What with Sally @MtnBikeMom and Guy @dig4fire61 both having other commitments for the last few weeks, I hadn't been on my mountain bike in over a month.  Yes, I still ride the town bike to work a couple of times a week, but that's a feeble excuse for a ride and does nothing to keep one's technical skills sharp. 

Finally, Sally called and said she was ready to go up the hill for a ride on the Santa Ana River Trail.  I emailed Guy and he was up for it too.  On the drive up the mountain this morning I had to confess that I no longer felt like a real mountain biker.  Yup, my vanity plates should say "Poser" instead of "Rut rider".

It was comfortable in the shade and fortunately, the River road has some shade, and when the going gets warm, the stream is nearby.  Sally and I dipped our shirts in the icemelt stream before starting off.  Guy dutifully followed suit, figuring that we knew what we were doing.  He failed to note that after dipping the shirts, we wrung them out before putting them back on.  He shrieked like a girl when that dripping, cold shirt hit his back and continued with little yelps each time it touched his skin in a new place.  He never did complain about being too warm the rest of the ride.

None of us were feeling too chipper:  Sally had a sore hip and was short on sleep; Guy was sore from learning a new advanced yoga pose, and I was sleep deprived due to a bad case of hay fever.  So, we climbed slowly, discussing the books we've been reading, climate change, Guy's love life (he's single), inequality in the distribution of wealth, and what makes people drive like idiots on a dusty mountain road.  By the time we reached the single track, we were all loosened up and ready for some downhill!  But, the first half mile of the trail actually gains some altitude so we had to content ourselves with just getting acclimated to the technicalities of singletrack.  

A couple of nights ago, in a sweat drenched nightmare, I found myself struggling up a rock strewn trail where I was in danger of toppling over at any moment because my legs were so weak they could barely turn the cranks.  It's not difficult to guess where that came from considering that at my age one loses fitness at an alarming rate even when one works out regularly.  Hence my fear that I was no longer a real mountain biker and might not be up to the challenge of this sometimes precarious trail.

Guy took the lead with me, then Sally following.  Guy, though he claimed to feel weak, handily dropped us as soon as the trail began to ascend.  Sally's shifter cable was out of adjustment so thanks to her malfunctioning bike, I had no trouble leaving her in the dust and soon I was alone in the forest, one with the bike.  As soon as the trail began the descent, my body fell into the old rhythm, eyes scanning the trail to the next turn, knees and quadriceps cushioning the bumps as the bike sailed over the rocky terrain.  Without verbal thought, I shifted my weight forward to accelerate out of the turn, then back as we plummeted down a rocky chute, seeing the two point two inches of trail that my new front tire needed but not the edge of the trail that ended in daylight overlooking the valley below. 

I've seen people go over the edge before.  It's not pretty.  After a crawling back up the near vertical hillside to the trail, dragging their thirty something pound bike behind them (and this is possibly the moment they arrive at the epiphany that spending $1000 more is worth it to shave five pounds of their bike) they arrive, dirt in every orifice and limbs bleeding superficially, to find their friends have a) either not noticed their predicament and are miles down the trail, or worse b) are sitting in the shade waiting, laughing, and making rude jokes at their expense.

Rounding a turn, I spotted Guy with his iPhone poised to catch the action.  I grinned like a Cheshire Cat, and announced gleefully, "Okay, I'm a mountain biker!" as I sped past him into the next phrase of the trail.  https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=3688400322748

Each day I hike up the hill behind the barn to check on the little ducklings, after feeding the horses.  After the initial loss of three, I thought we were going to live happily ever after as a family of six but then I found another dead on the third day.  I wasn't too disheartened as I'd thought one of them looked a bit wobbly.  The rest of the brood though, were hearty and looked so happy as they serenely paddled about.

But today, I had to fish out FOUR more.  Again, the remaining one looks fine.  Mama still appears stoic as she floats alongside of Seven of Nine, which is what I've named the little beauty.  I'm hoping she will live to go where no sibling has gone before.

Do any of you duck experts out there have any suggestions?

