to set up and thus be done with my part of the activity).
I choose - when all else fails, to strap the tree on head first or lay it in the bed of my truck covered with a new tarp.

With these thoughts in mind I've composed a eulogy in memory of the fallen.
Please pause for a moment of solemn silence before enjoying these verses.

T'was the Month Before Christmas

T'was the month before Christmas and all through the wood,
Wee creatures scurried madly, while timidly stood,

Stately stewards of the forest, gentle-hearted and grand,
Their progeny balanced in an urbanite's hand.

The time was upon them, they'd seen it before,
When tree choppers come in traditions of yore.

The finest among them would tremble and yaw
As the choppers assaulted with axe and with saw.

Chopper families will come with members aloof,
Then drive away arguing - young Fir on their roof.

Yet the wisest among them knows its place,
A resource that benefits an inhuman race.

Begrudged though by some they know their station,
to warm and protect the rest of creation.

As timber or edifice great honor they'd know,
Or cabin or palace where children would grow.

The aged among them know the saw as a stage,
and the axe as finger on a life's next page.

The aged among them stand with no fear,
But remain yet perplexed when the youth disappear.

The plight of the youngsters - now pondered anew,
Was assumed to be ill, but if only they knew:

---

If back in the forest the other Trees knew,
Of their young ones alight with red, green, and blue,

Of tinsel, candy canes, and more shamefully yet,
Smiling families in photos amongst branches set.

The same branches of those removed forcefully so,
From a family of Firs formed long ago.

What revolt would arise from so many Trees,
If such senseless traditions were revealed to these.

What fear might be levied upon humankind,
If the choppers would come again heeding no mind,

Entering the forest with axes and saws,
Unaware of new anger ragged and raw.

And into the Trees the choppers would go,
And never return - one way tracks in the snow.

Merry Christmas - To the little Trees.

Things I Noticed

2011-10-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

Interesting the things that emerge as notable sometimes. Specifically yesterday as I ran my fastest 5 miles ever - topping my previous record by more than 1 minute.

4.9 miles in 32:57 - or averaging approx. 6:45 per mile.

For me, that is lung-burning, heart-pounding, gut-busting fast.

But past the blaring white noise of this desire-fueled human machine, small focused shafts of surrounding reality flash mutely through the portals and ventilation shafts into the steel gray interior of resolve. The traffic, the sidewalks, trees and asphalt slip past with no impact on my mission. Running fast is all that matters and what does not hinder that mission ceases to exist. Though not entirely.

Wednesday afternoon at 4:34 I started running. Within 3/4 mile I was focused and only narrow splinters of my surroundings interrupted the perpetual systems management monitoring the efficient consumption of energy and means of propulsion.

But I noticed the guy leaning over the window of a friends car and the backup lights of a Ford Expedition 3 parking spaces away. I ran between them. I noted again with relief, for at least the tenth time, that the city had ground down a particularly hairy sidewalk transition.

Some stretches of the route are either completely obscured or blend too seamlessly into past runs for me to be convinced of them happening on Wednesday.

Yet I saw two men standing at the window of Bosco's ordering food, while 3 men stood chatting in my path on the sidewalk. Two stood near the curb while a third faced them, turned slightly my direction and monitored my approach out of the corner of his eye. No one moved but me. I sped up as I breezed between the men ordering burgers and the human bollard.

I noticed that no one was sitting smoking on the bench outside the little salon with windows angled such that I can see myself running in 3 separate panes of glass for a split second each. I tightened up my posture here and noticed to my chagrin that my tan must be fading as the season wanes.

I considered how random is my choice to run clockwise or counterclockwise around the courthouse - the apex of my out-and-back route. I chose clockwise this time, though for no other reason than that I chose at the last minute to go that particular way. I reasoned that I was not so superstitious as to think one direction or the other would guarantee a fast run. I run each direction with no certain regularity or reason. I then reconsidered, and supposed that maybe I was more superstitious than I thought - not being willing to rely on a conscious superstition but rather doubting my ability to overcome such foolishness and thereby leaving the results to the capriciousness of chance. I thus entrusted my fate to a random decision believing chance or fate to be more influential than a force I knew didn't exist. I thus continued to ponder that neither fate nor superstition could protect me from the desire to stop running. I caught myself slowing, recognized the randomness of my oxygen deprived brain, and slipped back into the machine.

Nearly to the crest of my last hill, a young woman smartly dressed in slacks and jacket crossed the road 3 paces ahead of a slouching fellow of her approximate age, struggling as hard to keep his shorts aloft as I was to breath. As I neared them she turned toward me on the sidewalk. The lines of her face and a more clear presentation of her costume revealed they were of the same cohort and no doubt led lives far harder than my own. We shared the same sidewalk, but I suspect our routines shared little else. My run had started off with Matthew West's My Own Little World, and the truth of that song stung me.

As I sit here and write I realize that is what this posting is about. Maybe the title should be "Things I Fail to Notice." Not soon after that encounter I was crowded by an SUV in an intersection and I shot the driver a glare. He dutifully returned the same. I was instantly convicted in my heart; not the pounding pulsing pulmonary muscle dutifully driving me down the hill, but rather that redeemed heart designed to drive compassion and mercy - spectacularly atrophied.

Curious the things that slip past, and more curious may be those things that find a way in. I finished and gave no more thought to backup lights, curbs, or SUV's. I went on with my own little world. One heart grew stronger, and the other may have atrophied just a bit more.

Both must grow stronger, and the effort to achieve that end may require comparable discipline and effort. Alas the daily grind will need to be punctured with more shafts of light than my weekly time trials are, and the training be no less rigorous.

2011-10-17T15:23:00.000-07:00

Autumn Sky - Early Sunday Morning - 4 miles into a 10 mile run.

There's nothing like that sluggish, mercury in your veins feeling around mid-spring when you throw a leg back over the bike 30 miles into your first long ride of the season, or similarly, the blunt pain of a trail run - with the gusto of last season, and the stamina of your Christmas turkey baked and stuffed.

I'm gunning for bypassing those sensations this coming spring by doing something brilliant. I'm going to punish myself right through the winter. No sense postponing the burn, when I can have it all winter long. Yep, I've ramped up the cycling again and started cranking out more miles in the Reeboks.

Through a series of unexpected and unavoidable circumstances as Summer drifted down into Autumn, I slacked off my training, with the exception of a burst of activity around the running of the NorCal Tough Mudder. When I finally found time for some heart pounding activities, I found my heart and lungs, well, pounding. More than once I was dispatched to the back of a pack I should have been leading. I managed to pass some blame off on my bruised ribs (compliments of Tough Mudder), but the truth was I had slacked off. I took winter early.

There are 2 good reasons for me to abolish the slow down. First in order is the Mt. Diablo Trail Run coming up in March - and 50k (31 miles) is a long way to run. After last year's Golden Gate Headlands Marathon there was no doubt that I would run another. I developed an instant goal of running at least one marathon a year. Because cycling is difficult in the wet, dark winter, training for a marathon seemed a natural alternative. The marathon was doable thus the beginnings of a pattern was fixed. I hadn't even considered anything more than a marathon until my friend Matt sent me a link to the Mt. Diablo run. A 26 mile marathon had proved manageable, so how hard could 31 miles be? And so began my training for the 2011 - 2012 season.
The second event is my yearly Death Ride adventure. I let slip a few weeks back that I am nurturing a hope of finishing the DR in 9 hours, total of 10 hours including lunch and stops. Word spread among my cohort like a juicy rumor. The encouragement rolled in - that was good. But now I'm held accountable - that is pressure.

The side effects of the proposed "un-winter break" are yet to be set, as is the feasibility. Factors such as Christmas and Thanksgiving are likely to fall into this season, as well as school field trips, parties for the aforementioned holidays, fall planting and raking, decorating for the aforementioned holidays, shorter periods of daylight, church and choir activities for the aforementioned holidays - Need I go on?

So we shall see how this goes. Among my favorite quotations is a verse which comes from Robert Burns's To a Mouse On Turning Her up in Her Nest With The Plow:

The best-laid schemes o'

Mice an men

Gang aft agley,

An'lea'e us naught but

Grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!

Here's holding out hope for more joy and less grief.

House of Pain

2011-10-01T13:33:00.001-07:00

I'm new to a ride that has been rolling through south eastern Contra Costa and Alameda Counties for many years. The original group called the route/ride the House of Pain (HOP) and is evidently (Because I am not strong enough to ride with them), frequented by racers and others much stronger than I.

All of this I am told by the group of 20 - 30 riders that frequent what is called HOP Light - a ride that starts about 30 minutes ahead of the true HOP ride but takes the identical route.

But don't be fooled, leaving around 8:45 am on Saturdays from Peets Coffee in Danville, HOP Light isn't for the slouch cyclist. Just today, after 3 weeks of practically no riding and still suffering the effects of a flu-like malady early in the week, I was barely able to hang onto the draft at the back of the group. I pulled - like a fool - out front for a few miles on and off near the beginning of the ride, but knew I was likely to suffer for it later. I did. I was unceremoniously dropped on the climb up Collier Canyon. Several others fell of the train - but I was the first to throw in the towel.

The ride is forgiving though and makes a handful of regular stops to allow any not-too-distant stragglers to regain the group.

From the top of Collier, over half way into the 50 mile combination of "out and back" and "large loop" forming on a map the image of a stout lollypop with a short stick, I was able to hang in the middle of the group. But just barely, as they could have blasted me out the back any time they wanted to.

My first 2 rounds with these guys and gals was 2 consecutive weekends over a month ago. I met many great riders and see that some of them are well respected and fairly consistent. During those first rides I found myself to be in great condition and rode strong - even up Collier Canyon - coming in 3rd at a - sort of - sprint line.

I've obviously been off the bike for too long. The 19 mph pace over the course of 50+ miles was exhausting to me this morning. No more 3 week sabbaticals.

This is a great group to ride with. They are very kind and I've learned a lot about riding in a peleton. The confined spaces at 30mph still make me jittery at times, but the communication is phenomenal and so far all the rides I've joined have been very safe.

I've made this somewhat of a default ride when nothing else is planned, and suppose I will ride with the bunch for many years to come.

Tough Mudder 2011 - Remembered

2011-09-26T14:18:00.000-07:00

The Band Of Mudders

5:35 am Caleb perforates his tennis shoes.

I need to communicate exactly how I feel while it still hurts. My wife thinks the pain will make me reconsider a recurrence in the future. Well, keep reading.

For many months my team The MudSharks have prepared for this adventure; and now it's history; The 2011 NorCal Tough Mudder. All that remains are my bruised ribs, a handful of regrets, and the memory of a romping good time.

For over 5 hours my team of 9 men and 2 women braved the 13 miles and nearly 3000 feet of elevation gain in the tissue thin air above Squaw Valley USA ski resort near grand Lake Tahoe. We had no delusions of ease when signing up for this event. Just view 1 page (any page) of the Tough Mudder website and you cannot miss the intentional raw brutality they are marketing. It obviously sells. 11 of us added to the 15,000+ participants on Saturday alone.

For months we have independently run countless miles, pushed up, pulled up, crunched and lifted. We came together a few times in small bands to begin building comradery and gain what additional strength could be garnered through synergy.

And then Saturday, September 17 the lot of us wrangled parking spots and started the long process of standing in thick lines to check in.

At 10:20 we assembled at the start gate. After watching several fleets of runners released over the past hour, the process was becoming routine, however a surge of energy came over our Band of Mudders as we shouted the Tough Mudder's creed, then quieted as a crystalline soprano voice honored our nation's anthem.

3,2,1, and we set off up the side of the mountain through an orange cloud of canned smoke.

Within the first mile we were forced to our stomachs slithering for over 30 feet in 10 inches of water with barbed wire strung only 12 inches above the surface. And so began the sloshing saturated ascent up the mountain.

After slogging long enough to begin drying, we next encountered a row of 20' long dumpsters filled with water. A steep ramp launched us up and into the water where we submerged below the barbed wire reinforced barricade, and tumbled back out the other side shivering - more running - get warm. Within a mile, a second similar array emerged on the horizon and like experienced seals we dove in the second time. But this was different. Tons of ice were being loaded by tractor into these tubs. Stumbling away on numb feet unable to shiver our seized muscles, we postulated the possibility of the water being salted, allowing sub freezing water to embrace our bones. The ice had been loaded more heavily on the far side, and upon entering I had quietly scoffed at their attempt to toughen the course. The scoffing fell away as I frog kicked under the barrier and re-emerged through a solid layer of ice cubes several inches thick.

Still running uphill on trails no longer dusty, bespeckled by dripping ice water, we gained a greater appreciation for the warming dry air. The breeze picked up however as we encountered Mt. Everest - a 14' tall 1/4 pipe lined with plastic and greased. Emergency space blankets were handed out to the shivering throng waiting to be pushed, pulled and wrenched over the wall. This wait was the beginning of an unanticipated delay. We stood cheering, shouting, and encouraging for most of half an hour as hundreds of souls were hoisted over the wall. As my subset of the MudSharks approached the wall we formed a human ladder as we had witnessed others do. I lay at the bottom of the slope, above me Jay half stood - half lay on the curving surface. Past us both clambered Caleb who was hoisted over the wall. Jay and I held our poses for a few minutes as men and women of all sorts stepped on our chests, hands and shoulders teetering nearly 10' in the air where they could reach up and just touch the outstretched arms of Caleb and the others atop the wall. I faded fast as Jay's tennis shoes dug into my neck and shoulders. I begged off the bottom and was soon being wrestled over the top. I enjoyed the top. For the next half hour I took turns either laying face down with arms outstretched or kneeling at the back of the plateau created by the plywood top grasping the ankles of others with bodies hung half over the ledge. Chris emerged through the throng, and soon joined Caleb and myself atop the perch.

Here enters my bruised ribs. As I lay prone, head dangling between outstretched arms, I realized a growing discomfort about my chest and torso. Eventually no amount of shifting would abate the throb so I invited another to take my place. By now the balance of the team was up and over so we snacked briefly and began to trot further up our mountain. The going was always steep, so the group fractured yet again as the swift outpaced the steady. However, every step reinforced an understanding - I had spent too long atop the wall

Around mile 3 or 4 sat a structure not unlike a wide barn. Open at each end, the barn was breezy with cathedral trusses, though no roof, and an elongated ladder of 2x4 to allow competitors to climb half way up the side walls. Within the unfinished structure lay not stalls or a dirt track packed tight by hooves, but ah, rather another coffee colored lake of frigid water. Along the arching bottom chord of the trusses were steel rods creating a shallow "A" shaped series of monkey bars. To climb one side and descend the other, spanning the distance hand over hand, was the objective. The pull ups paid off. I went across easily turning at the end to chant encouragement to my team. The MudSharks found varied levels of success here - some dangling a moment too long in one place before missing a rung and plunging in, while others easily, Tarzan style, swung dry onto the far platform.

Only a hundred yards separated this from a gallows style scaffold dangling not nooses but ropes knotted at 3 foot intervals. Our crew of athletic voyagers found little difficulty here, thus Jay and I ran around again, and so I was to attempt climbing the rope like the giant on The Princess Bride - hand over hand with legs dangling. I matched the giant, though if I recall his cliff was somewhat taller and he was carrying 3 other people.

Several miles of jogging followed punctuated by a snow traverse beneath a bright orange net designed to force you onto the snow, as well as some semitechnical scrambles.

I'm certain I have forgotten a number of the lesser obstacles for by this time the alpine air was getting thin and the trails just ramped steeper. I do recall that atop the pinnacle of Squaw lay a pile of stripped logs. Most of the logs, ranging from 8 inches in diameter to 12 inches, were no more than 16 inches long. Another less visited pile held 4 foot long log cabin rejects. Jay and I picked through this pile and headed up the steep climb together with a monster on our shoulders. The altitude was taking its toll as we stumbled along taking turns stabilizing the other and choreographing the "1,2, 3, Switch" from one shoulder to the other. I found this among the physically hardest challenges. One more step. One more step. In the loose rocky soil several steps may only cover a couple feet.

"1,2, 3, Drop, " and we stumbled toward our comrades. This was the top of the top. From here on, all downhill, the game was footwork. So many had abandoned running long since. Even walking, many were incapable of discourse. Some with less than adequate footwear were already in obvious discomfort, and by the end of the day they were in pain. Our MudShark subset, which now included Dennis, Jay, Caleb and myself, was set to run, so our obstacles became those walking and the varied terrain along the shoulders of the crowded trail. Leaping boulders and crashing underbrush was the new way, and Dennis proved a pro, and we gladly followed his lead.

Next came the Berlin walls, 12 feet tall in 2 consecutive rows. Run, hit the wall with 1 foot, launch off the small cleat and extend for the top. Pull up, straddle, jump. Repeat. Run, hit the wall with one foot, slip, body slam the wooden plank wall. Attempt to breath... Staggering back for another shot at this second wall the encouraging mob sent me right back. I had better luck that time and words of congratulations followed me over the wall as I dropped to the ground. I got clear of the landing zone and squatted searching the rocky soil for some sign of my breath. More running downhill.

Far down the hill loomed a small lake steadily growing with our jolting descent. Here enters my regrets. This lake was one of the obstacles. A 15 foot leap from another manmade cliff began a swim of 50 yards or so over to a series of barrels under which the swimmers dived to gain access to dry land on the far side.

My calves had begun to cramp as I emerged from the ice bath several miles back and remained on the verge for the rest of the day. I contemplated swimming that sea with 2 cramped calves and began a death spiral of negativity.

I just wanted to jump off the cliff. That's the fun part. I didn't want to drown, and the 50 yards may as well have been a mile. "Why didn't I spend time training in the pool like I planned to?" began my self degradation. "Maybe I can just jump and swim out the back... " This thought was interrupted by "Get him! - Get him! " being shouted by one of the kayakers. Sure enough a man was completely submerged with only his nose still visible as I looked his way. He was dragged from the water by another in a double hulled blue kayak and draped over the scaffold exactly where I had hoped to swim back to. A barking voice began a commanding chant "don't jump if you can't swim across. " I gritted my teeth despising my indecision. The scenario happened a second time and another drowning was evaded. My resolve crumbled and I turned my back on the lake to look an ocean of regret full in the face.

I jogged around the lake and met up with my friends who congratulated me on my discretion and wisdom. The encouragement fell limp. I resolved to finish strong.

I was not, however, to avoid gettting wet again because the Boa Constrictor was next. 20 foot lengths of 24 inch corrugated drain pipe were laid side by side, all sloping downward with the lower ends of the pipes half submerged in another pond. Each tube was entered one Mudder at a time and as many as 3 Mudders we're simultaneously inside the clostrophobic core of each tube inching deeper and deeper into the water. The mid point was guarded by barbed wire strung hovering above the pond surface with the only exit - a mirror image trip up another black tube. I lay in the pond shivering as the tennis shoes of the gal ahead of me didn't budge. The man ahead of her was self destructing and she was stuck in the mouth of the exit. I moved laterally to an unoccupied tube which had swallowed Caleb's shoes seconds back. My elbows, knees and shins scraped against the sandy gravelly bottom struggling to haul my soaked carcass up the slope. Daylight. I watched the shaken man emerge and then the girl. More running.

After this came another set of Berlin walls, only 8 feet tall this time, and then further down the trail were mounded hay bales - more a nuisance than an obstacle. My ribs were now screaming at every step and the pain in my calves was ever present.

