2014 Patapsco 100 Race Report

I didn't ride 100 miles.

Sweet mother-of-all-that-is-holy, I cannot imagine riding that 100 miles.

My fat bike 33-miler was plenty...

- - -

The Patapsco 100 event is a mountain bike race set in the river valley of Maryland's Patapsco State Park. It features, well, everything. There are steep climbs, creek and river crossings, winding downhills, flowing singletrack, rock gardens, hilly meadows, and every sort of hiking trail you can imagine. And stairs.

Sounds lovely.

Let's revisit a few of those "features."

It has steep climbs...like The Hell of the North. That's both a name and a description. It's a hill so steep that the only way a mortal can climb it is to fall forward, hoping your feet will catch you before you faceplant.

Seriously.

And—since this is a bicycle race—you need to bring your bike with you, wheeling it up the cliff.

Uh-huh.

It's a hill so steep that you come to a dead, I-don't-think-I-can-get-going-again stop if your tire bounces off a rock. So, pick your line wisely. While falling forward. Or fall backward, ignominiously.

Bastards.


It has river crossings...twice across the Patapsco, waist and chest deep in the summer flow.

Probably not anything new for the experienced mountain bikers out there. But, I'm a newbie.

I'm on a fat bike. YOU schlep a 30+ pound behemoth across a river. Twice.

Bastards.


Oh, and once you've forded one of those crossings, you get to haul yourself and your bike up several flights of Mayan-ruin stone stairs. Soaking slickly wet. And then you have the privilege of granny-gearing it up the remainder of the switchbacking hill.

Bastard-Bastards.


It has flowing singletrack...in perfect, tacky condition after a week's kind weather. Some of the trails are new—as in just-cut-through-the-forest-for-this-event new. Those trails are 18 inches wide. Sweet!

Those trails also have several hairpin turns. Exciting!

Those hairpin turns feature complete exposure on the outside of the curve...you go over, and you drop. Like a brick. In the alps. Like a big fat-bike brick falling through alpine air. In some cases, onto railroad tracks. Huzzah!

Bastards.


Patapsco 100 is a real race.

And, yes, a single 33-mile loop was plenty for this chemo-recovering boy.

The Morning

I was up exactly one minute before my 0400 alarm. It was one of those nights. You know the ones. It was one of those stirring and surfacing non-sleep nights, anxiety-driven, worried sweaty about sleeping through your alarm.

It was a beautiful heart of the sunrise.

Breakfast, last-minute checklist, out, drive to the event. I was awake, alive, and buzzing.

No need of caffeine; this was a big day.

The music was throbbing, the sunrise was a gift from the gods. The miles rolled past. I arrived.

Magnificent energy abounds before a race. If you've done it, you know it; if you know it, you need it; when you need it, it's your addiction.

Lord, how I'd missed it.

I did a lot of things and chatted to a lot of people and pooped...thrice—thank heavens for real toilets. Magnificent energy abounds before a race. Offtimes it's centered just south of your stomach...

The butterflies collided inside my chest; breathing was quick and shallow. I was nervous energy—personified.

But I was the good energy, the happy energy, the all-I-care-about-is-finishing energy, the no-pressure energy that comes from surviving. The energy that comes from joy.

Earlier races started. Better riders rode. We queued up for our launch, and we rolled—uphill to start. Perfect. It tempered the adrenalized frenzy of the start, forcing it to mellow. I watched a large group pull away; a gap appeared. Out loud, I started singing Fool's Gold. Yep, I'm that guy.

The gold road's sure a long road. Winds on through the hills for fifteen days.

Fat bike 33 would feel like fifteen days.

The Race Begins

This race was about pinning on a number. It was a milestone.

Months of recovery; starts and stops; fits and stops; a shitload of stops led to my start.

I began the race overweight. While down from my January maximum of 225; I weighed 190—still 15 pounds above my cyclocross weight last August.

I began the race out-of-shape. The longest I had ridden this calendar year was a three-hour road ride that featured a 30-odd minute snack break. Thanks to the World Cup, I had a bunch of two-hour trainer sessions in my legs. The stuff of legend, this is not. Merckx, I ain't.