At last I got someone to ride with me so I could get a picture of the horses with a rider aboard.  Steve, the owner of the horses, had a day off and made time for a leisurely ride in the hills.  It was on the warm side so we just walked sedately.  Steve hasn't ridden since November (according to his calculations) so we also took it easy on him.

Above, Steve rides Florentino around the arena.  Flo is a tall horse but Steve is so big that Flo looks smaller than he is.

Steve snapped this one of me on Gemela. 

A duck decided to raise her brood in the reservoir behind the barn.  Once they were in, they couldn't get out and three of the nine wee things died over night. Mama ducks don't seem to have a clear understanding of the limitations of their little ones.  I don't know why they died as they float like corks, maybe they got too cold?  I dropped a piece of 2 x 12 into the water to make a raft for them and they immediately climbed aboard with great duckling delight.  There they preened and bit at whatever was irritating them for a few minutes, but then returned to the water.  Later, when I checked on them, mama was sitting on four of them on the raft while the other two paddled about, eating bits of grass growing just below the surface and whatever they found floating on top. 

I fished out the ones that didn't make it and mama duck seemed unconcerned.  I suppose when you have nine you expect losses. 

Felipe, the man who tends the grove, put a long 2 x 6 in the reservoir with one end resting on the wall, in an effort to create a ramp.  It's too steep for the little ones to climb and I fear it may provide access for more nimble predators.  I suspect that racoons would find ducklings tasty.  I hope they all survive the night tonight.

Today was one of those days that we call June gloom.  An onshore breeze carried a thin marine layer inland, bringing with it all the smog from the big city (that would be LA and its suburbs) to the west of us.  Thankfully, it wasn't terribly hot so the humid breeze made for a pretty good riding day.

Gemela, who had been lame for a week or so, hadn't had a good work out in several weeks as I worked her very gently bringing her back up to speed.  Today I felt she was ready to start climbing some hills again and she made it clear that she felt really good.  She walked briskly through the neighbor's orange grove and barely paused to look at the gutter that was running fast and strong with irrigation runoff before stepping over it.  I couldn't help smiling to myself, remembering how that obstacle would have taken thirty minutes to cross when I started riding her a little over a year ago.

As soon as we reached the open field where I often allow her to gallop, I could feel her collecting herself beneath me in anticipation.  Her graceful neck was arched as she pranced lightly waiting for the cue.  It felt more like a thought than a cue but she read it perfectly and leaped into a tightly collected canter, ears pricked forward, hardly touching the bit but eager to be allowed to stretch into a longer gallop.  The field had been plowed recently so there were no gopher holes and the footing was forgiving on her old legs, so I let her canter at a comfortable pace for a short way. 

Andalusians are not built for speed and at twenty, she tires easily, so I brought her back to a walk which she agreed was a better pace for sustained climbing.  We stayed on the clear trail to avoid unexpected encounters with snakes rather than following the canyon bottoms which are now knee high in grass.  By fall the grass will be dead and we will be able to explore in relative safety. 

The hills are laced with jeep trails.  Each ridge has a well defined two track bisecting it with multiple options for descending into the canyon below.  The ridge I chose today ends in a steep, rutted track with outcrops of bedrock.  I read somewhere that a horse can usually climb or descend anything a human can without using his hands.  I looked down the trail and plotted the course just as I would pick my line on a mountain bike.  For the most part, the traction looked pretty good.  Gemela indicated that she would have preferred to retrace our steps rather than take this challenging trail, even though it was headed for home, but didn't argue when I pushed her over the edge. 

Is it terribly unattractive to brag about how this intrepid little horse, picked her way down, on a loose rein, heeding every leg cue, never missing a step, all the way to the bottom?  When I turned and looked back up the trail, I was surprised to see how steep it looked from the bottom.  Usually it looks steeper from the top. 

The climb out of the canyon is a rugged, brushy trail so I kept her to a walk, though she wanted to rush the hill.  I figure if we go slowly, most snakes should have the good sense to get out of the way.  All we scared up was a couple of rabbits.  We were nearly back to civilization when I heard the unmistakable staccato of an alarmed rattlesnake just off the trail to the right.  I barely got a glimpse of his thick, diamond patterned tail end before he was gone, buzzing all the way.  Gemela, in her usual unflappable manner, cocked an ear but kept walking quietly.  