Views of the valley and the finish line festivities were more prevalent now, and the pulse of the live band over a mile away unconsciously gave rythm to our pounding feet. The trail narrowed in the final mile to a single track switchbacking across the hillside. Here our pace slowed as thousands of weary pilgrims bottlenecked within sight and sound of the end. The pace of the whole was reduced to that of the weary.

A large cargo net spread between 2 towers lay in our path upon attaining the valley. Many stepped gingerly upon the intersecting ropes while others plunged headlong rolling into the valley then struggling to hands and knees and scrambling free. My approach proved a combination of the 2. I attempted to follow Caleb who had skillfully navigated the edge of the net. Losing my footing part way I allowed gravity to hurtle me towards the center where monopolizing on the bounce of the net I rolled like a child on a summer hillside. I then scrambled out like the others.

Here the spectators were densely lining the last few hundred yards. Shouts, high fives, and congratulations propelled us toward the home stretch and 2 final challenges. First was a dozen parallel balance beams above (what else) a 5 foot deep pool of dark water, and second was the fabled Electroshock Therapy with hundreds of high voltage-low amperage wires dangling above (what else) a pool of conductivity enhancing dark water. I had been practicing the balance beam at the park with my daughter, though nothing I tried was quite like getting 2/3 of the way across the 24 foot span and feeling the lateral sway of the beam beneath beleaguered feet. In one of our synergistic training runs we had tested our balance skills on a stairstep series of bars. The consensus at the time was that forward motion was the key and pause was the enemy. This was tested and proved over the murky waters as Caleb, then I, and then Jay scampered unhesitatingly from platform to platform, followed by Dennis who fatally paused at mid span to be unceremoniously tossed into the drink.

Reunited again we had only to run the electric gauntlet and collect our t-shirts and orange head bands. Some of us contemplated this longer than necessary and proceeded with more caution than might be admirable. If true bravehearts we had been, then linked arm in arm we would have blasted through the wires sharing the jolts and laughing at the pain. We didn't. I for one walked and trotted through - flatly avoiding the wires. I saw Caleb jogging though cautiously, and as for the others I don't recall. The photos prove that Chris's run was one to be admired.

We were done. I jogged from the wires to claim my prizes and looked only for my girls and the hugs I felt I deserved.

The crowds, the cold shower, the blaring bands, and dinner with the team are all a blur. My family stayed another night at team-member Mitch's cabin and then made church the next morning. With 3 hours of sleep Friday night and 5 Saturday night I was in poor condition for reflection. My opinion Sunday, tainted by regret and the throb about my rib cage, was that I had run my first and only Tough Mudder.

Monday came. The sun rose. My ribs hurt worse, but I downloaded my pictures and combined them with those sent by Chris on Sunday.

I realized I wasn't through with Tough Mudder.

I had thought I was better than this event and trained hard to prove it. I practiced the ridiculous things like climbing walls and balancing on fence rails. I even met with fellow Mudder Tom to give me a crash refresher on distance swimming - and then I failed. I recognized a weakness, identified a course of action to cure it, and never followed through. I never got in the water again until TM put me in over my head. To those who have proffered that discretion is the better part of valor, I appreciate your gentleness. I, a self proclaimed Tough Mudder, cannot be so gentle. I have work to do.

I have been swimming 3 times in this the first week since the 2011 NorCal Tough Mudder. I bought goggles and am going to get stronger.

Next time no hesitation.
Next time no regrets.

A huge thanks to all of my teammates and my patient loving family.

Thank you also Kelsey for again providing incredible pictures.
Thank you Dianne, Chris, Vince and Bec for all of the other decent pictures.

Home-Stretch Lethargy

2011-09-08T15:07:00.000-07:00

I rounded the last corner of a pancake flat loop on a dusty gray dirt road flanked by corn and soybean fields deep in the heartland of Michigan. Of the 5 1/2 mile loop, I had only 3/4 of a mile left to run. That's when it hit me hard.

If I stooped just a bit I could see beneath the outstretched limbs of the roadside trees, exactly 1 mile to where this track ended along Old State Highway 21. The combined red and yellow of the "Stop Ahead" sign blended through the heavy morning air into an orange dot just to the right of a tiny dusty-rose "Stop" sign. My loop ended at the black mail box 1/4 mile shy of the pink sign. There was no good reason for fatigue after enjoying a slow pace and ridiculously little elevation gain.

But it hit me amazingly hard anyway - the need to quit. My legs said stop. My lungs agreed. I managed to stumble over unseen stones and for a few steps my mind raced in search of excuses.

It's hot and humid.
Well, it's going to be hot soon anyway - humid it is. Stifling. I guess 75 degrees is hot for 7 am.
I'll run longer tomorrow - no sense pushing it this morning.
I think I'm developing a blister...

Those thoughts and worse assailed what little resolve was left to guard my objective. I kept running. Why? To whom would I boast? The run was not destined for the record books. I had some legitimate pain and I was bored of running on that dismally uninspiring dirt road. So why not walk the 3/4 mile?

And why not walk the home stretch so many other times? I have struggled with what I coined "Home-Stretch Lethargy" near the completion of more long runs than not. 20 miles, 10 miles, 5 miles, or 3; it makes no difference. There is a seduction I can't explain which whispers to a weary body within grasp of the goal. "Must you really push so hard?" "Who cares?" "You could use a longer cool down today," it coaxes.

Is that seductive voice part of me? How can the same mind that drives me to run for hours on end resort to cowardly treason within sight of home?

And yet I know that it is a part of me. Its source is that same dark corner where rests all doubt and fear. The corner is a banishment, not allowed the light of cognition. But it exists. Within lurks a seductress opportunistically watching for weakness, pain and lethargy to combine with the lactic acid. As the end draws near the toxic voice disguised as pain itself begins to caress my will.

And I must make a choice. Not a fixed choice, rather one that must be remade each time I crash against the pavement with a blistered foot.

I can quit at any time, and I will hate the quitting. I know I will.

So I run on. I finish. And I'm happy I did.

2 Weeks Before a Spring Marathon

2011-08-19T08:41:00.000-07:00

The rain has been softly falling for 2 hours following a long night of steady showers. I'm soaked. The earth is saturated. The roads are matte black and the world a collage of muted grays, pinks, and greens. I dodge puddles, but I'm really not sure why. My feet are snug and secure, but through two pair of socks are long soaked. I wonder how long I can run with wet feet before blisters form in the pink softened skin around my toes and heels. I wonder if my Reeboks will ever be the same.

The wind tugs at my cap and I duck to keep it affixed. No headlamp this morning - I left a little later than usual. The cap for today is bright orange and white and lightweight, and if I keep my head down just a little lower than is advisable for good running posture, it keeps the rain out of my eyes. Carelessly I gape at the ever changing colors of dawn. A gust forces me to expend precious energy in raising an arm to reset my lid.

When I finally get home I will have run 23 miles. I've never run that far before. How many calories is that? More than I brought with me. 18 miles is my record. Only 3 weeks ago my leg was immobile while the swelling on my knee abated. My legs feel great. A marathon is 26.2 miles. Why the .2? It doesn't matter if I don't finish this 23.

My hat was the first to get soaked. But oddly, I find that if I can keep the pelting rain off my head and out of my face, the rain fades into the scenery. I guess my tights and the back of my jersey were next. How is it that I can throw water up the back of my jersey? It must be leaving the back of my shoes as my legs reverse and head for the pavement again. I wonder if I'm trailing a rooster tail like on my mountain bike through the creeks? I'm not going that fast.

Inside, my toes were warm and dry for nearly a mile. The force of my sole smashing into the asphalt and concrete displaces enough water, that before it can regroup and rush to find its level around the vents of my shoe, there is nothing left but a void. But water is coming out of the sky. The falling rain does its work, and all now hangs limp and heavy.

15 miles and I haven't stopped running since those first determined strides 2 hours ago. The rain abates, but the wind intensifies as I turn away from the river and start the only notable climb of the day. This hill is long. One mile? Two? I usually ride my bike down this hill, and it's a great one to go down. Why am I going up? The only way out is up - unless I go back along the river. No going back. Finish what you started.

I'm trudging as the wind is swirling now from the right, and now again from the front, oscillating just enough to keep me off balance. I carry my hat for a few minutes. The storm has abated, but the wind still blows. I can see the bottom of the fog just a few feet above. I will be running in the fog soon, but I don't care because I'm getting hot.

As I ascend the sun makes a feeble attempt to pierce a bleary morning sky but is summarily shunned and never returns. The river drops back further and further below. I can't stop or turn - this hill is steep - but if I could I would see the skeletal arches of 2 bridges, ghostly in the mist, slowly rising above the trees. I crest onto a ridge with views of San Francisco Bay, San Pablo Bay, and the lush green hills of western Contra Costa County. The waters of the river bend into the bays just below the hills to the west. Today I see only the suffocating hovering fog and the dank hillsides downy with a new blanket of emerald shoots. I'm cold.

I eat a Power Bar. Chew. Breathe. Chew. Breathe. Drink. Take another bite. Chew. Breathe. It couldn't take longer if it was a whole meal.

Cars breeze past and I suppose I can read the expressions of each face. Amused Elitist. Concerned Mother. Annoyed Sloth. Disdainful Pragmatist. Encouraging Athlete. I suppose I don't care. I'm well over half way done.

I drink water from small fluorescent yellow bottles strapped to a 2" wide padded belt around my waist. Yet, I believe osmosis may actually be providing most of my hydration today.

The last long stretch back into town is narrow and winding and the world is coming awake. Traffic seems heavy - especially with no shoulder. I ponder the distance between the asphalt and the swollen creek at my elbow and then wonder if I could launch a kayak in there. Downed trees swirl the water and I envision myself thrashed by the branches as my kayak is pummeled into submission. Too risky. If one of these trucks has its way I might have to swim it though. I leap into the weeds as 2 large trucks converge directly beside me. I must not exist, I postulate.

But I'm certain I do exist, for no phantom can feel this much fatigue and pain. Only 5 more miles. Still soaked.

Court House Run

2011-08-18T10:56:00.000-07:00

I have a favorite route that I run about once a week. It takes me downtown Martinez where I loop once around the county courthouse and then retrace my route on the opposite side of the road. In all it is about 4.75 miles. I don't often record my times or mileage being a very practical optimist. If I don't know - I can't be disappointed.

Last week I recorded my route on a new Android GPS tracking app - Endomondo. (Seems to refer to "endorphins") I ran what I thought was a fast pace but looked at the statistics and was chagrined to see an 8+ min / mile average speed. I lived with that assumption for a week.

Motivated, I tracked my route and time on the same path a week later. This time I allowed the "virtual coach" to shout over the music and give me my split times through my ear buds. I ran fast and cleared the first mile in 7 minutes 2 seconds. I lost 20 seconds on the second mile, but it finished my first climb, so a small drop was to be expected.

The wheels started to come off the wagon in mile 3. 7 minutes 53 seconds, and then mile 4 was 7 minutes 59 seconds. Run... Faster... Run... Faster

I lengthened my stride for the home stretch, fighting a stitch and a sour stomach. I crossed the road at rush hour - sans crosswalk - timing it well enough to not be flattened or scorned. Right turn into my neighborhood and a left down my street. Stop. 36 minutes 21 Seconds.

Average speed 7:36 per mile. Smile.

Then I reviewed the history to make the comparison. Last week 36 minutes 7 seconds. Wait a minute. I had a better time last week? Evidently.

I'm not sure what state of mind I was in at the finish a week ago, but I obviously misread the data.

I had been motivated by a mistake. Frown.

So, I actually did worse? Stink.

Next week...

Backpacking in Yosemite 2011

2011-08-08T12:42:00.000-07:00

Yosemite as seen from behind the lens of my HTC Inspire, Android, GPS enabled, handheld computer camera - which even has an operational phone feature which works well enough - when I can get my daughter to stop playing Angry Birds long enough for me to answer the calls. Having not replaced the latest of a long line of camera casualties, I chose to record this backpacking trip with my cell phone.

This year's trip through Yosemite followed a loop from Wawona, up to the top of Chilnualna Falls, north east to Buena Vista Peak, and then back around to the west exiting the wilderness where we had entered.

Group 1 (Brent, Tim, Zach, Matt, and Jeremy) entered the wilderness on Tuesday late morning. Dave and I followed them 24 hours later.

The view from the bridge crossing Chilnualna Creek - Wawona Campround - Yosemite

Dave and I hit the trail to catch up to our friends. We arrived 1 day later than them and had a 15 mile, 3,500' climb in which to catch up to them for their second night's campsite. It was surprisingly warm. I had lost the shirt before we even left the parking lot. I had packed for cold weather and with the temps in the 70's at 10:00 am and 5,000' I was concerned that the extra weight was a waste.

I was not to be disappointed though. By 8,000' we were traversing patches of snow, and before the week was out, the nighttime lows would be in the high 20's.

Tim proved to be a great asset to the team, and at 16 years old, is more familiar with navigating Yosemite than many of the locals. He also makes great August snowmen.

We were legitimately concerned that we would be navigating by "blaze", map, and compass if the snows were covering too much of the trail. Though many sections of trail were obscured, none initiated more than a few moments of indecision.

One of the many views we would have of Chilnualna Creek and Falls.

Strangely this was among the wildest of the wildlife we encountered over the 4 days. There was a marmot sighting, a few deer sightings, and the ubiquitous black squirrels, lizards and birds, but the presence of a species presenting real physical danger was limited to the ones wearing backpacks.

"Hey guys, look over here!"
Royal Arches Lake - camped on exposed granite attempting to escape the starving mosquitoes.
They found us anyway. Night 1 for Dave and I.

The view from the top of Buena Vista Peak, looking down on Buena Vista Lake with our second campsite near the middle of the far side of the lake.

The technical and most enjoyable part of the ascent of Buena Vista Peak. This climb had no marked trail, though we were certainly not the first to ascend this peak. The boulders were strewn clear to the top as if a herculean dump truck had backed up beside the lake and left its load to be spread.

Our campsite was so close to the base of the peak, that we had a hard time representing the mountain in any one picture.

I was dubbed Obi Wan Kenobi for my blanket / coat / sleeping bag liner. This was the result of much contemplation and a few nights sleep lost last year in a 40 degree sleeping bag on consecutive 30 degree nights. Obsessed with minimalism, weight reduction, and multi purposes, I brought a sleeping bag liner and coat together into a medieval style micro-fleece robe. Don't knock it - it worked. It served all purposes in splendid fashion - did I say fashion? Yes, I will be taking orders as soon as the shipment of micro-fleece arrives. Best of all, thanks to the research and generosity of our family friend, Shiree, and a handful of clasps, snaps and thread that Bec had lying around - it was completely free. The design is absolutely original. Bec strategically intervened behind the sewing machine, but generally let me stumble through the stitches myself. One person actually thought I had bought it, though in their defense, they didn't get a very close look.

One of the many drops of Chilnualna Falls.

Just above our last night's campsite along Chilnualna Creek.

I left the wilderness with about 1/8 of my battery remaining in my phone. I took 185 pictures and about 10 minutes of video. But I took no calls.

Another successful wander away from the daily grind, and an opportunity to regain my focus on the Creator of it all.

Photo Credit - Matt
Who stumbled upon this little piece of paradise with Dave.

Check out Kelsey's blog, linked to the right, for some truly spectacular photos. Seems she was out there somewhere...

"I Wasn't Afraid to Lose"

2011-07-21T19:38:00.001-07:00

Cycling at it's best

What an awesome day for Leopard-Trek and Andy Schleck. I haven't been able to see any of this year's stages of the Tour de France live, but I'm wishing that I had today.
The news reports yesterday were at best indecisive and at worst actually sneered at the young Luxembourg rider. Today only he can sneer - but that doesn't seem to be his style.

Check out the race report at cyclingnews.com, and this article about his amazing effort.

I've been watching the brothers Schleck for nearly 3 years now. It's great to see them coming into their own. Even if one of them doesn't finish in yellow - today will certainly be a day to remember, and will always be known as the day Andy dropped Alberto - and everyone else.

Death Ride 2011

2011-07-14T15:41:00.000-07:00

Sitting at a mile above sea level, Markleeville, CA is about as unassuming a place as one could want to come across. Every time I drive through the .25 mile long business district, I wonder what glue adheres this alpine oasis to the map. Other than the pub and general store, I have no idea what form of commerce would support the 200 residents.

South Lake Tahoe, 30 miles to the north west is no doubt the daily destination for most of Markleeville's commuters, but it's not the azure waters of Lake Tahoe that lure me into this quiet mountain village.

I would likely never have noted the existence of Markleeville if it weren't for the Tour of the California Alps - Death Ride. For 1 weekend in July Markleeville's population blossoms by 1800% as 3,500 cyclists are hosted out of Turtle Rock Park for a Saturday of intense cycling.

This was my 3rd year to summit the 5 passes for a cumulative +15,000' of climbing over 129 miles. There was no question this year whether or not I would finish as there was the first year, and I lacked the drive to finish fast as I did the second year. This year my singular goal was to enjoy the ride.

Starting with a short spin on the bike and then chilling at camp in Turtle Rock Park Friday night, sleeping in a little later than the norm (4:00am rather than 3:15am), and finally riding at whatever pace suited me at the moment, I managed to pull off a spectacularly pleasant weekend. All of that was topped off with the girls coming up to cheer me and an unending procession of cyclists as we passed through Markleeville on our way to Carson Pass (#5) just after lunch.

I carpooled with Vince and Dianne Friday morning and made amazingly good time getting to the mountains. The oversized tires on V's Tacoma supposedly throw his speedometer off. I don't think the speedometer was off quite that much though.
Later in the afternoon Kevin arrived, and before evening Kipp and Mardi had rounded out our 2 camp sites.

Kipp and Mardi, who were disappointed with last year's performance finished all 5 passes this year. Kevin, who can ride 200 miles in the Davis Double, threw in the towel at 3 passes, and kicked back for a long lunch, and a relaxing afternoon with Milt and Jackie who showed up around midday Saturday with no bicycles.

Vince and I spent the majority of the morning together, but shortly before the 3rd pass he dropped back to discuss irrigation methods with a tree and we only saw each other in passing after that. I learned later that a developing wardrobe issue was becoming a pain in the butt - literally. I left with the girls promptly after finishing the ride and breaking camp, but he emailed me later to say "Hey the gel pad in my cycling shorts disintegrated causing them to bunch up which in turn caused great bottom pain, I almost didn't make it!" That's dedication to a goal.
This was #8 or #9, I don't recall, but he claims he's finished when he finishes 10 DR's with 5 summits.

Finally, Dianne pulled off a great first DR. She left at 4:25am with Kevin to start the ride in the dark. About an hour later Vince and I rode onto the course. It wasn't until nearly the top of the back of Monitor Pass (#2) that I finally caught up with her. She was toast, but still in good spirits. I expected her to bail on #3 - because if you crest Ebbets and head down the other side, there's no way out but back up. But nearly to the top of #4 - returning up the back side of Ebbets, I saw her descending from #3 toward the valley. That descent is out and back with no bus at the bottom. She had plucked up some courage and committed to the back side of Ebbets and completed 4 passes.

Next year will be DR #4 for me, though I haven't committed to 10 like Vince has. I'm not sure that my attention span is quite that long. I've determined now, however, that next year I'll be riding against the clock. My objective is to finish in under 9 hours on the bike, and 10 hours total.
This year my average speed was 12.1 - which is respectable enough.