I began the race with neuropathy in my feet and hands. In May I broke two toes in an event. After the initial pain, I didn't feel them at all. Ever. So, I knew that there would be times when I would feel neither feet nor hands. I knew I wouldn't know when it would happen, but I hoped...oh, hell, I don't know what I hoped. You just do what you need to do to do what you need to do.

I began the race with the constant reminder that cancer resides within me. It's not active, thankfully. But the tumor scars are there, affecting me every day. The seeds are planted for its return...again. I'll write more on that in my next post. For now, leave it at this: every time I press a pedal with real power, I feel the scar deep within my pelvis. It's there. It's real. It hurts. It reminds.

I began the race...

Yes. Yes, I did.

The Race Rolls On

I'm a big boy on a big bike. I descend like a dervish. I climb like a bloated slug. I cruise like a train—a slow-moving diesel pulling 100 cars of pure West Virginia coal.

Big boy rides big bike makes big splash.

I have no skills. I re-learned how to bunny-hop in April. I started getting comfortable with rock gardens in June. It's July. I'm a novice. But I ride a fat bike—the most forgiving, blessed, wonderful bicycle I can imagine. I don't know that I shouldn't do many of the things that I do; so I do them, and I don't fret. Until afterwards, when I realize that I just did something I had no business doing. Then I panic. And giggle.

I giggle a lot.

Except when I curse, punchily piercing the air with choice expletives. Nothing creative, mind you. The simple stuff does suffice. It's all in the delivery...

Good things happened. I passed a few people.

Bad things happened. I hopped a good-sized log, cleanly, and then kissed a tree.

Now, why anyone would place a tree in the middle of a forest, I have no idea. It was damned inconsiderate of them, and I was pissed! It ruined my flow! And my handlebars. And my headset. And me!

Ten minutes and a score of riders later, I re-started, with my headset almost repaired and my bars almost straight and my shoulder almost intact.

But I didn't go to the hospital...I kept on riding...

I failed, a lot. I walked, a ton. I suffered, deeply.

But suffering is different, now...

Suffering has changed.

When you have an injury, or you're in the hospital, and they want to assess your pain, they always ask you: "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you've ever experienced, and one being no pain at all, how would you rate your pain?"

With respect to you, honest reader, there are very few of you out there who have experienced my "10." I don't mean to sound dismissive—I completely respect other peoples' experiences (and I know damned well that others have experienced far worse)—but I can write with conviction that I know pain. I've emerged early from surgery—and I remember it. I've felt my sternum try to explode—and I survived it.

I spent days like this.

I've been through chemo cycles that destroyed me. I was so sick, so exhausted that the effort to roll over was more than I could bear. So I didn't move...for hours...and the only energy I spent was that which I needed to breathe...and to weep.

I've suffered on a bicycle. But let's be honest, it's only riding a bicycle.

So, when I write "I suffered, deeply", it means something more.

I went places.

Veteran readers of this blog will know what I mean. I have a good, honest relationship with my inner voices. When I ride, they talk, and I listen, and we argue, and I learn.

I thought a lot about my doctors. I thought more about my nurses—those blessed angels on Bles 2 at Georgetown. I thought about my fellow patients. I thought about a friend who is coming to the end of his cancer battle. I thought about by Little Angels, my sweet daughters. I thought about all the friends who got me from that place without a postcard, enabling me to do what I was doing. People and places and voices and so much passed through my head.

And they inspired me.

There were hills I climbed because they were with me—hills I otherwise would never have tried. There were times I pushed through because they pushed me. It would hurt more to quit, disappointing them, than it would hurt to continue.

Yet, no one was there. No one could see. And few even knew what I was doing. But, they were with me—all day long. 

In the darkest places, I thought about those closest to me who had hurt me most. They, too, were with me...all day long. But when I started to feel them approach—when they started to drag me down—I sent them away. And I felt stronger for it. I had no room for doubt. Belief and hope were what mattered, so I seized the memories of those who supported me, drew them close, and let them carry me all day.

