Redwood Rain

Some days it’s a lot easier to plan getting out on the bike than it is actually doing it. There are nights I wheel my bike out from the basement and place it strategically against the kitchen table with all my gear around it. I put in my phone calendar Ride with an alarm wake-up of 6:30. And yet curiously, 6:30 comes and goes the next morning and I’m still in bed. And when I finally get up to press the button on my Mr. Coffee, there’s Matilda, still leaning happily against the kitchen table. Funny how that happens.

And then there are the rides I anticipate for days. I’m driving around Marin on Thursday and Friday between patients and I keep seeing bikers in their sleek kits and feeling envious as they ride by my car. How come I’m driving round seeing dying folks while you are powering along Lucas Valley Road towards Big Rock? Saturday night I put the bike out and at 6 on Sunday I’m up, making coffee, and getting my kit on. Sunglasses, bike gloves, sunblock, snacks, water...

Today was such a day. I put the call out Tuesday to all my riding buddies that I was planning to do the Pine Mountain/Stinson/Bolinas-Fairfax loop. It’s only about 40 miles but a lot of steep climbing. Cory was the only one who could make it, and she was going to peel off at Ridgecrest to Bolinas to see some friends. That left me doing more than half the ride alone. Ok, so. The mix of riding with a buddy and alone was perfect for me.

Cory met me near my home at 8 on Sunday and we set off up Pine Mountain. We had so much to catch up on that the ride up the two initial hills went by without us even noticing and all too soon we were at Ridgecrest where we hugged goodbye and she headed off down to Bolinas.

This was where the ride got really interesting for me. We had been riding in increasing fog up Tam, but at Ridgecrest it was the kind of fog that actively rains down on you. The road was wet and slick and as I set off along the Seven Sisters ridge, the fog was intense. It’s often described as a blanket, but this was more like a thick veil. It was blowing, and the road I knew had such stunning views down the mountain on both sides was completely socked in. After a few yards, I realized that I was in this surreal, white, blowing, enclosed world with visibility reduced to about thirty feet ahead. I started to laugh - what a metaphor for life! Only knowing what lay thirty feet ahead...it made such a farce of all the planning, the To Do lists, the stress of wondering how to pay for Jessie’s college...

I started to ride with a new, acutely heightened awareness of just the thirty feet around me. Occasionally, cars loomed out of the fog, other riders loomed, I couldn’t even make out their faces. There was nobody going my direction. On top of the mountain, I rode through the mini rain showers that redwood trees create. Redwoods gather the surrounding fog so it collects on their needles as moisture. When it’s too heavy, it falls off as rain. So you ride along dry road and then under a redwood it’s seriously raining. I stood under some of the trees and let them rain down on me. It was fragrant, fresh, and I thought about all the acid and toxic rain in the world and how clean this was. It was cold up there, but I didn’t care. On the long, fogbound stretches of road I stood up in the saddle, laughed out loud, even gave the odd whoop. I love my life! The redwoods didn’t care, they just shook off their rain showers and went on coolly converting carbon dioxide to oxygen, in spite of the moron on the bike.

The ride down to Stinson Beach was cold and exhilarating, a long downhill with many switchbacks. Close to town, the vegetation gets sort of tropical, big banana leaves, and the fog cleared enough to afford views of the lengthy stretch of Stinson. I was anticipating my hot coffee at the French guy’s stand outside the Stinson Beach Deli. He did not disappoint. My hands were almost too numb to pay him, but his coffee coursed through my entire body and thawed me out just nicely for the five miles south along Highway One, hugging the Bolinas Lagoon with a very narrow shoulder and many passing trucks before I turned with relief onto the mostly deserted Bourne Trail fire road.

It’s almost an hour climb with very little respite till you hit the Ridgecrest/Fairfax-Bolinas junction. It was extremely quiet, I only encountered three other riders, and I had to practice my habit of looking only at the twenty feet ahead of me in case I started to think of all that I still had to climb. I stopped a couple of times and looked down at the Bolinas Lagoon far below. Look how far I’ve climbed! Keep going. Like Dory in Finding Nemo, keep on swimming, just keep swimming...

Eventually, I hit the Ridgecrest junction. It was actively raining up there still, cold and blowing. The microclimates on Tam have to be experienced to be believed. I knew that by the time I hit the Alpine Lake dam, just a 10-minute ride downhill, it would be sunny and hot. 