Next year the number is 14.3.

Lakeport - Take 2

2011-07-03T17:26:00.000-07:00

6:45 Am - Almost to the Carquinez Bridge.

Bottom of Howell Mtn. Rd. above St. Helena CA - 50 miles into the ride.

When the sign said Howell Mtn. Rd. was closed because of a slide - it wasn't joking. Like good adventurers we blew past the 3 Road Closed signs, the sign specifically stating that the road was closed to vehicles, bikes, and pedestrians, and the recently constructed barricade. Honestly I wouldn't have ventured up if Vince hadn't been there. I like adventure and all, but climbing 1100' just to find out I have to go back down and up the other way is annoying. ...I gambled - less annoying with a friend.

The multiple bicycle tire tracks in the dirt skirting the barricade promoted optimism, plus the cyclist at the bottom had claimed we could get through.

And we did...

It looked like a bomb had been dropped on the road.

I was on my way to Lakeport to visit friends for the 4th of July weekend, and Vince was looking for a long ride - both of us on our last long pre-Death Ride training ride. Leaving Martinez at 6:00 AM we made reasonably good time in the cool air. 60 miles later we parted ways at a convenience store at Howell Mt. Rd. and Pope Valley Rd. where another group of riders accompanied Vince on the loop back toward home. I struck off alone toward Middletown and the Cobb Mt. climb beyond.

The south approach to Cobb Mt. up Hwy 175 was a success this time. 2 years ago on basically this same route, Highway 175 combined with 100 degree temps and the 90 previous miles, had proven too much for me and a galvanized guard rail half shaded by a scraggly oak had become a makeshift oasis. As I powered by the spot this 2nd time, I was thankful for 90 degrees and a slight breeze.

Total trip ended up being 112 miles, in 7 hours 15 minutes on the bike. 1 mile further and 15 minutes faster than last time - just over a 15 mph average speed. Elevation gain - 4,000 - 5,000 feet. Water bottles totaled around 7 plus the Coke in Middletown and the Gatorade at the top of Cobb Mtn.

And it was fun. I enjoyed the ride considerably more with a little knowledge of the countryside and rest stops that I lacked last time. It was smoking hot in the canyons, but in general the weather was spectacular for a half day on the bike.

And when my wife and girls showed up at our friend's home 30 minutes after I did, Bec popped the leftover spaghetti from home into their microwave... to keep me out of their fridge.

Vince ended up with 110 miles for the day.

Summer

2011-06-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

I've been tied up lately with multiplied concerns pulling me many directions. It's hard to stay consistent with a training regimen and continue to meet the familial, corporate, and social obligations with legitimate demands on my schedule.

My goal has been 1 medium length run, 1 short ride (ideally a commute ride from and to work), and 1 long ride per week.

The runs have taken a new twist now that our youngest is strong enough to endure the rigors of the jogging stroller at jogging speeds. I've been loading her up on a Tuesday or Thursday afternoon and running the 7 miles down to and around the Martinez marina and back. She's a great sport - as a matter of fact, as soon as I unfold the stroller, she is tripping her way over to get hoisted inside. - I'm ever amazed at that stroller. By our count it has well over 2000 miles on it, and if it actually had an odometer, I suspect we'd see double that. - At 19 months she has grown accustomed to the stroller with resigned dignity and is content to ride several times per week, hours at a time, on our long family walks and has now transitioned quite well into the jostle of slightly higher speeds.

My schedule must fall out perfectly in order for my commute rides to work. I must be in the general vicinity of the shop in the afternoon to lock up my truck and transition to the bike. And then I must not have early appointments the next morning so as to give myself time to return to the office and clean up. I manage to accommodate that sequence every few weeks or so.

The long rides have been going well over the last month or so, like yesterday's 56 mile ride around the Diablo Valley. After 120 miles and 5 summits of Mt. Diablo last Saturday, I figured I could focus on some speed work in the valley. I'm nearly as sore after the high intensity pulls and sprints in the valley as I was after 17,800' of climbing.

I have to put in a final note as a proud daddy.
My oldest (8) has now purchased her first bike with "brakes and gears." She has saved up her birthday money and with the help of Craigslist, a small bag of cables and such from the bike shop, and about 3 hours of work with her daddy is now the proud owner of a dual suspension 7 speed mountain bike. She's only a few more scrapes and bruises away from handling the bike like a pro.

5x Plus a Little

2011-06-20T16:42:00.000-07:00

A friend I met on the way down the mountain

I've begun to perceive a tendency if not an actual theme - A look in a listener's eyes communicating something between "what for?" and "You poor fool." I've even begun to hold out and omit some of the enormity of an otherwise splendid tale if I see that the listener is bereft of an overaggressive sense of adventure.

But on Saturday I finally met a fellow who understood. Yes, he got it. He likewise had summited Mt. Diablo 5 times consecutively in 1 period of daylight. On my 4th ascent of the day - which happened to be up the South side of the mountain - I paced with a gentleman sporting a '99 Death Ride finisher's jersey. He commented that it was rather late in the day, on such a warm afternoon, to be climbing all the way to the top of the mountain. I tried desperately to achieve nonchalant as I let him know this was my 4th pass. He was unfazed and retorted with simple frankness that his record was 5. Today however, he was content to achieve the Ranger Station - half way to the top.

It was at that point that in spite of a fitful 4 hours of sleep the night before, temperatures 10 degrees warmer than expected, and a growing numbness of mind and body, I decided I must at least match my own 1 year old record of 5 summits again this day.

Indeed I succeeded, and was pleasantly surprised to find myself finishing in somewhat better shape than I had a year ago. I could see, spit, and walk straight - often 2 of them at the same time. Let's just say - last year I was dangerous driving home.

However, in the face of triumph there was also a conceptual defeat. I had been hoping for 6.
4 in 2009
5 in 2010,
and now in 2011...

My arithmetic proved to be superior to my resolve. At 120 miles, 17,800' of elevation gain, and 10 hours 30 minutes on the bike, I was tired. My friends were all gone, showered, cool, and sipping... sipping - yes sipping, not guzzling bottle after bottle of warm translucent agony lubricant. I entertained the hope of at least a half summit of number 6, but the arguments in opposition were increasing faster than I could keep up with them on that long slow ascent of Number 5. I was rapidly becoming incapable (more mentally and emotionally than physically) of a 6th pass. If 6 was victory, then I was destined for defeat.

The conceptual defeat was ameliorated only slightly by an early morning stroke of genius. Yet indeed the genius may have also been the demise of that half summit of number 6. I had arrived early and spent my first 30 minutes climbing to the 1000' marker - 8 miles round trip and 750' of elevation gain. On returning to the valley I met my friends and we then proceeded on our way up the first real ascent. I tucked that solo ride, a little piece of brilliance, away in a side jersey pocket for the outside chance I didn't make it past 5 - I would at least have bettered last year.

The presence of that knowledge rapidly became a weight and a burden more than a crutch. I began to reason...
The half summit of number 6 was pointless if I didn't go all the way.
Was a half summit plus my early solo climb of 750' really any better than the 750' alone?
I had still fallen short of 6.
5 plus a little more, was only 5 plus a little more no matter how much more I chose to go, short of 6.
6 wasn't happening.
5.5 is pointless if 5.2 is already bagged.
Ok so it would actually be 5.7 - but I've already given up on 6.
If I give up on 6, is 5.7 really any better than 5.2?
I reasoned, No.

So this year I summitted 5.2 times. Though a marked disappointment, it reigns as my second greatest cycling achievement ever.

And at home, my Coca Cola was chilled perfectly for sipping.

The car struck by a cyclist (with broken driver's side window) and the helicopter that took the cyclist off the mountain. That's not the ride he had planned.

Vince - My companion of 3 Summits.

Me, waiting with the others for the helicopter to take a poor gentleman away for some TLC.

I Can Do All Things Through Christ

2011-06-11T18:37:00.000-07:00

The lyrics to Mathew West's Strong Enough were going through my mind during an early Saturday morning training ride.

This particular ride was rife with little objectives:

Turn the corner in Walnut Creek on my first loop before 40 minutes had passed - Success
Meet Vince at his house by 7:00 AM, or at approx. 1hour 10 minutes - Success
Meet the larger group at Mt. Diablo North Gate by 8:00 - Abandoned
Establish an alternate route we could ride in 3 hours to be done by 10:00 AM - Success
Attempt a new 1 mile hill (known to Vince as the hill his work van can only go up in low gear) up Castle Crest Rd. in Walnut Creek with more than a 1/4 mile of it at over 20% - Success
Climb South Gate Rd. up to the Ranger station in under 30 minutes - Success
Get to our respective appointments by 10:00 AM - Fail

The highlight of our ride was the climb up Castle Crest. Vince challenged me to the climb - knowing I was incapable of refusing. He said he'd wait at the bottom, which I happened to know he likewise was incapable of. We met at the top soaked with sweat and hearts pounding. Smiles.

All day, up every hill, I was chanting "I can do all things, Through Christ who gives me strength." How encouraging to have such a positive message cycling through those inner eardrums with which only my spirit can listen. I must admit I tortured creation with my own rendition of West's song - out loud. Apologies.

Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

50 Miles of Hills

2011-06-03T20:54:00.000-07:00

Gray clouds skirted across the top of Mt. Diablo obscuring the twin peaks yet adding emphasis to its dramatic prominence amid the green hillsides slow to tan in a cool wet spring.

Briones hillside confused by lingering rains.

In June the Bay area hills glow golden brown under azure skies. The infrequent foggy dawn is dispatched early as the long days of late spring fairly burst over the eastern horizon. The rain ends in May so June in northern California is the beginning of carefree picnics, long bike rides, and explosive gardens.

Except when its raining - in June.

Today is the 3rd of June and it will rain again tomorrow, like it rained on the 1st.

Absurdity.

So I pedaled away from the daily grind in the early afternoon and headed for the hills under lowering skies. With the Death Ride looming only a month away, my training rides are becoming a recognized though easily distracted priority. With only a few hours available I decided to pack them full of hills. In under 4 hours I managed at least 5000' of climbing in 48 miles.

Pig Farm, Bears, Wildcat Canyon, South Park, back to Happy Valley - up and over, and then back up and over, Bears, Pig Farm hill, home. These hills are so steep that the descents flash by and you're climbing again before you can gulp two bites of a Power Bar and a swallow of water.

I started out strong and fast, and paid for it at the end. With my route never more than 20 miles from home or a few miles from cell phone coverage, I pushed hard knowing I could blow up and call for SAG if necessary.

Just before blowing, I remembered the gorp (Good Old Raisins and Peanuts, or Gobs Of Raw Protein) in my jersey and downed the mix greedily. The recovery was obvious, and I remembered what I had learned about long rides. If you get hungry - you're toast.

Goats along Happy Valley Rd., with the long ascent of Papa Bear seen between the trees.

With any luck I won't have to work my long rides in around the weather much longer. My schedule is another story.

Full Speed Ahead

2011-05-01T21:47:00.000-07:00

Looking west from the top of Pig Farm Hill over the early morning mist

I haven't stopped writing or riding, but at the current pace my life is flying by at, I don't have time to collect my thoughts and communicate them in a clear or concise manner as is fitting for a blog or time enough to construct my words into paragraphs, sentences, and phrases which work grammatically and flow seamlessly into one another by integrating billowing metaphors like soft clouds on a summer afternoon or brilliantly colorful adjectives adroitly and appropriately alliterated so as to draw a reader into the simple unified and tightly woven singular topic of the particular posting at hand.

Possible posts if I were to take the time to write:

First Commute to Work ride in a long time, and how it only took me 1 hour and 12 minutes to go the 20 miles home from work in spite of my long absence from the bike, and the 1 hour and 30 minutes it took to get back to work the next morning because (Must think of good excuse for going slow - Possibly insert old stock photo of Pig Farm Hill at beginning to insinuate that I was stopping along the way to enjoy the view).

Crockett Loop - DNF - because Dianne's glasses were completely obscured in the increasing mist of a Thursday afternoon group ride.

Morgan Territory - Mt. Diablo, 75 miles, intended to be three of us but reduced to another solo ride through Morgan Territory as result of Vince's new bike's pedal's mechanical failure 8 miles into the ride, and my subsequent attachment to a 4 rider group with whom I drafted and chatted for the majority of my ride.

Bridge to Bridge - 35 miles with the Saturday morning group, where Vince and I raced ahead of the group all morning until he flatted in Benicia and failed on the new tube because of a faulty patch and I loaned him one of my spares and all the other riders finished long before we did.

Or, Maybe I'll just leave off posting until I can come up with something to write about.

Sun, Clouds, Earth

2011-04-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

It's taken me over 4 months to get around to riding up the mountain this year.
I intended to forgo pictures, but couldn't help myself.
This morning was stellar.
I rode 50 miles with Mt Diablo at the end.

Looking SE toward Pleasanton

Looking west toward Lafayette and San Francisco beyond.

I was wondering why there were so many Subarus and Priuses passing me on the way up.

And the irony wasn't lost on me...
How many vehicles burning how much fuel climbed this mountain to worship on Earth Day?

And these leftists are thorough. They even drive to the left. I nearly had the opportunity to meet one head on, and a helicopter pilot, and some nurses, and doctors, and possibly even a surgeon. I was happy to leave them to their - uh - whatever it is they do on top of a mountain on Earth Day.

God must look down through His clouds at His beautiful green earth and shake His head with disappointment. Such intelligent humans, and they cluster on a mountain named Diablo, and worship dirt.

Golden Gate Headlands Marathon - Done

2011-04-02T18:30:00.000-07:00

This marathon consumed my mind and body for the last week. I have suffered from more leg pain, potential cold / flu symptoms, and general negativity than I can ever remember in a 1 week period. My calves hurt so bad on Friday morning that I couldn't even run across the street without them hurting - And that was the last day of an entire week off! My mind was definitely playing tricks on me, and I didn't think it was funny. I had already titled this blog posting in my mind - Golden Gate Headlands Marathon - DNF.

Saturday morning. All was dark as I turned the alarm clock off and turned the coffee on - 6:05am.
A banana smothered with Nutella, 1 piece of toast (out of the 2 I had buttered and peanut buttered), 1 cup of pear yogurt, and coffee was breakfast. I was all nerves and could barely get them down.

7:15, I hit the road, and an hour later I was parking the truck in a prognostically muddy parking lot. Check in was unnecessary since my bib number had arrived in the mail a few weeks back. Stretch, one more banana, check the hydration belt, stretch, re-tie shoes, on with longsleeves, stretch, off with long sleeves, bathroom, on with long sleeves, stretch.

I waited in a bouncing, bobbing, energetic crowd of skinny spandex clad pretzels twisting their limbs into contortions not likely to ever be encountered out side a gymnasium, and certainly not on a trail run. Our attention was turned to the race organizer perched atop a park bench holding a rubber chicken and a rubber chicken "prize" purse. We learned they would be given to the first male and female finishers. I was in no danger of driving home with a chicken. I raised my hand with the few first time marathoners, and then should have noted with skeptical concern the sparsity of arms aloft when the question of who had run this route before was raised.

9:05, we were off at the countdown of Dave. Five, four, three, two, one - and the 39 marathoners were headed up the first and least of the hills we would encounter over the next few hours. I was instantly and inadvertently at the front. A group of about 8 - 10 of us, half guys half gals, all seemed to have the same pace in mind and enjoyed the comradery for the first miles.

Within a mile we were at the first set of steps only a few paces after leaving the pavement. We were warned that the route was mostly up, and only had enough descents to get us eventually back to the finish. Seems logical, but I think if they could have moved the finish to the top of something obscenely high and steep they would have. Some of the hills had this group of top finishers walking in the first 4 miles of a 26.2 mile race. All of us.

We were rewarded with spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean, San Francisco Bay and City, sail boats docked in Sausolito and Tiburon, and of course hundreds of square miles of the rugged foothills of Mt. Tamalpais. The streams were still running after a week of dry weather and most managed to cross the trails irrespective of the boards designed to bridge them. Other streams had no boards and simply flowed noisily down the middle of the trail, crisscrossed the trail at random intervals, or simply flooded the trails and guarded any detour by abundantly nourishing the flora on either side.

I ran with a group of 3 gals and 2 guys - counting me - for the much of the first 13.1 mile loop. the pace was quick but steady, and I knew I was far above my normal plodding pace. By the end of the first circuit I was running alone with a young gal, a college student from Santa Monica. Sam, a gal running her 2nd marathon had fallen behind, and I wouldn't see her again till I was driving away. The guy left us and evidently finished before me, while the other gals divided into a vanguard and rear guard never to be seen again.

The second lap started with a check in at the start / finish line. We had managed 2 hours exactly. I detoured to my truck and dropped the long sleeve shirt and grabbed an extra Power Bar. Re-entering the course I encountered my friend again and thus had company up the now familiar, though strangely steeper paved hill. At the steps we were separated, and I only saw her at greater and greater distances back, till I was literally alone with no one in sight ahead or behind. Based on my unofficial count of the runners ahead of me, I guessed that I was somewhere between 12th and 15th place.

Gravity increased as the morning turned to afternoon, and the celestial draperies were pierced more frequently by the warming sun. The breeze was yet chill on the ridges, though that perception was partially a function of the evaporating perspiration raised in the process of achieving those ridges.

Familiarity was both boon and bane. I knew how far it was between water stops and ridges, but then on the other hand, I knew just how far it was between water stops and ridges. I shared the trails with noncompeting runners, horseback riders, cyclists, a jack rabbit, and a small snake. I was beginning to notice more about the trail and less about the view. I was forced to walk on portions of hills that I had run up 13 miles ago.

I celebrated the unofficial "top" with another half banana at the second to last water stop. To come was a long, unabated, descending trail which paused in a marsh just before crossing the main road and thence climbed once more to run along the ridge parallel to the massive tankers drifting out into the Pacific. The last water stop, with 3 miles to go was at the base of that last climb, and it was there that I noticed the runner gaining on me. I picked up the pace as best I could, though frankly, had he not been as spent as I it would have been no large accomplishment to over take me in much less time. As it was, I was caught just as we approached the 1/2 mile home stretch across Rodeo Beach and thence into the parking lot for the finish.

I might have let him run past. The wind was full in our faces, and the soft sand was 3 times as difficult as the trail we had abandoned. I would have let him run past, except that he looked about my age, and awards were being given for the top 3 finishers in each 5 year age group. Whether the same was in his mind or not, I'll never know. He was relentless. Though his large fan club met him on the beach (one of whom was kind enough to spare some encouraging words and a smile for me) he didn't back off. I feared this home stretch 13 miles ago, but now I loathed it. The final 100 yards included splashing across the now expanded tidal pool, running up the bank to the road, and then finally sprinting across the road and the parking lot to a table littered with spreadsheets, calculators, and finisher medallions. My comrade commented that we should finish strong and then he put on steam as we crossed the parking lot. I put on more. We reached the table astride, though I made sure I was at least a step ahead. I was done.

We tied. The official results put us tied for 2nd place in our category. According to the official results, I finished 15th - though I know it was 14th. I'm thrilled to own 15th and share 2nd since he managed to turn my finish into something far more spectacular and satisfying than I could have contrived on my own.