- - -

The day wore on, the miles passed, hills were climbed, slopes descended, rivers and creeks crossed, I rambled on...

I passed through the support stops, drinking in the love and positivity. Friends were there, cheering me on. I felt like a hero.

And then things went...wrong. Around mile 26 I started hurting—really hurting. I stopped. I rode. I stopped again. I rode some more. The doubts got louder, and the voices that drove me forward got weaker. But they didn't quit. At the edge of a ravine I stopped and breathed. I looked across the treetops, dappled in the summer's sunlight. I drank in the damp, wooded air, letting it fill me.

I was alone in the woods. In that moment I could have stopped. It would have been fine, I told myself. As my heart rate dropped, and my breathing relaxed, and I calmed...an image came to me.

It was a photograph, recently taken. In it two people with whom I am connected by deep affection...and cancer...look up and smile. They're giving cancer the finger.

F-you cancer.

I smiled as my eyes welled.

I. Rode. On.

- - -

Somehow, I made my way back into it. I was racing.

Who I thought I was racing, I don't know. It wasn't the other riders around me. It wasn't myself. Maybe it was the ghosts and the voices. I dunno. But I do know this...I was racing again.

And then came The Hell of the North.

I looked up once, and it took my breath away.

So, I stopped looking, and proceeded to fall uphill.

Time slowed. Vision blurred.

The hill is a vortex. An observer would see an idiot pushing a bike up an ungodly hill, but the idiot experiences something completely different...

Push a bike, cling to a tree,
it's all the same to me.

I shuffled the halls of the oncology ward, clutching my IV tree, watching my feet slide along the tile floor. The hoses and tubes swayed with the rhythm of my slow, steady, motion. I focused on my feet, willing each small shuffle forward, never feeling the progress—neuropathy robbing me of sensation.

My stomach churned and swelled and threatened, and I beat it down. With my will. Only my will. It's all I had left.

And I shuffled on, to what or where I did not know. One more lap. Once more around the ward.

I was racing.

It got easier. Then it didn't. Then it did again. So, I looked up. I was nearly there...wherever "there' was.

And I didn't look back.

- - -

I entered the route's final climb with nothing left. I entered the park with my will to finish, and precious little more. And what a climb it was. Baked tarmac broiled me from below as the sun melted my brain. And just when I thought I couldn't handle any more...it leveled out, and I was nearly there.

I crossed the line and heard the voices. I stopped—shattered. I shuddered.

I wept.

- - -

This is what shattered looks like.

I'm not a good mountain biker. I gots no skillz. I'm woefully out of shape.

I'm not racing for a podium.

I'm not racing you.

Hell, I'm not even racing me.

Maybe I'm running away.

Maybe I'm running toward.

Maybe I'm racing life...or death...or my ghosts...or my voices.

Maybe I'm racing just to race.

I dunno.

What I do know is this: I have the courage to pin on a number and go; and I'm more alive when I do than when I don't.

I think I have something to prove—more to myself than to anyone else.

I'm just not sure what that thing is.

And as I write this, it does not matter.

What matters is that I did it. I finished.

I didn't let them down.

I didn't let you down.

I didn't let me down.

I did it.

And I'm a better man today for having done it.


Thank you...all of you.
Thank you.


What will be will be what will be.
I've go this.

Take a Free Ride (Holy Hills & Serendipitous Soda)

We ride, constantly training for...something.

And we want progress. Faster, stronger, longer. (Riding a bike and "male enhancement" have a lot in common!)

We measure. We are surrounded by data. We infuse ourselves with information. We track our progress.

Time, distance, speed, elevation, temperature, humidity, heart rate, wattage, YIKES! →

And it is good.

But, what happens when it all goes wrong?

Free Ride!

Data, Done and Dusted

My computer was dead, probably a low battery.

No mileage. No speed. No cadence.

My heart rate monitor? In the bedroom, and it is always better to let sleeping brides lie...

So I went out with a simple goal: ride hills. Do repeats. And don't give a damn about the data. I committed to a four hour ride, picked a general direction, and let the spirit move me.

