Mt. Tamalpais 4 - Peeking from the Peak, Abject Terror, and Job Well Done

In Part IV the author discusses: topographic teasing, hawks aloft, dude-ish-ness, fear, food, and the satisfaction of a job well done....

Part IV begins just before mile 40.
Note the gun notch between miles 38 and 43.

Peak Form

I reached the first peak, near the intersection of Ridgecrest Road and South Side Road (one of those schizophrenic roads that keeps changing names...Pan Toll Road, Mountain Theater Road, Eminent Death from Gravity Road...). A direction sign pointed forward, indicating that there were 2.3 miles to the end of the road and the West Peak.

I was tired, but I had already come so far. I was so tired that the camera was put away and I have no photo of the sign. Nevertheless, I was determined to see the journey through, so I proceeded along the final leg of the climb.

The next mile or so was a struggle. It was 400+ feet of steep climbing that never let up. Then--just to mock my ambition, the road dropped before me, plummeting down into the notch between the peaks. Exhaling, sighing, cursing, muttering, and descending, I flew down the tarmac, losing more than 200 feet in the blink of an eye.

Never was a descent so awful. Not only could I see the pitch of the remaining climb to the end of the road (yep, 200+ feet to be regained), but I would need to climb back up this beast of a slope on the return trip. Crikey!

With gritted teeth and bursting lungs, I pumped my lactic-acid-infused legs and reached to top.

Wow.

A View Worth Viewing

I dismounted and walked down to some tables at an observation point. Spread before me was a new perspective on the Sausalito view of San Francisco Bay. Again, off in the distance, the horizon was framed by the Bay Bridge. The city fingered out from behind the Marin Headlands, and I could just make out the top of one of the Golden Gate's piers from a notch in the mountains.

You MUST click the photo to appreciate the view. Breathtaking.

I took out Hoot and Mousie so they could see the view as well, and they took it all in while I refueled. I called BCB. Just as she picked up, a hawk gave me a flyby. Team Ladyhawk, indeed.

 Hoot and Mousie were happy to be out of the bag;
they were mindful of the hawks, though.

Dude

The breeze was beginning to get to me, and I wanted to get moving before I stiffened up. I filled my water bottles at a fountain, and an older cyclist (who bore a faint resemblance to Robin Williams) stopped me, asking me if I was OK.

I'd heard that line somewhere before...

It wasn't the other RW, but it looked a bit like him.
Oh, and he rode a bike almost as expensive...

It seems that I had passed him prior to the lake, thus prior to my re-bandaging. I assured him that I was fine, I displayed my wrap, and I expressed what a great experience the climb had been.

He looked at me sagely. "Impressive," he said. "Your tenacity [yep, he actually talked like this] impresses. It sounds like you found a spiritual place, man."

His eyes shone with delight, a bit like a NorCal Santa Claus. I kept expecting him to call me "Dude." He didn't, but he did wax on about how beautiful the day was, and just how great it was that I came all the way from DC to ride Mt. Tam.

When I could break into his audible internal monologue, I was able to ask for (and receive) directions back to the city.

Ominously, as I pedaled away, he warned me: "Watch out on the descent, some of those turns'll get ya, if you're not careful."

My guardian angel, what a worrier...


Waterproof

I headed back to San Francisco with absolutely no sense of how long it would take me to get downtown. I forgot to ask The Dude. I knew I had about 25 miles to go and that it was mostly downhill, but my experience couldn't translate altitude and mileage into time.

I climbed back up to the east peak with far less effort than I expected (revisiting the gun notch) and headed downhill in earnest.
 
Nothing had prepared me for the experience before me. For the next eight miles I went down...fast. No photos would chronicle this leg--there was no way I was taking my hands off the bars.

Cyclists are supposed to relax during descents. We are to visualize and pick our lines through the curves, and we are to brake early, feathering the levers to finesse our speed.

Right.

Don't try this at home, folks. These guys are professional!

I held on for my life, with cramped fingers, stiffening neck and shoulders. I was so tense from fear that I couldn't even scare the crap out of myself. I was absolutely waterproof.