The ride down to the dam is what’s known as a technical downhill. Basically, if you don’t brake, you’re screwed. And you have to know when to brake, and brake often. And you have to avoid braking too hard, so as not to fishtail on the slick road. And you have to hog the center of the road and force motorists to follow behind you, because trying to hug the right side to allow cars to pass is just too dangerous, too much debris, too many unknowns at such a speed. This tends to be unpopular with motorists who have never ridden the mountain on a road bike, despite the fact that bikers are generally doing 25-30mph, very little slower than any car could safely drive that road. I got yelled at today by a motorist. Try to ride on the right. Try it yourself, buddy, then yell at me.

The dam is my point of feeling like I’m getting close to home, like I’ve definitely broken the back of the ride. Despite the nearly five hours of riding behind me, I got my usual surge of energy on the road back up Pine Mountain. It’s a fairly easy uphill, and I know its every twist and turn intimately now. There’s a wonderful ease to riding a road you really know. There’s that little spritz of water from the horse trough that always makes me smile as it cools my legs before one of the bigger climbs. There’s the section of road with the one lane and the stop signs where I never have to stop because there are never any cars. There’s the last bit of hill before the gate comes into view that tells me I’m at Azalea Hill, the crest of Pine Mountain, and it’s all glorious downhill from here, with stunning views of the East Bay, till I hit Deer Park Villa at the bottom of the hill and the 2-minute coast to my house.

It’s hard to describe the euphoria of reaching my gate, clipping out, and wheeling my bike in after such a long ride. Everything in my body is saying I did it! I can barely stow my bike before getting in the shower, and the hot water just magnifies the endorphin high of the ride. Redwood rain is just wonderful, but I have to say a hot shower after a long ride beats it any day...

Let’s Meetup, Shall We?

Last night I joined an amateur astronomy meetup to go hear a lecture on Mt. Tam about the origins of the universe and why we are all moving so rapidly away from one another and was it something we said. The lecture was to be followed by a stargazing opportunity through lots of giant telescopes in the Rock Springs Parking lot. I thought stargazing sounded kind of romantic. 

I drove up there at sunset. It happens to be one of my favorite bike rides, up Mt. Tam from my front door, and I was feeling very good indeed as I drove. I had ridden the route in the early morning and was remembering the ride and listening to some favorite music as i took the curves maybe a little too fast and yes, I was sort of fantasizing that I might amazingly be about to meet the next love of my life at an astronomy meetup. He would be endearingly geeky, maybe a little overweight, hugely smart in a physics astronomy brilliant sort of way, and we might bond over the fact that E=MC squared, or that it’s turtles all the way down. Or maybe he would share his blanket with me, because I had forgotten to bring a blanket. Or water. Or snacks. Or really anything that thinking folks would bring to a late night astronomy meetup at the top of Mt. Tam. But I reckoned that I had enthusiasm going for me, and that was at least something.

The sun was setting very huge and red over the ocean as I drove along the Seven Sisters ridge, and there were tons of folks out on the mountainside on their blankets with their water and snacks, watching the sunset. Couples, mostly, I noticed. But some random groups of people and that encouraged me, because I was about to be a part of a random group of people (16, I had read on the Meetup site) all just gathering on the mountaintop to hear some lecture about the origins of the universe and then huddle intimately around telescopes in the Rock Springs Parking Lot and stargaze.

I thought stargaze had a sort of romantic ring to it. But no agenda really. I was just there to learn about the universe and the moving away from one another thing.

I finally made it to Rock Springs. Now I had signed up online for this meetup, and had even been so together as to print out the parking pass, which we were instructed to display on our dashboard so as to allow us to park at Rock Springs Parking Lot. Nevertheless, when I arrived there, it looked really full, and there was a very official looking small type of woman in one of those vests with the shiny stuff on it and she was waving at me in a negative sort of way. You can’t park here, she said loudly and officially, as I rolled up to her. This is for the SFAA event. You have to go to the upper parking lot.

Here is what I wanted to say to her: Who are you, exactly? And what is SFAA? I signed up for this event! I have a parking pass on my dashboard to allow me to park here! What is your job title, and with what spurious authorization are you disallowing me from parking here? 

Here is what I said to her: Oh, okay.

I drove up the road towards where she was gesturing. About a quarter mile up, there was a small parking lot. Cars were parked all around the perimeter, but there was a big open space in the middle. There were no markings, but someone had just parked there in a generally parking lot type of way, so I parked right beside them. I was just noticing folks heading down a trail that looked like it might lead to the lecture arena, and feeling pretty good about having snagged parking, when the small woman in the shiny jacket just sort of appeared in front of my car and started yelling you guys can’t park here! You can’t park here!