I headed for Ellicott City, with ambitions to do hill repeats on Ilchester. That's it. Simple.

You can cut a log with that sawtooth! →

The morning was hung over from Saturday's heat and humidity. When it's 80+ degrees at 0600, you know you're living a verse from Gimme Swelter...

Distance: 64.88 miles
Time: ~4:00
Ascent: 3684 feet
Average Speed: ~16.2 mph

It's a one-hour ride from my house to the top of Bonnie Branch Road, at the center of the hilly excitement in Ellicott City. When I started down its steady descent, I planned to ride Ilchester three times and then move over to the center of town, riding Oella and Westchester before...whatever.

Ilchester

Ilchester is our Manayunk Wall. It's our Muur.

For my Lawn-Guy-Lander friends, it's my local East Broadway (a la Port Jefferson).

She's .8 mile long. She's got an 18% grade. The annual Highway to Heaven Hill Climb Time Trial rolls up her. She's a touchstone, a reference point, a challenge, and an ambition.

So why not ride her thrice?

Sensations

I have no idea what my cadence was. I don't know my speed. All I know is that it hurt. I tried while sitting. Meh. So the second time I tried to ride her while standing (even though I knew there was absolutely no chance to make the entire length out of the saddle). The third time I intentionally rode a mix, but I wasn't completely happy with my "sensations". I lacked Contador's tranquilo, so as I came down Bonnie Branch the third time, I decided to give her one more go.

The fourth time was a charm. It may not have been the fastest, but it felt the best—a fair balance between achievement and suffering.

Satisfied, I rolled down River Road to the old part of Ellicott City to try my legs on Oella and Westchester. Three more serious climbs and I headed home.

One Hour in Hell

I started back at the three hour mark. I hadn't eaten—I did bring an almond butter sandwich, but my stomach wasn't interested. I had already consumed three bottles, and I knew that I needed more water. Trusting in serendipity, I headed home, hoping for some refreshment along the way.

This is See-wious! →

I've had better plans.

Each time I thought I might be able to stop, something prevented me. The store was closed, the toothful dog was barking...something kept happening.

I was bonking.

Race Road was a blur as I struggled onward. Then, like a hallucination from an Abbott and Costello movie, a Coca-Cola machine appeared.

I've had this brain for [42] years. It hasn't done me any good! →

Never—and I mean never—has a vending machine offered so much hope. Serendipitously, I had singles, dollar bills, greenbacks in my jersey. I was going to survive!

I rolled up to the machine. It was humming and vibrating with the satisfaction of a job well done. It was cooling the precious liquids within its bosom . I would survive!

I unzipped my kit and peeled away two of the moist bills. Would the machine scan wet dollars? I inserted the first bill...but I couldn't! My hand was shaking so, and the dollar was so wet, that it limped from my fingers like overcooked pasta. I tried to straighten and flatten the bill, and with two hands (one bracing the other) I tried again to slot it into the machine.

A cheerful whirr sounded like the music from angel's wings. I slotted in the second dollar. With another whirr and a click, I could make my selection.

What to do, what to get, what to drink? Water? Nah, I wanted value for my $1.25. Soda? Hmmm. I've seen the pros quaff Cokes mid-stage, but how would my tummy tolerate the bubbles? Nestea Iced Tea. Yes! Take the damned plunge! Icy-s sweet high-fructose corn syrup satisfaction in a caramel-colored elixir! Do it! Press the button!

I pressed the Nestea Iced Tea button.

whirr, click

whirr, click

whirr, click

whirr, click

Nothing.

Uh oh.

I pressed again.

whirr, click

whirr, click

whirr, click

whirr, click


Nothing.

A thought echoed in my mind:

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
~ Albert Einstein

Oh. My. God.

Heat reflected off the road and the building, baking me as I stood, forlornly staring at the foul machine's red-and-white face. Its satisfying hum mocked me as I suffered. I thought thoughtful thoughts, pondering and puzzling. "Why didn't it work? I made the whirr, click noises! What's happening...oh, maybe it's empty! Maybe...no more iced tea?"

