Epic Bike Tour with Black Sheep Adventures
Imagine a travel agent advertising the following:
Let it be known, however, that the week was fabulous and far exceeded my wildest dreams. Albeit physically and psychologically challenging at times, but sooooo worth it. Some nights I went to bed so tired I couldn't hold up my "bobblehead" at dinner, or skipped dinner completely. But that was my loss, because dinner was a great time to reconnect with the other 17 members of the Tour, recount the glories (perceived or real) of that day's stage, replenish the tank for the next, and simply enjoy the company of new friends.
DAY 1: Davis to Oroville (89 miles, minimal elevation change)
After a short drive from Berkeley to Davis, during which I get to spend time with Morgan (hey, that's my middle name!) who is a writer in job transition (yeah, me too), we get our "rules o f the road" speech, fill up our bottles and head out for Day One.
Traveling from the flatlands and headwinds of Davis (a great, bicycle-friendly college town that even has a bicycle in it's city logo, and is located just outside of Sacramento) up to the gold-rush town of Oroville (which is known as The City of Gold) on the first day, the mantra of the group is, "oh, no, not another right turn!" Every left translates to a tailwind, as in, "ahhhhh, push me along mighty wind!"
and every right turn the opposite. Except, a headwind feels unequivocally harder than the simple opposite of a gentle push - more like riding into a wall. I am always dead last, barely able to hold the wheel of a generous rider, Andrea, looking out for me.
I am so excited to be done with the wind on this first day that I head straight to the pool in full cycling kit. Okay, I remove my helmet before diving in. This antic will become both my nightly reward for finishing and an easy way to rinse the salt and sweat out of my clothes, shoes and bike gloves. Chlorine = sanitation = clean laundry, right?
We finish the evening with a trip to one of two dining choices in Oroville. If you've seen the 1976 western, The Outlaw Josey Wales, which is filmed here in Oroville, then you have a good sense of the slim pickings in this quaint, but quiet town.
At one point in time, there was a population of 10,000 Chinese living here; by 2007 the choices are more reflective of its wild west roots. We were lucky, then, to steer toward a small Thai restaurant in a strip mall.
The Thai buffet is a hilarious and tasty decision, and a profitable one for the owners given our numbers. Speaking of numbers, they instruct us to order our entrees by number, but they then deliver them by name (which, more often than not, does not correspond to the entree we had actually ordered). This mishap works in favor of Fred (our fearless Tour Leader, and founder of Black Sheep Adventures), who manages to gobble down all of the misplaced meals and then some. At 6'7", his voracious appetite can be forgiven.
DAY 2: Oroville to Quincy (73 miles, 10,300 ft gained, 7,100 ft lost)
I wake on the second day eager to run. It is in the low 50s and there is a park with two lakes just steps out of our hotel. I discover the park after running in circles trying to lead a kitten back home (it's 4:30am and I can't even see what house the cat has come from). The kitty finally tires out, and I find the park. It is a glorious reminder that my body can do what I want it to (unlike day one!). After changing into my cycling shorts, refilling the tires and refueling my inner tank, I am content to jump back on the bike a bit before 7am.
Running on the morning of what turns out to be the hardest day is not the wisest choice, perhaps, but ignorance can be bliss. My bliss, though, diminishes significantly as we climb out of Oroville along logging roads that seem to only go upwards toward Quincy. My only time in Quincy before this trip was back in 1997 when I suffered at a triathlon in the cold of nearby (alpine) Lake Almanor.
I'm hoping for better memories this time around.
The drive (and ride) to Quincy is gorgeous, but filled with a lot of climbing and few places to stop and replenish. Good thing for the sag vehicles...we need the water and the food on this hot, hilly day. Whether we eat out of the back of Fred's van, or the rented Jeep Commander driven by our Counselor-In-Training (as it did feel a bit like an S&M Summer Camp), Mike Logsdon, we are grateful for the food! Although his expression lies, Himgan never tasted a better power bar. The crew is super supportive, even reapplying sunscreen to the blistered back of poor Sarah.
I thank God that when we finish a refreshing descent into Quincy (with a surprising and F-L-A-S-H-Y show of hospitality by Mike the C.I.T.), the great organic, locally-grown food and multitude of draft local beers awaits us at the Pangea Cafe and Pub.
For a population of just around 2,000, Quincy boasts a selection of high-quality restaurants and a lovely bed and breakfast, appropriately called The Sporting Inn. My week-long roomie, Laura, and I share the Kokopelli-themed room. One of Laura's favorite memories of the trip is, I think, the plush terry robes waiting for us here. They're nice robes, but come on, we've got to get this woman out more.
After a shower and nap, we move on to dinner and a much entertaining story of bear evasion and other antics experienced on Mike's
13.5-month fundraising cycling trip from Alaska to Argentina (16,000 miles over the length of the Americas). Mike and his brother, John, have a great site called Spinning Southward, where you can learn more about the trip, their mission, the need for greater brain tumor research (the loss of their mother, Jean, to a brain tumor was the inspiration of this journey) and the National Brain Tumor Foundation, where Mike now works.
We all hit our lovely beds good and tired while the proprietor of the B&B gets busy preparing a sumptuous breakfast for the next morning.
DAY 3: Quincy to Tahoe City (87 miles, 7,400 ft gained, 4,600 ft lost)
Not knowing the worst is behind me, I admittedly wake in, to quote Phil Liggett the famous cycling commentator, “a spot of bother” wondering how I will fare on this, our third day. (I grew up in a neurotic family. Sorry.) The day ends up being one of the most glorious. Still challenging, but my legs are finally adjusting to the terrain, my sit-bones seem to be responding to the ibuprofren more readily, and the alpine vistas up Highway 89 are absolutely breathtaking.
Bubba and I experience our first above-the-tree-line ride as a team, creating switch-backs (which she likes to call figure-8s). Lucky for us, the roads are mostly empty and we can meander across the double yellow (when there is one). While the riders at the front of the pack just hit the hill straight-on and make faster time, our switchbacking method saves our knees, backs and spirits. Theoretically, anyway. You wouldn't know from my whining...and I'm the younger one of us two. Pathetic.
Mark (a masseuse, swim coach and all-around great guy) and Himgan (you'll meet him later) play a most insane game of tag while ascending the hills today. You've got to be kidding me, chasing each other up the mountains trying to tag other riders. Glad someone is enjoying the climb!!!
Overall, day three is a gorgeous and pleasant day in the saddle. Coming into Tahoe City, I feel strong and excited knowing the next day is our "play" day to do with as we will. My reverie is temporarily hampered by a merciless headwind that makes the final miles on Highway 50 past Squaw seem like the longest, sloggiest miles of the day.
But we survive (you already knew that) with a bit of cursing and grunting (that may come as a surprise unless you know my penchant for the f-bomb) and are rewarded with a smooth four miles on bike path along the Truckee River to our hotel just off the west shore of Lake Tahoe.
That jump into the pool post-ride is by far the best yet. And Judy's (Wendy's partner, who is a medical doctor with great hands) massage is too decadent. Life is, indeed, good.
