Fog was heavy in the morning, traffic slow and I passed at least one accident. Stupid the way people drive in pea-soup without headlights. On the way home it was fog again, not as thick, but enough to slow traffic. It was clear around home and I'd actually made the return commute in fair time, with a quick change I could get a bike ride in.
I changed and was in full kit, with arm and leg warmers and out the door by eleven after six, not too shabby. The start of the ride went smoothly, escaping city traffic to the entrance of North Rodeo Gulch and I motor up the lower grades comfortably, getting legs and all else warmed up for the task ahead. I used to call this climb the Col du Merde, because the last steep bit was all suffering. It's about 9 Km to the first real percentages, just enough to warm up for some real work. I'm out of the saddle a bit and turning the pedals smoothly, wind in my face and the odd small fly in my eye or mouth, I spit them out and take a drink from my water bottle -- or bidon, recalling the road ahead and which gear to be in, depending on how I feel. I'm in the big ring and feeling strong. I'm in the small ring when the road turns more steeply upward.
The first turn isn't the steepest but it's the worst, in the transition from moderate to higher grades it's mostly mental, convince myself it's hard and it is. It climbs a short ways and becomes moderate again, just before a turn with a fifteen percent grade, it's short but can hurt if I've overcooked myself getting there. I drive up the middle of the road to where it flattens a bit again, sit down and take another sip of water, the last grade is coming and it's tough, it's where I know my form, good or bad. I push my pace and hit it at about ninety percent effort and roll up well. I approach a gated driveway where there's sometimes a dog. The dog isn't there, but it usually worries me because it barks, it's never chased, but I don't know it won't ever. It's much harder to outrun anything going uphill, particularly when you've been climbing for a while.
I crested the mountain with speed and power to spare, just in time to catch the dying embers of the day. Fog or marine layer often make for dramatic colors as is the case. Amber, magenta and silver, in streaks and ribbons fading into an inverted sea of azure.
I turn on the LED bike light and head down the dark back side. Nothing like fresh blacktop with no lines or markers in the dark. The descent on Mountain View is fast and bumpy and I try to remember where the particularly rough bits are. Rounding a curve a pickup comes up in the middle of the road and I nearly buy it into an eight foot ditch, but again skirt danger and make the way to Branciforte for the dash back to town. There's a 60's hotrod behind me grumbling about being behind a bicycle, but that's only because they caught up at the stop sign, on these roads a car like that couldn't follow a good cyclist and through the pitch I had flown.
I turn left and the car finally growls past me onto the darkening road. Out here the asphalt is pretty beat, tirebiter holes dot the shoulder of the road and I take it easy covering the stretch, a good time to check the light and catch a drink. Back on good pavement I wind it up and jet along the winding road toward town. Muscles not quite aching, lungs not quite burning, just below the threshold of pain and moving at an exhillerating pace. Swift, strong and sure, I carve through turns and over rises, a roller coaster has nothing on this thrill ride. One last gradient I strain up, maintaining velocity, catching the top as my quads protest in full flame then rocket down towards the stop as pedestrians dash across the road ahead with flashlights. What are they doing? Must be some pre-Halloween ritual or secret society thing. It takes all kinds to make Santa Cruz, as the bumper stickers say, "Keep Santa Cruz Weird"
Getting back into town is cause for more caution than required on the backroads, there are cars here, piloted by people who are in a rush to get somewhere. Home, store, bar, club meeting, running around with flashlights, whatever their mind is on and not some dude on a bicycle they have to grudgingly share the road with, trying not to hit, even if he's going the speed limit and obeying all the traffic signals. I usually take the lightest travelled route to the coast. Soquel at this hour and with this traffic is, in my humble opinion, asking for a trip to the the emergency room, court and months, if not years of physical therapy. I opt for Seabright and wind it up, going at the same rate as traffic. People seem eager to pass me, even though there's clearly a car just ahead of me and they'll have to wait at the same yellow, now red traffic light, for the full rotation anyway. Seems a few drivers like to get bicycles behind them and out of mind.
Across Murray I'm out of busy traffic I can take it easy again. The goal is not to get home in a sweat, that's what climbing the mountain and tearing down Branciforte are about, this part is about warming down and getting home in once piece. I leisurely coast around the harbor and onto the cliff drive, it's cake from here. Only one pickup on the road and they turn off and I can enjoy the luxury of the full street, noodling along and looking at the lights along the Monterey Bay. Stars are out and surfers are pretty much all home by now, Pleasure Point has a few dog walkers and others like me taking in the twilight.
Along Opal Cliff a figure with a shopping bag staggers in the middle of the road under a streetlight. I give her most of the road while passing. She calls out, "Please, sir!" in a pleading european voice. I slow and turn back, "Which way to 41st Avenue?" A moments thought, I know the roads well and were they go, but have difficulty remembering names, even a main artery which I go along on a daily basis. "It's back that way, toward the stop and go right, it is the quickest way there." A thank you and we're both on our way again. If I had my mountain bike I'd have offered her a ride, but the road bike isn't cut out for that duty and I'm not sure I have the skill to take a passenger while clipped in.
An hour and forty minutes later I roll down the alley behind home, unclip my left shoe, pull up behind my filthy pickup, dismount and stretch. I'm looking forward to a warm shower and dinner, I hope there's some warm water left, the kids in the back apartment are swimming in the shower again. Singing Culture Club and other hits from the eighties. They seem odd to say the least, but I wish they'd take it easy on the water.
I take my kit in the shower with me, giving it a rinse or good cleaning, depending upon expected need for cleanliness and hang it in the doorways to dry. In my place upstairs looks like open air closets for cycling apparel -- hangers covered with socks, gloves, shorts, jerseys and all -- I'm not proud.
I sit down at the computer with a bowl of minestrone, pita bread and some Trader Joe's Spicy Hommus and check the latest news, what's up on slashdot then cruise over to homestarrunner and read some Strong Bad email. He's funny. Strong Bad, yeah, I should rename that mountain Mt. St. Rongbad, that'd be good. Something to smile in humor about when slogging up the more difficult grades.
It's been a good evening and I turn in early. My faithful steed parked by my bed -- I check the tires quick and they're still fine. It's a good feeling to get in a ride before the weekend. This was for myself and to keep in form. Saturday and Sunday are another matter, those are unspoken races where the strong survive. I'll be there. I'll be ready. I turn out the light and I'm asleep almost as soon as I close my eyes.
