Skyline Ramble 200k

Today’s route takes us from the cool, hip, coastal city of Santa Cruz down to the hot, dusty town of Watsonville, then straight up the Santa Cruz Mountains and along the ridge, aptly called Skyline Boulevard, for about 40 miles before dropping down to the Pacific Ocean and glorious Highway 1 back to Santa Cruz. It will be a 125-mile loop and include well over 8,000 feet of climbing. Of course, CycloMonkey was up for it yet slightly concerned since this would be the farthest he’s ever ridden.

Background

The “Skyline Ramble” is a so-called permanent route for randonneurs. That means it can be ridden whenever you like, so long as you make appropriate arrangements with the route’s owner beforehand. August 16 was the chosen date with the assumption that it would be hot in the East Bay and cool on this route – perhaps downright cold along the coast.

Like brevets, a permanent has a specific route with specific checkpoints – called controls – that must be proven with a time stamp (receipt from a local store) within a certain time window. Going too fast is never my problem, but I can’t afford to spend too long at the stops either. In places were civilization is lacking, answering a question may substitute as a control stop albeit without a time stamp. Such is the wrinkle of riding with randonneurs.

Many years ago, I rode the “Tour d’Organics” in the Santa Cruz area. That was a red-letter day because it was over 110 degrees in the East Bay and over 100 degrees in Santa Cruz, itself. It was a brutal ride and afterwards we got news that some older folks who lived in Santa Cruz had died due to the heat (air conditioning is rare in the city). Today was shaping up to be a similar day!

Sage Advice

Never try something new on a long ride. I got a new pair of gloves and a new pair of shoes a few weeks ago. I put a few hundred miles on both, so no worries. I did experiment with how tight my shoes were and had that all dialed in. Except for an odd squeak from my left shoe, everything was perfect.

Hydration would be important, at least for me; stuffed monkeys don’t need any. For humans, hydration starts several days in advance. It’s not just about having water in your belly. It’s about getting every single cell in your body saturated with as much fluid as it can hold. Because during the ride you’ll need those cells to carry nutrients to your aching muscles and you’ll suck every last molecule of fluid back out of those cells. Of course, if you are basically cotton like most stuffed animals, then the goal is anti-hydration – not absorbing sweat from your companion. So CycloMonkey was duly protected in my back pocket. I also wanted to be as light as possible since carrying a few less pounds up that mountain would be appreciated. Fortunately, I had lost the four pounds I had picked up in the past few weeks and still managed to top off my fluids. Surprisingly, even four pounds is noticeable on the climbs.

Departure

I packed my bags, preflight; zero hour – 5am. CycloMonkey did not wake up but he was in my bag full of gear and food (the bag was; CycloMonkey was full of anticipation). We slipped out of Pleasanton in the pre-dawn and surveyed the unremarkable sunrise as we headed toward Santa Cruz. No traffic at this time of the day, so soon enough we parked at the Safeway on the north side of town, nursed the requisite café Americano and suited up for the ride. 7am, time to traverse the length of town and escape out the southern end before the locals awake and the throngs of Silicon Valleyites start rolling over the hill. Peaceful town while it’s sleeping – exaggerated by the silence of the Prius that waited with us at the stoplight by the town clock.

Navigational Errors

I’ll lump all my screw-ups in one paragraph to minimize the drag on the story. (#1) Having ridden in Santa Cruz a handful of times, I turned onto Bonita by rote only to realize I shouldn’t have. After retracing my path and going a half-mile further, I gave the Bonita directions to an Aussie cyclist who was heading to Moss Landing and had missed his turn. Fair enough. (#2) I was using a GPS route for course directions that I exported from Roland Bevan. Up in the mountains where satellites are concealed by trees and canyons, I kept saying out loud, “where are you going, Ro?” as his GPS track darted hither and yon – I assume mine was doing the same. There’s only one road, so I trust it and keep rolling. (#3) I almost overshot Highway 84 but only by a hundred yards or so. (#4) Then I completely missed the Stage Road shortcut at San Gregorio and enjoyed the scenery along Highway 1 with hundreds of cars. I had to back-track to Pescadero. Otherwise, I did reasonably well in the navigational department.

From the Redwood Forest

Temperature Profile

It was barely 60 degrees at 7am when I started. I opted for a base layer, arm warmers but no leg warmers. Not knowing if the weathermen might be completely fooled, I also brought along my vest. Twelve hours from now, the fog might roll in and make the coastal return leg miserable – was not to be. The temps climbed slowly as I went down to Watsonville and then up Eureka Canyon to the top of the hill. I switched from arm warmers to arm coolers. By the time I hit the first clearings in the trees up there, the temperature was mid-80s and dry. CycloMonkey was unfazed. The whole Highland Way – Summit Road – Skyline section of the ride continued to climb both in altitude and temperature. The stretches of clearings got longer and longer and pretty soon we were baking in near-100 degree heat. And just like the elevation profile, once we turned downhill at Highway 84, the temperatures dropped appreciably – which I appreciated! Of course, it was still reasonably warm – back to the mid-80s. Even after 6pm, when we rolled back into the Safeway parking lot, it was still comfortably warm.