A little background here for those who are not familiar with Lake Tahoe and the Tahoe Basin region that straddles northern California and the Reno area of Nevada:
The area was formed by a combination of earthquakes (two major fault lines run north/south underground), volcanic eruptions and glacial formation millions of years ago. There is an abundance of fascinating geologic history of Tahoe online.
Lake Tahoe is 22 miles long and l2 miles wide with 72 miles of shoreline. It is the third-deepest lake in North America, tenth-deepest in the world, and has an average depth of 1,645 feet. In the summer, parts of the lake warm to about 70 degrees farenheit, but at depth, the lake is a constant 39 degrees! It is surrounded by pristine wilderness and a multitude of ski resorts that are great for hiking and mountain biking in the warmer temps.
DAY 4: Tahoe City Play Day!
Good morning happy day! You know that feeling you have after a really grueling experience…whether from exercise, an arduous day at work, or a day spent with someone that drives you nuts…and you finally get to rest, to breathe, to be free? That’s how I feel waking on day four. Don’t get me wrong, the previous days of riding were not to be missed and I would do them all over again in a heartbeat. Yes, I’d pay to do them all over again! But there is something so extra sweet in the joy of the day after a hard-won accomplishment.
Waking early on Wednesday with an instant awareness of what I want to do with my rest day, I head out into the mid-40-degree morning to find it. My wish: to conquer Squaw. On foot, in the summer. No skis, no chair lifts, no downhills until the end.
Taking that lovely four-mile stretch of smooth bike path along the Truckee River back to the base of Squaw, my cycling legs become running legs once again, finding their old-familiar groove and stride. At first my lungs strain a bit under the assault of the altitude (or maybe it is the cold), but even they soon adjust. This is my rest day and all, how dare they complain?
Squaw is a ski resort where the winter Olympics were held in 1960. Considered one of the more gorgeous and challenging of the Tahoe peaks, Squaw tops out at just under 9,000 feet. The famous Western States 100 Mile Endurance Trail Run starts at its base each summer, taking some of the fittest and most inspiring and inspired athletes south to Auburn, California. One day I hope to claim to have run the full Western States race, but for now I am hoping to settle for the peak that rises above it.
Without a map, I simply follow what looks to be the right trails. The deer seem to like the path I am on, and it is certainly going in the right direction longitudinally. After more than an hour of vertical climbing that at times requires me to squat down and hold onto the hillside lest I fall backwards from the dizzying altitude gain and loose-dirt terrain, I reach some peak. What peak? Turns out I’ve run up Red Dog Face and along Red Dog Ridge to the top of KT-22 at 8,200 feet.
I learn this after straining to read the Squaw ski map standing at least 15 feet overhead (normally closer to eye level, but I lack all those feet of packed snow to serve as raised platform).
Hey, this is pretty cool, me and the top of the chair lifts that didn't carry me to this height. I’ve always wanted to navigate KT-22, but as a novice skier I know I'd likely not come up here on skis anytime soon.
Bad news: there is no obvious lateral path to my Squaw Peak destination. It may be only 700 feet higher than where I’m at but, Damn! I’ll need to go back down some before I can ascend my goal.
After much sliding down on my butt (to save turned ankles on the falling dirt and rocks beneath me), and climbing back up another, longer, steeper slope, I overshoot Squaw by going too far east. How the heck did that happen? I mean, how does one miss the highest peak? Leave it to me. For a really cool 360 degree view from on top of the mountain, go to Squaw’s map page.
Damn twice! Now out of fluids and without much desire left to slide down the mountain two more times, I decide to cut my losses and head toward high camp. Yes, on my ass, but at least it’s for the last time today.
At high camp in the winter I’ve enjoyed the beauty of an alpine Olympic ice pavilion and the views of snow-covered peaks for miles around. On this trip, I’m the only person not paid to be there, and either because they want to keep a close eye on me or because they take pity on me, the cable car
operators offer me a free lift down the mountain along with the park police and their bomb-sniffing shepherds. This is America today - even the ski slopes in winter are bomb-patrolled, but the guys are friendly to the dust-covered running girl.
At the ski village below, I’m rewarded with stares and pointing of fingers by the well-heeled (also a comment on the American non-appreciation of the outdoors-type) who can afford to stay at (or, even more impressively, own) a Squaw property.
More my speed is Jake the shuttle driver who strikes up conversation while I’m refilling my water bottle. Born and raised in Brooklyn, we fall instantly into easy report, trading insights of life near Manhattan versus life in northern California. Not surprisingly we come to similar conclusions – the City is great to visit, and we’re proud to say we’re “from there,” but California is paradise.
Just a bit over five miles back to the hotel, my tightened chest and legs relax a bit on the rolling terrain home, glad to have claimed I ran Squaw, and equally glad to know the rest day will now be doubly sweet.
Back at home, most of the gang has by now left for lunch and/or a long hike along the west coast of Tahoe (Rubicon Trail to Emerald Bay). The few of us who are left behind decide to drive over to Incline Village and check out a dining spot Doug and I have been to on a few occasions. The Lone Eagle Grille at the Hyatt Regency Lake Tahoe sits right on Crystal Bay, with cathedral ceilings and multi-story windows. The menu is diverse enough to meet most needs and the ambiance is warm and romantic on a winter evening with the indoor fireplace or outdoor beach fire pit aflame. (The photo below is from the Hyatt's website.)
Our lunch crew includes: Mike, our trusty C.I.T.; Himgan, the group’s light and quick King of the Mountains (had we bestowed such a title, it would be all his), is a creative guy who designs the consumer interface for technology companies like Sony; and Andrea, his girlfriend, who offered me her draft on day-one and who, when not on her bike, is pursuing a PhD in biophysics at UC Berkeley studying the immune response to the Herpes virus; and Becky, a massage therapist specializing in eastern practices like acupressure (who met Fred on the previous year’s Black Sheep Adventures epic tour and they have been dating ever since).
Becky is training to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro over New Years 2008. The trip is being organized by Alice Hiatt, who created a non-profit organization called Hope Through Opportunity that will be sending its 5th 40ft container to the Huruma Hospital in Tanzania, East Africa. The money and material items raised by Becky and the climbing team will help the hospital serve the sick, injured, and dying as well as provide for about 400 orphans. To find out more about the effort and what you can do to help, go to Becky’s donation page.
After lunch, we head back along the north shore to Kings Beach, where we eat gelato and take naps under the redwoods by the beach.
I receive an extra creamy blessing from a bird that decides to plant one on my forehead. This makes for a lot of laughs, most especially by me. I am disappointed it isn’t messier in the photos. It felt messier, let me tell you.
We briefly consider renting one of the beach/water "tricycles" just so we can claim we've ridden bikes even on our rest day, but the inspiration is fleeting (and pricey).
As the day comes to an end, the crew gathers out in the parking lot to perform some basic maintenance many of us have neglected (like cleaning and re-greasing the chain, dealing with derailleur issues), while we review the next day’s adventure. Each night (and often again at breakfast), Fred leads us through the directions and ride profile so that we can minimize as many navigational challenges as possible. Also, for those not riding (like Bubba’s partner, Judy), it’s an opportunity to check out the hiking options and make plans for when and where to meet up with the Tour staff.
