AN UNLIKELY SCENARIO

This afternoon, as I was riding my bike north up The Silverado Trail in Napa Valley, I went flying by what at first glance appeared to be a dead humming bird sitting stone still in the glaring sun. Upon closer inspection, I found that it wasn't dead, but rather in a serious state of debilitation.

It sat there, eyes closed and teetering with every gust of wind that trailed off of each passing car. My conscience made it quite clear that something had to be done and fearing that it'd end up being run down by another cyclist, or worse yet a car, I concluded I'd best pick it up and go about figuring out just what to do with it.

The poor fellow was weak as can be and made but only a few feeble flaps of it's wings as I picked it up off of the pavement and placed it in the palm of my hand. I rode along for some time, trying to figure out just what in the world to do with it.

At first I thought I might call around and see if there was some sort of bird rescue center in Napa Valley that might be able to come pick it up, but if there was one, I'd have a hard time seeing them drive out to save a hummingbird. A red-tailed hawk perhaps, but a hummingbird? It seemed an unlikely scenario indeed.

The only other alternative would have been to wrap it in one of my arm warmers and take it back home with me, but with 70 miles remaining in my ride, that seemed no more realistic an option than the former.

Musing on what other prospects might pose as probable I rode on for a mile or so with it in the palm of my hand. Aside from the aforementioned considerations, the only other option that ocurred to me was to find a large stone and put it out of it's misery.

As I remained uncertain of it's true status however, I couldn't possibly have done so with the complete assurance that I was doing the right thing, so this option was swiftly dismissed. Perhaps it simply had a hangover from too much humming bird feed the night before and would soon make a full recovery. With no further options in sight, I rode on.

Eventually I came upon a stone bridge alongside the road with plenty of shade and a small creek running beneath it. I decided I'd simply leave it in the shade and hope for the best. Oddly enough I had a bit of a difficult time getting the sucker out of the palm of my hand as it's tiny nails had gotten caught in the mesh of my riding gloves. With considerable effort I eventually managed to unhook it's nails one by one. I didn't want to break one of its tiny toes and further incapacitate the poor thing.

I placed it a cornerstone, grabbed one of my water bottles, turned it upside down and dribbled a couple drops of my energy drink on it's beak, thinking it could use a shot or two of glucose to lift it's spirits. Lo and behold it's beak sprang wide open and it took in a good couple dozen gulps in rapid succession. I then poured some into a small indentation in the rock hoping perhaps it might be able to drink more as needed.

With that I bid my hummingbird friend adieu, praying that in some slight way I'd made it's life a little easier. I hopped on my bike and resumed my ride down the road ahead. I briefly wondered whether or not I'd done the right thing. Perhaps there was more that could have been done and my failure to have investigated any further meant the difference between the life and the death of a seemingly insignificant hummingbird.

Thankfully, I didn't puzzle over this for too long. The realization came that I could have done everything and then some to save it and it may well have died nonetheless. No doubt I'll never know what ever happened to it. Given it's condition I'd be surprised if it made it through to the end of the day. Perhaps having moved it from the hot tarmac at the shoulder of the road to the relative protection of the shade made all the difference. Perhaps it didn't.

Sometimes we just don't know what the results of our actions will be. Nonetheless when presented with a situation, however perplexing it may be, we have to do something. We can hesitate indefinitely, but that in and of itself is an action of sorts. Assuming we've done what we deem to be "the right thing", acting in the best interest of all concerned, all we can do from there is rest in the faith that Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom will act accordingly.

AN EPIC DAY ON THE BIKE

This last Saturday was an epic day on the bike to be certain. The Geysers, Skaggs Springs, Fort Ross, Cazadero, Occidental. 166 miles. 12 Hours. I set out upon the roads of Sonoma County at 8:30 am, well after my planned start time of 7:00am. In typical County fashion it was cool and foggy in the morning and would remain so for the first couple hours of my ride. However, having checked the weather to find a forecast of sunshine and an expected temperatur Sonoma e of 73 degrees, I felt fairly certain that the fog would lift and things would warm up a bit. That said, twenty minutes or so into my ride, I'd finally settled into the slow and steady rhythm required for such a ride. It's on long rides like this that my mind runs wild. Occasionally my musing is interrupted by some external oddity and around about twelve miles in I came across a telephone line that had what looked like a stump straddling it:

A strange sight to be certain. I never cease to find myself fascinated by such things. If it’s unusual, extra ordinary or just plain weird I’m there. "What", "where", "when", "why" and "how" are all questions that pester me relentlessly when I stumble upon such sights. Of course what one deems “extraordinary” is by necessity relative to what one deems “ordinary”. That said, I’d like to think I’ve cultivated somewhat of a penchant for finding the “extraordinary” in the “ordinary”. I am admittedly biased where my own personal idiosyncrasies are concerned however, so I’ll leave such judgment to you the reader and disgracefully digress.