Memorable Moments

It’s interesting how the memory works on such a long day. There are no abrupt transitions so everything blurs together. You occasionally realize that hours have gone by. The soundtrack for the day was the last song I heard on the radio: Cheap Trick, Surrender. “Mommy's alright, Daddy's alright, they just seem a little weird” recurring throughout the day as if it were normal. It would drive you insane if you actually heard the same lyrics all day long, but if your mind serves up the song then sanity is secure.

Certain sections that I’d ridden before had been repaved. The pavement up Eureka Canyon to Highland is still dreadful, unfortunately. It’s almost like off-road and I worried about breaking a spoke or worse. I wasn’t completely conscious of the county lines but I assume the differences in pavement quality vary significantly by county and the tax brackets of the inhabitants. The views were amazing from the ridge, except for some haziness which may have been due to the wildfires burning hundreds of miles to the north. There was also aggressive haziness in the form of diesel soot and smoke from a truck along Summit Road – apparently I annoyed him. At times I was aware of the filtered brightness on either side of the road – through the trees were expansive views of mountain valleys, confirming that I was on the ridgeline.

The description and warnings for this route mentioned a well-placed hot dog stand at the Saratoga Gap. And like a parking lot oasis, Mustard Mike was there. CycloMonkey needed something cool and refreshing. Despite the idea that we’d be riding along the ridge at nearly constant elevation, it seemed like there was relentless climbing along Skyline. The profile shows it peaking around Highway 9 but it didn’t feel that way! Knowing these roads are world-famous for cycling, I was surprised by the general lack of cyclists throughout the day. There were a few but except for Woodside, there weren’t many out in the heat. And speaking of Woodside, the crowds of tourists and motorcycles were unbelievable at Alice’s Restaurant and the deli across the street where I ate. Testosterone, unburnt gasoline fumes and unmuffled exhaust – the weekend alter egos of middle-aged men distinguishable only by their destination Harley Davidson T-shirts (Virginia was the farthest away that I saw). Heading down the west side, the traffic on Highway 84 went at pretty much the same speed as me, so they weren’t bothered by the lack of passing opportunities. I should mention how utterly beautiful it was, although I got increasingly blasé about the jaw-dropping scenery. But nature has a way of correcting even the most jaded. Once clear of the trees on Highway 84, the scenery becomes dominated by meadows which lull you into a false sense of drowsiness until you snap to attention at the first sight of the Pacific Ocean. And then the wonderment returns. Such a spell the sea holds over you (and your monkey)!

CycloMonkey at Mustard Mike's

CycloMonkey at Alice's Restaurant

Henry Weinhard's Root Beer

The return route takes some inland roads parallel to Highway 1, which could be in any flyover state – sparse, gently rolling hills with no indication of the vast ocean to the west. We return to the coast briefly until the cruelty of Swanton Road forces me inland up a steep climb. It’s nothing compared to the morning’s climb but after 110 miles I’m in no mood for it. CycloMonkey is always in the mood for climbing, of course, and my legs are actually not screaming. It’s mercifully short and I’m looking for the fire station and the last control stop. Then back to the coast to pass the tiny town of Davenport and then another 45 minutes until Santa Cruz. Davenport was the finishing town for the first day of the Heart Across America ride. Finishing a big ride makes me crave beer so CycloMonkey and I had an ongoing debate about stopping in Davenport for beer. I’m not opposed to having a cold one during a big ride, especially when the remaining miles are relative easy. If Davenport were a control stop, the receipt would have been for beer – but no.

The final miles of a big ride give you a brief bit of renewed energy. Either that or the belief that there’s no reason to save the energy so go ahead and hammer away. With the warm sea breeze at my back and the fresh blacktop, I was rolling about 25mph when I could. The route guidance counted down the miles until the finish and before I knew it, we were at Safeway again. Ah civilization! People buying way too much stuff and leaving their shopping cart in the parking spot instead of the cart corral just 20 feet away. The impressive diversity of the Santa Cruz citizenry. I buy the long-awaited beer. But it will have to wait even longer until I get home – even in Santa Cruz they don’t want people chugging a brew in the parking lot, and imbibing while driving is stupid as well as illegal. So I crank up the air conditioning to keep it cool and head for the highway home.