What’s a rest day without a lot of food? So we finish it all off with a community meal at a Tahoe City Mexican joint called the Blue Agave. Fun and festive, we eat heartily knowing that we head higher into the Sierras tomorrow.
DAY 5: Tahoe City to Markleeville (64 miles, 5,100 ft gained, 5,800 ft lost)
Heading south on an extension of the bike path paralleling Highway 89 we skirt the western rim of Lake Tahoe. With the sparkling blue water, moored boats and private beaches sometimes just 10 feet to our left, and under gently undulating path canopied by redwoods, it’s like nowhere I’ve ridden before. By far the most pleasant and easy start we’ve had yet, this is a good re-introduction to the bike after our day of rest.
The climbing eventually starts up again as we near the southern tip of the Tahoe, climbing up above Emerald Lake to an incredible vista that floats above the water. On one side, hundreds of feet below we see Emerald Bay and the expanse of Lake Tahoe, to our right another drop-off to Cascade Lake. Riding on this ridge between the two bodies of water, the road - narrow but wide-open under a blue sky - becomes one of the most awe-inspiring and memorable aspects of the week’s journey. The descent on smooth road with mostly-visible turns is fast and steep – thrilling, to say the least.
Bubba, Jerry (who works for NASA and loves to ride motorcyles, but owns more REAL bikes than a small-town bike shop) and I stop in South Lake Tahoe at a coffee shop and Internet café so I can finalize my negotiations with my new job back in Manhattan at Meredith Corporation, a magazine publisher. Jerry disdainfully rejects his mocha (hello, we are not in Berkeley anymore, Dorothy) and we soon cross the state line into Nevada. My Nevada welcome present comes in the form of a staple through my rear tire, but I've got a spare tube so no big. Of course, I initially put the rear wheel on backwards and wonder why my chain won't catch. I've now admitted it to the world (or that part of the world actually reading this). Don't worry, I got my wits about me and put the wheel on properly.
Heading east on Route 207, we climb out of the congested and casino-laden, high-traffic downtown and begin our climb into the Eastern Sierra Nevada foothills. Fred has warned us that there is some steep climbing ahead made further challenging by the lack of shoulder and activve road construction to come. Fearing we may need a lift in sections where the narrow road would inhibit our switch-backing (Bubba’s “figure 8s”), we are pleasantly surprised to climb without issue and reach Daggett Summit (7,334 feet) unassisted and in great spirits.
After an 8-mile descent lays Carson City, Nevada and a mostly-flat finish into Markleeville after crossing back into California. A shorter day in the saddle of just 64 miles and not too many hours, today’s ride feels to many of us like an extension of the rest day prior (how soon we forget that while climbing to Daggett Summit, it didn’t feel very restful).
Unless you’ve ridden the infamous Death Ride you probably have never visited Markleeville. A town of under 100 households,
founded during the silver-rush in the mid-1800s, it is a one-block town, quaint and far removed from cell and Internet service. What a blessing! We are further rewarded with a trip to Grover Hot Springs State Park, just a few miles from our very lovely cabins at Creekside Lodge.
After soaking in the hot springs (oscillating between the truly-hot tub to the more moderately-warm pool), Fred and Mike usher us back to Markleeville, where many of us gather for a pre-dinner story-telling session in the breezeway between our rooms. We eventually meander all of ten feet to the only restaurant in town, the Wolfcreek Restaurant and Cutthroat Saloon next door to our lodge. Fred’s dad, a former park ranger who lives in nearby Carson City, joins us for dinner and we all shower him with praise for raising such a great kid. Laura loves the mashed potatoes. I have to say, I ate portions of the spuds off multiple plates.
The only downer to this great day is, for me, the discovery that my bike can go no further without serious surgery. The shifters have broken and although Fred valiantly drives it to various far-off mechanics, it needs more attention than we can give it overnight. Before heading to bed, I resolve to turn bike despair into running glory and face the devil of Ebbett’s Pass on foot Friday morning.
DAY 6: Markleeville to Murphys (74 miles, 7,100 ft gained, 10,400 ft lost)
First off, if you haven’t visited Alpine County, add it to your list. According to one website, "Alpine County has no high schools, fast food restaurants, convenience stores, or theaters; no hospitals, no dentists, no resident physicians, no supermarket, no malls, no automobile service stations, and no traffic lights." It has the smallest population of all counties in California and is as gorgeous as its Alpine name would suggest. With snow-covered high peaks for a good half of every year, Alpine County is rugged and remote – an oasis from what many of us face in our day-to-day lives. On Friday, day six, we are going to reach for some of its highest peaks and make our way through Bear Valley (another popular ski community, although much smaller than Tahoe) toward Murphy's.
Today’s plan: head up State Route 4 from Markleeville at 5,550 ft to the top of Ebbett's Pass of Death Ride fame at 8,732 ft. Just a few thousand feet, no big deal, except that we’re already at altitude and we have nineteen miles between here and there. Fortunately for me, this is the only pass I’m climbing today. My cyclist compadres, after a fun descent into Hermit Valley, are continuing on up the even steeper Pacific Grade (which tops out at lower elevation than Ebbett’s, but has a steeper gradient over a shorter distance). Seems to me that by running, I’m getting off easy.
I’m so restless with anticipation of today’s big run I catch only glimpses of sleep, woken from dreams of running with animals and swimming in rivers. A bit of anxiety weighs on me, as well – wondering what I’ve forgotten to plan for, wondering if the ever-aggravating plantar fascitis in my left foot will become debilitating. Anything I haven’t thought of before going to bed, oh well. It’s too early to wake up the crew for Gatorade at 3:30am and, oh yeah, I didn’t think of needing a flashlight.
I grew up in the suburbs of New York City and thought I knew what a summer night in the country meant: the sound of crickets, a starry sky and warm, moist air. A summer night in Alpine County, California is darker, more mysterious and certainly not as warm or moist as I anticipated. Without any street lights within an hour’s drive, at least, it is dark. It’s so dark that I can’t even make out the double yellow down the center of State Route 4. The sound of the creek running to my right keeps me from falling off the side of the road, and as I get within a few feet of the boulders to my left I manage to find a path running against traffic (as if there were any). The sounds of my feet thuck, thuck, thucking (flapping from my heavy footfalls and altitude-ascending effort) drown out the crickets and any other wildlife I might hear. Having seen a bear and its cub in town the evening before, I am reminded that it’s best to make a lot of noise and seem big when encountering such animals. Being that it’s so dark, I am hoping that my thucking footsteps, the sloshing of water in my hydration pack and my labored attempt to sing scare off whomever is out there watching me.
Within a couple of miles, I become lost in my own world and stop singing, stop thinking about the bears or the drop-off. The darkness of the night is a gift, really. I am transported to an inner quiet without conscious thought or effort. My body just moves, and my breathing and running carry on without me. Feelings of gratitude, sadness, joy, doubt, pride all pass through. Prayers for my friend, Marian, who lays dying in Oakland, pass through my mind.
