Rain lets me run fast

I had a fun weekend "at home," a distinction that included traveling to San Francisco to visit my friend Monika. Monika and I were good friends in college. We even lived in the same house for more than a year. We've only gotten together a couple of times since I moved here, one of the sad truths of busy lives and the way social networking has replaced face time. But it is fun to get together with an old friend and interact as though the last decade never happened. Monika still remembers me as the naive Utah girl who embarked on daylong slickrock canyoneering adventures wearing jeans and Sketchers. I remember her as the funny Slovakian who was one of the only friends willing to join my more harebrained adventure ideas, such as climbing Mount Timpanogos in the middle of the night. We treat each other as though we were still the same vivacious 20-somethings, and it's fun.

Monika invited me to breakfast on Saturday morning and asked if I wanted to join her and her friends who were visiting from North Carolina for "this bluegrass festival." I pictured a small gathering in Golden Gate Park where I could lounge in a camp chair and chat with my friends. I honestly had no knowledge or concept of Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, a massive annual music festival that draws upwards of 750,000 people over three days. I didn't have any idea that I'd be pressed into a crowd near the stage during a Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard duo, or that I'd be dancing on the periphery during a Broke Social Scene set (one of my favorite indie rock bands), or giving up all hope and plopping down near several sketchy-looking men who launched into random, screaming rants during Gillian Welch. I used to be a big live music fan but realized some years back that I actually don't like feeling trapped by swarming masses of humanity. Now I've apparently fallen so far off the bandwagon that I wasn't even aware this huge free music festival was happening this weekend. It was a treat to experience, but exhausting. Monika would ply me for tips on how I could "run all day" and I would insist that ultrarunning was easier and less harrowing than waiting in line for the port-a-potty, which, between the four of us, we spent most of the day doing anyway.

Then we waited in line for the train. I saw the line of festival-goers at the train stop and asked my friends to consider walking home. They protested that Monika's house was "across town," which I knew in urban-speak basically meant five or six miles. The crowd grew and I tried begging, to no avail. We ended up waiting nearly an hour to be wedged in a train so full of bodies that I could feel two different strangers' breath on my neck, then had to catch a connector train that was similarly crowded and slow. It took us more than two hours to travel "across town." There are a lot of aspects of San Francisco that I appreciate. I like the cables strung over buildings like a crackling spider web. I like eating Guatemalan food at a heavily decorated storefront in the Mission district and almost feeling like I'd traveled to central America. But I'm glad I live farther away from the crowds, closer to more sweeping trails and even some small mountains, in the burbs — or, as the city people I met on Saturday put it, "Oh, wow, way down there" as though I lived in Mexico and not Los Altos. I guess if you're used to spending two hours using public transportation for a five-mile commute, then Los Altos would seem impossibly far.

Today it rained for the first time in a few months, a long-awaited weather event that I was thrilled about. I only had time for an hour-long run before dark, so I headed to Rancho, thinking I would do my usual five-mile loop. But I was running so strong up the PG&E trail that I decided to continue up to the top, a seriously steep four-mile climb, then launched down the other side of the ridge as rain pelted down. The trail was deliciously sticky, covered in a thick moon-dust paste that clung to my shoes, but it was worth it. I felt like I was running on the moon, light and fast without worrying whether my feet were going to slide into gravity's gravel purgatory after every step. At one point I looked down at my GPS and saw "holy cow sub-seven-minute mile!" so I picked up the pace even more. I still made it back before dark, just barely, having run nearly twice as far as I'd planned to run.

I missed the rain more than I realized.

Thanks, Mr. UPS guy

It was going to be my first mountain bike ride since Aug. 10. As it turned out, I didn't have time for the ride I originally planned, so I would have to settle on my usual, the Steven's Creek loop. It's the route I always fall back on and subsequently crashed on seven weeks ago. I'd been looking forward to getting back at it, but I'd be lying if I said I felt excited for this particular ride. More like dread.

I felt the tell-tale lead weight in my legs as I churned up the paved Monte Bello Road. It was a humid day and far from clear; a brown haze hovered over the Silicon Valley. Sweat beaded on my arms as I sucked the thick air, which felt to me like 110 degrees but was probably closer to 80. A brown truck rumbled past, heading toward the wineries that dot this narrow, dead-end road. The grade steepened and light-headedness set in; it felt to me like 11,000 feet elevation but in reality was still under 2,000. The brown truck emerged from a driveway and passed again. I thought about the trail runs I did this week and the current condition of the trails — loose gravel with nothing left to hold it together because all of the dirt had been churned up and dehydrated to a fine moon dust. The result was a little like a teflon-coated baking sheet spread with granola and topped in several inches of powdered sugar. A slippery, skidding mess on descents and churning, slipping grind on the climbs, and if I fell there were only sharp things to land on. My riding confidence is already shattered and these chunder trails don't seem like the best place to pick up the pieces. But they're what I have to work with, for now.