Some sources state the overall elevation gain was around 1600', while others put it closer to 6000'. I don't believe either is correct. Based on my tedious calculations in Google Earth, I think it's somewhere in the middle between 4000' and 5000'. None of my training runs had come close. My longest run was 23 miles with 2,200' of elevation gain.

My earlier friend finished - I saw her later in the parking lot covered with mud just like myself.

So as a result of my efforts, I'm now the proud owner of a Golden Gate Headlands Marathon t-shirt, marathon finisher's medallion, and very sore legs.

This was my first marathon, and I picked a tough one. It's no wonder so few had returned for another shot at it. I may be back for another attempt at the GGHM, though without a doubt it was not my last marathon.

2011 Update on the Pros

2011-03-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

Cadel Evans at Tirreno-Adriatico

I am way behind. The pro's have raced away in the 2011 spring season with me still sitting on the couch.

With my focus and energies trained on running this marathon, my off season cross training effectively upstaged my first love.

Paris - Nice and Tirreno - Adriatico are now history and the Tour of Flanders and Paris - Roubaix are just around the corner. Cadel Evans of BMC took top honors at Tirreno - Adriatico, sharing the glory on the final day with Fabian Cancellara of Leopard Trek who showed that his TT prowess hasn't waned over the last winter of another decade.

Who am I watching this year? Well, basically the same players from last year.

Lance Armstrong has said goodbye to the big races, so the USA is down 1 hero. I suspect he will not be altogether absent, though.

George Hincapie from BMC will always be a paragon to me, though any realistic hopes of fantastic wins are fading fast. Along with George on Team BMC is the colorful Cadel Evans, who I watch for the same reason that I watch a ship push through a strong current - they leave an impressive wake.

Of course like the rest of the world, we watch and wait to see what the newly formed Leopard - Trek boys have to offer the 2011 cycling season. This is Saxo Bank cleaned up, dusted off, and energized. The Schleck brothers have every reason to be optimistic about this year's Tour de France, and with team mates like Fabian Cancellara and Jens Voigt - anything is possible.

Speaking of Jens Voigt, he has come out strongly against this year's amplified controversy - the banning of team radios on some high profile races. See this article in Cycling News. I'll possibly have an opinion on this in the future, though for now I'm just weighing the arguments. (As if my opinion mattered at all)

I'm also watching a few new US riders that show potential.

Ben King is a fresh new pro who joined with Lance and the Radio Shack crew this year. I first learned of this rider as I followed him virtually, reading the race report as he won the Pro Championship in my home town of Greenville, SC. It was exciting just following the "as it happens" report.

Then there's Taylor Phinney of BMC, no stranger to cycling with both parents former pros, and also brand new to the professional peloton.

I hope both of these young men prove to be great, and give US professional cycling a much needed boost.

Anticipation

2011-03-19T06:59:00.000-07:00

View Larger Map

This is the first time I've attempted a couple of things.
1. Embedding a map of my route
2. Writing about my route before I run it

Google maps has a great feature that lets you embed a real Google map into your page. I've tried it above and it seems to work.
What you see is the loop portion of my run, starting and ending at the Martinez Waterfront Park. I have 1 out and back section that adds 2 additional miles putting me over 22 miles. So If you get to this within about 3 hours of publishing, say a prayer for my legs.

I've been awake and breakfasted for nearly an hour now. I'm attempting to duplicate as close as possible my actual marathon day routine. Get up at 6:00 am after sleeping 7 hours, eat a large breakfast, digest, stretch, start running around 9:00 am. That gives me 3 hours of down time which I'm attempting to fill.

I'm also attempting my first run with a new Amphipod running belt. I cashed in my REI points and came away with the belt for just over $2. I've been jogging all over the house with it, adjusting and re-adjusting the fit and bottle locations. This is a big change from the Camelback hydration system I have been using. It cuts a little weight and shifts the load from my shoulders to my hips. The only catch is that I'm accustomed to the bounce and sway of my backpack, but I've never worn anything like this. I'm really hoping it works. Conceptually it's brilliant, but then I have no hips so a fatal flaw may already be present. REI is great about returns.

22 miles is a long way to boast about running when I haven't done it yet, but then so is 26.22. So I don't boast. My longest run to date was 19 miles 2 months ago. Last Sunday morning I ran 18 miles, from 5:15 am until nearly 8:00 am. Last week I felt great and believed I had the balance of the marathon miles still in my legs. Today will tell I think. As stated, I don't boast. What happens out there is, I humbly recognize, a gift from my Creator. He saw fit to withhold that gift just a few short weeks ago as I sat for 3 straight weeks with ice on my colorfully swollen knee cap. I don't fear Him as capricious, but rather respect Him as benevolent. The gifts I'm given, I will use as long as I have them, and always say "To God Be The Glory."

The weather is predicted to be stormy with temperatures in the 40's. We got a show of lightning last night, and more is predicted for today. But then that prediction holds true for the next 3 days, so I might as well get it over with. You can only get so wet - right?

Josh - 5000 Miles

2011-03-12T18:23:00.000-08:00

My long time friend Josh

Age: 36

Occupation: High School Chemistry teacher

Married, 6 kids (11yrs to 2 yrs old)

Josh lives in humid Greenville SC.
Josh is a daddy.
Josh doesn't like to spend $4.00 for a gallon of gas when he doesn't have to.
Josh recently sent me an email stating: PS- If I can share a personal milestone- I recently passed 5,000 miles of commuting to school on my bike.

RIGHT ON!!

I call myself a cyclist and I haven't logged that many miles on my road bike in the last 3 years. I suspect Josh wouldn't consider himself a "cyclist" in the snobbish sense, and I suspect his outfit doesn't include brightly colored spandex quite as often some of ours does. But he's a man among men when it comes to riding a bike.

To get a better understanding of his adventures I quizzed him about his commute etc...

______________

How far is your commute?

"6.6 miles one way. Averages around an hour for the round trip. Best time one way 22:37 (the wind was going the right direction)"

Do you ride year round?

"During the school year. (I try to ride a Mt. bike some when I am in AK so it won't be such a shock when I start again in Aug. It is always a shock. It may have something to do with the temperature/humidity change.)"

Any weather? Snow?

"If it is pouring rain when I go to leave in the morning I will sometimes take the van- assuming Kim doesn't need it for errands. I have ridden in snow a couple of times, but never when it was sticking to the road. I had to take about a week off from riding at the start of this semester because of snow and ice still on the road from our amazing 8 inch snow fall we got this year. The coldest I have ridden in was about 11 (Farenheit, not Kelvin)[Remember he is a chemistry teacher] There was ice in my water bottle and icicles starting to form in my beard by the time I got to school. My toes were cold too."

Do you ever take the kids?

"I take them around the neighborhood. Sattler (11) did the route one way with me once. Kim and I took all 6 of them on a 6 mile ride on the Swamp Rabbit trail last Thanksgiving. Two in a trailer I pulled and the rest moved under their own power."

Josh, it's riders like you that do the rest of the cycling community proud.

Ride on.

Getting the Miles Back Up

2011-03-05T14:23:00.000-08:00

This represents the start of my run, up the hill, to meet up with Vince.

This represents basically an out and back juant with Vince plus a solo loop at the end.

Because I'm still learning my new GPS tracking software, I accidentally stopped it when I met up with Vince, who ran the middle 5 miles with me. Hence, the top route and graph are the first 2.5 miles, and the bottom, the final miles.

11.7 miles
2000' elevation gain.
Briones Regional Park - Trails.
2 hours: 10 minutes

After running 20 miles a few weeks back, this seemed like a short and frustratingly difficult run.

But my knee is not swelling, nor am I in any sort of pain at this particular moment.
I preceded the run with 4 cups of coffee, 2 slices of toast and a banana at 6:30am. I started running the hills in Briones at 8:30. All of that in an attempt to mimic the approximate conditions of my upcoming marathon.

Obviously I didn't run a marathon today, nor am I ready to run one. The 3 weeks off my feet took more of a toll than I had thought. The 2 previous short runs, 5 miles and 4.7 miles, were a great success with little pain and no subsequent swelling. The most recent 4.7 mile run, this past Wednesday, was accomplished at a rate of just under a 7 minute mile. I was thrilled - in between gasps - sucking wind.

But I have obviously lost some endurance. I was plagued by the recurring "home stretch lethargy" which is a poor indicator of how much I really have left in the tank, but even in the absence of that phenomenon, I suspect I was within a few miles of a crash.

So what's next? More training. As long as my knee and The Almighty allow, I will continue to press toward my goal: The Golden Gate Headlands Marathon - less than a month away.

And then? Get a professional bike fit, and start training seriously on the bikes.

Wow, I miss the bikes, but I dare not risk the swelling that those rides had initiated previously.

Words that mean more to me now: Patience, Endurance, Contentment.

On Ice

2011-02-27T08:45:00.000-08:00

Snow was predicted for the Bay Area over the weekend, but in typical form, the arctic blast that was to facilitate the freeze was a bit too boisterous and blew the moist air inland to the Sierras leaving us with nothing but heavy frost and frozen puddles.

Saturday morning sparkled.

Though I begrudged the drive to a business seminar, I didn't miss the splendor of the frosty bay area hills along Highway 4. I also didn't miss the slick spot just under Cummings Skyway immediately over the crest of the pass, where seepage from the recent deluge had turned a 100' section of highway into a skating rink.

3 vehicles ahead of me were strewn like toys across the median and shoulder. No less than 2 sets of flashing lights per vehicle were keeping company and more were coming up the highway behind me. When forced by the 2 cars ahead of me to brake at the worst possible moment, my pulse soared through the stratosphere, and I consequently gained solidarity with my truck's anti-lock brakes.

I covered the orange tree again Saturday night, and as predicted, all was crisp and ghost like as the stars faded on Sunday morning. My first run in 3 weeks on a left knee plagued by pre-patellar busitis was going to be a cold one. A pair of thermal Pearl Izumi tights, my most recent and welcome addition to an ever expanding wardrobe of performance attire, proved to be worth the money. Saturated, the hillsides, yards, and even pavement cracks oozed thin glaciers rendering treacherous their meandering path across my own.
Tentatively I increased and decreased the pace, testing my knee, and made it to the 3 mile loop turn around all too soon. That was no good - I pushed on to the Contra Costa County Courthouse for the full 5 mile loop.

All things considered, the run was a success. The only subsequent pain was predictable, and acceptable. I have no idea exactly what I've lost in 3 weeks of limping and essentially not bending my left knee. But my lungs were on track for the 8 minute mile pace, and with the exception of a compliment of tight tendons, ligaments, and muscles around the recovering knee, all the other mechanisms for running were in tune.

But I wasn't done with the ice. For the next few hours I worried my left knee with ice packs, stretches, rest, then more ice and a continuation of the same.

Still to be determined is just how long the ice will be a part of the routine. My hope and prayer is that the warmth of spring will not only drive away the winter chill, but also melt the affliction of this knee.

Nebulae

2011-02-19T23:00:00.000-08:00

Snow on Mt. D - 2009

The snow has returned to Mt. Diablo.
I have no pictures to show, because I can't get close enough.

"Why am I not up on that mountain?" was the nagging thought in my head as I gazed south eastward across the valley at the frosted slopes of the centerpiece of the East Bay. I longed to be up on the side of that mountain - any side - just not down here with my leg stanchioned within the confines of a black aluminum and nylon prison.

My latest visit to the doctor about my knee rewarded me with a consultation between Jodi the PA, Dr. Weiss the Sports Doctor, and the orthopedic surgeon who's name I forget. In short they told me not to bend my knee for a week and ordered a knee immobilizer to enforce the directive. I joked with a friend that my knee had been incarcerated, and the brace could only be removed in a week with a key kept in the Orthopedic wing of Kaiser Permanente. The "cure" to Pre-patellar Bursitis seems to be a medical nebulous eliciting contrary opinions from medical practitioners even within the same hospital. Surgery or no surgery, ice or heat, impact injury or overuse injury, anti-inflammatory or no anti-inflammatory, lifestyle changing or not: all of these variations have grounds for debate and find few willing to be dogmatic.

So where does it leave me - other than hobbling like Long John Silver over to the recliner to debate whether I should ice or heat my knee? I don't know. My questions to the doctors was, "So, basically, it's trial and error. If something tends to make it better then I continue doing it; if worse, then avoid it. Once I'm back to normal the same rules apply." Nods all around. Is it any wonder that many of us stand dubious of the sagacity attributed to practitioners in the medical profession?

Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't return to medieval lancing and leaches. My point would be better taken as caution against assuming that for each malady and variation thereof there also exists a precise medical remedy.

The surgeon recommended that I consider running and cycling shorter distances (Lifestyle Change) and see if I can control future inflammation in that manner. After he had left the examination room, the sports doctor, whom I felt understood my psyche far better than any of the others, lowered his voice as if fearing to be overheard through the closed door. "I don't necessarily agree with the surgeon," he said. Dr. Weiss then described a scenario where I do what I enjoy for the next 30 years and end up with arthritis - or whatever - when I'm 60. Possible. He went on to describe another scenario where I back off, abandon my passion, and take up quilting or needle point. I then end up with arthritis - or whatever - when I'm 70.

What am I to do?
Nothing in life is guaranteed. Live life to the fullest. Discretion is the better part of valor.
You pick the cliche - but again, there is no precise remedy to the academic/emotional malady I face.

As a follower of Christ Jesus, I recognize the sovereignty of God - nebulous though that also may be - and by faith (because after all, what else is there considering the fact that we can't be everywhere to know everything) accept the fact that the sovereign, good, and omnipotent God is capable of taking a presumably ill course of events and making them, in retrospect, a mere stairway to a far greater good.

I recognize and acknowledge this divine capacity. This should give peace. And it does - at those times I'm actively acknowledging the same.

But the understanding of that concept is like perceiving sunlight, between drifting clouds,
shimmering on the ripples of a pond. At times the wind dies down, and clouds drift apart leaving a spectacular brilliance reflecting, because of the nature and geometry of reflection, in the eyes of a person standing in just the right place. Other times the wind picks up and the ripples spread the sunlight like a vast prism casting the reflected rays in a more subdued, but no less spectacular, pattern against any who may be close enough to observe. But inevitably the clouds scud by and by no fault of the sun (or is it possible, inversely as a direct result of the nature of that vital and requisite flame?) obscure all brilliance.

Some times I stand at the side of that pond absorbing both the direct and indirect light of the sun. I move and take up a different position in response to the intensity of that light and in a breeze find myself dazzled by a less potent but no less impressive understanding of the nature of the source. But then I make no move at all and yet the spectacle fades as a cloud moves by seeming to change even the nature of my pastoral surroundings.

And I recognize that in spite of surroundings (those I can control: I could drain the pond or move my position, and those I cannot: the clouds that float over my head), a life-giving Force exists that I must recognize my dependence on and submit my passions to.

And my knee is still swollen.
I can follow doctor's orders. I can run today and hope for the best. I can decide to take up quilting, sell the bikes, and stash the Reeboks...

...I can be content with not knowing which of those is right and simply choose to move forward, making moment by moment decisions based on knowledge and good judgment, with alacrity, and in anticipation of my Sovereign's greater good.

Odds & Ends

2011-02-18T17:45:00.000-08:00

Bec here to fill in while hubby takes his hiatus from all things active while the knee heals. Here is my conquering hero sporting the latest fashion in knee braces.

I will spare you the up-close shot of his lovely colored knee. The good news is that the docs don't seem to think that cycling or running need to end permanently, but I'll let Scott give you all of the gory details when he wishes.

Soooo. . . to entertain his faithful readers (our mothers, that is), I am including some randomness. Look closely now, and keep in mind that this is from an instruction booklet for a hair straightener I recently purchased. . . .

Yes, folks, that says "Never use while sleeping." While I am an advocate of multitasking, I must admit that I am not the world's greatest multitask-er. However, the thought of straightening my hair while I watch those cute, little sheepies jump over the fence appeals to me. In fact, doing a great number of things while I sleep appeals to me. Shall I start a list? Eating, reading, washing the dishes, grading, dusting. . .you name it! Oh, the things I could get done while I sleep! If only. . . .*sigh* The real question, though, is what kind of idi. . . er, umm. . .*ahem* person caused the author to have to include this warning against the use of a heated appliance while sleeping? Interesting, eh?

Okay, now for the real entertainment--the small, noisy one and her latest exploit. . .

Pendulum Swing.

2011-02-12T19:02:00.000-08:00

The dad pushing a little dark skinned beauty on the swing next to Gianna wondered why we came to Walnut Creek for the kids to play at the park. We had been chatting and I mentioned we live in Martinez. I told him my wife wanted to ride her bike on the canal trails and this was a good place for her to start from; where also I could hang out and watch the kids. He nodded, accepting that answer as completely logical and kept pushing.

Ah the irony. There I stood trying to track Ella's laps around the park on her bike, and keep a squealing giggling pendulum in motion, while my wife pedaled alone through Walnut Creek.

It's my knee again. I followed up my Mt. Diablo Almost Marathon on Saturday with a 5 mile hike through the emerald green hills in Briones on Monday. Wanting to "loosen up" some stiff muscles, and anticipating an easy hike, I brought Gianna in the jogging stroller. I did loosen up, but it didn't end up being easy. Tuesday I felt great - except for a twinge of pain in the left knee.

By Wednesday the pain was predominant, and Friday morning at 8:01 I called Kaiser Orthopedics to see if there were any openings. Around 2:00 pm the doctor and I were chatting about the infection in the bursa wreaking havoc on my swollen burgundy colored left knee. Antibiotics 4 times a day, ice, and no running for at least a week till I met her again. "Go to the Emergency Room if you come down with a fever." Stink.

The antibiotics go down with food, so that's OK.

I'm not fond of the ice, because that means I have to sit still at least 3-4 times a day.

But not running or cycling for a whole week? - Not as hard as I thought. 3 days into my abstinence I'm certain I could run if I had to, but frankly have no desire. Walking is a chore. Cycling is out of the question. Yet absence does make the legs grow twitchy - or something like that.

So Saturday I watched my wife ride away on her bike while I sat on the park curb with an ice pack on my knee. When she returned I was spooning banana chunks into a 14 month old and chatting politely with the other domestics. Textbook role reversal.

At church last night a fellow deacon asked me - "so what are you learning from this?" (Referring to my halting gate, and segmented transitions from sitting to standing) "I'm not sure that I want to learn anything from it," was the gist of my reply.
But he knows me better than that.

"I want to learn that I can be content in all things, and that in spite of pain, loss and disappointment I can still face life with alacrity and maintain joy. I want to learn to live like God is enough for me."

Apathy vs Alacrity.

And somewhere in the middle is me.

Tough Mudder

2011-02-08T16:07:00.001-08:00

http://toughmudder.com/events/norcal2011/

The website pretty much says it all.

We have a team created - "MudSharks" - and have approx. 6 or 7 members going.
Anyone interested can join, and the more there are on your team the better. Let me know if you're interested and I'll get you the link to join our team.

Bec can't make it this year, but she said "maybe some year." I'm not making that up...

God put us together for a reason. She's the best woman a man could want - and yes, for more reasons than just that : )

Mt. Diablo Marathon - Almost

2011-02-05T18:10:00.000-08:00

Me and Vince (Who's camera is responsible for all of these pictures.)

It took all week to plan for this insanity.

Matt took receipt of my bike on Friday night and it spent the night in the back of his Tundra. Also part of his cargo were my trail running shoes, helmet and gloves, 2 water bottles, 2 oranges, a banana, Power Bars, and a quart size bag of mixed nuts and dried fruit.