On one inboard switchback (on the inside of a curve, such that if I lost it I would crash into the face of the slope, as opposed to careering off a cliff) I went wide into the oncoming lane. Mercifully, I recovered in time to get back into my lane. Just before a screaming-transmission convertible passed me heading uphill.

Soon thereafter, a car got stuck behind me for a few curves. I was stayed right, but there was nowhere for me to go. There's nothing quite like screaming down a mountain at 30 mph, clawing your handlebars like a deranged lobster, with a few tons of steel, plastic, and rubber hounding you.

When it was finally safe for him to pass, he roared away from me, opening up his BMW sedan's engine...for less than a quarter mile. Yep, he got caught behind a line of traffic, slowed by the remaining corkscrew turns. I noticed this, but I couldn't gloat, what with the whole defying-death thing.

Traffic picked up noticeably when I turned onto Shoreline Highway. Endless millipedes of vehicles passed us the other way, heading upward, and a steady stream of cars flowed down the Tamalpais Valley into Almonte. Two cyclists—clearly familiar with the road—maneuvered in front of me.

Their composure mesmerized me, and I tried to emulate their example. Doing so, however, violated another one of those cycling rules. When descending, you should always pick your own line. Never follow someone directly. What works for one doesn't necessarily work for another.

I learned this on a sweeping left that nearly perched me in a tree. Flight was a real possibility. Aerodynamic as the Kestrel may have been, I don't think it was designed for liftoff.

Duly schooled, I followed my own guide for the remainder of the slope.

Re-entry

When we arrived at Route 101 in Marin City, I thanked them for showing me the way down the hill. Then, feeling remarkably strong, I tucked in and found a 19 mph groove back all the way through Sausalito. My legs protested and slowed noticeably on the final climb from Sausalito to the Golden Gate, but I had the bit between my teeth, and I was ready for the final run-in to the city.

I crossed the bridge, into the face of scores of touristas on rental bikes who had absolutely no clue how to ride in a group. The return crossing may have been the most dangerous part of the day. I had no way to predict when someone would pull out into my line while jabbering to their neighbor.

Bridge crossed, I headed downtown via the Embarcadero. I was hungry, in an "I just burned more than 5,000 calories" way.

I got into the hotel neighborhood and couldn't think of any takeout places nearby. I wanted a sandwich, or a burrito. Or a sandwich and a burrito.

On a corner I saw a guy on a fixie, and I asked him where he would go. He directed me to BrainWash, a combination café and laundromat. Maybe he thought I would stick myself into a washer.

Food...and soap?

I ordered a fish sandwich and a Brainwash salad and sat on a sofa, sweating all the while, as I waited for my food.

Waiting was brutal. I was hungry. I smelled fries. I was hungry. AND I was going to take it back to the hotel, so I had to wait...for this...

Food glorious food!

Decompression

I soft-pedaled back to the hotel with only a tenuous hold on my plastic bags. I'm sure I was a sight to behold as I walked through the lobby with a backpack, bike, two plastic bags, shoes, and helmet in tow. Never let it be said that Marriott hotels aren't accommodating.

Entering my room, I finally relaxed. At 1:56 pm I checked my mileage (70.25), almost exactly the 70 miles I had planned. I got back with enough time to eat and have a nap before I had to go to work.

Time and distance...nice job!

My hand survived the second half of the ride, what with my professional wrapping. Sure, it was dirty. But you don't think it stopped me from devouring my sandwich, do you?

I survived with all digits attached!

It's trite, but true: I was happy. I had planned it for a long time, and I was blessed with good weather and few mishaps. A little blood lost was nothing compared to the experience gained.

A happy—if dirty—boy.

I'd do it again. In fact, I'll have a hard time going back to San Francisco and NOT doing it again.

There's nothing quite like a ride to raise and renew your spirits.

To steal a thought from John Muir (appropriate, considering the proximity of the Muir Woods to Mt. Tam):

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.

Hoo Hah!

Dude!