Logistically, my immediate plan is to get as far up the pass as possible before C.I.T. Mike and Judy (heading out for her hike) come driving by. For I know that once they pass me, it’s after 7am and the cyclists will begin heading out from breakfast. I figure it will take me at least three hours to climb to the top, but the cyclists can do it in an hour and a half. I want to reach the top either just before them (so my sweat doesn’t begin to chill me while waiting) or just after them, so that the support crew (Fred and Mike) don’t have to wait for me.
Did I mention I don’t have a watch with me? Yeah, I own this great Suunto Advisor with the standard capabilities like time (what will they think of next?) and stopwatch, but it also has an altimeter with descent and ascent rates, a barometer, compass and heart rate monitor. I forgot to bring a replacement battery and the watch has been dead since day one in Davis. Mike and Judy passing me by in the Jeep Commander will have to serve as my guide.
My second goal is to let my riding partner Bubba know I’m with her all the way, even though we’re not riding together today. The fallen granite at the side of the road serves as an imperfect writing tool to mark up the road like on all great mountain passes cyclists traverse. I estimate that I can give away two ten-minute stops toward writing my encouragement on the road as long as I squat, not bend over. My blood pressure tends to run low as it is, and I don’t need to add the dizzying effect of bending over and standing up repeatedly to my potential for fainting.
After passing the intersection with Highway 89, I know that I’ve gone about 5 miles and it’s still pitch-black, so I must be making decent time. Once light comes, I can afford my first sign-making venture.
As the morning’s dawn begins to light my way, it's time for the first rock-writing session. The writing is harder than I think – both not to keep from getting dizzy and to use the stones as chalk. By the end, my hands are raw, my knees are mottled from leaning on the gravel road and I’m not even sure the "BUBBA” is legible. Oh, well. I tried.*
By the time I begin running again, I slowly regain my stride and soon I can see the faint outline of the white line on the side of the road. Not long after, I can see the towering granite outcroppings, volcanic peaks and giant sequoias pass by. I realize what beauty I am running beside and wonder wistfully what I have missed by heading out so early.
The first car of the day drives by and I notice a sparsely occupied campsite to my right. I pass by a sign marking the 7,000 foot elevation mark and I still feel really good. This is going better than I anticipated! Of course, just when you think that way, the universe bites into your pride and I hit a humbling switchback up which I am tempted to walk. The sun is now above the horizon and I can see the glory of the peaks and woods all around me. Wow. This is incredible. I’m grateful I’m on my feet, going slowly, so I can really enjoy the view.
Fortunately it’s during one of these highs that I hear the Jeep Commander following behind me, which I turn to greet and run up backwards for a few steps smiling and waving. Mike and Judy slow down long enough to see if I need anything (“new legs?” I ask) and for me to ask how far up we are. “About 13 miles,” Mike replies. I’m happy and sad at the same time. Grateful to be almost three quarters done because it means I’m running the pace I had hoped, but sad because it means it will soon be over. I warn them that the next time Mike comes by, as he drives back to the start to support the cyclists, he may find me walking. I say this to give myself permission to walk if necessary, but also as incentive not to walk. I'm a bit crazy that way. Later when Mike drives back down, luckily for my psyche, I'm not walking.
My run has now shifted back into more familiar territory. No longer a solitary, into-the-dark-night-of-the-soul journey, it is now of bright sunlight, hunger and sweat as the miles start to take their toll. My focus becomes less interior and more on how my camelback is rubbing my shoulder and my left foot is throbbing. The miles become more laborious and I start to doubt I’ll make it to the top before the crew arrives.
Just when the questions begin to infiltrate, I pass by a lake to my right and know this is my sign it’s only a mile or two to go. Amazing how this knowledge shifts everything – doubts fade and my legs pick-up pace. I become aware of how far I was leaning forward and regain a more upright posture. My feet shuffle less and actually completely leave the ground at times.
Before I know it, I see the Ebbett’s Pass Summit sign. Wow! That wasn’t bad at all!
"Climb over 35,000 feet in elevation and scream down another 40,000 in elevation loss over six days in Northern California! Plan to eat a lot of Gu, Cliff Bars and bags of peanuts and M&Ms. Blister in the hot sun, soak in yellow-colored hot springs, and spend countless hours fighting your inner demons through the Sierras!"I admit, spending a week grinding gears over intimidating terrain, and paying for it (even flying me and my bike all the way to California...) wouldn't have been my first choice for a vacation. I'm nearly broke and coming off a four-month stint in a difficult work situation. But, it's the year that Bubba turns 50 (and I turn 35!), and I agreed that this, the 3rd Annual Epic Bike Tour of California, hosted by Black Sheep Adventures, would be our joint birthday celebration. Truth be told, I'm more of a runner than a rider, and I was a bit anxious I wouldn't enjoy all that time in the saddle.
Let it be known, however, that the week was fabulous and far exceeded my wildest dreams. Albeit physically and psychologically challenging at times, but sooooo worth it. Some nights I went to bed so tired I couldn't hold up my "bobblehead" at dinner, or skipped dinner completely. But that was my loss, because dinner was a great time to reconnect with the other 17 members of the Tour, recount the glories (perceived or real) of that day's stage, replenish the tank for the next, and simply enjoy the company of new friends.
DAY 1: Davis to Oroville (89 miles, minimal elevation change)
After a short drive from Berkeley to Davis, during which I get to spend time with Morgan (hey, that's my middle name!) who is a writer in job transition (yeah, me too), we get our "rules o f the road" speech, fill up our bottles and head out for Day One.
Traveling from the flatlands and headwinds of Davis (a great, bicycle-friendly college town that even has a bicycle in it's city logo, and is located just outside of Sacramento) up to the gold-rush town of Oroville (which is known as The City of Gold) on the first day, the mantra of the group is, "oh, no, not another right turn!" Every left translates to a tailwind, as in, "ahhhhh, push me along mighty wind!"
and every right turn the opposite. Except, a headwind feels unequivocally harder than the simple opposite of a gentle push - more like riding into a wall. I am always dead last, barely able to hold the wheel of a generous rider, Andrea, looking out for me.I am so excited to be done with the wind on this first day that I head straight to the pool in full cycling kit. Okay, I remove my helmet before diving in. This antic will become both my nightly reward for finishing and an easy way to rinse the salt and sweat out of my clothes, shoes and bike gloves. Chlorine = sanitation = clean laundry, right?
We finish the evening with a trip to one of two dining choices in Oroville. If you've seen the 1976 western, The Outlaw Josey Wales, which is filmed here in Oroville, then you have a good sense of the slim pickings in this quaint, but quiet town.
At one point in time, there was a population of 10,000 Chinese living here; by 2007 the choices are more reflective of its wild west roots. We were lucky, then, to steer toward a small Thai restaurant in a strip mall.The Thai buffet is a hilarious and tasty decision, and a profitable one for the owners given our numbers. Speaking of numbers, they instruct us to order our entrees by number, but they then deliver them by name (which, more often than not, does not correspond to the entree we had actually ordered). This mishap works in favor of Fred (our fearless Tour Leader, and founder of Black Sheep Adventures), who manages to gobble down all of the misplaced meals and then some. At 6'7", his voracious appetite can be forgiven.