My conveyance to the start of a Mt. Diablo summit hike, was my white and orange Reeboks. 5:15 am I hit the road on the run and 13.4 miles and exactly 1 hour 45 minutes later I jogged up to the culdesac of Regency Dr. in Clayton. 7:00 am, I crested the last hill, as Pastor and Vince drove up. Sarah was already there, and Matt showed up 5 minutes late.

Matt brought me coffee and a protein type shake, both of which were gone in less than 5 minutes.
I changed shoes, reloaded my CamelBack with a new supply of PowerBars and the nut / fruit mix and we hit the trail at a trot. There had been some uncertainty as to whether we would summit the mountain, or just take the Falls Trail loop. So we did both.

Sarah was interested most in the Falls Trail, so whether in a show of chivalry or just a chance to add some miles, we took the loop with her until it intersected the Middle Trail and our route to the top.

Sarah, Me, Pastor, and Matt

Parting ways, Sarah jogged back down to her car, while the 4 men headed uphill.
10:04am, I climbed over the rail into the summit parking lot. (We rarely take the trail the whole distance to the top, choosing rather to cut straight up the last 900 vertical feet in a 1/2 mile death march.) This was approximately mile 18 for me with an accumulated elevation gain of well over 4000 feet.

Wow, he looks awful!

An obligatory walk through the Nature Center and a brief sit down out of the 40 mph gusts was heaven - while waiting for Pastor and Matt to reach the top. As soon as they climbed into the parking lot, Vince and I bid them good day and began the jog back down. Ouch. I had to walk / trot the majority of the steep 1/2 mile drop off the top. Unlike my typical haphazard rocksliding, I was acutely aware of my fatigued legs and sore feet, and took my time through the sharp rocks and drops.

Once off the top it was a full run to the bottom, but alone, since Vince was nowhere to be found. Cramps came and went as my legs transitioned muscle groups once more. Vince made it down in the best time I've seen yet - less than an hour. I met him back at the trucks 7 minutes adrift.

There the bike waited to take me on the final leg of my journey down the valley back to my house. The 2 oranges vaporized. I managed to stuff the running shoes and balance of the paraphernalia into the CamelBack and started turning the pedals. An hour later I was emptying cabinets at home in search of carbohydrates and protein.

My total miles for the day were approx. 23 on foot (18 running, and 5 hike/jog up the mountain) and 13.5 on the bike. Total time was 7 hours.

I am actually beginning to think I will be ready for my Marathon in April.

Just Another Great Ride

2011-02-03T18:02:00.000-08:00

As recorded herein, I've been running a lot lately. For some reason it's easier on my left knee than is cycling right now. My sore knee after Wednesday's ride reminds me of this fact.

Wednesday I came home early to get a ride in while the sun was shining. I chose the road bike, bib shorts, Santa Cruz Mts Challenge jersey, sleeveless windbreaker, and arm warmers. Before I had even finished inflating the tires the arm warmers were already stashed in my jersey pocket.

Some days are meant for riding and this was one of them. I was soon asking myself why it had been so long since I had been out for a ride. Sliding the arm warmers back on at the end of the ride I remembered why.

The northern California February afternoon sun was already steeply angling shadows across the road, but the air was tenuously clinging to the mid day warmth and before long produced a few trickles of sweat below my windbreaker.

I pushed up the first series of hills getting through my side of town, and was pleasantly surprised at my performance. Attacking the final rise to look over Alhambra Valley the reason came to me in that pleasant and warm way that good things that should have been obvious do. I've been running. My lungs were taking this exertion in stride - so as to say. All of the heart pounding lung burning work I've been doing in running shoes has made a difference.

Having been off the bike for a while, I mediated between my mutually exclusive aggressive and conservative personas, and decided to favor conservatim over aggression. This would be a tempo ride rather than a test. I started the Crocket loop still feeling remarkably strong. The whole of the ride was far under capacity yet I still managed to finish in an hour - not much slower than my best.

The real joy came while climbing McEwen Rd. I overtook another cyclist with a slick kit, and sweet full carbon bike about 1/4 of the way up. I saw him as I turned right up the hill, though didn't rush to overtake him. We chatted briefly, and then I beat him to the top by half a minute. I sat up rolling down the other side, and let him catch me at the bottom where we both made the left turn back toward town.

This was exactly what I had hoped, and we were soon swapping turns on the front and pushing 30 miles an hour for the long gentle descent of Franklin Canyon. My fun soon turned to determination, as I decided to push for a sprint finish.

Coming into the last mile I was pulling and was fading so he came around for a turn on the front. I sat in for a while resting just off the left side of his wheel, but soon came back around again not wanting to be accused of taking advantage. With only 3 corners left I saw him off my left elbow as if he would come around me, and still seated, I added pressure to the pedals and ducked my head a little lower. He stayed back. Rounding the last corner and looking up toward the top of the road I jammed the balance of my powder and shot down the barrel and came off my saddle. I touched the fuse and went straight up the center of the road forgetting that this stretch was strewn with potholes and crumbling asphalt. There was not help for it - I had committed. I went right through barely feeling them, partly from some deft hops and nudges, and partly because I was flying.

He sat off my left elbow and no dark thing from the Abyss could have driven me faster toward the top of that hill. He had sucked my draft up the hill and adroitly stayed up with me. I'll never know if he could have beat me to the top without the draft or not, but he did kindly allow me to crest first. He came up beside and tapped me on the back laughing. We both rolled over the hump to Alhambra Valley Road where he turned to the right, and I to the left. Briefly shouted salutes were the end of our adventure.

I was reminded why I love this sport. The people. The wind. The speed. The ability to invest your whole being into a few moments of pure excitement and roll to a stop and smile at the end.

Mt. St. Helena

2011-01-29T19:13:00.000-08:00

(Note: Not Mt. St. Helens. No volcanoes on this trip.)

This is not what we climbed.

Mt. St. Helena is in the North Bay about an hour and 20 minute drive from Martinez. The write up online set this hike up as an epic hike. 10 miles is a long hike, but we were all suspicious about the "epicness" of only climbing 2000'. Rightly so.

A mile on single track winding through Robert Louis Stevenson State Park led us up onto a fire road, which we followed for the balance of the climb. We all agreed that had the single track wound through 5 miles of forest on the way to the top, then we could forgive the meager 2000'.
Alas, fire roads are not worth driving nearly 3 hours round trip for.

Nevertheless, we did manage some great photos of the rising fog merging with the clouds and rain that would settle in the second half of the day.

The near fog was moving like a glacier down the canyon

Vince, so where are your pictures?

Dianne, and Matt

Mt. Diablo on the horizon, just to the right of the bushes.

A Sea of Fog

Golden Gate Headlands Marathon

2011-01-24T19:11:00.000-08:00

It's official. I'm signed up for the Golden Gate Headlands Marathon - April 2, 2011.

My Sunday morning training runs are getting painful.

But I'm doing myself no favors either. Saturday morning Matt and I hiked / ran nearly 10 miles having renewed the Saturday morning hikes after a month or so off.

From my phone...

A few minutes later, from Matt's phone...

5:30 am Saturday I was on my bike heading for the park for our unalterable 6:00 am start time. We have pondered pushing the start time back a little to grow our group, but determined that 7 or 8 would likely exclude as many hikers as 6, so 6am it stays.

Bec needed some odds and ends and a walk, so Saturday evening found us walking (Gianna in the jogging stroller and Ella on her scooter) up to Walmart and Lucky for 4 additional miles. Bec was charging away pushing the stroller with me struggling to keep up.

For Sunday I had mapped out an 18 mile run - my longest yet - following a familiar path down to the Martinez Marina, across the Benicia Bridge, and then nearly to Vallejo and back. A creeping, yet distinct negativity swirled around me like mist at 5:40am as I started out, and I knew something needed to change or I would never meet my goal. For some reason my intended route loomed boring. Boring is fatal for me.

I spontaneously changed course 1.5 miles into the run, turning right at Shell Ave. and ran the balance of the course in the exact reverse of my intentions. Over the bridge, and once on Military West, I ran straight toward Vallejo and Benicia State Park. At the park I made a hard left and began to follow the Carquinez Strait back toward the Benicia Marina - my second course alteration. By now my attitude had shifted from pessimism to a resolved optimism fringed with the realization that I was about to run a really long painful way.

The Benicia Marina was just coming to life as I pounded down 1st street. Elderly women in smiles and sweat suits with miniature dogs greeted me while their male counterparts seemed to begrudge the growing light and nature's call to man's best friend. I wound a course past the sail boats and yachts gently testing their tethers and caught glimpses of tables being set for breakfast on board. Gray haired men seemed the primary cohort among the oscillating masts.

From the waterfront I could clearly see the bridge nearly 2 miles up stream, and the Martinez Marina half way in between on the opposite shore. Wow, they looked a long way off.

Just under an hour later I was on that opposite shore looking back across the water with only 3 miles left. The final miles went far smoother than what I was anticipating, and with the exception of a customary depletion of adrenaline in the last 1/4 mile, I frankly felt like I could have kept running.

2 hours 50 minutes. 19.2 miles.
That averages out to a slower pace than I've been targeting, but, well, that's a long way to run.

...And I have till April 2nd to get my speed up.

Officially Broken In

2011-01-16T16:03:00.000-08:00

Well the "new" commuter bike is officially broken in. I've been pedaling her around for a while but haven't really put any quality miles on it.

Saturday, Vince wanted to test ride some bikes in preparation for the summer fun. I offered to go along as did Dianne, so we met in my church parking lot and rode the trails into Walnut Creek. The warm sun in January had crowded the trails, so at Newell and S. Broadway we jumped a curb to follow S. Broadway and Danville Boulevard and joined the throngs of cyclists already breezing the bike lane.

Vince test rode 3 bikes at Pegasus Cycle Works in Danville. Our test route took us west of town and up a 1/4 mile climb, steep enough to make my lungs sit up and take notice.

None of the bikes met his approval, and after perusing 2 more shops in the area we wandered back toward Martinez. I totaled just over 30 miles, and gave my bike a good workout.

My legs got a good workout too. I decided to "pull" our trio in a pace line back along Danville boulevard. We must have looked like quite the mismatch - Me on my, well whatever it would be considered, Vince on his hardtail mountain bike sporting street slicks, and Dianne on her road machine. It was a blast.

My Sunday morning run was slated to be long. My legs hadn't forgotten the 30 miles. 15.5 miles was my longest run - ever - and my quads rebelled on every hill. I was able to maintain my 8 1/2 minute mile pace and am looking optimistically toward a spring marathon.

Sunday afternoon was back on the bike. We had a deacon's meeting mid afternoon at church, which I routinely ride to. I took the commute bike again and finally felt that I was at home on that bike - but my legs were done.

It's great to be back - in pain.

Cold

2011-01-09T13:54:00.000-08:00

My Camelback froze at around 4 miles, and my breath had frozen in tiny icicles on my hat brim and eyelashes. I decided it may have been colder than I thought.

It was 26 degrees.

We were long weekending with some of my wife's family recently moved to Nevada - South East of Reno. Suffering from sour weather and a variety of other excuses I haven't made time to run in a week and a half. I brought my running shoes and other essentials along for our weekend vacation.

Friday morning dawned foggy like no other I've ever seen. Jack Frost had been working overtime overnight. The trees, fences, cars, and - well - everything outside was covered with not only frost, but ever lengthening thorns of ice crystals. The meteorological term is "freezing fog," which worked for me, since visibility was under a quarter mile.

This weather could only be considered "better" since it wasn't actively raining. Though obviously below freezing, I was undaunted and antsy, and thus decided to tackle the 5.5 mile route I had established on my phone's Google Earth map. Every breath was marked by a burst of vapor that rose up and around the bill of my hat and then drifted off lost in the thick sharp enveloping cloud. A summer fog is something like a wet wool blanket. This fog was more like a swan dive into a half frozen lake.

The nice thing about running is that your body becomes an enormously effective heater. My long sleeve jersey, base layer, and arm warmers were more than adequate and were soon wet from the inside out. With speeds far slower than in cycling, the wind chill from my plodding actually become my friend.

I took a pull on my CamelBack about half way through the run, and thought I perceived a touch of resistance as I sucked frigid water from the translucent blue tube. A few minutes later I decided I didn't need to be thirsty anymore. The bite valve had become stiff, and in spite of a reasonable effort, the reservoir was no longer accessible - dammed off by a cylinder of ice.

The desert surrounding their town is considered "High Desert," for the simple reason that it is 4000' in elevation. With the flat terrain and towering peaks on the horizon it would be easy to think yourself much closer to sea level. My lungs weren't fooled though. At the end of 5.5 miles my muscles craved to indulge in far greater quantities of oxygen than my lungs were metering out. 5.5 might as well have been 10.

The run was the start to a wonderfully relaxing weekend. We spent a day doing - for all practical purposes - nothing. The drive home Saturday was punctuated by a half day at Sugar Bowl. I snow boarded for the second time, and my sister in Law skied for the first time in 10 years. We were there just long enough to ensure a sore ride home.

Strangely Compelled

2010-12-28T17:44:00.001-08:00

I have little to say.
Though I feel strangely compelled to say it.

There is something about having a blog and not writing regularly that plays at the conscience.

I guess I could say nothing about the fact that it is pouring down rain AGAIN...

Or, that my knee is rather sore, and making me nervous about my pending surgery and the New Years Day ride up Mt. Diablo in 4 days.

And so I'll also say nothing of the fact that my 13.1 mile (Half Marathon) run at 6:00 am this past Sunday morning went very well, and I'm excited about how great I felt on the home stretch. Of course I probably shouldn't leave that out, since that is about the only thing I have to say even distantly related to the primary content of this particular blog.
But I could leave it off and neglect to mention that I managed just over an 8.5 minute mile finishing in under 2 hours.

But since none of those are worth mention, a singular topic will suffice: The fact that I'm now sitting at home on a Tuesday evening with no compelling reason to do anything else. Not exactly astounding - but close. Having survived another festive barrage of holiday obligations, I am now pleasantly obliged to sit and do nothing. A dark, rainy, and cool winter evening is plenty of reason to sit listening to my daughter play belated Christmas carols on the piano with ice on my knee and no plans of moving any time soon. The bleak mid winter hasn't always been adequate to render me docile. But for tonight it has, and that is noteworthy.

I think I'll go brew some coffee and try not to look at my running shoes leering from beside the front door.

12 Miles in the Rain

2010-12-19T16:29:00.000-08:00

5:00am
Turned off the alarm clock and listened to what sounded like marbles pummeling the kitchen skylight.
5:05
Rolled out of bed to pull on running shorts and long sleeve jersey. I turned on the coffee and peeked out the window hoping to see some break in the clouds. ...Remembered it was too dark to see anything through the deluge and wandered back toward the coffee.
5:30
Shoes on, Camelback filled. 1/2 banana, 4 Tums, 1 Ibuprofen, and 2 cups of coffee down the hatch.
Still pouring.
5:35
Consider my options:
1. Run in the rain and get wet.
2. Put on a rain jacket and proceed to accomplish #1 anyway.
3. Crawl back in bed with my wife.
5:40
Still listening to the rain.
5:40 - 5:45
Conversation with self about priorities, dedication, and sanity.
5:45
Kiss my wife good-by and plunge out the door.

I was hoping for a long run this morning and a 5:30am start time was optimal. With a marathon on my tentative schedule for next year, I've decided to begin training early so as to cut my losses when I'm on crutches for a few weeks following a scheduled knee surgery. (More on that another time.)

Busy as an adjective referring to our family would be a laughable understatement, so I make time for workouts wherever I can. With church at 10:00am, Sunday mornings become a block of "free" time to get in a run. A meeting this morning at 9:00 pushed everything back.

Today's route would take me down to the marina, through the Shell refinery, and then across the Benicia Bridge and back. My guess was that it would be a 12 mile run and it ended up being 12.3.

It was very dark, and my dying LED's on the front of my running cap added little to the street lights. I hopped and hurdled rivulets and puddles for the first few miles, but eventually left the fancy footwork for the largest ones. Jersey, shorts, backpack, and skin were all completely soaked long before I crossed the railroad tracks into the marina.

The sea has an alluring call to me, and a run to the marina seems pointless if I don't fill my lungs with the breeze fresh off the water and smell the seaweed and salt marshes. The rain came down straight as an arrow this morning. No breeze except that created by my plodding 7mph. The water, black as ink, gently nudged the piers beneath a smothering canopy - vapor and liquid tenuously coupled by a streaming torrent.
A foot path parallels the road out of the marina and I followed it under the outstretched fingers of trees lobbing dollops of water onto my shoulders and head. Preoccupied, I failed to notice a lake across the path and would love a video of my attempt to keep water from pouring over the gunnels of my Reeboks. I learned I cannot dance, and even so, it was a waste of energy and motion with my socks already soaked - it made no difference.

Half way between the marina and the bridge the road divides into single lanes of 2 way traffic through the refinery. Footwork was the key, as often I had to cross the divider to avoid large lakes, oncoming 18 wheelers, and streams from sources obscured by the darkness and driving rain. One exceptionally large puddle obstructed my progress, even over the curb, so I waited for a pair of oncoming headlights to pass. Only as the headlights illuminated the full extent of the puddle and began to create a moving wall of water did I realize my peril. I turned and fled - no doubt, to the driver's delight in the surfing sedan.

Benicia Bridge - as viewed from Martinez

The arc of lights representing the 2 mile span of the Benicia Bridge was soon visible just beneath a charcoal sky so low that patches of clouds hung illuminated by the refineries, loading docks, and the Benicia Marina on the far side of the drink.

The climb up the south side of the bridge was slow and even a little eerie. Alone, with the exception of a few dozen cars only 10 feet and a guard rail away, I felt rather exposed and vulnerable a mere 140' above the water. By mid span a marked change had occurred with the sky fading slowly into a deep midnight blue. On the far side, I stopped long enough to retrieve the Power Bar from my backpack and stretch my calves. 1 minute later I was jogging down the hill toward Benicia, attempting to chew, swallow, and breath in the right order, and contemplating why I hadn't turned back across the bridge yet. Unwilling to descend too far into town, I turned back when the Power Bar was reduced to foil, and recognized just how steep the hill was that I had just run down. Stink.

Back across the bridge. Climbing south bound, my calf muscles initiated collective bargaining with my brain, and my wet feet also decided to take part in the labor dispute. This did make me wonder just how resilient the skin between my toes might be when completely soaked for well over an hour. No matter, I was still 2 1/2 miles from home, and walk or run, I only had 2 feet and 2 legs to get there. Back to work boys.

The final miles are always difficult. I'm convinced that my brain sabotages my effort on the home stretch by cutting back on the adrenaline, and other "happy chemicals" as it sees the end on the horizon. 2 miles or 12 miles it doesn't matter, the final stretch always hurts worse than the sum of the balance of the effort.

Home in 1 hour 45 minutes.

There is somewhat less pleasure derived from a hot shower when you've already been soaked for an hour and forty five minutes.

The whole run averaged 7 mph which is approx. an 8.5 minute mile. A marathon is 26.2 Miles. That means many more long runs ahead; a good thing. I enjoyed today's run more than any other solo run I can remember. The rain added a romantic melodramatic touch that merely adds to the allurement of my endurance sports.