Back on the street, I heard the click of a stone lodged in her near hind foot so I dismounted to pull it out.  And again, I brag...she stood quietly while I lifted her hind foot, never offering to walk off even though we were headed for home.  It's days like this that I feel all my hard work has paid off in spades. 

In 1994 an enormous earthen dam was approved for construction in one of the most beautiful riparian canyons in this area.  With it's perennial stream, it was home to a wide variety of wild life.  There was an old dirt road that meandered up the canyon, winding through the cottonwoods and hugging the rocky canyon wall just above the high water line, perfect for moonlit night riding.

When the dam was proposed our small group of mountain bikers attended the community meetings to voice our fears about losing this beautiful trail.  We were assured that, when the construction was completed, the canyon would again be accessible to cyclists.  The dam was completed in 2000 but access to the canyon was never restored.  But, recently we had heard from other cyclists, that they were now being allowed to ride up the face of the dam to access the undisturbed canyon above the dam.  The dam is 512 feet high, the 12th highest in the world according to Wikipedia, and the road traverses the face of the dam only three times to attain the summit, so it is a wickedly steep climb on a bike. http://www.flickr.com/photos/melonman/273645356/

Sally and I were headed up our regular route, on the rocky, brushy singletrack trail to Crafton Hills, when we met two guys coming down the trail.  I recognized one of them, a seventy-something retired orthopedic surgeon named Malcom.  He said that they had just gone up the face of the dam, then climbed Warm Springs Canyon (which is such a miserably steep ascent that only the seriously masochistic will ride it) and were on their way home.  He also said the wild flowers in Warm Springs Canyon were spectacular.  Sally and I are suckers for wild flowers so we debated if we were up for all the climbing it would take to pedal up there.  We decided that it was worth a try; we could always turn around if it got too strenuous.

We rode the the loop in the reverse direction which meant that while we had to climb the Morton Peak road, which is a wickedly steep climb too, we could descend Warm Springs.  Aside from being nearly run off the road by some kid in a 4-wheel drive truck, who was driving way too fast around a blind curve, the ascent was uneventful.  Descending Warm Springs fire road is probably one of the best E ticket rides around.  Its steep, tight curves and erratic ruts make it challenging at any speed.  Since we had come for the flowers, we kept our speed in check most of the time.  As promised, the flowers were prolific, well worth the effort.

Once we reached the canyon floor, the road turned into a wide, well-graded access road that angled gently to the top of the dam.  While we stopped on the side of the road for a snack, a small doe with two fawns at her side, came walking towards us from around a curve in the canyon wall.  The wind was in our face so she couldn't smell us until she was fairly close.

We remounted and made our way across the top of the dam, noting that there were several people in the bottom of the canyon who appeared to be fishing.  Descending the face of the dam is exciting only because of the great speed one can attain between the switchback turns.  We were within sight of the gate at the mouth of the canyon when a small car, coming up canyon, pulled across our lane, blocking our exit.  A uniformed guard opened the door and exited the car with as much haste as his ample girth would allow.

"You can't be in here!" he spluttered.  Sally and I looked at him mildly and he continued.  "You can't be in here!" he repeated as if that would make it so.  Resisting the urge to point out that he was obviously mistaken as we were, indeed, "in here", we allowed him to tell us that this was private property and we couldn't be in here, yet again. 

Since he didn't seem to be able to decide what to do, I finally asked, "So what do you propose?"  Clearly, we were on our way out and he was preventing our exit, so the ball was in his court.  He pulled a tattered envelope and a pen from his pocket and demanded our names.  Unperturbed, we gave him first and last names, spelling the last names for him.  Then after lecturing us on how we were NEVER to enter this area again, he ordered us to follow him to the gate where he would open the gate to let us out.  I hadn't the heart to tell him that it wasn't necessary; we could easily lift our bikes over the barrier.  He trailed us out to the main road and wished us a good day before turning back to his little fiefdom. 

