June 28, 2015

• The Obligatory Ride Post

  I'd been off the bike due to a slight accident for three weeks. My neighbors' grown daughter moved back into the family home with her boyfriend and six chickens. When the kids bought their own home, they moved out but left the hens behind for mom to tend. Mom was not thrilled but I was. I've long wanted a few hens and so I happily took over the care of them. The chicken run is nice enough for the half dozen hens but it was designed for very short people. One day I saw that one of the dumb clucks had laid an egg out in the dirt run rather than in one of the six, nice, clean nests. Stooping down I walked the length of the run and then made my way back to the door, being careful not to step on any of the overly friendly girls. For reasons unknown to me, my neighbor had put 2" high, round stepping stones in the pen which, due to the chickens digging holes around them were tilted at odd angles. Somehow my foot slipped off one of these stones and down I went, hitting my back on a wooden chicken ladder. It must have been a funny sight with chickens squawking  and scattering to get out of the way. Two of them got out of the open door and I lay half in and half out of the door with the dirty egg intact in my left hand. Thankfully, it was two of the brown hens who are very tame so I was able to catch them without difficulty.

  Day one wasn't too bad but each successive day the pain got worse. I needed help getting dressed and getting on and off the toilet was such misery that I quit drinking. Finally after about a week it started to heal and now, three weeks later I'm back on the bike.

  A few weeks ago, Mike paid Richard, my niece’s roommate, for helping us unload the van he brought home from Washington with one of his old mountain bikes that he kept up there. In its day it was state of the art and remains a great bike, in good condition because Mike continuously maintains his bikes.

  So, when Richard expressed some tentative interest in going for a real mountain bike ride, I offered to take him up Mountain Home Creek, a lovely tree shaded trail that follows a perennial (so far) stream.

  MHC road was my first real off road ride and remains one of the nicest trails around for beginner and expert alike.

  It was overcast and not too hot. I had washed my car yesterday and so entertained hope of some thunder showers but didn’t really expect any.

  Richard set off up the road in his borrowed helmet and Camelback, and his own work boots. (we serious cyclists have special bike shoes) He seriously questioned the need for a helmet but I gently persuaded him to wear it saying that, in the event of a head-on collision with someone coming down the trail, it could be beneficial. The more pressing concern, which I didn’t say, was that we were bound to encounter some of my biker friends and it would be humiliating to be seen with someone with no helmet. Helmetless riders are immediately recognized as tourists and dumb tourists at that.

  He churned up the still paved road at an uncomfortable pace so I let him put a gap on me. We old broads need a long warm up before we settle into our sedate climbing pace. The first stream crossing lured him into stopping to lean over the guard rail on the bridge to admire the stream and look for fish. What a charming novelty, someone who actually stopped to enjoy the scenery! He looked longingly up a hiking path that ran next to the stream before continuing up the road. The pavement gave way to dirt and the path skirted a locked gate which required riding pretty close to the edge of the drop off but he didn’t pause. He pedaled eagerly on like a ten-year old on his new Christmas bike. And like that exuberant youngster, he alternately spun ahead, leaving me grinding at my old lady pace, and stopping to admire some washed out bridge, or some stunning view of the gathering storm clouds, or the crumbling foundations of some long-ago burned out cabin.

  I periodically inquired as to the state of his bottom parts as he was riding in regular shorts with no padding and the racing saddle on his bike did nothing to protect his cherry butt. He always replied in his typically cryptic way, “Fine”.

  At the half-way water fall (now mostly dry) I again inquired as to the condition of his posterior and told him we were half way, three miles in to the six mile ascent. He showed no sign of trepidation so we continued, stopping to don our gnat nets as the bugs were growing increasingly interested in taking up residence in our exposed orifices. As we continued to climb, he found more reasons to stop for short breaks, but never complained. When we reached the ¾ Bench at the 4 ½ mile point, I saw the first sign of him slowing his pace. I encouraged him by reminding him of my offer to buy breakfast if he made it to the restaurant at Angelus Oaks. I could tell he was ready for the climb to be over but he said there was no chance he was turning back with the top only a mile and a half away.

  The next mile is fairly grueling when your ass is already sore and your legs are heavy but he continued to find things along the way to distract himself from the suffering and we soon hit the paved road again. While easier on the dierier, it’s no better on the legs and by this time, I was famished. I pushed the pace a bit and when he stopped to rest, I coaxed him on with the thought of bacon and eggs and a pliant restaurant booth. As we rounded the penultimate turn, I felt a couple of small rain drops.

  At the restaurant, Richard hoisted our bikes up onto the hooks under the eaves of the building and we gratefully peeled off our sweaty gloves, Camelbacks, and helmets and settled into a booth by the window. Tiana, the waitress who waits on us regularly (and had waited on me yesterday when I’d ridden up with five old guys, including Mike) came to take our order. I said “Hey, Tiana, check it out; I traded up”, nodding towards Richard who is a youngster at forty something. She laughed and said, “Yeah, I noticed that.”

  While Richard went over to the coffee stand to get a cup, it started to rain in earnest and in the few seconds it took for him to get back to the table; it began to come down in sheets. Talk about propitious timing! Our poor bikes, hanging in the drip of the eaves were awash.

  The rain continued unabated during our well-deserved breakfast, so we lingered over a second cup of coffee and a piece of pie (they make it on the premises and it’s pretty good). By the time we finished, the sky had lightened a bit so we donned our wet gear and headed out into the now gentle rain. Coasting down the pavement at roughly 25 miles an hour, in wet clothes, made sixty degrees feel like forty; and I was soon shivering so hard I had to slow down for fear of losing control. Once we got to the end of the pavement and had to work a little harder it became more comfortable. Then it dawned on me that I had my downhill gear, arm and leg guards, in my pack. We stopped and Richard waited while I got dressed. It was still raining lightly but he, with his thick Washington blood, wasn’t cold.

  I followed him down the trail which was by now beautifully soaked, with traction so good one could do no wrong. Richard set a sensible pace, fast enough to be fun but not so fast that I was worried about him. The last thing I wanted to do was to return him to Tara damaged, since she was gracious enough to loan him to me.

  When we reached the hike-a-bike Richard thought he might be able to ride it. He had teased me about not riding it on the way up and I’d made the mistake of saying I didn’t know anyone who could ride it up and only one who could ride it down. That would be Mike, of course, three time California State Series downhill champion. I asked him to please not attempt it until there were more people present to be impressed if he cleared it or more people present to help carry him out if he failed. Being a reasonable man, he walked the steep rocky section, climbing back on only after the trail straightened out.

  Back at the car, muddy and spent, I could tell that in his understated way, he had had a good time. I asked him if there was anything better than downhill singletrack and he smiled broadly and admitted, “Nope.” He's a man of few words.

   

  May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.

  Edward Abbey

  • 7:36 pm
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