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I had no real business going on a 12 day supported cycling tour in Oregon, but I decided being prepared was overrated and went anyway.  We started in Ashland, cycled a bunch of days, and ended up back in Ashland 12 days later.  I had a great time.

I was the only person with a tent that required staking.  Tents that require staking are stupid.  Actually, the tent was fine for the first 7 days and then it was stupid.  After some point banging stakes into the ground with a hammer just became something I never wanted to do again.  One day, I was unable to stake the tent at all, because the ground was too hard.  I had to get Pete to stake it and then Michael to de-stake it the next day.

Deet is the only mosquito repellant that seems to work.  The instructions on deet tell you to apply only to exposed skin, to avoid your eyes and mouth, and to not apply under clothes.  My only exposed areas were my face, neck and hands. The mosquitos easily avoided those areas and bit me through my clothes.  I had 9 bites on my ass.  The little suckers chased me down as I climbed slowly up to crater lake and bit me repeatedly through my cycling shorts.  I had multiple bites on my legs from sitting around in camp in my long pants.  I had no bites on my exposed areas protected by deet.  I am not sure how to deal with this problem.  I might have to tour next year completely naked, but slathered in deet.

Our first day of cycling was a choice of 2 rides.  We were staying at Ashland for the first day, so both choices ended back at camp.  Both had about a 4500 feet of climbing.  Michael wanted to do the Dead Indian loop.  (The road is called Dead Indian Memorial road, but I do not know why.)  This loop is 47 miles long , contains a 4000 foot climb, and sports pie at mile 33.  I showed up ready to go at Michael’s tent.  He was still in his regular clothes.  His goal for the tour was to be the last person back to camp each day and since he is not the slowest rider on the tour, he worked hard at being the last out of the camp each day and then he stopped each day for a long lunch if he had caught too many other riders.  He looked at me and told me to make myself a sandwich.  “It’s only 47 miles and we are having pie at mile 33; I don’t need a sandwich,” I countered.

“You’ll be really unhappy, when we all stop to eat our sandwiches and you don’t have one,” he said.  Michael can either talk or get ready to go.  If you stand near him and talk to him, he goes into some time warp, where time means nothing and he just yammers along telling slightly offensive jokes.  Realizing that we would never actually hit the road unless I left him alone, I went off and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The Dead Indian climb was nice.   I got the tour’s first flat.  Michael saved the day by using his good eye to find the little wire that had caused my slow leak.  Michael has one eye surgically set for up close vision and one eye for far away vision, so he is brilliant at seeing small stuff.

The pie place had pie and a large group of us spent about 2 hours sitting on the cafe’s porch, discussing Marionberries, a past DC mayor, and Michael’s sex life.  I had eggs over easy with toast.  I have never been able to confuse berries with dessert.

We got within a few feet of camp when we decided that we might as well do the second route, too.  The second route was shorter, but climbed Mt. Ashland.  By the time I got to the top of Mt. Ashland, I was out of water, out of food, and out of body warmth.   Michael knew that a dilapidated building contained a sink, so I was able to refill my water.  I realized that I was not actually out of food, but that I had a glorious peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my pocket, so we sat in the cold, ate our sandwiches, and looked at Mt. Shasta in the distance.  Mt. Shasta is rather pretty and this exercise was rather pleasant.

The 17 mile descent was colder than the climb.  Michael knew of a lodge half way down the descent and we stopped there and warmed up with hot tea and coffee.  I was shivering rather uncontrollably by this point and drinking hot tea in a hot room was great.  I hadn’t even noticed this place.  Michael has a nose for food and knows where all detours might be.

All in all, the day was a success.  We got a lot of climbing done in a very pleasant manner.  Michael saved the day by insisting that I make myself a sandwich, finding the wire in my tire, knowing the location of secret garage sinks, and suggesting that we stop at a lodge to get warm.

We were the last people in by about an hour and a half, so Michael made his goal, too.