At any rate, after a relatively flat couple of hours spent winding north through the vineyards that line either side of Westside Road, I hit the base of The Geysers climb at about 10:30 am.The first portion of The Geysers is a 6 mile grind that rises high nearly 3000 feet above the valley floor. From the bottom of the climb right up to the summit it was covered in a thick blanket of fog, however, upon reaching the summit of the first climb the fog on the west side had begun to yield to a bright blue sky on the east side:

Mind you it was a far more magnificent sight than the picture might indicate, but you get the idea. Just short of the top I spotted a rider up ahead of me and upon descending and beginning the second of The Geysers climbs, an incredibly unforgiving incline of hot tarmac, I caught up and rode with her. It was a welcome change of pace and we chatted for the duration of the second climb and straight on through the rest of The Geysers. Turns out she'd done The Terrible Two a coupla' years back. I've been training for The Terrible Two for the past four months and so I bombarded her with an endless round of questions regarding the event, which she graciously answered.

Parting ways with my Geysers companion, I stopped off to refuel in Cloverdale and made my way south down Dutcher Creek Road. Taking an eventual right on Dry Creek Road I rolled north for a couple of miles and before I knew it Skaggs Springs Road was upon me. Skaggs Springs is an entirely different beast compared to The Geysers. It's a series of lengthy ascents and descents that rise successively higher into the sky, ultimately offering an impressive view of Sonoma County. Just short of the first summit, I paused for a shot of Lake Sonoma.

I suppose I should offer something of a disclaimer here before I proceed. I am admittedly, something of a curmudgeon where the masses are concerned and I suffer a bitter distaste for much of what passes here in America as recreation. There's few things I love more than the silence and solitude offered up in generous abundance by Mother Nature herself and I find it incredibly irritating when such scarce qualities are rudely interrupted by the din of Man and His Machines.

Skaggs Springs Road is a haven for motorcyclists who like to play Evel Knievel up and down it's various twists and turns. I can usually hear them well up the road, like irksome mosquitoes humming about my ear lobes. They fly by in twos and threes at breakneck speed every twenty minutes or so. Typically motorcyclists are the only motorists I've ever seen out on Skaggs Springs Road, which makes their presence all that much the more unnerving. Almost as unnerving are the motorboats out on Lake Sonoma:

They whirl about in droves, performing an endless succession of doughnuts, usually to the tune of some wretched Creed anthem or other, spewing several cubic tons off filthy exhaust into the virgin air and making a general nuisance of themselves. Yep, at a reservoir near you thousands of Americans can be found each weekend enjoying the outdoors by drowning it out in a cacophony of competing outboard engines. Call it a case of testosterone gone awry, I prefer to work out my masculine angst by actually working it out, which in my case would be silently grinding my way up a seriously steep grade, legs a burning and lungs a bursting, disturbing the peace and quiet of my lactate threshold and nothing more.

The folly of such an argument however, is that I too am seen as something of a disturbance to those about me, motorcyclists notwithstanding. My very presence on the road, however far to the right it may be, has been enough to inspire the ire of many an angry motorist with profane outbursts, obscene hand gestures and on a few rare occasions, projectile matter which I'll tastefully decline to describe. Granted, such expressions of brotherly love are above and beyond what's called for, but they do likely have their origins in some earlier such event wherein one of my fellow cyclists failed to respect the rules of the road. That said, it isn't so much a matter of presence that I object to, but rather proportion. I digress once more, however.