DAY 2: Oroville to Quincy (73 miles, 10,300 ft gained, 7,100 ft lost)
I wake on the second day eager to run. It is in the low 50s and there is a park with two lakes just steps out of our hotel. I discover the park after running in circles trying to lead a kitten back home (it's 4:30am and I can't even see what house the cat has come from). The kitty finally tires out, and I find the park. It is a glorious reminder that my body can do what I want it to (unlike day one!). After changing into my cycling shorts, refilling the tires and refueling my inner tank, I am content to jump back on the bike a bit before 7am.
Running on the morning of what turns out to be the hardest day is not the wisest choice, perhaps, but ignorance can be bliss. My bliss, though, diminishes significantly as we climb out of Oroville along logging roads that seem to only go upwards toward Quincy. My only time in Quincy before this trip was back in 1997 when I suffered at a triathlon in the cold of nearby (alpine) Lake Almanor.
I'm hoping for better memories this time around.The drive (and ride) to Quincy is gorgeous, but filled with a lot of climbing and few places to stop and replenish. Good thing for the sag vehicles...we need the water and the food on this hot, hilly day. Whether we eat out of the back of Fred's van, or the rented Jeep Commander driven by our Counselor-In-Training (as it did feel a bit like an S&M Summer Camp), Mike Logsdon, we are grateful for the food! Although his expression lies, Himgan never tasted a better power bar. The crew is super supportive, even reapplying sunscreen to the blistered back of poor Sarah.
I thank God that when we finish a refreshing descent into Quincy (with a surprising and F-L-A-S-H-Y show of hospitality by Mike the C.I.T.), the great organic, locally-grown food and multitude of draft local beers awaits us at the Pangea Cafe and Pub.
For a population of just around 2,000, Quincy boasts a selection of high-quality restaurants and a lovely bed and breakfast, appropriately called The Sporting Inn. My week-long roomie, Laura, and I share the Kokopelli-themed room. One of Laura's favorite memories of the trip is, I think, the plush terry robes waiting for us here. They're nice robes, but come on, we've got to get this woman out more.
After a shower and nap, we move on to dinner and a much entertaining story of bear evasion and other antics experienced on Mike's
13.5-month fundraising cycling trip from Alaska to Argentina (16,000 miles over the length of the Americas). Mike and his brother, John, have a great site called Spinning Southward, where you can learn more about the trip, their mission, the need for greater brain tumor research (the loss of their mother, Jean, to a brain tumor was the inspiration of this journey) and the National Brain Tumor Foundation, where Mike now works.We all hit our lovely beds good and tired while the proprietor of the B&B gets busy preparing a sumptuous breakfast for the next morning.
DAY 3: Quincy to Tahoe City (87 miles, 7,400 ft gained, 4,600 ft lost)
Not knowing the worst is behind me, I admittedly wake in, to quote Phil Liggett the famous cycling commentator, “a spot of bother” wondering how I will fare on this, our third day. (I grew up in a neurotic family. Sorry.) The day ends up being one of the most glorious. Still challenging, but my legs are finally adjusting to the terrain, my sit-bones seem to be responding to the ibuprofren more readily, and the alpine vistas up Highway 89 are absolutely breathtaking.
Bubba and I experience our first above-the-tree-line ride as a team, creating switch-backs (which she likes to call figure-8s). Lucky for us, the roads are mostly empty and we can meander across the double yellow (when there is one). While the riders at the front of the pack just hit the hill straight-on and make faster time, our switchbacking method saves our knees, backs and spirits. Theoretically, anyway. You wouldn't know from my whining...and I'm the younger one of us two. Pathetic.
Mark (a masseuse, swim coach and all-around great guy) and Himgan (you'll meet him later) play a most insane game of tag while ascending the hills today. You've got to be kidding me, chasing each other up the mountains trying to tag other riders. Glad someone is enjoying the climb!!!
Overall, day three is a gorgeous and pleasant day in the saddle. Coming into Tahoe City, I feel strong and excited knowing the next day is our "play" day to do with as we will. My reverie is temporarily hampered by a merciless headwind that makes the final miles on Highway 50 past Squaw seem like the longest, sloggiest miles of the day.
But we survive (you already knew that) with a bit of cursing and grunting (that may come as a surprise unless you know my penchant for the f-bomb) and are rewarded with a smooth four miles on bike path along the Truckee River to our hotel just off the west shore of Lake Tahoe.
That jump into the pool post-ride is by far the best yet. And Judy's (Wendy's partner, who is a medical doctor with great hands) massage is too decadent. Life is, indeed, good.A little background here for those who are not familiar with Lake Tahoe and the Tahoe Basin region that straddles northern California and the Reno area of Nevada:
The area was formed by a combination of earthquakes (two major fault lines run north/south underground), volcanic eruptions and glacial formation millions of years ago. There is an abundance of fascinating geologic history of Tahoe online.
Lake Tahoe is 22 miles long and l2 miles wide with 72 miles of shoreline. It is the third-deepest lake in North America, tenth-deepest in the world, and has an average depth of 1,645 feet. In the summer, parts of the lake warm to about 70 degrees farenheit, but at depth, the lake is a constant 39 degrees! It is surrounded by pristine wilderness and a multitude of ski resorts that are great for hiking and mountain biking in the warmer temps.
DAY 4: Tahoe City Play Day!
Good morning happy day! You know that feeling you have after a really grueling experience…whether from exercise, an arduous day at work, or a day spent with someone that drives you nuts…and you finally get to rest, to breathe, to be free? That’s how I feel waking on day four. Don’t get me wrong, the previous days of riding were not to be missed and I would do them all over again in a heartbeat. Yes, I’d pay to do them all over again! But there is something so extra sweet in the joy of the day after a hard-won accomplishment.
Waking early on Wednesday with an instant awareness of what I want to do with my rest day, I head out into the mid-40-degree morning to find it. My wish: to conquer Squaw. On foot, in the summer. No skis, no chair lifts, no downhills until the end.
Taking that lovely four-mile stretch of smooth bike path along the Truckee River back to the base of Squaw, my cycling legs become running legs once again, finding their old-familiar groove and stride. At first my lungs strain a bit under the assault of the altitude (or maybe it is the cold), but even they soon adjust. This is my rest day and all, how dare they complain?
Squaw is a ski resort where the winter Olympics were held in 1960. Considered one of the more gorgeous and challenging of the Tahoe peaks, Squaw tops out at just under 9,000 feet. The famous Western States 100 Mile Endurance Trail Run starts at its base each summer, taking some of the fittest and most inspiring and inspired athletes south to Auburn, California. One day I hope to claim to have run the full Western States race, but for now I am hoping to settle for the peak that rises above it.
Without a map, I simply follow what looks to be the right trails. The deer seem to like the path I am on, and it is certainly going in the right direction longitudinally. After more than an hour of vertical climbing that at times requires me to squat down and hold onto the hillside lest I fall backwards from the dizzying altitude gain and loose-dirt terrain, I reach some peak. What peak? Turns out I’ve run up Red Dog Face and along Red Dog Ridge to the top of KT-22 at 8,200 feet.