View of Mt Shasta as we ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from atop Mt. Ashland.  Andrea rode part way up Mt. Ashland with us trying to see Mt. Shasta.  She didn’t really want to climb Ashland, but she really wanted to see Shasta.

Welcoming sign outside the lodge where Michael and I warmed ourselves half way down Mt. Ashland.

Dead Indian Loop with out and back up and down Mt. Ashland.

I can no longer close my freezer door; the freezer is so badly in need of defrosting. I really am a dreadful housekeeper. The built-up ice is bending the freezer compartment. Some people complain about how non-fast cyclists really shouldn’t have nice or expensive bikes. Someone slower than you or someone with less experience than you shouldn’t have a nicer or more expensive bike than you, or at least that seems to be a common feeling amongst cyclist. “When you start cycling, you should have a humble bike.” I have never really met an overly proud bike, but I think I understand the sentiment. I am never quite sure when you have ridden enough or exactly what speed you have to obtain before you can buy an over-priced or light bike. I think that perhaps we should apply this practice to other arenas. Slow joggers would be required to wear clogs and wouldn’t be allowed to wear running shoes until they can do 8 minute miles. Only people with adequate housekeeping skills would be allowed to buy an apartment and only people whose floors can be eaten off of would be allowed to buy a house. I would be restricted to living in a tent.

still life with bike

I prefer hiking, but the dog likes dog parks, too. I have no pretty pictures of the Alameda Dog park, but here is a picture of the wonder poodle with the wildflowers .

I went to the dog park today.  I prefer going hiking with Sacha, the wonder poodle, because I find it less boring than the dog park.  However, the dog likes the dog park.  Today’s trip reminded me of this note I put on Facebook.  From August 26, 2009.  

At least children get older and change. Puppies become dogs in about 2 minutes and then stay dogs and I have been listening to the same inane conversations about dogs for the last 11 years. My dog does the same thing everyday- day in and day out- nothing new. I go to the dog park and I am bored. The dog is happy, delighted even, but I am not a dog and I am bored. However, other people, hereafter known as crazy dog people or CDP, stand around, fascinated, and describe the activities of their dogs- in detail. “How funny: she just ran around the picnic table and stopped.”

At first glance this obsession with one’s own pet might not really seem that notable, but people do this everyday. Not just once, but daily for the entire length of their dogs’ lives and then they get another dog and do it again. “Oh look, they are just standing around and staring at each other. Oh, look, now they are running.” The CDP stand around in groups watching the dogs and give a play-by-play update of all the dog activities “Are you hot Caspar? Look at him just sit and pant. No sitting at the dog park! GO play” Despite the fact that the dogs are actually doing nothing or are, in fact, doing exactly the same thing they did yesterday. “Is that a squirrel? Do you see a squirrel? Is that a squirrel in that tree?” They, then create conversations that they imagine the dogs are having. “He’s saying ‘come on play, play’ and she’s saying ‘I’m hot leave me alone.'” “My dog’s telling your dog that that the other dog is saying that your dog’s mom wears army boots.” Honestly, my husband must have said that sentence at least 1000 times during Thea’s life. Does that sentence even really make sense? (Well actually, in context, that sentence did make sense. In order for you to understand the army boots statement, I would have to give you a blow by blow description of how Thea played, which would be unnecessarily boring and cruel.) “OK now, everyone sniff each others butts.”

I am starting to prefer discussions about other people’s children. A discussion of some kid’s book report is not actually a conversation I have daily and tomorrow that mom will be discussing something else about her kid. I won’t have to relive the same daily book report conversation for 10 years. Alameda Park is full of CDP, while Piedmont Park is oddly not. I am not sure the reason for this distinction between these groups. Piedmont discussions concern business travel, teacher/child relationships (how’s Caitlin getting along with Mr. Garrigan?) softball (did you sign Jonathon up for the child pitch league yet?), prom dresses (I may have hit my limit on conversations about prom dresses), dating, and alcohol and drug consumption. I like the Piedmont group as parents. They seem a little critical of their children, which, as a bystander, is far more amusing than the usual baby worship. As I stand around watching my dog smell a tree, I have a much better chance being amused by a funny story if standing next to some dad complaining about his 17 year old boy.