It may seem tediously repetitive at this point, but again, I let her bully me yet further up the mountain to where there was a muddy gravel parking lot with tons of spaces. Then I walked the quarter mile back down the mountain, by which time I was fifteen minutes late for the lecture. 

At this point, it was getting dark and I was really tired, having spent most of the afternoon at a bachelor party in Sonoma wineries, drinking many tiny tastes of multiple types of wine that all added up to only two glasses, but still, it had been very hot. Clearly another story. The point is, I joined the lecture well into it, so I completely missed the thesis (if there was one), plus there were many more than sixteen people there, and I realized that SFAA actually stood for San Francisco Amateur Astronomy, which I supposed belatedly was what my Meetup was part of. 

The sad truth of it? I was just one of about two hundred folk all sitting on the side of a mountain in the gathering dark hearing from some nerdy astronomer guy how gravity was really responsible for everything, everywhere. Three slides in, I was having to prop up my chin with both hands. I did hear him mention that billions of years in the future, we’ll all be so far apart that the night sky will be very boring indeed. However, I was comforted by his next assertion that by that time Earth will have been incinerated by the sun. So we don’t have to worry about the night sky being dark and gloomily devoid of stars after all. Hooray!

By the end of the lecture, I was only too glad to stumble off into the darkness and try to find my car. The thought of trying to stay awake through the romantic telescope stargazing portion of the evening was just too much.

So my current reading material happens to be a memoir by the former Marin County Coroner, Ken Holmes (remember: I am a hospice nurse). It’s a grisly sort of book entitled “The Education of a Coroner,” and in it, Ken devotes an entire chapter to the so-called Trailside Killer, who raped and killed a bunch of women on Mount Tam in the 1970s. As I was reading it, I remember thinking what woman would be so stupid as to go hiking alone on Mt. Tam? And yet here I was, wandering alone up a deserted road on the mountain IN THE DARK with only a vague idea of where my car was. Plenty of crackling in the bushes. Deer. Squirrels, probably. Are squirrels nocturnal? Does anyone know I’m up here, at a meetup, supposedly meeting the next love of my life? Will they even find my body?

I located my car, and headed gratefully back down towards the Rock Springs parking lot, intending to slope quietly by all the romantic stargazers huddled round their telescopes and drive at high speed back to Fairfax and my bed, which was really calling me at this point. Imagine my surprise and delight when my way was barred by the same little woman in the shiny jacket! She was once again, with tedious predictability, waving me away from my intended route. You can’t go that way, she called out officially. The road closed at sunset. You have to go down the mountain.

I’ll cut this short for you. Down the mountain the way I had come=40 minutes. Down the mountain the way she was making me go=90 minutes. Try to imagine the names I called her as I drove down Mt. Tam via the Pantoll, Stinson Beach, Olema, and all the way through the San Geronimo Valley to Fairfax. Really, it wasn’t her fault. And yet I called her all those names. Plus it was foggy and blowing, as it does on the coast in summer, and I was seriously exhausted. Still, I reasoned, that was a meetup, right? I mean, I could have met the next love of my life. Maybe next time.

Duplicate Post

Blogpost randomly reposted an old entry of mine from February 2017 this morning, titled “So I’m a Hospice Nurse and It’s All About Death.” Please ignore, this was an error.

Sofa. Haagen Daaz. Rolling out...wait, what?!

I worked 10 hours straight today. No breaks. When I finished, after a tedious couple hours of charting, I really wanted nothing more than to curl up on my couch with a pint of Haagen Daaz and feel sorry for myself.

But I couldn’t help thinking about a patient I saw today who had been unable to get out of bed for the first time. Could I really be feeling sorry for myself? Before I could talk myself out of it, I rolled out my bike, put on the gear, and clipped in at the top of my road. I like to think I was doing it for her, but actually it quickly became clear I was doing it for me. How did she benefit? The joy was all mine. As soon as I coasted down Frustuck towards Bolinas, I knew it had been a good idea. For one thing, I wasn’t curled up in a big pool of self pity on the couch. For another, I had figured out how to attach the phone mount I bought a few weeks ago to my handlebars, which meant that for the first time ever, since starting to ride last October, I was riding with music. This is BIG.

