The Colors of Dawn

The morning rides to work on Tuesday mornings have been growing progressively darker.  As fall drifts in, the daylight hours wane.  For some time I was judging my punctuality by the irrigation sprinklers at one house along Alhambra Valley Rd.  Early in the summer, the irrigation had been running but a short time when I approached and passed the whirring heads dazzling the ivy in the morning sun.  As the summer progressed, the Ivy was wetter and wetter by the time I passed, as my departure was delayed to accommodate the later mornings.  The ivy was less dazzled by morning sun, and more by passing headlights. 

Recently the trip has begun in the dark.  A small headlamp, various reflectors on my gear, and a blinking LED taillight are my feeble attempt at safety.  As noted in other posts, the real danger (in my opinion) comes from the unfortunate possum, or unfinished road construction lying in my path.  I have pressed on none the less and have started out for the past few weeks watching the twinkling stars fade into the morning’s blue sky.

 

My course winds westward on these mornings, being ideal for early visibility, since the awakening skies at my rear illuminate the road and objects ahead without blinding me in the process.  It has been my privilege and joy over the last few weeks to observe the East Bay hills rouse from a mist blanketed slumber.  But more than that, the sky has kept me in awe, to the point of extending my trip by several minutes as I withdraw the hurry in order to gaze.  The first few minutes are the blackest.  However, as my home is in the Bay Area suburbs, the early route is largely illuminated by an array of street lamps and lit storefronts.  The few stars visible in the city, along with a predictably fickle moon are my companions before being systematically extinguished by a growing and far superior luminescence.  A midnight blue sky slowly emerges as the ink fades. 

My ride is a lonely one once the city lights are at my back.  Alhambra creek, and its vast fauna accompany me at this point, though silently and stealthily from a distance.  I hear more often than see, the deer along the creek, and the rustle of countless smaller creatures often startles me from my reverie.  One morning I was intrigued by a Romeo and Juliet pair of raccoons lying only a few feet apart on the descent from the pinnacle of this route.  With more than a modest reverence I passed to the side of the duo not willing to sever the romance even at that tragic end. 

Recently, by the time I reach the pinnacle, known locally as Pig Farm Hill, the skies have turned from the midnight blue to a deep purple.  Again, within minutes, the depths of the color are diluted to a lavender so soft as to be coveted by any seamstress seeking the perfect satin for a 5 year old princess.  Further eastward I travel and with the progress comes the first disappointment – the lavender dulls down to drab light gray.  For many minutes the gray depresses my outlook and I begin to notice the trails of fog in the surrounding canyons, and even glance down to observe the roughly paved asphalt rushing by below.

The mood is not long lasting.  It is within these moments that a transformation is occurring behind me of which mere reflections off my front rim, and the back of my handlebars have given me but a clue.  The skies to the east, and my rear have ignited.  With radiance of color far more exhilarating than those I’ve experienced to that point, the eastward hills are shadowed, darkened, and then crowned with a brilliance only experienced, not observed.  A glance behind reveals the evidences of the source of all the color that can be experienced.  Though yet below the ridge of the hills, the greatest orb in our solar system has sent its blinding rays to announce its arrival.  Looking again toward the west, the gray skies have again transformed into that color found only behind a child’s crayon sketch of green tree, yellow sun, and black birds.  With the same care that a child takes to select that perfect azure crayon for his pastoral masterpiece, our infinitely wise, capable, and sovereign God again withdraws the veil to reveal his revived masterpiece  as observed from our small terrestrial spec.

I was awed; possibly not unlike the Psalmist following a dark and damp night upon a middle eastern hillside.  His skies no doubt were frequently unveiled with similar extravagance, by our Creator, of whom the future King David wrote “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament shows his handiwork . Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge.  There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard.”

I hear God’s voice on those mornings.  Not audibly.  Rather, I hear that still small voice which rings true for every created being, in which He beckons us to “know that I am God.”

Working toward a Century - “Fall” is coming

I’ve signed up for Foxy’s Fall Century in Sonoma – hosted by the Davis Bike Club.  How long have I been riding, and this is my first organized ride, and my first century?  Embarrassing.  Oh well, you have to start somewhere.  I’ve been pushing my Monday afternoon rides a little longer lately to prepare for that ride.

 

Monday 9/8 I managed 50 miles on the way home.  Started off with the three bears and then looped through Crocket and up McEwen Rd.  Within 3 miles of home the computer showed that 50 was going to be more like 48, so a quick tour of down town Martinez brought the final score to 50.5 miles.  Way too much pain.  I was rather discouraged about the pain and fatigue after just 50 miles – especially the next morning when it took nearly an hour and 25 minutes to return the mere 21 miles to the office. 

Wednesday Vince met me at Briones and we spent about an hour on our mountain bikes chasing cows.  That ride felt much better, but then again, it was only an hour.