After pausing for the Lake Sonoma shot, I proceeded onward. This being the second time I've ridden Skaggs Springs, I found it both easier and harder by turns. Easier in that I knew what lay ahead of me and harder in that, well, I knew what lay ahead of me. I've ridden a fair share of climbs here in California and this stretch, 32 miles of continuous up and down, is among the most formidable I've ever faced. Around about halfway through I came upon a Harley Davidson Guy and his Harley Davidson Girl. Harley Davidson Guy was taking photos of His Harley Davidson Girl as she sat upon His Harley Davidson.

As I passed them, Harley Davidson Guy said to me "You need an motor on that thing", to which I responded somewhat cryptically "I'm not going anywhere". I recall hearing a bit of befuddled laughter as I climbed my way past them. I suspect he failed to understand exactly what I meant. But then again, I suspect I failed to understand what I meant as well. Unfortunately this would be a characteristically typical retort on my part. I might have responded with "It's already got one!!!" thumping my chest with a firm fist indicating my heart, but no, I had to make some ethereal statement that would be entirely lost upon such a fellow and thus render myself incomprehensible. Such is the story of my life however, thus, I digress, for what, the third time? Yes. The third time.

Speaking of thirds, about two thirds of the way down Skaggs Springs the ladder collapsed as it were my legs and lungs received a welcome respite with the series of light rollers that run along the Gualala River. At Camp Gualala, I was greeted by a Sag Crew that had been following a number of riders on an organized ride put on by the Santa Rosa Cycling Club. No sooner did I ask them where I might find some water did I find a half gallon jug of cold spring water in front of me, as a generous portion of Peanut M & M's, dried apricots and granola bars.

I sat and chatted with them for a good fifteen minutes or so. Turns out a handful of them will be working The Terrible Two, so I'll be keeping any eye out for them come June 20th. Having enjoyed several fists full of Peanut M & M's, I bade my newfound friends thanks and made my way on down the road. It was 4:45 and with a good 70 miles to go, I'd have to pick up the pace if I was to make it home before nightfall. Unfortunately, I had what was the steepest climb yet ahead of me, The Rancheria Wall, a 1.5 mile monster with an average gradient of nine percent. Oddly enough after several thousand feet of climbing behind me, it was The Rancheria Wall I dreaded the most.

Fort Ross Road was yet to come however and in retrospect, it's this final climb of The Terrible Two route that I now look forward to the least. Having now ridden the entire course in successive segments, I know what to expect and Fort Ross road is going to be one mother of a climb at 165 or so miles into the ride. 2.5 miles in length, some portions of the climb reach a gradient of twenty percent which means the old quads will be searingly sore at that point. Suffice to say I eventually made it to the top of Fort Ross Road, but it took all I had within me to do so. Shortly after reaching the summit I came across this street sign:

I've seen a strange street sign or two in my day, but this would have to be amongst the strangest. Wahoo Court. Nowhere Way. Celebration Street. But Brain Ridge Road? No doubt there's a story in there somewhere. At any rate, following the intersection of Fort Ross and Brain Ridge Roads there came a series of twisting descents, followed by a handful of small gradual rises and an eventual screaming swoop down into the woodsmoke laden town of Cazadero. At that point it was gaining on 8:00 pm and though theoretically this meant a good forty-five minutes or so of daylight to avail myself of, for all intents and purposes it was night time in Cazadero, what with the towering redwoods blocking out what little was left of it.

It was full gas from there on out and rather than taking the busy River Road, I decided to opt for the relatively vacant Bohemian Highway route, leading up into Occidental. It did pose the challenge of additional climbing, but where it lacked in ease, it promised little if any traffic. After five miles of gentle incline, I reached Occidental, took a left onto Graton Road and ground my way up one brief and final rise in the pitch black cover of a densely packed forest of redwoods. When I emerged, the evening sky was a deep purple and were it not for the faint trace of a white line marking the shoulder, I mightn't have had anything to guide me.

I time trialed my way home, flying down the hills to the west of Santa Rosa. Hopped onto 116 briefly, then Occidental Road for a slight stretch and finally reached Sanford Road, wherein my penchant for the mystic kicked in. Night had fallen and a bright moonlight shone upon the pastures on either side of the road. They were being watered by giant sprinklers and dozens of streams of water whirled about in all directions producing a fine mist that soothed my sun baked bones. How many times I've ridden along Sanford Road in either direction I don't know, but on this occasion, it was as though it were the first. With the road ahead entirely obscured and only the light of the moon and stars to guide me I felt for a moment as though there was nothing beneath me but infinite space. I felt as though I were flying.