Today, however, I just wasn't feeling it. I was already hot and tired and the mountain biking hadn't even begun. My GPS was running and the numbers weren't good. This just wasn't my day. I resolved to finish the paved climb and then turn around. I would ride trails another day. Maybe on Sunday. Or next week.

The brown truck passed again, and this time the driver stopped the vehicle beside me. I put my foot down and looked up at the UPS guy, expecting him to shout at me for obstructing the narrow road with my bicycle. Instead, he was smiling. "You're toasting this climb," he said enthusiastically. "I don't often see mountain bikes up here that are really ripping it up."

For a second or two, I just looked at him. Who me? I glanced back to make sure he was definitely talking to me. Had he even been up Monte Bello before? Had he actually seen other cyclists riding up this road? I personally had ridden this thing at least 25 percent faster in the past, but today I was just a plodding, tired slowpoke. I didn't really know what to say. "Wow, um, thanks."

"You gonna ride down the trails?" he asked.

"Um, yes," I said. "Heading down Steven's Creek Canyon."

"Awesome," the UPS guy said. "Rip it!"

And with that, he continued up the road. I plodded after him and watched him turn into another driveway. I had at that point only about a half mile to the end of the pavement. But I could hardly turn around then. The UPS driver would see me retreating down the road. And anyway, he had such a big smile on his face. He told me to rip it. Secretly, I hoped he wasn't talking about my skin. But his enthusiasm was infectious.

I rode the loop. It wasn't that bad. I didn't exactly rip it. I was overcautious and poky. But I had fun. And I got my Steven's Creek crash demon out of the way. I'm one ride closer to rebuilding my confidence. I'm glad I went. Thanks, Mr. UPS guy.

Redwoods road ride

Big Basin Redwoods State Park

I didn't actually mean to binge on this much road biking this week. I blame jet lag, which wrestles me awake well before sunrise each morning, and a bit of writer's block, which makes me feel reluctant to return home to my computer. It's not that I'm necessarily stuck with my project, it's just that I've forgotten where I'm going with it. It's a bit frustrating, staring at blank screens, tapping out a few sentences and then erasing them. I want to reset my mind, and anyway I have that 25-hour bike race to train for. So I take to the road.

I winced as I placed my sore sit bones on the saddle this morning; of all the body parts that have fallen out of shape since my August bike crash, my suddenly sensitive butt is the most noticeable. I rode 40 miles and Monday and 45 yesterday, both with 4,000-plus feet of climbing, so I decided I'd take it easy today. I brought one water bottle and no food. The sun burned hot even at 8 a.m., foreshadowing the 95 degrees it would hit later in the day. I motored up Highway 9, feeling strong. An hour and a half later at the crest of the climb, without even really deciding too, I kept going.

Who's a big tree?

Miles sure go by fast when you're coasting downhill. I knocked off six miles and launched into a new climb, again, without really making a conscious decision to do so. Twenty miles and about 3,500 feet of climbing into my ride, I placed my water bottle to my lips and found it was empty. So I had no choice but to descend to the nearest water source — the headquarters of Big Basin Redwoods State Park.

I've never even ridden down into Big Basin before, which is inexcusable, really, because it's so close to my house and such a great route for beauty, climbing and solitude. On a weekday morning, you'd never even guess you were in the midst of one of the largest population centers in California. I saw exactly two cars, and had the rest of the narrow, shady, steep roller coaster of a road all to myself.

The unobstructed view from Highway 236

See what I mean? Forest as far as the eyes can see. And this is about halfway between San Jose and Santa Cruz as the seagull flies. It's all open land — a sliver of small mountains that people nearly forgot. Except for, of course, the loggers who deforested this area about a century ago. The entire Bay-area coastline is second-growth forest at best, but the region still contains a few stunning redwood trees that loomed like towers over my tiny bicycle. I loved this ride, and never even really noticed the effort, that is, until I ran out of water again near the crest of the final climb, and my toes developed a sharp ache from too many hours in road shoes. (Even though it's been two and a half years since I had frostbite, my right toes can still only tolerate about three hours in hard-soled clipless shoes before I develop excruciating pressure pains.)

I ended the ride at 53 miles and 7,345 feet of climbing, which is way more than I intended or really felt necessary. (Garmin map here) But at the same time, I almost wish I took the initiative (brought more water and food) to ride even farther. Sometime soon I'd love to ride all the way down to Santa Cruz, a coastal town I'm ashamed to admit I have not yet visited. The road riding opportunities in this region really are sublime, which helps temper my reluctance to get back on my mountain bike. (I know, I know. I need to get over this. But there hasn't been a significant rainstorm since June, and the trails were moon-dust on top of loose gravel before the elapsed six weeks of continuing, persistent dryness.) But I can't wait for rain forever.