The next Monday the ambition was back, and the route ended up being  around 63 miles.  San Pablo Dam Rd. to Papa Bear.  At the bottom of Papa Bear, a right turn on Happy Valley Rd. led to Lafayette, and then across to Walnut Creek and Danville through the valley.  My sights were set on the south gate of Mt. Diablo, which upon arrival was noted to be closed for construction.  Indeed it was, so option B led past the ivory towers of Black Hawk and its aspiring neighbors.  Not exactly the place to be looking for respect from other cyclists, while riding an early 90’s Bridgestone RB2 Road Bike.  (Now in Santa Cruz, I’d have to lock the bike to a policeman to keep it from getting stolen.)  No matter, I went through so fast they likely didn’t even see me.  Wink Wink.  The ride ended well with energy to spare and a renewed hope for success at Foxy’s.

I took several days off the bike – with the exception of Tuesday’s return trip to the office to retrieve the truck.  Chris replied to my email on Thursday agreeing to a Friday afternoon MTB ride in Shell Ridge.  We were supposed to start at 4:30 with me driving to his house, then riding to Shell Ridge from there.  I picked up a full load of material in my truck on the way home, forgetting I needed it to transport the bike.  Unloading the truck, or putting the rack on the Pilot, or just riding the 10 miles over there were the options.  I rode.

ETA 452, was the text message that awakened my Treo after several times around his neighborhood.  5:00 had come and gone before we began our trek.  The cooling afternoon air, and scattered leaves on the path joined increasingly cloudy skies in reminding us that Autumn was a scant 3 days away.  The prematurely gloomy skies were soon obscured by a green oaken canopy of some outlying canyons.   The canyons proved a rough, steep, and humid ride, and we could definitely have chosen an easier way in.

Once higher up in the park, the skies lightened up a little, but ironically splattered us with the first light rain of the summer.  The added daylight encouraged us further into park, contented that we had accomplished the majority of the climbing, and were thus beginning to enjoy the fruits of our labor.  We made most of our decisions thereafter with regard to not spoiling those fruits, and chose trails which we felt would be less difficult, as opposed to most direct.  All this time we have been constantly moving away from the direction of home.  Even the beginnings of our initial descent from the heights of Shell Ridge led us toward the south, with home being north.  I should emphasize that I was not ignorant of the receding daylight, nor was I ignorant of its potential inconvenience.  Cognizant of those facts, we did finally round the proverbial corner and begin the return trip by a somewhat more direct route, utilizing a few roads and paved trails in returning to Chris’s house. 

Throughout the ride we had been discussing politics, religion, family, and a variety of other issues.  Most if not all of the issues discussed found resolution within our discussion, and if acted upon in kind by the powers that be, would likely cause the world’s problems to be greatly resolved.  Some final resolutions were discussed following our arrival at his house as dusk settled toward dark.  Wise though we were in solving the riddles of the ages, our judgment was limited concerning the hazards of cycling in the dark.  Ok, so it was more like my judgment.  He did offer me a light.  I cordially refused, and attacked the twilight with nothing but my youthful eyes.

Frankly, all went rather well.  The majority of the ride home wound along well paved and well defined trails, which follow the many canals that carry water through our valley.  The closest of the trails ends within about 4 miles of my house and I made my way toward this with all speed.  I left this final trail in the pitch black.  I took some cursory precautions at this point, and held to the shoulder and sidewalks, but still pedaled like the Natzgul were at my rear.  I stayed to the left side of the road so that I could monitor the traffic better, though there was very little on the lonely stretch of road that took me on the north side of Hwy 4 from Concord to Martinez.

I had mentioned to my wife, and whispered under my breath many times, that my rides to work in the dark on Tuesday mornings were more likely to be interrupted violently by hazards on the road, than by the hazards driving the roads.  I am fairly visible those mornings with blinking LED light and reflective, jersey, backpack, windbreaker, etc.  However, short of carrying the equivalent of a car battery, and halogen head light, it is very easy to over ride the meager light produced by most bicycle head lights.  This again was the abiding thought forefront in my helmet beset head.  And yet  I charged forward without the benefit of even a small light.  The left shoulder is gravel, but wide and periodically interrupted with driveways.  To these driveways I was wise, as I could see them coming.  The tire ruts were a different story. 

By the time the bike was into the rut, it was already too late.  The rut evidently drifted to the right, and my progress was straight forward.  As the front tire unsuccessfully attempted to ascend the left side of the wheel rut, it was inadvertently drawn to the right.  As the bottom of the bike was led to the right, the top, including the rider was left unsupported over the original course.  In a final act of desperation, I forced the bike up and out of the canyon, which had the effect of slowing the bike to a stall.  I again joined the privileged few that have had the opportunity to bodily fly through the air without the aid of mechanized flying machines.

 

Evidently I was just outside the beam of the headlights of the oncoming car, or perhaps I successfully recovered with such speed, that they thought I was merely adjusting my saddle, as they drove by.  (This is what I hoped they would think)  More likely, though, they didn’t want to have anything to do with some crazy person stupid enough to ride his bike on the rutted shoulder in the pitch black.

I came away with only a small scrape on my left knee, and a valuable lesson:  …. Um, uh, I can’t remember what the lesson was?  Something like wait a few days before telling your wife about falling off the bike in the dark, unless you just can’t hide the wounds.