I learn this after straining to read the Squaw ski map standing at least 15 feet overhead (normally closer to eye level, but I lack all those feet of packed snow to serve as raised platform).Hey, this is pretty cool, me and the top of the chair lifts that didn't carry me to this height. I’ve always wanted to navigate KT-22, but as a novice skier I know I'd likely not come up here on skis anytime soon.
Bad news: there is no obvious lateral path to my Squaw Peak destination. It may be only 700 feet higher than where I’m at but, Damn! I’ll need to go back down some before I can ascend my goal.
After much sliding down on my butt (to save turned ankles on the falling dirt and rocks beneath me), and climbing back up another, longer, steeper slope, I overshoot Squaw by going too far east. How the heck did that happen? I mean, how does one miss the highest peak? Leave it to me. For a really cool 360 degree view from on top of the mountain, go to Squaw’s map page.
Damn twice! Now out of fluids and without much desire left to slide down the mountain two more times, I decide to cut my losses and head toward high camp. Yes, on my ass, but at least it’s for the last time today.
At high camp in the winter I’ve enjoyed the beauty of an alpine Olympic ice pavilion and the views of snow-covered peaks for miles around. On this trip, I’m the only person not paid to be there, and either because they want to keep a close eye on me or because they take pity on me, the cable car
operators offer me a free lift down the mountain along with the park police and their bomb-sniffing shepherds. This is America today - even the ski slopes in winter are bomb-patrolled, but the guys are friendly to the dust-covered running girl.At the ski village below, I’m rewarded with stares and pointing of fingers by the well-heeled (also a comment on the American non-appreciation of the outdoors-type) who can afford to stay at (or, even more impressively, own) a Squaw property.
More my speed is Jake the shuttle driver who strikes up conversation while I’m refilling my water bottle. Born and raised in Brooklyn, we fall instantly into easy report, trading insights of life near Manhattan versus life in northern California. Not surprisingly we come to similar conclusions – the City is great to visit, and we’re proud to say we’re “from there,” but California is paradise.
Just a bit over five miles back to the hotel, my tightened chest and legs relax a bit on the rolling terrain home, glad to have claimed I ran Squaw, and equally glad to know the rest day will now be doubly sweet.
Back at home, most of the gang has by now left for lunch and/or a long hike along the west coast of Tahoe (Rubicon Trail to Emerald Bay). The few of us who are left behind decide to drive over to Incline Village and check out a dining spot Doug and I have been to on a few occasions. The Lone Eagle Grille at the Hyatt Regency Lake Tahoe sits right on Crystal Bay, with cathedral ceilings and multi-story windows. The menu is diverse enough to meet most needs and the ambiance is warm and romantic on a winter evening with the indoor fireplace or outdoor beach fire pit aflame. (The photo below is from the Hyatt's website.)
Our lunch crew includes: Mike, our trusty C.I.T.; Himgan, the group’s light and quick King of the Mountains (had we bestowed such a title, it would be all his), is a creative guy who designs the consumer interface for technology companies like Sony; and Andrea, his girlfriend, who offered me her draft on day-one and who, when not on her bike, is pursuing a PhD in biophysics at UC Berkeley studying the immune response to the Herpes virus; and Becky, a massage therapist specializing in eastern practices like acupressure (who met Fred on the previous year’s Black Sheep Adventures epic tour and they have been dating ever since).
Becky is training to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro over New Years 2008. The trip is being organized by Alice Hiatt, who created a non-profit organization called Hope Through Opportunity that will be sending its 5th 40ft container to the Huruma Hospital in Tanzania, East Africa. The money and material items raised by Becky and the climbing team will help the hospital serve the sick, injured, and dying as well as provide for about 400 orphans. To find out more about the effort and what you can do to help, go to Becky’s donation page.After lunch, we head back along the north shore to Kings Beach, where we eat gelato and take naps under the redwoods by the beach.
I receive an extra creamy blessing from a bird that decides to plant one on my forehead. This makes for a lot of laughs, most especially by me. I am disappointed it isn’t messier in the photos. It felt messier, let me tell you.
We briefly consider renting one of the beach/water "tricycles" just so we can claim we've ridden bikes even on our rest day, but the inspiration is fleeting (and pricey).
As the day comes to an end, the crew gathers out in the parking lot to perform some basic maintenance many of us have neglected (like cleaning and re-greasing the chain, dealing with derailleur issues), while we review the next day’s adventure. Each night (and often again at breakfast), Fred leads us through the directions and ride profile so that we can minimize as many navigational challenges as possible. Also, for those not riding (like Bubba’s partner, Judy), it’s an opportunity to check out the hiking options and make plans for when and where to meet up with the Tour staff.
What’s a rest day without a lot of food? So we finish it all off with a community meal at a Tahoe City Mexican joint called the Blue Agave. Fun and festive, we eat heartily knowing that we head higher into the Sierras tomorrow.
DAY 5: Tahoe City to Markleeville (64 miles, 5,100 ft gained, 5,800 ft lost)
Heading south on an extension of the bike path paralleling Highway 89 we skirt the western rim of Lake Tahoe. With the sparkling blue water, moored boats and private beaches sometimes just 10 feet to our left, and under gently undulating path canopied by redwoods, it’s like nowhere I’ve ridden before. By far the most pleasant and easy start we’ve had yet, this is a good re-introduction to the bike after our day of rest.
The climbing eventually starts up again as we near the southern tip of the Tahoe, climbing up above Emerald Lake to an incredible vista that floats above the water. On one side, hundreds of feet below we see Emerald Bay and the expanse of Lake Tahoe, to our right another drop-off to Cascade Lake. Riding on this ridge between the two bodies of water, the road - narrow but wide-open under a blue sky - becomes one of the most awe-inspiring and memorable aspects of the week’s journey. The descent on smooth road with mostly-visible turns is fast and steep – thrilling, to say the least.
Bubba, Jerry (who works for NASA and loves to ride motorcyles, but owns more REAL bikes than a small-town bike shop) and I stop in South Lake Tahoe at a coffee shop and Internet café so I can finalize my negotiations with my new job back in Manhattan at Meredith Corporation, a magazine publisher. Jerry disdainfully rejects his mocha (hello, we are not in Berkeley anymore, Dorothy) and we soon cross the state line into Nevada. My Nevada welcome present comes in the form of a staple through my rear tire, but I've got a spare tube so no big. Of course, I initially put the rear wheel on backwards and wonder why my chain won't catch. I've now admitted it to the world (or that part of the world actually reading this). Don't worry, I got my wits about me and put the wheel on properly.
Heading east on Route 207, we climb out of the congested and casino-laden, high-traffic downtown and begin our climb into the Eastern Sierra Nevada foothills. Fred has warned us that there is some steep climbing ahead made further challenging by the lack of shoulder and activve road construction to come. Fearing we may need a lift in sections where the narrow road would inhibit our switch-backing (Bubba’s “figure 8s”), we are pleasantly surprised to climb without issue and reach Daggett Summit (7,334 feet) unassisted and in great spirits.
