Why Do We Do the Crazy?

Why do we climb mountains? I used to wonder why anyone in their right mind would risk death to summit Everest. Because it’s there, seemed like a lameass reason to hand your life over to an avalanche or hypoxia. And now I ride a road bike on the narrow stretches of West Marin two-lanes, and frankly risk traumatic brain injury every time I speed down a hill, and I have to ask myself the same thing.

The question was loud in my mind last Saturday when I did my customary 90-minute ride to the Alpine Dam, and then decided to continue up Tam to Ridgecrest. This is a half-hour slog up a 2-mile hill without respite. Each switchback seems like it would have to be the last, but guess what, only the very top one is.

At the bottom of the hill, I was thinking about how very far away that lovely Ridgecrest road sign was. Then I realized that to embark on the hill at all, I had to put that thought firmly out of my mind, and dwell instead on the fact that the Seven Sisters views and rolling hills were waiting for me up there. But I also noticed that I wanted to ride up the hill for the riding up of it, and not just the reward at the top. The feeling of accomplishment is always a blast, and the slog up is always a slog, but I’m starting to appreciate slog for its own merits.

There had been a big wind the day before and the redwoods had shed their dry needle layer. The roadsides were carpeted with dusty brown, fragrant with sun and heat. The silence among the giants was peaceful. A handful of cars, no other riders. I felt that I had the mountain to myself and it gave me a solid sense of connection to a place I have come to know and love so well.

But there is also a first time for every hill, and that makes me wonder all over again: why do humans do this crazy stuff?

I’ve been wanting to ride the Coleman Valley Road in Sonoma for a long time. It’s an 11-mile stretch of serious climb out of Occidental to the coast, and it seems like a good next step for me, longer and steeper than anything I have been doing. It’s also one of the most stunningly gorgeous roads in the county. If I had a list of goal rides, it would be in bold with stars.

Yesterday I loaded the bike on the car and drove the hour to Tomales. I had researched various loop rides I could do that involved Coleman. Starting at Tomales would give me a 46-mile loop with the climb right in the middle. I checked my gear carefully: enough food, water, and my phone fully charged so I could consult Google Maps if I got lost. Ha! Me?

What I failed to take into account - because I am a moron - was the fact that I had just been sick. In fact, I was still a bit sick. It is a general failing of healthcare workers to admit to being ill themselves and I am one of the worst offenders. I had stayed in bed all the day before only because I was physically unable to get up. I was still too sick to go to work and risk compromising my fragile patients. But I was well enough, I reasoned, to shake the cobwebs off with a glorious ride.

I parked in Tomales and set off. Two hundred yards down the road, my legs were already feeling weirdly weak. Maybe start in Valley Ford? Or Freestone? I looped back, loaded the bike, and drove to Freestone. Much more sensible. How sensible I am. Freestone also boasts the world’s most amazing scones in its Wildflour bakery. Generally, a giant scone would be a gift that a biker would reward themselves with after a long ride, but I was there, it was lunchtime, I was hungry. I chose a pear/lemon/chocolate thing the size of a small island and when the salesgirl said brightly Enjoy the rest of your ride!  I felt it unnecessary to mention that my bike was still on the Thule.

Out of Freestone, the road to Occidental is a narrow winding picturesque few miles and, I remembered, features a photogenic red barn. Yesterday, the road seemed a lot wider and busier and as the trucks and F150s roared by me, I kept waiting for the barn. Had somebody taken it down? A better explanation presented itself when I spotted the first houses of Occidental and then the sign: Welcome to Sebastopol!

Instead of the sweet rural Bohemian Road north, I had taken Bodega Highway east. A 4.5-mile mistake. Moreover, by the time I made it the 4.5 miles back to my car, as any non-moron could have predicted, I was completely tapped out. 

So I loaded the bike back on the Thule, changed out of my kit, and drove the Bohemian to Occidental and up Coleman. I played excellent music and I have to say I was hugely grateful to be driving and not riding the mammoth hill. At the top, you see all the way west to the coastal ribbon of Highway One and the gleaming Pacific, and south to the Sugarloaf mountain and Salmon Creek. Another of those top of the world experiences.

I drove through the seaside town of Bodega Bay with its bright fluttering Candy and Kites store, and as the Pacific Coast Highway jogged inland at Doran Beach and wound its way on to Valley Ford, I noticed what a very very long way I would have had to ride had I stuck to my original idiotic plan. By Tomales I was worn out even from driving and still had an hour to get home. But the sunshine was eternal and spotless, and the views magnificent.

And Coleman Valley Road will still be there this Sunday and the next and the next. Plus now I know which way to turn when I leave the Wildflour bakery after my mid-ride scone!