Music is the soundtrack to my life. I have a playlist called Lookie Here (cannot explain) that has 200+ songs. I play it over and over. That’s really all I have played for the last year or more. Yes, it’s a little obsessive, though I keep adding to it so I rationalize it’s not really all that obsessive. But I figured out ages ago that it’s really okay to listen to the same two hundred songs all the time. Because at least I’m not blowing up bridges or jumping from them. Music gets me over the humps. It turns around the day. I can be starting out morose and blue, a certain song comes on and instantly I’m smiling idiotically and loving my life. 

Every song is a nest of memories. As I started up Pine Mountain, shuffle played Nathaniel Rateliff’s “Tearing At The Seams.” This was a song I listened to, ritualistically, every single time I drove to a certain patient’s house. She lived down a beautiful shady, tree-lined street very close to where I live. I would turn onto the street and line up Tearing At The Seams. It sort of strengthened me for the visit ahead. She was young, and dying of ALS. When that song comes on, I still feel the precise shades of sadness and grief that her death stirred up.

As I summited Pine Mountain at the Deer Valley golf course, I saw the pale nine-tenths moon that would accompany me on my ride. At almost every turn, it was there, and as the light faded, it just got brighter. Funny how the moon does that. 

On the downhills, the wind was loud in my ears and I couldn’t hear my music so well. On the climbs, I could hear it perfectly. So on tonight’s ride, I suddenly got a new appreciation for climbing uphill. Usually I climb so I can spin down. Tonight I appreciated the richness of riding uphill: not just because I could hear my music really well, but because it is no longer a significant strain on my body to ride up hills. I mean, it’s not fun exactly, but it doesn’t hurt. And I had Gregory Alan Isakov and Joe Purdy to make it hurt even less. So I realized tonight that I actually enjoy riding up hills. Who knew that would happen?!

By the time I was riding back down Pine Mountain on the last stretch into Fairfax, the sunset was in full flow. It’s a subtly active process, sunset. The sky changes at every turn, the gold washing across the very tops of the hills get richer, then the pinks start, and deepen, and everything turns diffuse and sort of hazy, and gets richer and darker and more beautiful every moment. I kept turning corners and sucking my breath in because it had got even more stunning and I couldn’t hope to capture it with my phone. Just with my memory and these few words. On the downhills, I would lean down into the bike so I could cut the wind noise and hear my music and also feel closer to the road, to the flow of the ride. Very few cars tonight. Moon all to myself. Mad sunset over the Bay Area. Maybe my patient will have a better day tomorrow and be able to get out of bed. And if not, I’ll roll out again in her honor. And again. And again.

Surf’s Up...in Milwaukee

I think the thing I love most about travelling, though it’s hard to pick from the long list, is being en route. People grumble about airline travel, the lines, the waiting, the bad food. I get happy when I smell jet fuel from the 101. It thrills me to be on layover at strange airports, people watching and wondering how everyone lives in this place and what they do.

But I have to say that visiting an old friend from Ireland is the icing on the travel cake. Opinions differ as to how long it is since we have seen each other. Andrew swears we met for at least one pint on South Anne Street in Dublin either 7, 9, or 13 years ago. I have no memory of the occasion and think it’s about 25 years. Either way, we can all agree that Lauren and I last saw each other on the Haight in September 2000 when I was about six minutes pregnant with Jessie. And a further point of agreement is that it’s brilliant I have come to Milwaukee to spend a few days in their excellent company some 7, 9, 13, 25, or 18 years later.

Andrew, suffice it to say, has not changed one bit since we were 19-year-old undergraduates in Trinity College Dublin back when the Temple Bar was still a collection of grimy warehouses and he worked for 2 days as a waiter in the Bad Ass Cafe. His comment on the experience: “They basically hired people on a daily basis because the pay was so low and the conditions so shitty that at the end of the day you’d be out of there.” I had a better time serving chips and pulling pints in the Buttery Bar, the dank cellar pub under Trinity’s dining hall: at the end of my shift I could just come out from behind the bar and join my friends for a couple of quick Guinness before closing time.

Andrew and Lauren live in a sweet yellow Milwaukee house in the leafy suburb of Shorewood with their two daughters and I’m getting a 4-day peek into their lives. They keep me in their basement, a dark and freezing experience as the A/C has to be on full blast down here since it’s 107 degrees the day I arrive and really hot at the top of the house. My body thinks I’m hibernating in a cave and I sleep better than I have for months. At the ice-cream social a neighbor throws on Sunday afternoon across the road, everyone keeps asking me which house on the block I live in. Oh I don’t live here, I say, I heard there was ice-cream so I stopped by. Nobody wants to be the first to get ice-cream, so I start spooning it out and soon the little gang of kids are lining up. I feel like I live here now.