After an 8-mile descent lays Carson City, Nevada and a mostly-flat finish into Markleeville after crossing back into California. A shorter day in the saddle of just 64 miles and not too many hours, today’s ride feels to many of us like an extension of the rest day prior (how soon we forget that while climbing to Daggett Summit, it didn’t feel very restful).
Unless you’ve ridden the infamous Death Ride you probably have never visited Markleeville. A town of under 100 households,
founded during the silver-rush in the mid-1800s, it is a one-block town, quaint and far removed from cell and Internet service. What a blessing! We are further rewarded with a trip to Grover Hot Springs State Park, just a few miles from our very lovely cabins at Creekside Lodge.
After soaking in the hot springs (oscillating between the truly-hot tub to the more moderately-warm pool), Fred and Mike usher us back to Markleeville, where many of us gather for a pre-dinner story-telling session in the breezeway between our rooms. We eventually meander all of ten feet to the only restaurant in town, the Wolfcreek Restaurant and Cutthroat Saloon next door to our lodge. Fred’s dad, a former park ranger who lives in nearby Carson City, joins us for dinner and we all shower him with praise for raising such a great kid. Laura loves the mashed potatoes. I have to say, I ate portions of the spuds off multiple plates.
The only downer to this great day is, for me, the discovery that my bike can go no further without serious surgery. The shifters have broken and although Fred valiantly drives it to various far-off mechanics, it needs more attention than we can give it overnight. Before heading to bed, I resolve to turn bike despair into running glory and face the devil of Ebbett’s Pass on foot Friday morning.
DAY 6: Markleeville to Murphys (74 miles, 7,100 ft gained, 10,400 ft lost)
First off, if you haven’t visited Alpine County, add it to your list. According to one website, "Alpine County has no high schools, fast food restaurants, convenience stores, or theaters; no hospitals, no dentists, no resident physicians, no supermarket, no malls, no automobile service stations, and no traffic lights." It has the smallest population of all counties in California and is as gorgeous as its Alpine name would suggest. With snow-covered high peaks for a good half of every year, Alpine County is rugged and remote – an oasis from what many of us face in our day-to-day lives. On Friday, day six, we are going to reach for some of its highest peaks and make our way through Bear Valley (another popular ski community, although much smaller than Tahoe) toward Murphy's.
Today’s plan: head up State Route 4 from Markleeville at 5,550 ft to the top of Ebbett's Pass of Death Ride fame at 8,732 ft. Just a few thousand feet, no big deal, except that we’re already at altitude and we have nineteen miles between here and there. Fortunately for me, this is the only pass I’m climbing today. My cyclist compadres, after a fun descent into Hermit Valley, are continuing on up the even steeper Pacific Grade (which tops out at lower elevation than Ebbett’s, but has a steeper gradient over a shorter distance). Seems to me that by running, I’m getting off easy.
I’m so restless with anticipation of today’s big run I catch only glimpses of sleep, woken from dreams of running with animals and swimming in rivers. A bit of anxiety weighs on me, as well – wondering what I’ve forgotten to plan for, wondering if the ever-aggravating plantar fascitis in my left foot will become debilitating. Anything I haven’t thought of before going to bed, oh well. It’s too early to wake up the crew for Gatorade at 3:30am and, oh yeah, I didn’t think of needing a flashlight.
I grew up in the suburbs of New York City and thought I knew what a summer night in the country meant: the sound of crickets, a starry sky and warm, moist air. A summer night in Alpine County, California is darker, more mysterious and certainly not as warm or moist as I anticipated. Without any street lights within an hour’s drive, at least, it is dark. It’s so dark that I can’t even make out the double yellow down the center of State Route 4. The sound of the creek running to my right keeps me from falling off the side of the road, and as I get within a few feet of the boulders to my left I manage to find a path running against traffic (as if there were any). The sounds of my feet thuck, thuck, thucking (flapping from my heavy footfalls and altitude-ascending effort) drown out the crickets and any other wildlife I might hear. Having seen a bear and its cub in town the evening before, I am reminded that it’s best to make a lot of noise and seem big when encountering such animals. Being that it’s so dark, I am hoping that my thucking footsteps, the sloshing of water in my hydration pack and my labored attempt to sing scare off whomever is out there watching me.
Within a couple of miles, I become lost in my own world and stop singing, stop thinking about the bears or the drop-off. The darkness of the night is a gift, really. I am transported to an inner quiet without conscious thought or effort. My body just moves, and my breathing and running carry on without me. Feelings of gratitude, sadness, joy, doubt, pride all pass through. Prayers for my friend, Marian, who lays dying in Oakland, pass through my mind.
Logistically, my immediate plan is to get as far up the pass as possible before C.I.T. Mike and Judy (heading out for her hike) come driving by. For I know that once they pass me, it’s after 7am and the cyclists will begin heading out from breakfast. I figure it will take me at least three hours to climb to the top, but the cyclists can do it in an hour and a half. I want to reach the top either just before them (so my sweat doesn’t begin to chill me while waiting) or just after them, so that the support crew (Fred and Mike) don’t have to wait for me.
Did I mention I don’t have a watch with me? Yeah, I own this great Suunto Advisor with the standard capabilities like time (what will they think of next?) and stopwatch, but it also has an altimeter with descent and ascent rates, a barometer, compass and heart rate monitor. I forgot to bring a replacement battery and the watch has been dead since day one in Davis. Mike and Judy passing me by in the Jeep Commander will have to serve as my guide.
My second goal is to let my riding partner Bubba know I’m with her all the way, even though we’re not riding together today. The fallen granite at the side of the road serves as an imperfect writing tool to mark up the road like on all great mountain passes cyclists traverse. I estimate that I can give away two ten-minute stops toward writing my encouragement on the road as long as I squat, not bend over. My blood pressure tends to run low as it is, and I don’t need to add the dizzying effect of bending over and standing up repeatedly to my potential for fainting.
After passing the intersection with Highway 89, I know that I’ve gone about 5 miles and it’s still pitch-black, so I must be making decent time. Once light comes, I can afford my first sign-making venture.
As the morning’s dawn begins to light my way, it's time for the first rock-writing session. The writing is harder than I think – both not to keep from getting dizzy and to use the stones as chalk. By the end, my hands are raw, my knees are mottled from leaning on the gravel road and I’m not even sure the "BUBBA” is legible. Oh, well. I tried.*
By the time I begin running again, I slowly regain my stride and soon I can see the faint outline of the white line on the side of the road. Not long after, I can see the towering granite outcroppings, volcanic peaks and giant sequoias pass by. I realize what beauty I am running beside and wonder wistfully what I have missed by heading out so early.
The first car of the day drives by and I notice a sparsely occupied campsite to my right. I pass by a sign marking the 7,000 foot elevation mark and I still feel really good. This is going better than I anticipated! Of course, just when you think that way, the universe bites into your pride and I hit a humbling switchback up which I am tempted to walk. The sun is now above the horizon and I can see the glory of the peaks and woods all around me. Wow. This is incredible. I’m grateful I’m on my feet, going slowly, so I can really enjoy the view.
