Just Another Great Ride

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

(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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

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

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.