Andrew is a Professor of English Literature at UWM, a job he was born to do. In his spare time, he gives tours of the socialist and cultural history of Milwaukee, plays darts under the Tricolor he hung in the local Legion bar, and hosts visiting authors and artists that he wangles faculty funds to invite. The last one was the chap who discovered Caravaggio’s lost The Taking of Christ in a Dublin Jesuit dining room. He authenticated it by taking a needle biopsy of the paint and travelling to Italy to verify the materials from which the pigments were made.

We sit in their living room and swap stories of all our college friends.  (“He has some girlfriend in the West of Ireland.” [Long pause.] “I think she’s real?”) Then we try to fill in all the missing years: we have a lot to cover: how he met Lauren, their marriage; my two; all the kids; Lauren’s three novels and the fourth she is feverishly not writing much of; my books and the day job as a hospice nurse that actually pays the bills. I watch how they work as a couple, the comfort of it.
“Wait, Lauren? If you happen to be swinging by, could you come in here?”
“What, tea?”

Andrew takes me on a tour of the city, and treats me to a nonstop history of the place, from its 1848 German founding through the waves of immigration and the Wards with their distinct characters. You can see where the Hispanic taco joints are layered over the old German funiture stores and how the streets of the Irish neighborhood were cut in half to make room for the highway. We stop to pay respects where 7 workers were shot at the Bayview Massacre in May 1886 that led to the 40-hour work week we take for granted now.

Lauren’s under deadline and worried because her book is short. I’ve read the first three: I know she’s a brilliant writer and this book will be even better, but I also know what it feels like to be writing the thing and have outsiders tell me it will all be fine. Shut up! You want to say. You have no idea what you’re talking about. This one sucks and will never sell and I’ll end up feeding my children from dumpsters.

While they’re working, I take a walk around Shorewood. Down on E. Oakland, a surf shop, possibly the last thing I expected to find in Milwaukee. I’ve swum twice now in Lake Michigan from the sedate Atwater Beach and it’s about as flat as the Mediterranean. Wondering how brisk business is, but admiring the optimism.

I’ve barely spent any time in the Midwest, so the impressions come crowding in: humidity like a warm blanket, fireflies, wide leafy streets, lush green gardens. The sense of a good life in a place that isn’t overrun with traffic and skyrocketing property prices. Real basements. And oh yeah, a winter that goes from October to April. With snow. Loving that I came in June. And because I’m a sucker for takeoff and the 33,000-foot view, loving the thought of the journey home and touchdown at SFO.

Alice...

There was Alice In Wonderland, and then there was Alice Through the Looking Glass. Everything experienced backwards, upside down, back to front. Confusion. Struggle.

It sometimes seems like meeting someone, falling in love, getting married is like Wonderland. And divorce: it’s a bit like the Looking Glass. Everything is backwards. You are unpicking what you created. Life is suddenly upside down. Confusion. Plenty of struggle.

When you get together with someone, there are so many firsts. First date, first kiss, first time making love. And through the looking glass, there are firsts too. First night alone. First mail at your new address. First anniversary of leaving.

Some of the firsts on both sides of the looking glass are more subtle, but they can be more privately meaningful. First time saying “we.” First time saying “boyfriend.” First time buying something at the grocery store that your new love eats but you don’t.

Tonight I had a first that I celebrated quietly. It would not show up on any timeline, but it was significant to me. After 20 months, first time dropping my daughter over to her dad’s and driving away from my old house without a feeling of wrenching sadness; without tears. Since she started driving a year ago, I haven’t had to go back there much. In the beginning, it was a lot harder. But last night, I drove down the hill from the house I lived in for 17 years, and I heard myself saying aloud “don’t cry, don’t cry.” Then I realized I actually didn’t want to cry. I was listening to a favorite song, and I sang it happily as I drove down Meadow Way and out of my old neighborhood in the dark of a random Saturday evening.

I had taken my daughter to the market on the way to her dad’s: she was drooping and exhausted, having sat her SAT this morning and clearly not eaten enough all day. I bought her hot chicken and dolmas and blueberries and she ate in the car and perked up visibly. She was happy to be going to her dad’s. I was happy she was going to her dad’s, and had that filled-up mom feeling of having fed my child, nurtured her. She could have driven her own car, but I noticed in time that what she really needed was mom to drive her. I offered to pick her up tomorrow morning. Wonderland. And as I drove home to my own place, it felt a little like driving through the looking glass. The familiar San Geronimo Valley was no longer my home. Driving to a new home. Strange: bizarre even. But I was smiling like a cheshire cat.