The remaining couple of miles home were a celebration of sorts. It was 9:30 pm and I had spent the entire day out on the roads of Sonoma County. 12 hours and 166 miles later I was finally home and what a journey it had been. I pulled up to the curb in front of my place on 4th Street, heaved a deep sigh, looked up at the night sky and thanked the moon for guiding me the rest of the way home. A great sense of accomplishment washed over me and I felt as though I could do anything.

But first I'd have to do one last thing before I entertained the notion of any further pursuits. I hoisted my bike up over my right shoulder and completed what would prove to be the last climb of the day: making my way up the stairs that lead to the courtyard of my building. Ironically, of all the climbs I'd done that day, it was this last one that took the most out of me. And yet it was the most rewarding climb of all, for it meant my journey had finally come to an end and I had made it home at last. And what a journey it was.

A DAY FOR THE REPTILES

Yesterday was among the more brutal rides I've done in some time. Did a hundred miler heading south toward Glen Ellen, up over Trinity Grade, down into Napa Valley, up Silverado Trail into Alexander Valley, east into Healdsburg and south back into Santa Rosa. with the temperature approaching triple digits it was a scorcher and I was loving every minute of it. So too were the reptiles. With the heat cranked up full blast and miles of hot asphalt to warm themselves upon they were out in force. They're my kind of people, them reptiles.

Lizards and snakes were on display all over the place and I spent a fair portion of my ride trying to avoid them. Blue Bellies, all too literally known as The Western Fence Lizard, are tough to avoid at 20mph as they blend right in with the asphalt and they typically can't be seen until they've begun hauling ass out of the way in the attempt to avoid being crushed. At one point I thought I might have run one down. Unable to carry on in good conscience I circled back and was relieved to find it was simply a twig.

Snakes are a different story though. I can usually see snakes well up ahead as they lay strewn about like discards of old rope. They're not so easy to spot, however, whilst flying downhill at 40mph and if I did run one over, chances are slim to none I'd circle back to put the poor bastard out of its misery. At any rate toward the end of my ride and just short of making a left on River Road, I caught sight of a baby Rattlesnake sunning itself out on the side of the road. I'd seen plenty of snakes out on the road, mostly King Snakes and Gophers, but the only Rattlesnakes I'd seen had been relegated to roadkill status.

As I had my phone with me I figured I'd snap a shot of it. Given the prospect of being bitten and dying on the side of the road from snake bite with complications of heat stroke, I proceeded with caution. First I rode by it a couple of times to test it's responsiveness. It made nary a move. Taking that as good sign I made a couple more passes, snapping shots each time.

Unfortunately this didn't work too well as the lo-tech camera on my high-tech phone has the no-tech inability to maintain it's focus whilst in motion. I can't blame it entirely on the camera as it's damned difficult taking pictures with one hand while pedaling a bicycle, particularly when Rattlesnakes are involved. Thus I gave myself over to the prospect of getting close enough to get a good shot whilst remaining far enough away to hop on my bike and haul ass in the event it decided to make any less than amorous overtures. Here's the result:

Given the lack of anything in the background that might provide some perspective, it looks as though it might be an adult, but in reality it was much smaller and consequently less threatening. And as it seemed entirely absorbed in it's sunlit reverie, I thought perhaps I might get a bit closer, hoping to get a better shot. No sooner than that thought arose, however, did it suddenly begin to wiggle a bit at which point I wisely decided not to push my luck and settled for what you see above. Whatever the case, I'm always excited to chance upon the diversity of wildlife here. It's but one of the many things I love about being back in Northern California, the wildlife.

You just don't see this kind of thing back in New York City. You see other stuff, like rats the size of cats and cockroaches as big as birds, but not snakes and lizards. Oh, there've been a few Coyote sightings in Central Park, but they're rare indeed. No, I much prefer to witness wildlife in it's natural environment whilst pedaling my way through the lush Sonoma County countryside, than to encounter it's urban counterpart, gnawing on the baseboards. City critters do have their own unique appeal, mind you, particularly when the only other living creatures you have access to are of the human variety. But given the choice, I'll take a Rattlesnake on a dusty back road over a Renegade Rat any day, or a human for that matter. It was a day for the reptiles to be certain.