I closed my eyes and visualized. I pictured a frosty bottle of soda. I envisioned my drinking that soda, and I felt the sting of the bubbles as they washed down my throat. I tasted the cloying caramel candy aftertaste as the syrupy residue lingered on my tongue.

I opened my eyes.

I pressed the Coca Cola button.

I was doe-eyed for a Coke like an anime heroine! →

whirr, click

Please...

whirr, click

Oh, please please, please...

whirr, click, ka-THUNK,

Oh. My. Mercy.

Never—and I mean never—has a soda bottle engendered such joy! I opened it. I drank. I snarfed bubbles through my nose. I was going to survive!

Crisis Averted

I emptied the remainder into one of my water bottles. I could feel the sugar (almost) immediately, and I was able to get rolling home. The soda didn't last but ten minutes, but its effect was incalculable!

The remaining hills felt...good. Vollmerhausen was steady and Murray Hill Road was a manageable bump. Now I get it. The pros drink Coke because...it works!

I rolled up the driveway a little richer and a little wiser. Unplugging occasionally is good, it lets you experience the sport for the sport's sake. And for God's sake, when it's that hot outside, MANAGE YOUR FLUIDS!

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!

Mt. Tamalpais 3 - Ascension

In Part III the author describes: climbing, descending, scenic beauty, personal medical attention, a slug, and seven naughty sisters...

Part III begins with the friendly, upwardly-pointing line at (roughly) mile 24.

Upward, Ever Upward

The climbing was a steady, serpentine pitch. No switchbacks spiked the rise along this leg. I settled into a rhythm and started upward.

People live here? Cool! (Except for that earthquake/mudslide thing...)

Houses perched along the roadside on vertiginous slopes, seeming held in place by matchstick piers. Instantly I groked the property loss caused by mudslides. Those views come with a price.

I passed two vultures, sentinels of the slope as I struggled to maintain a rhythm. The rise wasn't the problem; it was the camera and my hand.

Vultures with Liverpudlian accents mocked my ascent...

I kept trying to take photos to document my adventure, but I couldn't keep a steady grip on the bike with my right hand. Between the pain and the liquid stickiness, I was a mess.

Climbing is about will and focus. I had the will; my focus was compromised. My concentration was scattered. I was all over the place, and I was struggling.

Yet, the scene surrounding me was beautiful. To my right (roughly North) was Mt. Diablo. It rose from across the valley with emerald elegance. Seeing it inspired me to soldier on.

Mount Diablo (no relation to Marco Etcheverry...) broods in the distance.

Soon enough I passed the lonely golf course. Just after, a roadsign for the Mt. Tamalpais watershed beckoned. I had reached the inner edge, marking the heart of my adventure. For the next ~30 miles I would be embraced by the wild of the Mt. Tam parks.

Entering...wonderland!

They Don't Grow 'em Like That at Home

I'm no botanist, but I could tell that the flora around me was nothing like the hills of Maryland. The groundcover sprawled about, gnarled and grabby, while pines aspired to ever-greater heights. Like sentinels, the trees soared above, even as the road rose.

Trees that pierce the sky and scented ground cover are your companions for the climb.

I passed a few mountain bikers on the ascent. Despite my wound and lack of rhythm, I easily overtook them. My Granny was bigger than their granny. So were my thighs, for that matter.

My Granny beats your granny!

I crested a peak, apparently above the treeline. Deep within the valley before me a lake mirrored the sky. She was well below me, and as the road curved to the right, I caught a glimpse of the road's winding path. It was going to be a long descent, from alpine to treeline, with several 180° switchbacks through the redwoods.

Cool.

Way down yonder in the valley below...Alpine Lake!

The route to the lake was marvelously downhill, from above the treeline
through switchbacks among the redwoods.

Mindful of my guardian angel, I kept my speed at or below 30 mph. My hand was still giving me a lot of trouble, and I was not willing to risk a wipeout. Even so, I passed several riders along the descent and on the brief uphills that led to the lake. My legs felt strong, even though my mind was unsettled.