Oh poor Christmas Tree

2010-12-10T08:07:00.000-08:00

See, here comes you - accelerated by stress, absent in mind and unwittingly conspiratorial in the pretense of holiday festivity.

An innocent falls to the ground.

With morbid ceremony it's strapped to the roof of your sedan, and what was once established and secure is now jostled and catapulted. No longer the wind gently caressing its boughs, or flexing its bark in a torrential storm. Rather now, a frightening gale assaults its skirts, or its crown, if by some merciful stroke it's strapped on head first.

The victim will now subsist on chlorinated tap water with a brew of chemicals designed to prolong the process of slow death. As if the Creator had not worked perfection, you will then bedeck it with bows or ribbons, and without exception, an array of gaudy lights - blinking in such random sequence that the subject appears always indecently clad.

Then Christmas being past, as if it had not served you well in your festive revelry, you reject it with disdain and abandon it to a troop of Boy Scouts - for what purpose only they know.

But don't be so self righteous and smug thinking of your plastic tree.

You are no better, yea, possibly worse. You give false hopes to the choppers who will insult, prod, and cajole our Creator's otherwise beautiful trees that may lack "perfect shape," or may be "too airy," or "too dense." Though insulted, these are the lucky ones. Though none is ever deemed perfect, the unlucky chosen are paraded before their 6', 7', and 8' "pre-lit" counterparts -- lopsided, flocked, and accoutered with a fishnet stocking without even the courtesy of a cardboard box to hide their shame, over the river and through the woods to a house of horrors inconceivable to so noble a creation.

You will call yourself festive for erecting such an atrocity. Yes, you'll likely even claim a moral high ground above those abstaining. But herein I admonish, and even boldly recommend a cessation of such unnatural acts. Is it not possible to spare such noble creations? I acknowledge it is not my place to change your mind or your customs, but at least for my part I choose to resist this annual slaughter.

I choose - to pout whenever my wife talks of "going to get the tree."
I choose - to lobby for the lesser of 2 evils - the 6' pre-lit version (That takes less than 2 minutes to set up and be done with my part of the activity).
I choose - when all else fails, to strap the tree on head first or lay it in the bed of my truck covered with a tarp.

With these thoughts in mind I've composed a eulogy in memory of the fallen.
Please pause for a moment of solemn silence before enjoying these verses.

T'was the Month Before Christmas

T'was the month before Christmas and all through the wood,
Wee creatures scurried madly, while timidly stood,

Stately stewards of the forest, gentle-hearted and grand,
Their progeny balanced in an urbanite's hand.

The time was upon them, they'd seen it before,
When tree choppers come in traditions of yore.

The finest among them would tremble and yaw
As the choppers assaulted with axe and with saw.

The wisest among them acknowledges its place,
A resource that benefits an inhuman race.

Begrudged though by some they know their station,
to warm and protect the rest of creation.

As timber or edifice great honor they'd know,
Or cabin or palace where children would grow.

The aged among them know the saw as a stage,
and the axe as finger on a life's next page.

The aged among them stand with no fear,
But remain yet perplexed when the youth disappear.

Chopper families will come with members aloof,
Then drive away arguing - young Fir on their roof.

The plight of the youngsters - now pondered anew,
Was assumed to be ill, but if only they knew:

If back in the forest the other Trees knew,
Of their young ones alight with red, green, and blue,

Of tinsel, candy canes, and more shamefully yet,
Smiling families in photos amongst branches set.

The same branches of those removed forcefully so,
From a family of Firs formed long ago.

What revolt would arise from so many Trees,
If such senseless traditions were revealed to these.

What fear might be levied upon humankind,
If the choppers would come again heeding no mind,

Entering the forest with axes and saws,
Unaware of an anger ragged and raw.

And into the Trees the choppers would go,
And never return - one way tracks in the snow.

Merry Christmas - To the little Trees.

Death Ride 2011 - Take 3

2010-12-09T17:25:00.000-08:00

I'm officially signed up for the Tour of the California Alps Death Ride 2011
The ride date 6 months away, has been on my calendar for over a month, as has 10:00 am December 9, 2010 - the opening registration for the same event.

Vince, Kevin, Milt, Dianne, and Steve, all got signed up this morning also. We had touched base via email throughout the day to make sure everyone got in.

As always this pumps a little motivation into my system. Training begins.

For now training is mostly running, and frankly its closer to maintenance than training. I've been running about 8 miles down to and around the Martinez Marina and back. Takes me about an hour and I manage about once a week on either Saturday or Sunday early morning. In between there are the family walks, and periodic commute rides across town - oh yeah, and those 10+ mile hikes in the mud every couple of weeks. I think I will be a little more motivated now to brave the cold mornings and start up the 20 mile commutes to work at least once per week. The trick is making my schedule work with those rides. To pull it off, I have to be at the office at day's end, and then be able to start the day at the office the next morning - a little later than normal. With work so scattered right now facilitating that sequence, even once per week, is dicey.

It basically comes down to priorities. Now that I've spent $125 on a 129 mile ride with 15,000' of elevation gain, my priorities may be coming around.

Wet and Wonderful

2010-11-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

I went out and got my renovated bike dirty.
It poured rain Friday night and well into Saturday morning. Our weekly 10 mile Saturday morning hike was going to be wet - AGAIN!!
I was ok with wet, because I would be testing out the new ride and an inclement commute would give her an opportunity to show her true colors.

We had a great time.

I left the house at 6:05 am, with my headlights illuminating a steady drizzle. A pounding on the kitchen skylight had stopped just a few minutes shy of 6:00, so the roads were deep in puddles. A steady head wind began driving another deluge against me about the time I got lost in Pleasant Hill on a "short cut" to the canal trail and never yielded for the balance of 8 miles to the Relieze Valley entrance of Briones Regional park.

Pastor and Matt called around 6:30 - wondering if I was coming. I was, but that reminded me to begin rehearsing my list of excuses for being late - (Headwind, Got lost, Rain, Got up late -(possibly omit this if possible)).

I showed up relatively dry and completely intact. My new ride had served me very well, and the new fender had prevented the "skunk stripe" that would otherwise have graced my nether regions. That, plus the ensemble of rain and cold weather gear assembled over the past few years has come nearly to the point of making these rides enjoyable.

I switched to a rain jacket with a hood, stuffed the other in my backpack, and embarked on a muddy adventure with my fellow crazy persons.

After 35 minutes on the bike, and over 3 hours on muddy trails in the driving rain, the only wet clothing was my socks and shoes, and shorts - completely acceptable under the conditions. My windproof / waterproof gloves held out for over an hour, but finally succumbed somewhere in the vicinity of Briones Peak.

After a short ride to meet up with the girls for the afternoon events, my upper body was completely dry, in spite of some intense perspiring back on the trail.

The only notable shortcoming was my adaptation to the temperature. We hiked at temps hovering between 30 and 40 degrees, which meant depending on our rate of ascent or descent and current elevation I was either stripping off gear or shivering beneath it.

Science has nearly mastered the "keeps you dry - yet breathable" concept for rain gear. Now if it can just find the "keeps you warm, but cool" layer to add to it.

... And the sooner the better - This weekend isn't looking too good either.

At least it will be warm.

Revolution

2010-11-20T09:49:00.000-08:00

Click on images for original sources

If I say "Revolution" something comes to your mind.
If like me you have southern roots, you might immediately think along the lines of a political movement or restructuring such as the French Revolution, the 13 Colonies and the Revolutionary War, or more to the point - the Revolutionary action of the Confederacy in response to the oppressions of the northern states.
Or if you happen to be less historically and politically minded and more scientifically so, you may launch immediately into thoughts of celestial bodies in perpetual motion on a timeless journey around a more or less tangible axis.

While both of the above concepts are key to my existence in this particular environment, society, and frankly, life in general - a microcosm of revolution has been in play over nearly a year for this cyclist. This far less grandiose turn of events comprises both concepts - the radical divergence from a previous course, and the rhythmic systematic rotation of elements around an axis.

What have I done?

Long story short...
About 15 years ago I spent just over $800 on a brand new purple and white Bridgestone RB2 road bike with clipless pedals and white handle bar tape. I installed a second water bottle cage, yellow handlebar tape, and a computer and rode the bike for several years over a thousand miles. Then for nearly 10 years during college, newly married life, and the birth of our first daughter the bike sat idle, though dry and pampered. I began to feel the need to exercise regularly and started running, whereupon I quickly gained stamina and an array of pulled muscles. To maintain my cardiovascular progress and ease the pain, I transitioned over to my long neglected friend.

I gained endurance and strength rapidly and was addicted even faster. 3 years passed as I rode a classic road bike, which drew accolades on nearly every ride. But I longed for something more contemporary and efficient. Alas a second daughter and the budget in general made that impossible.

I crashed on New Years Day 2010. My Bridgestone was unrideable, but within days, a friend put his second bike up for sale at a price I couldn't pass up. I had my new ride. But I also still had an old friend with great potential, battered though she was.

A revolution began.

The crash bent the front brakes and tweaked the fork and rear triangles. The first act was to get the bike capable of any reliable wheel revolutions at all. With help from my dad and a vice and some tentative twisting , I accomplished this task. Amazingly the wheels were still true and now spun like a dream.

Upon purchasing the Bridgestone I was a "hard core" roadie. I fancied myself a racer, and hoped to be mistaken for a professional.

This was not likely to have happened. What also was not likely, was any consideration along the lines of the conceptual revolution now occurring in this bike. At a time when I was opposed to even installing a saddle bag on the bike, I would have certainly been opposed to obnoxiously large 700 x 28 tires, lights, reversible platform / SPD pedals, and for goodness sake certainly not a rear fender.

Well that's exactly what happened, plus the addition of the "hipper than Santa Cruz" triathlon aero bars and "Tri" brake levers, new saddle, and reinstallation of the yellow bar tape. The best part is that the whole transformation cost me less than $75 out of pocket. This setup definitely gives a nod to the whole Santa Cruz / Berkeley "fixie" revolution taking place on college campuses. I couldn't bring myself to replace the 7 speed shimano cassette for a fixed gear though.

The fender is home made, so we'll see how long it lasts. The bracket is from a broken and abandoned headlamp, and the aluminum is formed from a street sign my company replaced. Seems quite sturdy, though time will tell.

I now have a commute bike which will bridge the gap between my road bike and mountain bike on more utilitarian rides. I suspect I even see another saddle bag in my near future.

Special thanks to Kipp for the gear and guidance.

A few nights in Solvang

2010-11-11T21:37:00.001-08:00

Bec and I spent a few nights at a snug Bed and Breakfast in the middle of a "Danish" California town named Solvang. Solvang is tucked neatly off 101 in southern California, and evidently has beautiful weather in mid November. Incidentally it has also been a stop for the Tour of California bicycling race for several years and will be so again in 2011.

It was her idea to bring the bikes - really. I almost tried to talk her out of it, but decided to be genial and just go along.

We enjoyed many strange things like eating out, staying up late, sleeping late, and even periodically ignoring the cell phones.

Both of us have an appreciation for architecture and sent ourselves to school to learn the why and how behind these Nordic structures.

We only drove the car once in 3 days. Mostly we walked, but we also took the bikes out a few times.
We pedaled over to this coffee shop - which was run completely out of coffee?

So we found the back patio of this little bakery and drank their coffee.

We stayed out late.

Bec was game for a second ride, so we rode 5 miles up the valley to Los Olivos, a sleepy little wine town, and bought sandwiches at this little market.

I got a photo OP with one of the locals on our ride back home. According to a newspaper article the day before, this is a male out looking for some action. He just about got more than he bargained for as the cars breezed over him.

We came into a stiff crossing head wind as we rode down the valley toward home. I was impressed as Bec picked up drafting. It wasn't long before she was stuck like glue to my rear wheel coasting down the road while I hammered along braving a stiff breeze.

This is cycling country. I'm pretty sure my wife didn't have that in mind when she chose this as our 10th anniversary getaway, but I am pleased that she didn't cancel the reservations when she realized that it is.

The Picture of Disappointment

2010-10-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

The weather had been predicting rain for the entire weekend. I was thrilled. Pastor, Matt, and I had planned another 6:30 am hike in Briones, and I was hoping for some spectacularly nasty weather.

For goodness sake...
I get up in the dark and ride 6 miles to the park with lights to keep from getting plastered. We hike through the mud for upwards of 10 miles, climbing an average of 3000'. I ride the bike home.
...not even the faintest element of adventure to breach the placid surface on the sea of the routine. The least we could ask for is dumping rain.

We got none. A barely perceptible mist in the headlamps was the only meager meteorological nod toward augmenting our adventure. From the summit of Briones Peak we witnessed the next county getting deluged.

We got none. I sit here typing - dry, warm, caffeinated - post adventure. It's raining outside.

All was not lost. We were briefly witness to the eruption of Mt. Diablo. A providential parting of the heavens provided a strangely prosaic validation to a mountain lamentably victimized in its designation. In spite of the metaphoric austerity, we were all 3 taken aback by the momentary show of artistry. For-shame, We had naught but the cameras on our phones.

Oh, that You would rend the heavens!
That You would come down!
That the mountains might shake at Your presence—
² As fire burns brushwood,
As fire causes water to boil—
To make Your name known to Your adversaries,
That the nations may tremble at Your presence!
³ When You did awesome things for which we did not look,
You came down,
The mountains shook at Your presence.
⁴ For since the beginning of the world
Menhave not heard nor perceived by the ear,
Nor has the eye seen any God besides You,
Who acts for the one who waits for Him.
Isaiah 64:1-4

Recovery - Running - Rain

2010-10-23T10:39:00.000-07:00

Dr. Woll

Another $30 co-pay bought me a few minutes with John P. Woll MD, who after studying my lackluster knee xrays declared that the only really good chance of mollifying the Pre-patellar Bursitis causing my knee to look like it swallowed a golf ball, was a simple outpatient surgical procedure. "We have an opening tomorrow if you're interested."

Sensing my hesitancy, he offered to drain the swelling again and let me think about it. Suddenly a needle in my knee was sounding profoundly cheery. I think there was only 1 needle this time, though I wasn't watching. He froze my knee at the injection point rather than sticking me with a small amount of anesthetic like the last guy. That worked for me, and I was up and walking out of the room behind him, rather lying slimy with sweat waiting for my blood pressure to come back up. Finally he wrapped the knee and told me to keep it so for 5 - 6 days encouraging the swelling to stay down. Dr. Woll still only offered me a 40% chance of it actually solving the problem.

It worked. Sort of.

I'm running again, and riding a little. Vince and I rode a short 50 mile loop last Saturday, and that, after having run about 5 hilly trail miles on Thursday afternoon. I had been drained earlier Thursday morning, so with my knee looking normal again, I was powerless against the urge to be back out in the open with my heart pounding and lungs burning. I had my brace on, and kept it wrapped as instructed for the majority of 6 days. I'm no longer bracing or wrapping the knee (I could hardly stand it, plus it made my lower leg swell if I didn't move around), but the knee swelling has still come and gone, though to a far lesser degree, over the course of the last week. I haven't eliminated surgery from my options though procrastination has been victorious so far. I guess winter is the best time to recover and I should get it on if I'm going to go there.

A few spitting rain drops were refreshing, though a poignant reminder that summer has surrendered to fall.

This Thursday I ran in the Martinez hills again - alone, with the first real storm front of fall 2010 moving in just a few thousand feet above the peaks I was crossing. 4.6 miles with 1000' of elevation gain was a good warm up to our family walk to Baskin Robbins. This was Becky and I's 10th anniversary celebration. We were doing it up big with 1 scoop apiece.
I had brought a plastic picnic table cloth to throw over Gianna in the jogging stroller just in case the sky opened up on us. The rest of us wore rain jackets that really only proved useful against a variant irrigation sprinkler half way home.

My 4.6 mile run, with a double loop around the high school track.

This morning Pastor, Matt, and I hiked from Old Briones Rd. around 6:30am. With 2 blinkeys and 2 headlights, I slogged along the soaked streets on my mountain bike to get there right on time - completely soaked - not from the drizzle, but from perspiration trapped inside my rain jacket. The high tech fabrics they make technical cycling gear from are designed to promote "breathing" and evaporation of the inevitable perspiration. The rain gear is supposed to allow water vapor (evaporating sweat) to exit whilst preventing rain from entering. Supposed to. I fear that I may be vaporizing more than it can handle. Fortunately everything else I wear is "quick dry" so about a mile down the trail I was reasonably comfortable. Then the trail began climbing - and the process started all over again.

I met these six guys on the trail and took their picture as they sorted out their route.

I'm still awaiting the tally of miles we covered, though my unofficial total comes to nearly 11 miles in 3.5 hours. We climbed at least 2000', but that is certainly conservative.

Another 6 miles on the bike brought me home to a warm (second) breakfast, and the water bottle of coffee, that I had forgotten on the kitchen table at 6:00 am. It warmed up just fine in the microwave.

I don't see sunshine in the forecast for at least 2 more days. I fear it is time to break out the cold and wet weather gear for good, or possibly just lay off and send the "ok I'll do it" email to Dr. Woll. I'll think about it tomorrow.

She Was Right Again

2010-10-06T22:20:00.000-07:00

So I've had some weird swelling on my knee. A Kaiser doctor drained it for me (using 3 separate needles) over a week ago, and drained the vast majority of blood from my cranium at the same time. As I was watching exam room ceiling swim above me, I heard the doctor saying something about my pre-patellar bursitis possibly coming back if I didn't stop doing whatever had brought it on. I was still trying to figure out what I had done to "bring it on," as the main cause is supposedly spending time on your knees. I received no clear or likely causation from the doctor nor admonition regarding cycling or running.

I have a 9 month old and a 7 year old, so my time spent on hands and knees may have spiked a little recently, but still...

24 hours after having my knee drained into a syringe roughly the size of San Francisco Bay, my left knee was bulging again. After a week of hopeful procrastination I emailed my doctor, who immediately ordered x rays and scheduled me with an orthopedist.

A week and a half after the needles I showed up for the x rays. At check in the technician indicated that I still had an x ray pending for a wrist injury from several months back.

Oh yeah... My wrist injury from New Years Day (And re-injury on the Tahoe Flume trail in August)

I had called for that appointment to placate my wife back near the beginning of the year, but then conveniently never showed up. The technician behind the desk informed me that they could nuke both appendages for the price of one - and I just couldn't say no.

Just for the record: I don't like going into rooms that have warning signs and lights all over the outside of the door, and I don't like the fact that the x ray tech always dives behind a thick wall and a pane of glass, leaving me posed and exposed while crunching and sucking noises emit from far walls and nearby instruments in rapid succession.

She blasted my knees and wrist in impossible poses at various angles, and then sent me on my radioactive way.

I got a phone call from a doctor today. About my wrist? "It seems that sometime in the recent past you must have fractured the scaphoid bone in your wrist..."

Becky's gonna love this...

She literally punched me when I told her.

You can read about it here. It might as well be talking about me.

Hopefully I'll get some good news about my knee in the next week or so when I visit the next doctor. I'm backing off in the mean time. Not that I have much choice - remember that 9 month old and 7 year old...? Maybe I'll work in a commute ride just before my appointment so the doctor can really see it bulge.

Commuting

2010-09-29T18:32:00.001-07:00

Twice in as many "attempts" I've ridden up Mt. Diablo without summiting.