Jellybeans on the East Peak

It’s been a week since I waited expectantly with all 124 of my Climate Ride cohorts at the northwestern entrance to the Golden Gate. We were waiting for the bridge patrol guy to open the west side to bikes. I don’t think he’d had such a splendid reaction to this simple act before. He looked very pleased with himself as we cheered and hollered and streamed onto the bridge in a very long single file Climate Ride snake that made its way across the glorious span, shiny rust color that it was in the Spring afternoon sunlight, and down from the southwestern side into the Presidio. As we snaked along into Crissy Fields, and the pedestrians and tourists stopped to stare at this lengthy train of cyclists all wearing the same jerseys, I heard a bystander, clearly impressed, say oh, it’s the Climate Ride! That moment was, for me, one of the happiest of the ride.

We had ridden that morning from our Olema campsite south along Highway One through the eucalyptus grove I love just outside Bolinas, and along the Bolinas lagoon to Stinson, where we stopped for snacks and water. It was cool and cloudy, but that was good, because once we headed out from Stinson Beach, we knew we had the daunting climb up Mt. Tam and you don’t want to do that in blazing sun. We needn’t have worried. Once we climbed a few hundred feet above the beach, we were in the fog. I took a last good look at the view - Stinson and across the lagoon to Bolinas - and then headed into the chilly mist.

The mountain was quiet that afternoon. There were few tourists because of the shroud. Few cars as we climbed endlessly up to the Pantoll and the saddle point at which we could decide whether to head on down the other side into Mill Valley or take a (surely ill-advised) four mile steep climb to the East Peak. There could be no spectacular view to reward us. That morning, having achieved my century and climbed a series of mad hills in the course of the ride, I felt there was no way I was going to do that crazy East Peak thing. By the time I reached the saddle, I knew there was no way I wasn’t doing it. For one thing, when would I ever do it again? Certainly not on my own. Doubtful any training ride would be this ambitious. But mostly, I just yearned for the challenge. The Climate Ride bug had bitten. The East Peak was there. How could I not ride up to it?!

Having decided to brave the Peak, there was no way I was letting my friend Ken miss out on it. Ken had no intention of adding four miles of arduous climbing and four miles of freezing descent to an already taxing day. But I wouldn’t stop nagging him. In fact, I shamed him into doing it. It was done out of love, really. Plus a desire to shame him into doing it. And it worked! He complained a lot of the way up, but in a good natured Ken sort of complainy way. A way that made me laugh, which tired me out even more. Plus there was that horrible moment when I was riding alone for a half mile and suddenly there was a steep downhill so I thought I must have missed a turn somewhere and got lost. I stopped by the side of the eerily quiet road, where are all the others? How could I have missed the peak? Where the hell am I? Lost on Tam!? What an idiot! I was just google-mapping my location when Ken rode round the corner. Finally! I berated him. I’ve been WAITING for you! Didn’t fool him for a moment.

We made the peak. Of course, there were ride leaders there to cheer and clap, plus a giant plastic tub of jellybeans that I ate an undisclosed number of handfuls of. I just rode a gajillion miles up a mountain. I can have a few (hundred) jellybeans. We took pictures and looked about at the impenetrable blanket of fog on all sides. We did it! We rode up Tam! Ho hum. Let’s ride down.

The descent was an extremely long steep downhill and utterly freezing. I thought my body had solidified into permanent bicyclist position. I’d never walk upright again. Then we arrived in the noisy Thursday afternoon normalcy of Mill Valley, which was also somehow surreally busy and unnormal. Normal had become long stretches of quiet country roads. Normal was pristine California coastline dotted with sleepy villages and the odd cluster of impassive roadside cows. This was town. It was loud. It was treacherous, with cars and pedestrians and dogs. It was a shock to my system, and I began to long for the ride not to be over. That feeling persisted through the last few hours: lunch at the Bay Model, the group photo at Cavallo Point, and the ride across the Gate.

In fact, despite the euphoria of finishing, the high of having ridden all 320 of those hard-earned miles, and the joy and pride I felt for days that I had done this lunatic thing, the feeling is still with me...So when can I do another one?!