I would race along that distant road at a controlled 32 mph.
On my bike I would have felt comfortable above 40.

Anticipation mounted as I approached the water.
It was quiet...exactly what I was looking for.

I descended to lake level and approached the dam. The water was unnervingly still. Its mirror surface seemed impervious to wind or current. It was a photograph made real.

Trees were mirrored in the lake surface.
Tiny ripples marked the breeze. Lovely.

A number of riders were stopped along the dam's walkway. Clearly it is a rendezvous point for groups who separated on the ascents and descents.

There be cyclists...

Rest & Recovery (Paging Dr. Whitney)

I nearly crashed while crossing the dam.

To the left, there was little difference between the road and the water surface.

I didn't expect a  seven-story drop to my right. I don't like heights, and this was a shocker! Out West, everything is bigger; this was hardly the dam at Lake Elkhorn.

Water to the left of them...

...abyss to the right!

The cascading waters were soothing, however, and I decided that this was a good time and place to stop, eat a little, and re-bandage my bloody stump.

I went down a flight of log steps to the water's edge and had a seat. From my perch I was a full fifteen feet below the road, nestled in a corner. From that perspective I had the place all to myself. It was spectacular.

It was a view so good...

...I photographed it twice!

I cleaned up my hand and re-bandaged it, using a wrap I used to use when crack climbing. (Stop snickering there in the back! "Rock climbing using cracks", your naughty-minded sass.)

The CLAW!

It was tight, reinforced, and I wrapped a curve into my finger to help me with my grip. Nice work, if I don't day so myself...

It was just after 1000. With a snack in my belly, a functioning hand, and a recovered heart rate, I saddled up for the next leg of my journey. According to the map, I had some 1,300 feet of rise before the peak of Mt. Tam. I was ready.

I was back in the saddle at 10:04--32 miles gone, nearly 40 to come,
and the the serious climbing was about to begin.

With high spirits I set off and was soon swallowed by the redwoods. Here the pitch varied from steady to steep. A lot of switchbacks greeted me, and precipitous drop-offs hazarded me.

Pretty. Quiet. Steady. Upward. I hope there are no bears here...

My hand was holding firm, and I was finding my rhythm. This was the climbing I had dreamed about, and I was experiencing it to the fullest. For miles, I climbed, and I enjoyed the beauty all around me. Natural springs trickled and flowed, and the trees whispered and murmured with the breezes.

Just after a particularly steep switchback, an enormous (6+ inch!) slug was crossing the road (Why'd the slug cross the road?...). Were we racing, it probably would have won.

 At some point I realized this giant slug was probably
moving faster than me...

Sisterly Love?
I felt good, so I committed to my original plan. I took the right off of the Fairfax-Bolinas road and headed up Ridgeline Road to the peak. I soon emerged from the thickets and encountered the Seven Sisters: a number of small pitches that sawtoothed up the mountain. Each has her own character; all are deceivingly difficult for a first-timer.

Seven sisters, my arse. Stuck in my head is a word that rhymes with "rich".

I had a rabbit in front of me. That helped with my motivation. What didn't help was that every time I took a photo he got further and further ahead. There's no escaping it; taking photos compromises performance!

Out there is front is my rabbit...you need to click the photo
(to see a larger version) to appreciate the undulating distance.

Ok, it's partially an excuse. I was getting tired, and the Sisters just kept on a-rollin'.

They keep coming at you, the hussies!

Slope and trees framed my ride on the left.

Looking upward into the sun, the peak peeked at me...

The view ahead was a ribbon of road through rolling highland.

There's ocean in the distance, and a sweeping left upcoming...

Off to the right was a spectacular slope down to the Pacific.

Wow.

Worn, winding walking paths snaked down through the meadows. In my imagination, they formed an alpine slide straight into the ocean.

In the center-left of the photo you can see a thin, tan-colored
ribbon of path. It was easily 200 feet below the road...

...on to Part IV, "Peeking from the Peak, Abject Terror, and Job Well Done"...