However, I have lost all patience with discussions about a child’s supposedly remarkable brilliance. In all cases, I have found that discussions about a dog’s intelligence to be far more interesting and actually more impressive than discussions about some kid’s superior intelligence. Kids are nowhere near as impressive as parents seem to think they are, whereas stories about dogs can (on admittedly rare occasions) be quite amusing and impressive. My favorite smart dog was one who could open a deadbolt. This dog’s intelligence was further enhance by the fact his owner was a moron.

My husband is, in fact, a CDP and thinks I should stop fighting and just join them. Though, he will put his head down and walk away if someone starts talking about training methods or mentions dominance. “NO HUMPING!!”

In general, I sit alone on urine-drenched plastic lawn chairs and plan my escape. My dog has bad recall and doesn’t come when he doesn’t want to come. I used to carry around cut-up pieces of handmade, organic, locally farmed, locally produced and (obviously) expensive salami in a small ziplock bag in order to bribe my dog to leave the park with me. In a stunning flash of brilliance on day, I realized that I was actually insane and replaced the salami with chicken hot dogs, which work just as well. My dog still only leaves when he wants to leave.

I need to figure out how to work my ipod.

Sacha, the wonder poodle

While looking through old notes on facebook, I found this ride report from 2010.  My mind had let these memories slip for some reason and I am happy for the reminder of that day.   I now remember that I was very happy during this ride and then for several days after the event.  Jean has since died.  

First of all I DNFed the Mt Tam double today, but despite that I had a very good ride. I had been very anxious about the ride for a couple of reasons. The first reason was due to an unfriendly letter that the ride organizer sent out last year, about which I was still annoyed. The second reason was that I was likely not to make the lunch time cut-off or the final cut-off. Time cut time limits make me stressed out and I spend the entire ride obsessing about speed and distance, elapsed time etc if I am close to the time limits. If you are close to the time limits, they recommend starting at 4am to give yourself more time. This approach sounds nice, except for the 2 am wake-up call. I hate getting up at 2 am. My recent average speeds indicated that I was likely to make the time cuts, but my speed varies a lot. Not making the time cut was also quite probable.

Results

1) Everyone in the Marin Cyclists and all the volunteers were very nice and no one acted like I shouldn’t be there.

2) I made the lunch time cut by almost an hour. I was clearly going to make the time cuts and this assurance made for a nicer ride. I had a great ride. I went out hard. I rode faster than I usually can ride and I had a higher than normal average speed for that amount of climbing. Furthermore, I love riding in Marin. I rode much of the ride with Gabrielle, which made the ride very enjoyable and faster.

3) DNF: My knee started hurting around mile 35. I rode well until about mile 90. After mile 90, I stopped being able to stand and I wasn’t able to put much power into my pedal stroke from my right knee. I had a hard time starting the bike and a hard time clipping in. Even on small hills, I needed to drop into my lowest gear. I decided that I would pull out of the ride at the Coleman valley loop cut-off. I really wanted to make the cut-off, just to prove to myself that I did it. I have plans for other rides in this month and I didn’t want my knee to be injured by riding another 75 miles that included both the Marshall Wall and Coleman. I rode the 123 miles faster than I usually ride flatter 200ks. I am happy that I ended the ride on on upnote. I wasn’t injured badly and I had a fast and good ride.