Thoroughly repentant, we crossed the road to another gated dirt road.  Not noticing the conspicuous "No Trespassing" sign, we lifted our bikes over the gate and proceeded down past the huge borrow pits where the dirt for the dam was excavated.  I guess they're not really "borrow" pits since the material was never returned. 

Overall, it was a pretty good ride.  We saw a gopher snake, a couple of huge lizards, a plethora of birds, three deer, AND had an amusing social interaction.  I think I'll pass the word that the dam is again open to cyclists.

In life there are rules that can be bent upon occasion with little penalty, like "Always wear clean underwear; you might be in an accident."  Being the risk taker that I am, I figure if I'm being disrobed by a stranger in the ER, my very last concern would be the condition of my underwear.  

Then there are the rules that you have made for yourself based on past experience.  For instance, don't go check your email while you have a pot boiling on the stove.  Another one is NEVER get off a horse to lead it across something it won't cross under your mounted encouragement.  Experience has taught me that while the horse may follow you, you may also get stepped on and/or knocked over if the horse is anxious.

The horses I'm riding these days are show ring trained but not very experienced on the trail.  They are exceptionally calm natured horses, compared with my feisty little Arab mare that I rode for almost thirty years.  The mare, Gemela, is particularly dubious when I ask her to walk near something unfamiliar but I've found she's quite trusting and calm about following me when I show her the way.  And so, I've relaxed my rule. 

There is a shallow, rock lined ditch at the side of one of the lanes we travel, that always makes her nervous.  Sometimes cars and trucks will pass us assuming that we will stay on our side of the road, but Gemela fears the inanimate rock ditch more than the moving vehicles.  The more pressure I bring to bear to keep her to the side, the more her rear end swings out into the road.  This is clearly not a good situation.  Since there was no traffic today, I decided to spend some time teaching her to walk next to the ditch.  After trying to push her with my outside leg with little effect, I decided to get off and walk next to her to show her it was safe. 

I'm not even sure how it happened but the next thing I knew, she had stepped on my foot, and since I was in motion and couldn't get the trapped foot beneath me, I fell down hard on the pavement.  It was a repeat of my last mountain bike accident.  Hip, elbow, hand, hit the pavement in succession.  The major difference being that the other accident was in the dirt and I was wearing gloves and arm guards. 

She stood over me, looking a little apologetic, having removed her foot from mine as soon as she realized her mistake.  I uttered a few choice curse words under my breath, hoping nobody in the adjacent house had seen the incident and painfully remounted.  We continued the ride without further mishap but I was more aware than usual of the potential for injury when handling a twelve hundred pound animal.  When it comes down to it, they are only under our control because of training.  Their sense of self preservation will override that training any time they feel threatened.  Perhaps that is part of what makes riding a horse interesting.  Developing a sense of trust is a work in progress and the longer we work together, the more we trust each other.

A post ride roll in the dirt.

I've long questioned the efficacy of the laws against recreational drugs.  I've always felt that people who want to use recreational drugs do so in spite of the laws and those who don't want to wouldn't do them if they were legal.  At least that's how it is for me.  

Taking the idea a step further, I was trying to think of something, anything, I am restrained from doing, that I really want to do, just because it's illegal.  Maybe I'm a scofflaw but I can't come up with anything.

I don't refrain from shop lifting because it's a crime; I don't steal because it's wrong.  I do roll through stop signs for economy's sake even though I know it's illegal.  I don't use my cell phone while driving because I'm incompetent, the law is irrelevant.  When I used recreational drugs (in my reckless youth) I never gave it a second thought that it was contraband.  I don't use them now but it still has nothing to do with the law. 

Can you think of something that you really, seriously, and most earnestly want to do, but don't do it simply because it's illegal?  I'll bet most of you can think of something you do figuring you won't get caught but I don't expect true confessions in this forum.  However, if you feel compelled to 'fess up, I'm all ears.  It will go no further, I promise.

There are certain humiliations in life that are either made tolerable or exacerbated by the entity perpetuating the humiliation.

I have two ancient China Berry trees in my yard that pepper my lawn with cranberry sized, tan seeds this time of year. 

They litter the driveway, making it treacherous to walk down the hill to the mail box.  Think of it like walking on ball bearings and then picture my 87 year old mother tottering out to check the mail.  Scary! 