This is actually quite an achievement - not a failure. My poor beaten and burdened psyche is plagued with unreasonable and frequent obligations. Obligations self imposed. I'm often setting myself up with self directed phrases like "die trying" and "quitting is not an option." No doubt my wife could pontificate an opinion from her safe distance.

There was a point where I told myself I would never ride the mountain without forcing myself to go the distance. A rare occasion when I had a specific route planned and an extraordinarily good reason for skipping the summit, might be my only exception. Starting out with the thought of reaching the summit and not arriving was "not an option."

I've been commuting to and from work once a week for some time now after a sabbatical resulting from an overambitious schedule, the birth of our second daughter, and a myriad of additional excuses to stay off the bike at 5:30 am on a week day.

The route has been varied to add miles. Other opportunities to ride, run, or hike have been dwindling, so my return to commuting has become my singular athletic outlet. The score of miles each way isn't enough of an outlet, so I've been adding around 40 miles on the evening ride home to push the typical 20 closer to 60.

It's not really all that hard to accumulate 60 miles. There are great roads for cycling here in the Bay Area and a little creativity can map a route of just about any distance desired. From Richmond through Orinda and Moraga, and then over to Mt. Diablo and home makes a route almost exactly 60 miles. Well - if I don't summit and just ride to the Ranger Station and back down that is.

And so with some minor variation, that has been my route twice and may end up being thus again. I didn't push for the top the first time because of dwindling daylight, and the second time was nothing more than I just wanted to go home. I knew I would have 60 miles and I was ready to be done. After all, a 20 mile ride in the dark was waiting for me the next morning.

I consider my choice to abandon a victory. That works for me. However, I'm afraid if I allow such excesses too many times, I may be forced to bolster my bravado with some random adventurous excess.

I must use caution.

USA Cycling Pro Championships

2010-09-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

Tyler Phinney and race winner Ben King - Both likely to put USA in cycling news for years to come.

Sunday afternoon I was sewing a new scarf, balaclava, bandanna "thing" on my wife's ancient sewing machine when my mother called to let me know there was a big cycling race going on in Greenville.

I pulled up CyclingNews and found the live report of the race. I had just missed the end by a few minutes, but enjoyed reading the report "as it happened" anyway.

How many times have I ridden past that plane in Cleveland Park?

I grew up in Greenville, SC, know the roads they were riding, and visualized the 4, 22 mile laps as if I was there beside them. Indeed by the end of the ride report I was ready to jump on my bike and take a few spins up Paris Mt. myself. I could hear the crowds screaming as practically amateur Ben King crossed the finish line minutes ahead of the pro peloton. What a day for a young 21 year old racer. Seems he had already earned himself a spot on the newly formed Team Radio Shack. Think - Lance Armstrong, Levi Leipheimer, and Chris Horner as ride companions at 21 years young.

When I was 21 and in Greenville, there was only one thing on my mind. Her. The bike was a distant and shrinking 2nd. And rightly so.

I wish him well and will live that part of my life vicariously through guys like him.

Caution - Rattlesnake Under Bench

2010-09-16T16:04:00.000-07:00

I sat waiting for Chris and his friend Brandon to show up at the North Gate entrance to Mt. Diablo watching the horses through a rail fence.

I had been riding laps on Walnut Ave, and North Gate Rd. since quarter after 4. Now 30 minutes later and 45 minutes late, Chris called to say he was 6 minutes away. I found a place for him to pull off the road and sat. I had 30 some odd miles behind me.

I had texted Chris earlier in the day to let him know I was heading for the mountain around 4:00 for some extra miles on my way home. Chris was game. Brandon, who never rides bikes was obliged to come along on a borrowed bike.

Brandon did outstanding for a newbie, and gave me a fresh perspective on the hills. Chris and I took turns pushing him up the steeper sections... Yow. The slow pace also gave rise to a series of sprint challenges raised by Chris. I'm incapable of declining. Chris is a good sprinter.

But that snake...
I needed to refill my water, so we dropped Brandon between the 1000' marker and Diablo Ranch, and headed for the Ranger Station at the junction. As I refilled, there was a commotion about a snake on the other side of the building. I wanted to see.

Everyone was looking at this...

So I looked under the bench...

Ummm...

I think ...

if I was the Park Ranger ...

I might have found a long stick.
...Run along now little buddy.

Bike - Hike - Bike

2010-09-14T09:59:00.001-07:00

Saturday morning was supposed to be a Bridge to Bridge ride with "the old guys" who meet at 8am near Mt. Wanda. (They are all over 40 which is going to be "old" to me for at least 8 more years)

Other obligations loomed, so I ditched the old guys and biked to a hike along the Carquinez Strait at 6:00 am. I rode to our meeting spot with the lights on my mountain bike, since they were still mounted from my commute ride last week. (My previous ride home from work had taken me through some intense road construction on my usual route, so I wanted to avoid a spill while navigating back the next morning in the dark with 700 x 23 tires. Hence the lights on the MTB)

Matt passed me in his truck on the way there, but I believe I arrived right at 6:00am.
We hustled to the top of the ridge, so I could get some shots of the awakening delta and Diablo valley.

This shot seems to have jumped right out of the pages of a J. R. R. Tolkien novel.
I didn't realize Martinez looked so ominous in the early dawn.

I finished my morning by riding as hard as I could over the Benicia Bridge and back. Not much of a workout, but it burned. Home by 9:20am
12 miles on the bike - 8 miles hiking.

We might coordinate a similar adventure this Saturday, since I'm watching the girls while Bec has a ladies brunch. Briones at 6am anyone?

Taking it Slower

2010-09-05T16:06:00.000-07:00

It's been pretty slow the last few weeks. At least when it comes to my cycling.

Spring and early summer were busy with training rides - getting in shape for the Death Ride, Santa Cruz Mts. Challenge, and just generally trying to get into the best shape I could. Since the end of the SCMC, I've laid off a little and focused on some other more domestic challenges.

Build shelves for Ella's school notebooks...

Clean up the flower beds, garden, and yard...

Remove everything from the laundry room in order to extricate the stacked washer and dryer. Washer had gone kaput and needed new struts and springs. Remove everything again when the washing machine leaked... Call me if you want to know an appliance repair company NOT to use...

I'm also well into a new gate for the back yard. So far it has been completely free (If you don't count the blisters on my hands from the digging bar as being a cost) - using scraps and salvage from other fences and construction sites around the Bay Area. My employees typically don't see me sorting through the stuff that they haul back to the yard from their job sites

I had to draw the gates first so that Bec and I could decide how it would be designed. Nothing is as simple as it would seem around here.

Here is the concept... Bec wanted the solar lights on the outside posts. Bought them at Home Depot - $40 for the pair. At least we are able to be content with the lower lighting of solar - I really don't want to do the whole underground wiring, new breaker, conduit, realize you short circuited the laundry room thing.

The gates will come along soon - when I either collect enough material or break down and purchase a few 2x4's and fence boards. Then I'll stain it to match the rest of the fences.

But I have been riding some...

Chris and a new guy Nick were riding in Briones on Friday, so Vince and I joined for a few hours.
Vince has gotten stronger in the last few weeks. Seems he has met a girl that is stronger than he is... She beats him to the top of Briones regularly... Well, now he's pushing me. Somehow I think the off season isn't going to be so off.

Chris had just ridden up Mt. Tamalpai from San Francisco and had sent some pictures. I've posted a sampling of them below because I thought they were definitely worth sharing.

Tahoe - Rim Trail, Flume Trail

2010-08-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

Lake Tahoe a seen from the Flume Trail

Congratulations to Jeremy for his first "Epic" Mountain Bike ride. 23 hard miles and 3300' of climbing at elevations above 7000', and over 8500' along the ridge. We rode sections of the Tahoe Rim trail and then created a loop around Lake Marlette by returning on the famed Flume Trail above the east shore of Lake Tahoe.

The XTERRA professional off road triathlon circuit had their Lake Tahoe race on Saturday too. We were able to see some of the last racers come through as they passed Lake Marlette, and I was actually able to ride with one of the guys and chat for a few minutes. We had been on our bikes approx. the same amount of time at that point.

I must say it was a little ego boosting to be riding up hills beside the racers walking their bikes. Granted, I hadn't just swam 300 odd meters in choppy water, and these guys and gals were the very back of the pack, and they still had 5k to run when they finished riding. But still, it was cool and makes me wonder what I could do with a lighter faster bike and a few competitive swimming lessons. I definitely had 5k left in me when we got off the bikes. Hmmm?

Looking east over Nevada

Next time we go - we camp overnight - or 2 nights possibly. I ended up driving a total of 14 hours in just over 24 hours to accommodate 6 hours on the bike. Bec, and the girls and I drove 2.5 hours to Lakeport Friday night, to spend a few fitful hours of sleep at our friends' home. (Actually she drove those 2.5 hours, while I napped and then read my latest novel out loud to the girls) By 4:35am Jeremy and I were heading toward Tahoe and on the bikes by 9:30am. That was reversed starting around 3:00 in the afternoon, putting the girls and I back in the Bay Area just before 11:00pm. Too much driving.

But it was worth it for our first shot at riding in this scenic area.

I think the last time I was this sore after a ride - was the last time I crashed. Yep. Did it again.
I attempted an ill conceived and ill fated superman stunt descending on the Rim Trail toward the north end of the Flume.
I do not fly well. I land worse.
My bike landed on me after I dove head first over the bars. I was sitting with my head swimming when Jeremy rolled up and accused me of staging a crash. I was still trying to get my wind back, so I just sat there with a stupid grin, mouthing unintelligible explanations with coughs and wheezes.

If nothing else Lake Tahoe makes a stellar backdrop for taking a moment to catch your breath.

I somehow managed to land squarely on my left pectoral and in spite of my last minute idiotic braking, landed on the very rock that had terrified my front wheel a mere fraction of a second before. I distinctly remember (during flight) thinking how tough it was going to be riding out of there with broken ribs.

No broken ribs, or any bones for that matter. (I don't think anyway - everything seems to hurt worse by the hour.) Fortunately my wrist had recovered 99% from the fall on New Years day, so it was ready to take another beating on the dirt to the right of the target rock. The left arm and hand are just fine, as they seem to know how to stay out of the way. Right knee has a small cut, really only worth mentioning because it was the only blood to be seen.

But, the "it hurts worst 2 days later" theory is all too true. Wow.

This route as recommended by my friend Vince was sublime, and I will do it again for sure.

Yosemite 2010

2010-08-21T23:35:00.000-07:00

This is a very long posting and probably should be broken into at least 3 separate posts.
However, it is best read as a unit. So, brew some coffee, grab a comfortable chair, and I hope you enjoy.

In short this was the best backpacking adventure I've ever experienced. Each year the men from my church take 4 days and trek around the wilderness trails of Yosemite National Park. Some years are better than others but all are worth the time and energy invested.

Coming into this trip, somehow, I knew a change for the better was in the air. This year was going to be different. For me the change started immediately following the 2009 adventure, when my business partner and fellow adventurer read the account of our trip here in this blog. He immediately referred me to an ultralight backpacking web site - and the game was on. I began to learn and understand concepts in backpacking which I had never considered before. I was an immediate convert, and with my limited budget began turning the conversion into reality.

A second aspect of the change was the determination to get away from people. Last year the campsites and trails were practically crowded. No compromises this time. If there were going to be people there - we weren't going. In that, we succeeded with near perfection.

Those who know me well - know I love a challenge. The ultralight transformation had presented a challenge I could benefit from in so many ways and likewise couldn't resist. I committed to the game in earnest in the spring of 2010 by purchasing a lightweight backpack - significantly smaller than the old one - then sold the old one. The only way I was going to get everything in a sub 3lb pack was by changing nearly everything. A lighter pack now meant easier travel, but more than that it meant the opportunity to explore the depths of my creativity.

The transformation was under way.

First to go was the stove - replaced by a soda can alcohol stove and a small bottle of denatured alcohol. This actually was never utilized in the wilderness, since our campfires roared, but many home tests proved the ability of the stove to boil 2 cups of water with 1 oz. of alcohol in under 10 minutes.

Second was the tent - replaced by a homemade bivy, garden hose tested in the backyard by my daughter, and tested positive to keep out the rain.

Third was the water filter - replaced by an emergency supply of purification tablets and an empty large can of Bush's baked beans for boiling water in. The tablets were also never used, though I've experimented with them in the past. One can at a time was boiled, and then stored in gallon ziplock bags to cool until emptied into the Camelbak bladder - or immediately sanctified into coffee.

Fourth was the pad and sleeping bag - replaced by overpriced models by Therm-a-rest and North Face and purchased with as many gift cards and discounts as I could legitimately assemble.

Finally the last reduction was food - where careful planning assured that I would have sufficient nutrients and calories to enjoy the trip, but not bring anything out with me. My belt was notably loose at the end of the trip, so a lightweight fishing pole, or some extra energy bars may be a good addition next year.

The tally ended up at 25 total pounds including all the food and a full 3 liter Camelbak bladder.
By 10 pounds (and in some cases 15 - 20) I had the lightest adult pack on the trip.
It made all the difference.

We embarked from the Bridalveil Creek trail head on Wednesday early afternoon with 6 men, 1 teenager, and 2 boys. The first day's hike was a remarkably easy 2 miles with practically no elevation gain or loss. This would prove a huge benefit, as over the course of the next 2 days I would hike the length of that trail 4 more times. The first campsite was easy to find, situated along Bridalveil creek.

Dale, a big man and strong hiker on all of our training hikes, fell victim to a variety of serious foot ailments in the first 2 miles. By dinner time he was reduced to hobbling around and bedded down soon after dinner.

We broached the topic of what to do next over our reconstituted Mountain House meals. It was obvious Dale was going nowhere on Thursday, and thus we established that 2 nights along Bridalveil Creek would be wise. This worked well into our consideration of a day trip to Ostrander Lake, and so the following day's activities were decided.

Rather unexpectedly the temperature over night dropped to 30 degrees. I was prepared for 40 and 30 made for a rude awakening around midnight. Actually midnight was closer to 35, but I was keenly aware of the dropping temps over the next few hours. Even intermittant sleep would have been enviable, till finally around 3:45 am I'd had enough and emerged from my rapidly cooling cocoon. I crept over to my water supply to see if it was freezing (it wasn't) and then shivered my way to the fire pit to stoke up some relief. Awake and warm, or awake and shivering wishing I was warm - the decision was easy for me. I wasn't alone, and within minutes after the first flames astounded the blackness Pastor was by my side with palms outstretched to the warmth. By 5:00 am 2 separate thermometers read 30 degrees.

The jacket I had worn Wednesday morning on the drive in was sitting on the front seat of Matt's truck, and chiding me from 2 miles away. I rehydrated breakfast around 6:30am and then announced to the shivering crowd now amassed at the fire ring that I was returning to the truck to get my jacket. Spontaneously other items were added to the list, and I was soon jogging down the trail with my empty backpack to carry it all back. The 4 mile run was completed in 54 minutes (they timed me) and finally brought my body temperature up to normal.

Dale guarded the campsite from the bears and read one of my Louis L'Amour books while the remaining 8 climbed the 1500' up to Ostrander Lake which sits at 8500'. This is where we got our first great vistas of the trip, as we looked out toward the Clark range and the back of majestic Half Dome.

No backpacking trip is complete without a swim, so we were happily obliged to dive into the frigid water of Ostrander Lake. A pronounced cramp in my calf sent me to shore earlier than I had hoped, but I managed to wedge myself into a small hollow on the granite slope and was soon drying, sunburning, and soundly sleeping. I was adding to the three hours of sleep from the night before.

What to do for Dale dominated the conversation on the return trip. We had settled on 2 options and I presented them to Dale for his thoughts over dinner. Dale could stay put in camp after we left the next morning and spend the 3rd night on his own, while the balance of the group completed the 14 mile loop. I offered to remain behind if he chose this option, since his outdoor experience is limited. We would then work our way back out on Saturday morning and meet the balance of the group as they finished the trip.
The second option seemed to put him more at ease, and after a moment's deliberation was chosen as most reasonable. 2 of us would carry his gear and hobble him out the following morning - back to the vehicles - where he would be near potable water, and a campground full of people. It would be a lonely day and a half, but at least he would be settled where he could rest in reasonable comfort.
Tony Jr. and I were chosen for the task of moving his gear, and shortly after day break, the 3 of us were on our way back along the now familiar 2 miles of trail. This round trip took close to 2 hours, and upon return the group was just mobilizing for the day's hike.

The next 2 days of hiking were more like what should be expected of a Yosemite adventure. We climbed ridges, sucking wind and prodding junior aged hikers, then descended to valleys spread with meadows and running with cool streams. We were earning the privilege to tread the hallowed expanse.

By Friday afternoon the miles, altitude, and weight of the packs had set us all in anticipation of our next bivouac. Our growing understanding of the Yosemite wilderness led us to anticipate where we were likely to find the next camp site. 4 of us found where a specified creek crossed our trail several minutes ahead of the 2 fathers and the youngest members of our group. No campsite or fire ring was in sight, though one much overgrown ledge led upstream and showed an element of promise. I sent Tony Jr. up into the overgrowth to investigate, while I jogged down the trail a little further. The creek pulled further down and away from the trail the further I went, and I soon realized that I wasn't likely to find an acceptable site in this direction.

Meanwhile Tony had found a fire ring well back along the ledge, and what had long ago been a small clearing. Upon inspection, I deemed it the best prospective camp site we had ever come across in the park. It took some work for me to convince the late arriving fathers that this is what wilderness camping is all about, and that clearing your own camp site should be the norm. (Hopefully no Park Rangers are reading this, as their ideal is for hikers to stay in well established sites with soot covering the ring of stones from the fires of ten thousand previous campers.) I also recognized that this ledge must have been at one time a short spur of logging road, along which could still be found lengths of various sized steel cable and an assortment of half buried logging gear. It felt as if we had stepped into a piece of forgotten Yosemite history.

With few other options and diminishing daylight we cleared a path and began surveying the area to clear tent sites. In far less time than expected we had a respectable clearing, fire ring, and a tidy configuration of tarps and tents.
The bivy never got set up that night, but rather, I laid it out and set the pad and sleeping bag on top of it. I wanted nothing between me and the stars - and with the lower altitude and warmer weather during the day, it seemed the added warmth of the bivy wouldn't be necessary. That was one of the defining decisions of the journey for me.

I lay snugly beneath the vast array of stars and watched satellites dart in and out of view as they passed through the branches of overhanging trees. I slept the last night for nearly 4 hours straight, and awakened to the celestial spectacle on and off for the next few hours. Having managed to rest till dawn the night before, I was little concerned that I sleep this last night. When I noticed a light moving nearby, I checked the time and found it just after 4:00am. I asked Tony Jr. if he wanted to start the fire, and before long we were waiting together for the eastern sky to begin its mockery of our flickering blaze. It was still black when Tony Sr. and Pastor joined us at the fire. I think it was understood among us that we were all enjoying our last few minutes of inky darkness before we would begin the inevitable journey back toward street lights and the urban glow.

That was our last camp site for the 2010 backpacking trip. But it was a gem. We managed to see no one on the trail nor frankly even the sign of another human having been in the area for weeks, for the better part of 24 hours. That alone made it worth the effort.