Return

Lest you think driving home from Santa Cruz is unblogworthy, well, you apparently don’t live around here. Nothing can be worse than traffic over the hill on a super-hot Sunday afternoon or evening. I thought it was going to be okay, just loose traffic and 40mph heading up the hill. But once the sun caused the visors to drop and the road leveled off in anticipation of the downhill turns – brakelights. Stop and go and no more than 15mph for close to an hour. Ugh. Now I can feel my tired, achy legs. Now I can feel the heavy eyelids. Fortunately, my last remaining Clif Bar was a caffeinated Cool Mint Chocolate flavor. It’s not much but it helped. Finally the constipation subsided and 70mph was the norm. 

Home by 8:30pm; beer on ice while I shower. Strava. Catch up on the events of the day with my wife and enjoy my beer. Another 200k in the books.

Recounting the Natchez Trace Parkway

It's good to be home with access to a real computer.  Rather than edit my previous posts with observations in hindsight and in pixels, I'll consolidate them here.  I know you won't go back and re-read the day-by-day, blow-by-blow.  But if you insist, here's your portal:

• Before the start
• Day 1
• Day 2
• Day 3
• Day 4
• Day 5

The pale blue line represents the whole trip, including
the little circles near Gulfport the previous week.

A year ago, "Natchez" was the name of an old-time riverboat on the Mississippi River - that's all I knew. But Greg tipped me about a special road that the Heart Across America ride would take, and I hatched a plan to visit my parents and do this Natchez Trace Parkway. 

I rode the start of the ride back in March (1, 2 and 3) and had a full range of experiences. It was overwhelmingly positive and optimistic and wrapped around the cause. Five days in Mississippi would be completely different.

It was still wrapped around the cause as we took every opportunity to share it with people, but there weren't that many people. Being just the two of us on bikes - and solo at the end of the week - made it quieter, with time for reflection.

The Magnolia State

Southern Mississippi

The actual Trace, a footpath

The city of Natchez was established in 1716, Curtis told us that - they've got an anniversary coming next year. At 300 years old, it is older than most cities in the United States.  Who knew?

Dave heard that the whole Natchez Trace Parkway covers five degrees of latitude. The changes in geography were perceptible as we rode day after day.

The Natchez Trace Parkway is a National Park, roughly 800 feet wide and 444 miles long. The trees on either side of the road are thick enough that you cannot see or hear what may be on the other side until you exit. Sometimes there a county road or state highway with strip malls, gas stations and hospitals.

Overlook from Jeff Busby

Texas and Montana are big states.  Not only do they cover massive area, you can see forever. Mississippi is a relatively big state.  But on the Trace, because of the trees, your sight is limited - making Mississippi a small state. Only on rare occasions did the Trace rise up and offer expansive views. And even then, you can't see from the Trace itself - you need to take a short road to the edge of the park. And if you sprint, you might take the KOM.

Otherwise, the southern third of the Trace offered a canopy of trees to shade and protect us. That was welcome, but it focused our impressions to that of the road and immediate surroundings.

Mid-Mississippi

My bike, with everything I brought stuffed in that pack, looking out from Baker Bluff

Aside from the suburbs of Jackson and the area around Tupelo, the towns are small. The history of the Natchez Trace as a means of travel were constrained to the early 1800s as far as written history is concerned (written by people of European descent). It improved from a trail to a passable road. With the advent of better roads elsewhere and steam power to travel north up the Mississippi River, it became obsolete. The consequence was that no major cities grew.  The towns we stayed in were classic little towns with a court building in the center, surrounded by nearly empty storefronts along the square and then a strip of fast food places nearest to whatever state highway aimed toward the interstate.

Dave and Dennis on the square in Houston, MS

The middle of the the state has slightly more elevation change, but still hardly any hill above 4% grade or 600 feet elevation above sea level. There is a perceptible change in density and type of trees. It's more farmland. But there is still plenty of water: swamps and at least one slough.

Clearly, I recommend that you ride the Natchez Trace, it was a very positive and memorable experience. If you go, don't go alone - it's more fun with friends.  And when you book your rooms, contact Randy from Natchez Trace Travel. Trust me.

Northern Section (Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee)

The Trace runs northeasterly, veering away from the Mississippi River which goes past Memphis. The area near the river is the "delta" where the "delta blues" come from. The Trace, however, finds hilly territory and apparently "hill country blues" originated here.

Like a bad billiard shot, it misses the corner of Mississippi and crosses into Alabama near Muscle Shoals. The spelling is correct, although the intention may be a reference to mussels - Wikipedia is unclear. You'll recall, of course, The Swampers - they've been known to pick a song or two.  The Muscle Shoals Sound (from the recording studio, FAME, founded by The Swampers) influenced Sam Phillips before he started Sun Records.