4) 2am wake up call: I set my alarm for 2 am Saturday morning so I could start this silly double at 4 am, an obscenely early time. At around 1 am, our poodle started to bark. Jason lost it. He woke up and severely chastised the dog for barking. I then got angry at Jason for getting angry at the dog. Jason and I then tried unsuccessful to get back to sleep for one last hour. In the background I could here a faint alarm. The alarm wouldn’t have awoken me, but now that I am awake, I find it annoying. “Why would someone have an alarm set for 1 am. (who am I to talk?) If your alarm was set for 1 am, why aren’t you getting up and turning it off. Just ignore the alarm and relax and go back to bed. That alarm sounds familiar.” At this last comment, my brain suddenly clued in. I jumped out of bed and left my apartment to find the hallway filling with smoke from our elderly and completely deaf neighbor’s, Jean’s, apartment. Firefighters were called. After much ado, I finally roused our neighbor’s son, who lives on the first floor. Another neighbor who has keys to Jean’s apartment was awoken first and he came and finally got in to her apartment, which was completely filled with smoke. She had left a pot on the stovetop, turned the burner to high, and had then gone to bed. Since our neighbor, Jean, is almost deaf, she didn’t hear the alarm. I pulled the fire alarm pull for the first floor and the 3rd floor and NEITHER fire pull worked. Unbelievable. Jean is ok. Her bedroom door was closed and unlike the rest of her apartment had not filled with smoke. Our hallways still reeks if the smoke tonight.

Jean’s family cooks her dinner each night, so her son unplugged her stove to prevent a reoccurrence. We have had a number of these types of occurrences, but this was by far the worst incident and the only one for which the fire department was called.

I am stunned by how much effort was needed to wake people at 1 am and I can’t believe that our fire alarm pulls didn’t work at all.

So after all that, I wasn’t all that upset about alarm clock going off at 2. We were already awake. I am really happy that the dog woke us up when Jean’s smoke detector started beeping and I am glad that the apartment building didn’t actually catch on fire and I am happy that our elderly and deaf neighbor is ok. I am particularly happy that her stove has been unplugged.

All in all I am pleased pleased pleased with how the day went.

The decent down the south side of Palomares to Niles Canyon was rather annoying.  I kept being pelted by these really small, but very cute, 20 mph flying and swarming ladybugs.  It was surprisingly painful to be pelted by these cute spotted creatures in the face and I suspect they weren’t that happy about my presence either.  I kept closing my eyes.  “DON’T DO THAT.  You’re wearing sunglasses.”  Then I would bow my head down to avoid the flying cuties.  “DON’T DO THAT EITHER!” the voice in my head would yell.  The cliff on the east side of the road is trying to become one with the creek on the west side of the road and the descent down Palomares is strewn with rocks as erosion takes its course.  Closing my eyes and tucking my head were quite stupid moves, so I slowed down to lessen the little critters’ impacts on my face.  As a result my descent was quite slow, a fact I would not have ever considered, except for my new life on Strava.  I feel like putting in a little notation on that time, “But I was descending through a 5 mile long swarm of ladybugs!”  I was covered in ladybugs by the time I got to Niles canyon, a state that was neither as cute nor as creepy as I would have anticipated.

Strava has a considerable number of deterrents, especially after the death of a local cyclist who died trying to regain his king of the descent time by going down South Park at freeway speeds.  South Park, for those location challenged readers, is a small road through a local parkland.  People hike, picnic, let their kids and dogs run free in this rather pretty park.  It really isn’t a “freeway speed” type of place.  Strava’s allowance of descents in the records is a source of anger for a number of cyclists.  I was somewhat appalled to find that someone has set up a Strava segment on the descent down Tresle Glenn from Park to Lakeshore.  This section of road goes through a highly populated residential area, has about 4-5 stop signs, and it is quite narrow.  Though the road is officially 2 way, it only really has one through lane.  You need to pay attention and yield to oncoming traffic as needed.  It is a completely lousy section to have recorded as a Strava segment.  I felt a bit like complaining, until I actually looked at my speed.  I averaged about 21 mph through that section.  What on earth was I thinking?  I don’t think that you should really go over 20 in that area.  How could I AVERAGE over 20?  I can see now the problem; it’s smack between my ears.  I, not just someone else, need to go slower.  Perhaps this Strava descent segment thing is a good idea.  I had no idea I had been taking it so fast.

