Captain’s Log, January 2nd, 2010, Pinehurst Drive, solo ride.  I passed the Canyon post office, then the school, then started on that straight section out of town and something colorful caught my eye, on the side of the road next to a redwood tree.  I turned my head to see bouquets of flowers, cards, a Raider’s cap on a fence post.  I knew what this meant, what it always means, and it’s never good:  someone had died here, and it looked very recent.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning.  Actually,  I should backtrack a bit and start my story around the second half of December of 2009.  This is the seminal point where my holiday merrymaking got up a full head of steam and I bounced from  event to event, party to party, eating and drinking well, all the while getting in solid bike rides in between.  I was sated, I am still sated, and being sated is not conducive to getting up early when it is cold and riding my bike.  Thus I have been sleeping deeply and riding at a later hour, which puts me out there solo sometimes.  Solo riding leads to interesting situations.  Situations such as today, when I was riding through Canyon and discovered the spot where Christopher Martin died, just a few days ago. Read the rest of this entry »

On a recent weekday things were really getting me down.  I felt anxious and restless, weighted down, a sense of depressing existential angst swirled around me like a pervasive ground fog, but, hey, that’s me some days.  I looked out the window at a beautiful sunny day.  It dawned on me that I could be out riding.  But I didn’t really feel like it, an unfortunate condition of the condition I was in.  However, standing there looking above my neighbor’s roof where I can just see a tiny piece of the hills, I determined that a ride would be just what the doctor ordered, and set about the familiar ritual of transforming myself from Jim, professional volunteer and mid-life transitioner, to Flash, dauntless solo rider of Montclair and environs.  The ride got off to a rough start, a frenzied motorist almost cut me off on the Fruitvale bridge, and then I proceeded to hit every red light between the bridge and International— I had to stop for an Amtrak train as well— which makes it hard to get any rhythm going.  Fruitvale north of International got better as I took in the Hispanic atmosphere, and I usually make the light at MacArthur, which I did, but even the 1% grade going towards Foothill was feeling like more work than it should, and I got the nagging thought started that this was not going to be my best day.  Some days there is just nothing there, and you know that feeling—the legs are sore or the gas tank is empty, or some virus is making itself known.  Somedays I have turned back after only a few miles, just totally laggy and disappointed  with the situation.  But I cut myself some slack, we all have bad days, even on the bike.  It’s best to just bag it until another day.  This day was not one of those days. Read the rest of this entry »

“No formula exists for epic. It happens when the right conditions are present and it cannot be manufactured. Mental, physical and emotional stress are all components as is suffering, which in the case of cycling, usually means extended periods of self-inflicted pain. Exposure, distance, duration, elevation, great camaraderie, road surfaces, waning sanity, exhaustion, rapidly fading sunlight, weather, empty pockets and broken chains. And competition both healthy and not so healthy are all likely a part of any epic ride. Epic is essentially the result of a series of intense experiences and hard riding.”       From the Rapha Continental website

July 9th, 4pm:

I had just had an excellent descent from Highway 88 at Carson Pass into Hope Valley.  The sky was blue with a few white clouds, the vast valley spreading to the base of craggy mountains circling the plain of green with its meandering river.  As I dropped into Woodford Canyon I saw our old summer campspot at Showshoe Springs, now closed to camping.  To the left I saw the trailhead to Horsethief Canyon, we had hiked that one year nearly to the very top of the rocky mountain.  I was heady with old memories and instant new ones as I plummeted down the canyon, freewheeling towards Markleeville.  When I made the right turn at Woodfords and began climbing, my reverie evaporated and I was suddenly gasping for air, wheezing up this grade, which, at sea level, would be easy.  I was at 6000′ and the effect was something of a shock and at that moment of clarity I realized the Death Ride is probably more about overcoming the thin air than it is about mileage or climbing.  “Ugggh…” I muttered to myself as I pushed the seven miles towards town. Read the rest of this entry »

(Preface:  as I chose the longer 200K route this year, I did not get to ride with any of the Team Alameda contingent, I only saw them very briefly at the start, so this story is only about my saga of confronting my personal challenges presented this day by Mother Nature)