So I rake them up every Saturday.  I fill two 33 gallon trash barrels every week.  Today the hoarier of the two trees

pelted me on the head as I raked the berries from the lawn onto the driveway.  I thought this was rather cheeky but since it was not witnessed by anyone, I let it slide.  When my raking was completed, I began to heard them all together on the concrete, which is no small task on a slope.  At this point, I took notice of some still wet splats interspersed among the accumulated berries.  At that moment another wet gob fell at my feet.  Remembering the earlier "berry" fusillade, I ran my hand through my hair suspiciously.  It came back STICKY!  Bird excrement is definitely more humiliating than China Berries but looking up, I saw an enormous bird.  "Ah, a small hawk or falcon is perched high up in the thin upper canopy", I thought, and ran into the house to fetch my camera.  Falcon feces isn't so bad, I mean, it's not like sea gull shit, or robin's runs, or owl offal.

Careful to stand well outside of the circle of viscous effluent,

I peered up through the thin spring foliage. 

And then I saw them.  Four big fat PIGEONS!  Ewwwww.  Pigeon poop!!!!  I was shat upon by a flying rat. 

So now, I'm lobbying my cats to get off their lazy rumps and get up the tree.  There's cat food aplenty on the wing.

In Morocco, the law of the land demands that a rapist be punished by being forced to marry his victim.  Now, I realize that some of you happy bachelors might see this as cruel and unusual punishment, (indeed, my own husband is a sympathizer) but what sane person could conceive of consigning a victim of a violent crime to a life sentence of the same abuse, in an attempt turn it into a "moral" act? 

Recently, there has been some controversy over this law because it came to light that a sixteen year old girl, who had been molested and subsequently married to her rapist, had been beaten nearly to death by her reluctant husband.  Her mother advised her daughter to "be patient".  Presumably, her son-in-law would mellow and love would blossom in time? 

If there is any question about the necessity of separation of church and state, this should be a glaring example of how wrong the church can go when backed by the power of the state. 

Let's let people voluntarily abide by the laws of God, if they so choose, and use the power of the state only to protect us from each other.  A misogynist god should not be allowed to make secular laws.

I've been feeling my age a bit lately.  Some persistent lower back pain took the spring out of my step and a couple of stoopid crashes had me reevaluating my immortality.

Since my favorite trail, Yikes!, has been closed, Sally and I have been riding some less technical trails, like the Motorcycle Trails.  While they offer the occasional lock-em-up-slider descents, they generally don't require much skill.  Anyone with an over abundance of confidence can get down them without much danger.  Occasionally, we have ridden Rollercoaster, which is pretty much the ultimate thrill for both its technical aspects and pitch, but each time it seems less thrilling and yet more risky.

So last Sunday, we sat on our bikes looking up at the trail, debating whether to ride it today or not.  We had agreed last week, that if it rained (and it did), we would ride it this week.  I've always been ambivalent about riding this monster, and it usually takes some coaxing to persuade me.  I had to admit to Sally that I was wondering if I was getting beyond the age where it was wise for me to take such risks.

When faced with the fact that if I didn't ride it today, I probably would never ride it again, I decided that I had to do it, if only to keep the option open in the future. 

We thought we would first climb to the top of Yikes! and ride down it to see if it had been reopened by scofflaws, like ourselves.  Then, if riding Yikes! was a confidence builder, we would climb back to top and descend Rollercoaster.  To our delight, we found that Yikes! is again totally rideable and the traction was not bad. 

My legs complained bitterly on the second ascent; and when we started down Rollercoaster, one of the inner thigh muscles, that had been overused riding Gemela yesterday, tried to knot into a cramp every time I stopped pedaling. 

Sally has been my protege for a number of years, and has followed me down many a trail that has tested her courage and skill.  But now, the student has surpassed the master.  She led me down the hill with perfect grace and confidence.  Following her line, I felt the rhythm return. 

The last section of terrifyingly steep, loose, bumpy, ride-or-die, trail was over before we even had time to consider the potential for disaster.  And once again, I was ten years old instead of pushing sixty.