Palomares is a 10 mile stretch of road with a peak in the middle, making it a 5 mile climb up and then a 5 mile descent and then, since I usually do this road as an out-and-back, I turn around and do it again.  It was way shorter today than the last time I did it.  I got to the top and thought, “how did this get here?”  I sort of looked around to see if anyone was trying to trick me, but no, I had gotten to the top about 3 miles earlier than usual.  The last time I did this climb it had been about 7 miles, 2 miles longer than usual, so I guess it was just trying to even things up a bit.  Last time, I had ridden with Richard Mc, a faster rider than me.  I took huge pride in having stayed with him, even though I knew he was slowing down to ride with me.  Beggars can’t be choosers and feeling happy with your performance always seems like a more pleasant way to go.  However, today I clearly wasn’t putting in as much of an effort.  My mind wanders.  I can’t really push myself when I am on my own.

I am at my fastest when riding with my friend MarkN.  He is a very supportive cycling buddy.  However, he certainly does not need me; he has personal bests all on his own.  (We know this fact due to his careful analysis of his ride-with-gps data.)  How does he do that?  He tells me that mind-wandering is a sign that you are not working hard enough.  I certainly believe that, but my mind ALWAYS wanders.  What else is it going to do?  That is what minds do best.  It is like they were put on this earth to go places without you.  I was going up Palomares and my mind was constructing emails I have yet to write.

Having been inspired by both Jason and Mark, I bought my own little Garmin device and am now connecting to both ride-with-gps and Strava.  (I am letting the two systems battle it out by seeing which one likes wasting my time more.)  I thought I could channel Mark and become a more focused rider by being able to look at my data, but this doesn’t seem to be panning out.  I get notices like “my current place on this climb is 721st out of 904.”  I am not inspired.  However, I had a good day.  Leimert was super easy, Redwood was easy in both directions, and by the time I had finished with Palomares it had shrunk by another 3 miles.

I love Willow Creek Golf course.  I just love it.  The guy who runs the little “cafe” there now recognizes me or perhaps the fact that I am now in love with him has allowed me to fall into this delusion.  I go there in the winter and he cooks me eggs.  I go in the summer and he gives me cups of ice to fill my camel back.  I buy a candy bar and a glass of coke with ice and think how great my day is going.  The return up Redwood was uneventful, save for a second Ladybug swarm as I climbed to Joaquin.

Ladybugs swarming in Redwood park. This picture wasn’t taken on this ride.  It was taken on a hike a few years ago.

MALT=Marin Agricultural Land Trust  I give money to MALT every month for purely selfish reasons; I love riding the the roads through the farmland of Marin county and I want to do it for a long as I am physically able.  According to its website, “MALT has permanently protected nearly half of the farmland in the country, ” and is working to preserve more.   As a fund raiser, MALT threw a biking/eating event on Black Mountain Ranch.  The biking was good, the food was good, and everyone had a great time.

Route for Beer, Beef, and Biking 55 miles, long version. Ended and started on Black Mountain Ranch on Point Reyes-Petaluma road between Pt Reyes and the painted bridge. Route went counterclockwise.

The ride started at 0845 and was 55 miles long with two significant climbs: Wilson hill and Franklin School.  Franklin School can easily be replaced with Middle if we ran short on time.  MarkN was very concerned about time.  The lunch was being held from 12 to 1400 and he was told that if we missed the 14oo cut, we would miss lunch.  He had also been told that last year they had run out of food and not everyone had gotten lunch.

MarkN had been looking forward to this lunch for weeks and did not want to miss it.  We would have to make any adjustments needed in order to get back in time.  I had a 20 dollar bill in my jersey pocket and felt like I was good.  I could always buy lunch elsewhere.  Mark was having none of that, so we left early at 0830.

MarkN heading into the wind in Chileno Valley

Water Buffalo! Young versions. Way cute.