We found Dale in good health and spirits sitting at the back of Matt's truck reading Louis L'Amour. I regret that he couldn't share the balance of the adventure with us. Not to rub it in, but I feel he missed the best part of the trip. But, it did bring to bear the reality of the wilderness. It is unpredictable, and you make decisions on a moment by moment basis. As I will mention later, the wilderness brings out a simplicity to life, that is often missed when urban life presents us with a myriad of options. That is definitely a part of why I dearly love my time in the wilderness.

Some closing thoughts - waxing philosophical...

This adventure was a showcase of dichotomy. The insignificant juxtaposed against the immense. The simple and the complex. The sublime and the humbling.
I recognized the latter of these first as we began to drive into the foothills of the Sierras. With mild horror I realized, and then casually mentioned to Pastor, that I had forgotten the wilderness permit acquired many months in advance at no small financial or logistical expense. His tangential and uncharacteristically placid reply made the blood ice in my veins. "Weren't we supposed to call to reserve our spot on the trail?" A moment of profound silence followed.
Wilderness trail permits in the middle of the summer are gold. If you don't check in by 10:00 am, they give your trail away to the next group looking for an open wilderness permit. A phone call will hold the permit, but we were already well into the afternoon.
He calmly placed a call to the wilderness center and with bated breath the occupants of our truck attempted to discern the other half of the conversation by Pastor's answers and tone of voice. If he was attempting to extend our anxiety then he succeeded magnificently. When he hung up, I was still breathing shallow. Yes, they had canceled our permit. Yes, they had reserved it for us again, and we would not need the precious paper permit. The dichotomy: my shame and foolishness was now set hard against an overwhelming relief at not needing to telling my friends in the other vehicle that our previous 2.5 hour drive and weeks of preparation were in vain.

The most dynamically dichotomous element of the trip was the scenery itself. The drive down to the valley floor is stunning. The profile of Half Dome, the mountain ranges layered off into the distance, the imposing cliffs of El Capitan, and the plummeting water falls which seemed to be in full show even this late in the summer. We drove amidst throngs of spectators as we ascended the far side of the valley toward the Bridalveil Creek Campground and our point of embarkation. We were not alone in our awe.

The majority of the throngs however, would not perceive the microcosm that lay hidden within the vastness they were beholding. Beyond sight and sound of the spectators we began to participate in the wilderness. Leaving the campground behind, we wandered into the petals of the flower we call Yosemite. With awe we began to appreciate this blossoming paradise. The wildflowers were in full bloom - a spectacle atypical this late in the year, and heretofore unrealized by this group of adventurers. We were spellbound by the carpeted meadows and overgrown trails splashing vibrant color into our path. The dichotomy of the incomprehensible vistas set as a backdrop to the delicate petals of a million nameless blooms was breathtaking.

A final dichotomy I recognized was that of the simplicity of life amidst its complexity. Each member of our party (with the possible exception of those under 18) has planned and scheduled for the past year to make this adventure a reality. Our gear was organized, packed, reorganized and repacked repeatedly until the moment we embarked. Our gear itself is a complex assortment of carbon fiber, plastic, nylon, and aluminum. What many of us left behind were jobs and businesses that would go forward in spite of our absence, and with certainty seek us out with compounded complexity upon our return. But as we walked away from the 2 trucks that had deposited us along the waters of Bridalveil Creek, we shed our various and divergent concerns and united into a homogeneous group with a homogeneous mission - don't get eaten by bears or otherwise meet an untimely demise in the wilderness of Yosemite National Park. Survival is seemingly so simple - don't die - and the wilderness gives place for a focus on such simplistic concepts.

A look forward to next year started before the trip had concluded. There is something addictive about wild air, crackling campfires, and waking to black nights pierced by a billion stars. We filter the water, though it seemingly runs pure and clear, in order to remove contaminants that might afflict our bodies. I'm certain however, that what is not filtered out is a liquor that intoxicates our spirits and drives us to return for more.

Inactivity

2010-08-17T21:55:00.000-07:00

I suspect that inactivity kills blog readership.
So I'm posting this so that you won't go away.

I haven't been inactive - far from it. But then that's why nothing has been posted here in a while.

Here are some pictures of my 4 day backpacking trip in Yosemite last week. It was the best backpacking trip of my life.
Between preparing for that trip, going, and then recovering from it - there has been little time to breath no less write.
I've been spending countless hours working on a video of that trip - and have basically come within a key stroke of deleting the whole thing. The software I've been using has proven to be flawed - after compiling nearly 300 pictures and video clips, and 4 different pieces of music into a 12 minute movie. I can recreate it in a variety of other software, but may not have the desire to do it.
Yeah, it's late and I'm a little annoyed.

Enjoy the pictures, a written report is already in the works. That may just have to do.

Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge - Recapping the Passion

2010-08-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

Vince paid for this ride - in exchange for installing his front door a few months back. He chose not to ride this one himself but should have.

The SCMC is second only to the Death Ride, and a very close second, as far as organized rides go in my opinion. 100 miles, 10,000' + elevation gain, a timed climb up Jamison Creek Rd., and very well supported.

Getting ready to ride

Kevin and Milt - The guys who talked me into signing up.

But as I hinted at in the last posting, the SCMC certainly has its quirks. In all fairness, the ride suffers no more from oddness than does it's name sake city. Santa Cruz has always been a bastion for the bizarre, and has always held a curious attraction for me - but never for more than a few hours at a time. We have a favorite pizza restaurant on Pacific Ave. called Kianti's. They have a live show every Friday and Saturday night which my family found by accident several years ago, and have returned to regularly ever since. Getting my "traditional family" safely to the pizza and back again on Santa Cruz weekends is always a challenge though.

I should have expected no different from this ride. True to style, the organizers and volunteers were passionate and friendly beyond compare, and were constantly taking candid photos of the riders. Accustomed to taking photos of my rides, it was a bit odd being on the other side of the lens so much. The rest stops were very frequent and unbelievably well staffed. At one rest stop there were no less than 4 volunteers guarding the recycling. Oh did I mention the recycling?

Breakfast, each rest area, and dinner were all bestowed with a cadre of receptacles for various types of waste. Each in turn was guarded by a garbage Nazi directing the operation. I even found this particular Storm Trooper actively pulling plastic forks from the "Other trash" bins - presumably to relocate to "Recycling." I had to take the picture quick for fear of being noticed and sent to the gulag.

But all of that was well worth the ride. It seemed that most of the riders I met carried much the same eclectic passion as the organizers. The Death Ride seems to attract many who want to be seen as hard core, wearing kits with professional team names emblazoned across their bulging quadriceps. Unfortunately, they can be less than friendly at times if you happen to not have "Powerbar" or "Liquigas" somewhere on your jersey. Not to imply that the DR is less than friendly - because it is just the opposite, but in contrast, I met and rode with NO ONE on the SCMC that wasn't anxious to chat with another recreational cyclist. I actually had guys I had met only minutes or hours before, drop off their pace to "pick me back up" in a windy area so that I could benefit from their draft. The riders were passionate about cycling, because they love cycling.

The group I rode with for much of the day - on and off between losing each other on various hard climbs - set a pace which I was looking for: Just a touch faster than what I could do on my own. I settled into their group on the first hard climb having caught them while riding with a british sounding rider sporting the same 5 pass DR finisher jersey that I own. We all climbed together and picked up another fellow whom I had earlier saved from a long detour when he blew past our first left turn at the start of the ride. At the top of the hill I was feeling really good, and topped out first and began the meandering descent. When the descent became more dramatic I realized that the group was back together and was soon scorched as 2 of the faster guys jetted by. Having a line to follow now, I hammered down and slipped into third position for an awesome descent into Big Basin Redwoods State Park. The bottom came too soon and we were cutting through the bacon and eggs scented smoke from the campfires of countless bleary eyed campers. I held my breath a few times, concerned about diminished capacity resulting from the smokey inhalations. (I know, what harm could it do? - probably just a little of the Santa Cruz rubbing off on me.)

Our next rest stop was one that only the 100 mile group visited, as the 100 kilometer crowd skipped this loop. Noticing the fully stocked tables and overanxious staff, I asked how many had come through before us. 5 riders - a group of 3 and a group of 2 they said. I was jazzed. We were at the front, and it felt good.

Next was the Jamison Creek Time Trial of which I had heard brief reports as being a pretty tough climb. Sure enough. They take your bike number and time at the bottom of the hill and total your time at the top. My goal was just to ride to the top of the 3 mile hill - until I got passed the first time. It was on. I rode at between 90% and 100% the whole way up and just managed a "how's it going" to my 100k riding friend Milt as I passed him around the beginning of mile 3. You can see the results here. I managed 60th out of 470 riders.

The Time Trial ended just a couple miles before the lunch stop, but since it was only 10:30am, I was content with a brief rest including a Coke and a handful of other offerings and back on my way. The following miles were a little lonely, but very fast. This was the descent down to the Coast Highway. At the bottom I overtook 2 riders, a guy and a gal, with whom I shared the labor of riding north into the incessant sea breeze. But the views...

The fog line is still over the sea at this point

The "Gestapo"
As they eyed a confused cyclist deciding where to drop his muffin paper, I joked that they must have a trap door which chutes erring victims into the ocean if they choose the wrong bin. I was a little alarmed at how well they took to the idea.

A Gestapo member at the Highway 1 rest area said this gal was the first female out that far, but we soon learned that she had skipped Big Basin to make an early assault on the Time Trial. The recent 10 mile loop and return trip on the same stretch of Highway 1 makes this stretch look like a lollipop on the map. Riding back on the lollipop stick was morale boosting for 2 reasons. 1, the tail wind plus the opportunity to draft with the fellow whose detour I had interrupted early in the morning made for rapid progress. And 2, we were passing groups of dozens of riders going the other way still fighting the wind we now had behind us - literally.

Even with a tail wind, this fellow's draft was a bonus.
We were climbing hills at well over 20mph and descending in the 40's.
I pulled my share, but it set me up for a rough solo climb.

The wind wasn't going to help us climb back up into those mountains though, and was more a bane than a boon by effectively eliminating any breeze on the LONG slow climb up what is referred to with reverence among cyclists as simply - Bonny Doon. I was passed by 3 riders on the way up, but those were the only ones I saw after falling behind my friend on that lonely climb. The only riders I saw going up anyway. Having also descended this same stretch on our way to the sea, I was now dazzled by the spinning and whirring kaleidoscope of riders flashing by at often 10 times the speed I was now traveling. I took some measure of pleasure in noting that they were at least an hour back, and I was shut of the increasing winds they had yet to encounter.

The final 25 miles went fast. After Bonny Doon, the road leveled enough to notice, but still rolled rather viciously at times. It was in this stretch that my local friends Kipp and Mardi, whom I had seen at check in, had some trouble. Evidently the rough road - which I distinctly remember in that section - had Mardi's number and she went OTB (over the bars) with the aid of a large bump and a twitchy front brake. Fortunately the bike is said to be in good condition. And, (Now that I have that off your mind), Mardi suffered road rash and bruises but avoided broken bones so far as I know. They would have finished the ride too, but chose to SAG back to the start rather than risk further harm.

Santa Cruz Beach - From W. Cliff Dr.

The finishing miles took us past Natural Bridges State Beach , along beautiful W. Cliff Dr., and through the heart of Santa Cruz before climbing the final 300' back to Scott's Valley and the awaiting Super Burritos at the finish. The ride through Santa Cruz again rung true to the bizarre theme. The organizers had stationed flaggers in the heart of town to help direct riders through the dicey sections. We were literally riding in traffic, but then would suddenly be directed onto a section of boardwalk, and then a sidewalk for a quarter mile. I've never before had to employ my urban cycling skills during an organized ride like this. But again, as nuts as it was, I could see the passion for cycling oozing up even through the sidewalk cracks. This was cycling in Santa Cruz, and they wanted us to experience a piece of it. I'm just glad it didn't experience a piece of me. I enjoyed the last 15 miles with a fellow from that first group I had ridden with. We met up near Natural Bridges and guided each other through the city. He, like I, was hoping to ride in with company, and so we chatted like old friends for the last hour.

I will ride this again. I finished in under 7 hours on the bike and under 8 hours total. My average speed was 14.5 mph and average facial expression was a childlike grin.
I say thanks to the SCCCC for an awesome ride.

Santa Cruz Mountains Challenge

2010-08-06T10:33:00.000-07:00

I'm busting at the seams to write about the SCMC that I rode last Saturday. It was an awesome ride and reasonably well supported.
It was uniquely Santa Cruz, with enough quirks to make the local riders feel right at home.

I will post a full report in the next few days. I would have loved to have gotten this out earlier but alas, have been busy beyond the point of sanity for nearly 2 weeks. This ride almost went without me, but I did break free for a few hours and am certainly glad I did.

More later.
But do check out their photo gallery and the picture they got of me at the top of Jamison Creek.
More on that later too.

Notice the old record player in the distance?
Yeah. My opinion remains ... Santa Cruz is the city that Time chose to leave behind.

Training Ride

2010-07-25T23:14:00.001-07:00

I put in a tough training ride on Saturday, by riding the mountain bike from Martinez to the top of Mt. Diablo by way of Shell Ridge Open Space and the labyrinth of fire roads and trails crossing Mt. Diablo State Park.

Looking up a recently fire blackened slope toward the sun just about to crest over the ridge.

I've ridden this route in all its various segments before, but never put them together into 1 ride.

I'm not sure of the distance. It must be around 40 miles, but since the mountain bike doesn't have a computer – I really don't know. Total elevation gain must be around 5000' – 6000' but again, I could be way off. It's no less than that for sure.

As I was coming into Pleasant Hill on my ride across the valley, I met a gentleman headed to work on a steel framed bike made by a local shop called Rivendell. Having an interest in steel bikes, we chatted about that and commuting by bike in general. Our interaction was brief as he was soon at his destination, but I got the idea he was no stranger to moving about on 2 wheels. I pressed on and made it to Shell Ridge by 7:55 – 5 minutes ahead of my schedule. Sweet.

Just inside the park the long sleeves came off and I began the rolling climb up toward the mountain. Near the Old Borges Ranch trail I paused to remove a bag of Sport Beans (left over from the Death Ride) from my Camelbak and was passed by another cyclist. Half the bag went down the shaft and the other into my pocket and the pursuit was on. I had him by the top of the next climb, and passed him as we swung around the corner and looked into the next valley. Down the valley with him now in pursuit, and then back up a steep narrow section with both of us breathing harder than we had planned. One more down and up, and I was holding the gate for him to follow through into what I consider the start of the Mt. D. State Park area.

We looked at each other grinning and panting for a moment and then bumped fists acknowledging solidarity and comradery in the universal "guy" language. Over the next couple of steep miles we discussed the Tour de France, local trails, and (what I had already noticed) that he was a road cyclist unaccustomed to mountain biking. I gave him a few second hand tips which he immediately put into use to my great pleasure and his benefit. The only problem with having a friend to ride with was the fact that he was only out for 2 hours and notably strong. His pace was killing me, and I wasn't about to get dropped. In a way it was with relief that he called off the ride along the Ridge Trail, and turned back toward Pleasant Hill for his 10:00am appointment.

I slowed my pace a little and settled in for the long climb up the winding trails on the south west side of the mountain.

4 coyotes monitored my advance as I approached the helicopter pad on South Gate Rd. They didn't look like the typical scraggly vermin seen pulling carrion from the roads either. They were rather solidly set with shining coats, and keen eyes. The company frankly made me a little nervous and I decided not to stop for pictures.

Just above the Ranger Station at a small picnic area, I took my first real break, refilled a water bottle and ate some of the nuts, chocolate chips, and raisins mix I had been melting in my pack. 10 minutes later it was back to the trail. The stretch of the Summit Trail above the Ranger Station is in my opinion the hardest of the entire ride. Summit Road, which I'm very familiar with on my road bike, rises relatively steeply as it passes the same picnic spot, and takes nearly 1 3/4 miles to intersect the trail again. The fire trail doesn't wind or meander, but cuts straight across and climbs the same distance in about .7 miles. Add to that the full strength of the sun now unabated by trees or cliffs, and I was more than ready to intersect with the main road and ride the balance of the climb with the "roadies." (The majority of the trails on the south side of the mountain beyond that point are for hikers only. The threat of a $200 ticket keeps most cyclists honest) I did take some measure of satisfaction passing a few road bikes while astride my obscenely heavy and inefficient mountain bike. One that passed me however, was another Rivendell. I've only heard of them before, and now 2 in 1 day. Strange.

The top came just after the cramps in the hamstrings of my right leg. Yow, it's been a long time since I felt that. Slightly different positioning, some long steep stretches, and a little dehydration must have worked together to zap me with a reminder of my mortality. 2 hours 45 minutes from the entrance of Shell Ridge to the top.

At the top.

The ride down is ¾ of the reason we ride up - especially on a mountain bike. And, bombing down the trails is exponentially more fun than the road. It's also exponentially more work. One can relax a little on the sweeping corners of the paved roads, but a moment's relaxation on the trail could mean a night at the hospital and a month of rehab, not to mention the fun trip in the helicopter.

Looking toward the north west at the trails I would soon be screaming down.

Half way down the mountain 2 mountain bikers evidently unfamiliar with the trails I had just come down, pulled off the road and followed me past Rock City and on toward some of the hills descending toward Shell Ridge. In talking to them, I found out that the more aggressive of them had recently raced Downieville. He called over his shoulder that I should let him know if I wanted to pass. I just smiled to myself knowing that anyone willing to race Downieville, was in no danger of being passed by me. My experience with Downieville can be read here. The other in his company was more my speed and we shared the trail for an intense few miles.

Back in Shell Ridge my pace was notably slower than my ride through 4 hours before. The rolling hills are less abrupt on the return trip, but still there nonetheless.

I finished my ride at the park in Pleasant Hill, where I met the girls for a picnic lunch on the grass beneath a huge pine. I rotated the picnic blankets around the base of the tree to keep the Small Noisy One and I sleeping in the shade, while Bec and Ella played on the toys. Another lazy summer Saturday.

Not on the Bandwagon

2010-07-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

It's not news at this point in the 2010 Tour de France that Lance Armstrong of Team Radio Shack is no longer contending for the win, though he did manage to catch our attention at the end of stage 16 in a well endowed breakaway.

CyclingNews.com
The American fans obviously have a presence in France.

It is disappointing though. It's this disappointment that has turned many fans to either abandon le Tour or attempt to abate the disappointment with a healthy dose of guile. "A.B.C" I saw on one web site - Anyone But Contador, the leading contender and rival of all things Radio Shack and American in cycling.

The natural default then, is the next guy with any chance of stemming the tide that is Alberto Contador - Andy Schleck. With so many in this demoralized condition pulling for the young Luxembourger , I fear that I may unwittingly be cast into the same category as the reactionary mob.

I too am strongly pulling for Andy Schleck. His older brother Frank, crashed out early in the tour, narrowing the focus for those of us with respect for the Saxo Bank duo.

However, I've included some links below to solidify my position as being well off the bandwagon of reactionary guile.

http://cycling-through.blogspot.com/2010/07/le-tour-de-france-2010.html

http://cycling-through.blogspot.com/2010/07/on-tour-after-stage-3.html

http://cycling-through.blogspot.com/2010/06/pros-tour-de-suisse.html

I don't know if this is Andy's year or not. Only time will tell. But, I do hope he continues to make a good show of it.

Oh, and by the way - I predicted that Armstrong would be contending with Contador for the win in the last stage of this year's Tour. I was wrong.
There I've said it.

My new prediction...

No way.