Fortunately it’s during one of these highs that I hear the Jeep Commander following behind me, which I turn to greet and run up backwards for a few steps smiling and waving. Mike and Judy slow down long enough to see if I need anything (“new legs?” I ask) and for me to ask how far up we are. “About 13 miles,” Mike replies. I’m happy and sad at the same time. Grateful to be almost three quarters done because it means I’m running the pace I had hoped, but sad because it means it will soon be over. I warn them that the next time Mike comes by, as he drives back to the start to support the cyclists, he may find me walking. I say this to give myself permission to walk if necessary, but also as incentive not to walk. I'm a bit crazy that way. Later when Mike drives back down, luckily for my psyche, I'm not walking.
My run has now shifted back into more familiar territory. No longer a solitary, into-the-dark-night-of-the-soul journey, it is now of bright sunlight, hunger and sweat as the miles start to take their toll. My focus becomes less interior and more on how my camelback is rubbing my shoulder and my left foot is throbbing. The miles become more laborious and I start to doubt I’ll make it to the top before the crew arrives.
Just when the questions begin to infiltrate, I pass by a lake to my right and know this is my sign it’s only a mile or two to go. Amazing how this knowledge shifts everything – doubts fade and my legs pick-up pace. I become aware of how far I was leaning forward and regain a more upright posture. My feet shuffle less and actually completely leave the ground at times.
Before I know it, I see the Ebbett’s Pass Summit sign. Wow! That wasn’t bad at all!
Now, if only I knew what time it is. I better get going on that second road sign for Bubba. “Go, Fat Ass!” seems to take forever to write, but it’s on the last climb so I’m sure she’ll be going slowly enough to read it.* I have more time than I think, and since no one has yet come riding up, I head over to a sunny spot to stretch and drink the last of my water. (*Note: I found out later that Wendy did not see either of my signs. Oh, well, it's the thought that counts!)
A few hikers approach me from one of the Pacific Crest Trailheads and inform me it is only 8:15am. I have been at the top for at least fifteen minutes, and I’m not expecting the first rider until 8:30, probably. I made great time, that's the good news. However, I’m already starting to shiver from the sweat on my clothes freezing on my skin. So much for the high-tech wicking fabric I’m wearing.
In time I hear, “hey, Courtenay,” shouted out by an image in the sun that I can’t quite make out but I take to be the voice of Himgan cresting the hill. Yeaaaaaaaah! And good ol’ Bubba is not far behind. We’re usually the last riders on every day, but today we’re happy to be at the front, albeit one of us on foot with a significant head start. As I run behind Wendy to give her a big hug, I misstep in the cattle guard (see photo) and twist my ankle. Great. Himgan heroically picks me up from the side of the road and takes me to a rock outcropping, then carries over a small boulder on which to rest my aching foot. He even wraps my ankle in his arm warmer. Andrea, he's a keeper!
C.I.T. Mike and his high school crew buddy, Chris, pull up and throw some warm fleece and blankets around me, 
ply me with Nutter Butter cookies, Advil and water. Fred, too, arrives with good cheer and praise. Other than the ache of my ankle, I’m thrilled to be with my pals again and, now for the first time all week, have the chance to ride on the other side, participate in the behind-the-scenes efforts of the support crew and photograph everyone while they’re riding. These are the perks of having a bummed bike and ankle…you've got to look on the bright side.
Pacific Grade chews up and spits out a few of our riders on the next and (probably) toughest section of climbing we’d seen all week. My roomie Laura swears she was “going to arrest” while climbing and took away from the experience that “oxygen is overrated.” She survives, they all do. At the top, we enjoy majestic Mosquito Lake (which Fred suggests got that name to scare off all the tourists, as though the high Sierras are ridden with tourists…). Wendy's pal Marc is jolly as usual, the only one not to use an expletive in describing the gradient just conquered. He works for San Francisco's Department of Public Health - you'd think he would be a little jaded. But no, he's just jolly. The n-oyve!
The ride continues to Bear Valley and down into the little town of Murphy’s, which is one of my favorite places to eat ice cream in all of California. You’ve got to eat at the mini-50s-esque Peppermint Stick Ice Cream Parlour on Main Street. More importantly to us Black Sheep Adventures campers, our namesake winery is right in town. I bail to nurse my ankle, but from the looks of it, the gang has a great time tasting the Black Sheep wine and posing in compromising positions with the mascot sheep outside.
I must point out here that some images in this blog were not taken by yours truly, but by the budding photographer and roommate Laura Walpert who likes to claim she takes better images than me. Ha! I think it's all the fairy dust I've left on my camera that she's absorbed.
We finish out our evening, the last one together as a team, with dinner at Firewood followed by more ice cream at the Peppermint Stick. A few of us stay out talking (good to begin getting to know you, Mike!) and enjoying the warm evening while others collapse back in their rooms at the Old Murphy’s Historic Hotel.
And evening cones on the sixth day.
DAY 7: Murphys to Davis (change in plans...you'll see why)
Boy am I glad my bike pooped out on me when I begin following in Fred’s van the final morning of our ride. Crossing the street out of the hotel in Murphy’s, they immediately begin an ascent up a damaged, narrow, winding road. Jackets and arm warmers immediately peel off as the riders twist and turn, rattle and shake their way out of Murphy’s.
A flat tire sidelines Bubba temporarily, while the flies that were supposed to be at Mosquito Lake the day before have flocked to the faces of our riders today. We’re not talking an annoying bug here or there – we’re talking swarms of gnats surrounding their faces, flying in their noses and mouths. I have newfound appreciation for what farm animals put up with day in and day out. Poor, sweet Bambi lay (no, not asleep, Fred) on the side of the road, and at another spot I have to hike up my pants in haste as a local farmer comes out of his house to greet us. It's a nastily hot and sticky day with trouble in many directions...
There is already much cursing and gnashing of teeth on this day, a day that becomes only more wild and hairy as Fred’s fifteen-passenger van falls ill behind the majority of riders at about the fifty-mile mark. It’s only about 100 degrees and AAA takes its sweet time (a few hours) to come to Fred and Sarah's (one of the riders who happens to be near Fred when they go down) aid. A local guy helps tow the van off the road, and, long story short, it turns out a bee has flown into and expired in the van’s air filter, throwing off its electronic sensor. I’m telling you, it’s a wild world out there.
The crew hunkers down at a roadside gas station, huddled in the shade we can find on the asphalt under the front awning. What a site. Us and the bike (as in motorcycle, not spandex-wearing) club and ski-boat towing locals drinking beer and eating watermelon to pass the time.
The proprietor attempts to soothe my aching foot by vigorously rubbing an herbal balm from his country (India) on my ankle, I revert back to icing and whimpering. The "campers" do what any smart cyclists would do - buy beer, peanuts, velveeta and other junk and start playing card games and arm wrestle. Their good humor helps distract me and passes the time rather well.
While the day's ride is cut short by the bee's attack on the van, it is in some ways the most fun for many of the riders. Cards, Coronas and watermellon; nothing to do but get to know each other and make the best of the situation. Fred, Mike and Sarah take care of the van and of us, and the drive back to Berkeley is quiet only in that we're all sad for our trip to come to an end. Until next year, then...thank you all for a great week that went beyond expectation!