Water buffalo!

Young water buffalo. Not Bison

I had never seen the water buffalo before.  The Duros West crew mention them a lot.  Mostly they talk about the shock of discovering that Buffalo Mozzarella come from milk from water buffalo and not from regular cows.  MarkN is  not quite sure that he is willing to eat buffalo mozzarella now that he knows.  They then go on to discuss the ranch with the water buffalo and how long it would take to make such an operation viable.  Since no one in this group has any experience or knowledge in this area, this discussion can go on for a while.

The water bufallo are on a farm at the corner of Gericke and Fallon-Two Rock.  I like Gericke road, but you have to watch out not to hit the peacocks hanging out in the road on the descent.  I mostly like Gericke road, because no one knows how to pronounce its name and every ride that includes this road also includes long conversations about its pronunciation possibilities.  We can then have the opprotunity to discuss other pronunciations such as Nicasio, Sobrante, Suison, Tomales, and Linux.

Farmland along Whitaker and Franklin School roads. North of Tomales, west of Highway one, south of Bodega Bay

Whitaker, Middle, and Franklin School are so pretty they verge on the absurd. Sometimes the fields are also teaming with livestock. Today, we saw mostly sheep.

I took a silly number of pictures of this stream, this bridge, and the surrounding hills. I am demonstrating considerable restraint by posting only these photos.

Onto Franklin School Road. I spent much of yesterday’s ride referring to this road as Schoolhouse Road, until MarkN couldn’t stand it anymore and told me the correct name. We are on the bridge featured in the previous picture.

View from Dillon Beach Road and Franklin School Road. Mouth of the Tomales Bay. Dillon beach, Tomales Bay and then Pierce Point.

Touring bike conversion

We got back at 1215, just after the start of the picnic.  Our initial worries regarding the time had been in vain.  The food at the ranch was super yummy.  The owner tried to sell us on the idea of buying a cow, or half a cow, or a quater of a cow.  A quarter of a cow yields about 100 pounds of beef, which would take Jason and I about 4 years to eat, but only if we dramatically increased our beef consumption.  We would also need to buy a freezer.

Jaz got bitten by a horse.  :(

I only yelled 3 times, which is pretty good for a tandem ride.  I am wary of riding the tandem around MarkN.  MarkN and I have ridden the tandem together a couple of times and I am afraid that if I get too angry or scared while riding the tandem with Jason, Mark will stop riding the tandem with me, deciding that I am too much of a pill.  I am not the world’s best stoker.  My husband, who rarely yells back, however, may be one of the world’s best captains.

Society page:

Jason and I rode the tandem.  We rode with MarkN.  Jaz did the shorter route, which went over Marshall Wall and then came down the coast.  MarkS did the long route.

I love Carole King’s song “It’s too late.”  Jason thinks that my love for music from the 70s is a form of aesthetic developmental delay.  This song reminds me of one of our patients.  She was a very nice woman, who had a number of issues and she provided us with some difficulty from time to time.  However, everyone liked her, she was always nice and pleasant to us, and I am glad to have known her.  One day, a couple of years ago, late in the evening, she came in for chemotherapy after having seen the doctor, but we were unable to start an IV.  A number of nurses each tried a number of times.  She was very patient, but being stuck multiple times with needles is tiring and painful.  Despite the pain of the multiple needle pokes, she really wanted her chemotherapy, the treatment she hoped would save her life.  After many IV start attempts, we simply got too close to closing time and we had run out of veins to attack.  It had gotten too late.  Two of the nurses, Jenny and Diane, spontaneously broke into song, singing Carole King’s “It’s too late, baby.  It’s too late.”  The patient seemed pleased by the singing and it relieved a lot of the tension.  We rescheduled the patient’s treatment for the next day.  She died last year and neither of the nurses work with me anymore, but I love this song.  It reminds me of a very sweet and difficult moment where everyone was at her best and I was glad to have witnessed it.