Mile 103: Chalk Hill

I must have been a sight: a dark rider in shades of black and blue with a hoodie flapping in the breeze, green vinyl rainpants hanging off the right strap of my Camelback, a found “dickie” bib hanging off the left, filthy white bike, soaking wet,  head down, grinding up Chalk hill in a heavy drizzle.  I was in the twilight zone, not really aware it was already 5pm or that I had been out in the rain for 10 hours, I was narrowly focused on just another stretch of road winding up ahead of me and I was the only rider in sight… or so I thought.   “I’m not trying to pass you…” said a perky voice on my left.  I snapped out of my daze and looked left at the young woman in neon green alongside me.  “Oh, by all means pass me.” I said feeling not one bit put out in any regard.  She smiled and said that she couldn’t.  I told her I really was not feeling strong at this point.  Maybe it was just that moment in time, but she looked at me and said perhaps the best thing anyone has ever said to me while I was on a bike:  “Well…” she said, ” you look strong!”  I think maybe that one comment alone made it all worth it. Read the rest of this entry »

A few weeks ago I dusted off my 1991 Miyata and took it out for a club ride.  Club Prez. Johnny H. remarked at a regroup, ” Dude!  You are rocking on the Miyata!”.  He was dead on, man, I WAS rocking on the Miyata.  I was savoring a unique ride unlike any other, forged from the cutting edged technology of 1990 and a minimalistic vibe the complete opposite of todays carbon wonderbikes.  How can a ride that  old be that good?  I can’t really explain, it, but I know it when I feel it.

Read the rest of this entry »

The veins in my right leg are itching.  I had an ongoing case of this as I was training for the Death Ride this year—just weeks and weeks of throbbing, itchy leg veins.  I think the leg muscles get so pumped up they push outward on these vessels, and since there is no good place for them to go, they protest mightly with these symptoms.  At any rate its a good indicator of how hard the ride was as only the hardest rides make this occur, and it occurred yesterday on our 60 mile, 6000′ climbing expedition. Read the rest of this entry »

 (Greetings Flashblog reader.  Here for your reading pleasure is one of the fabled lost Flashblogs, written one year ago, recently discovered under the bed, covered in dustbunnys and cat hair.  It is especially relevant considering the Mt. Hamilton ride will commence once again in two weeks)

Part 1, The Context

One gray Sunday about two years ago I geared up and rode down to the local Peet’s for a cup of Joe. This was before the idea of the casual Sunday ride had been conceived, and around this period of time in its place existed the Sunday Drop Ride, and the Team Alameda “racer” types could be regularly seen milling about getting jacked up on go-juice before the 8:30 ride.

This particular day only three of us showed up, and I wasn’t even there to go on the drop ride. The other two riders were Keith Beato and John Melder. Keith has since gone on to great accomplishments like completing the unbelievable Paris-Brest-Paris ride, but back at this time he was just getting into the sport so I hardly knew him. John was TA Ride Captain at the time and had a firm reputation as “The Hammer” for his hard charging, no waiting style of riding. I found him as intimidating as he was inscrutable. Read the rest of this entry »

My Death Ride started at 3:30am inside of a very dark tent pitched in a clearing at Grover Hot Springs campground. Or had it? As I lay there in my down bag, the fog slowly lifting from my brain, it occurred to me that this was merely the day of the event. The ride had started many months ago, perhaps even years ago. At what point did I decide to do this? That I could do this? I pondered the point for 15 minutes then dressed and crossed the chilly meadow to the picnic table where I would proceed with priority One: make a strong cup of coffee. Read the rest of this entry »

I gave it all to the bike this week.  This is a phrase coined by my perceptive wife Cathy, aka, Flashette, and usually used in a less than positive fashion, when she doesn’t get what she wants because I got what I wanted.  So I try to avoid this and save something for the old homestead, and I’ve been pretty good lately, but slipped up this week.

I realized this Sunday afternoon when I chose to pass out in bed rather than feed my family by doing my weekly Safeway shopping run.  I used to joke about when the checker at the market asked me for “help out to the car”, and how I would rate the difficulty of the weekend’s rides by how close I came to saying yes to that offer, but never did.  Yesterday I didn’t even make it to the market.  I blame the Death Ride. Read the rest of this entry »

I’ve always been fascinated with mountain climbing documentaries, especially those focusing on Mt. Everest Expeditions. I begrudgingly have to admire those men and women who climb into the “death zone”, where oxygen is scarce, the cold can freeze off your appendages, apocalyptic storms threaten survival, and yes, where some sportsmen give it their all–but all is not enough–and on the side of the mountain they lie, freeze dried for eternity in their neon ’70s climbing garb. I admire them because they cast away their better judgment, their guaranteed safety, to put themselves in certain danger, just to stand on top of a mountain for 30 minutes, just to say they have done it. You could say it makes no sense. Read the rest of this entry »