I only spent an hour or so in Alabama, before I entered Tennessee. But it took me another day and many steep hills to get to Nashville.

Numbers

A personal quirk of mine is a mild obsession with numbers. Strava gives me plenty of fodder - although I have not yet purchased a power meter. (I'm fond of saying "there's always somebody crazier" and those are the people with power meters.) Recently, I upgraded from the Jawbone UP24 to the UP3. It's basically a step counter and a sleep timer. A new feature in the UP3 is a resting heartrate measurement.  While I sleep it checks my pulse and estimates my resting heartrate overnight.

The four dots towards the left are the nights before my trip, 44bpm. The next three are the visit with my parents; I think I needed to adjust to the humidity. The high point of the week (the worst point) was the night before the first ride in Natchez. I attribute that to the two margaritas and two beers - that's more than I usually drink in a whole week. As the week went on, I got better. Thursday and Friday were more strenuous days on the bike which seems counter-intuitive, but that's the data. And the last data point is home sweet home.

Cool, huh?

I didn't weigh myself during the ride.  But by the time I returned home, I had gained five pounds. Considering how much I ate at regular meals, especially once I got to Nashville, it's not surprising. I doubt it was the instant oatmeal for breakfast every day. My body is used to burning this many calories and I'm less concerned about what I eat after a few beers.  And on the flight home, since I gained two hours, I managed to gain an extra meal, too. And that't probably why I gained weight.

I failed in my desire to have catfish or a po' boy (or a catfish po' boy).

The Natchez Trace Parkway is 444 miles; we diverted around a few. Adding in the ingress and egress miles, I logged 469.3 miles overall. Before that, I did 107.5 miles over three days in Gulfport, MS, where my parents live.

In addition to the missed catfish, there were also missed Brewvet opportunities. That's "brew" like in beer, and "vet" like in the French word brevet.  In Gulfport, my hotel was only a couple miles from Mississippi brewing - but it seemed weird to go out for a beer on my bike instead of visiting with my parents. But at the time I thought I'd have plenty of opportunities along the Trace. But aside from a Negra Modelo at Bel Piatto (yes, an Italian restaurant), there were precious few good beer drinking opportunities

If you ever need to prove you know obscure Fisch Facts, mention Dave's "Crazy Ivan" maneuver at the bottom of the hour. Okay, not *exactly* at the bottom of the hour and probably not even once an hour, but Dave gets out of the saddle simply to change his position - even on flat roads. That can be a surprise when you are drafting him. I almost ran into his tire several times.

Grinders Stand (like a motel), where
Meriwether Lewis died
(of Lewis & Clark)

Bridge at Birdsong Hollow

I've become a coffee drinker because of cycling. This was not a good trip for coffee. The hotel rooms tended to have one-cup coffee makers with single-serving packets of "regular" or "decaf" - very descriptive names.  Less than inspiring.  Unlike cycling *outside* of a National Park, there are no coffee shops along the way for that mid-morning recaffeination.

If I think of anything else, I'll edit this and make you read it again!

Heart Across America Day 54 (Natchez Trace Day 4)

Today is a big day for me. I'm combining the Heart Across America ride with a randonneur 200k permanent. That means 60-some miles with Dave, and the comfort of knowing Dennis is back there. And then I keep going until I complete138 miles, unsupported.

This is nothing new for me, but it still causes me a bit of concern. Locals have said the stretch around Tupelo during rush hour is the worst.

The water from the tap was rusty, so I fill up from the filtered tap in the breakfast room. Consolidation begins on my possessions, some things go. The rest needs to fit in my oversized seat bag. I saved enough Skratch Labs drink mix for Friday and put it in a Ziploc bag.  Do you think anyone would question the white powdery substance? Nah. Cheese Danish, instant oatmeal and "bold" coffee for breakfast. Dave's chatting up a couple out in the parking lot. She's got a German accent, he's surprised we aren't crossing the country on bike trails made from abandoned railways. Some guy in an orange T-shirt wandering away from the hospital next door asks us how to get to the gas station that he went to yesterday. Okay, well ...let's ride.

Since I'm doing a randonneur event, I need a timestamp from a place chosen by the organizer (Michelle Williams). Unfortunately in a town like this and the town in Alan Jackson's "Little Man", sometimes even gas stations go out of business. Texaco is gone, but there's an Exxon close enough. Now for worry #1, dogs.

We have several miles of side streets and country roads before the Trace. As soon as Dave mentions the mace he's carrying, I hear barking. It's a Chihuahua, but still. Dave tries to educate me about screaming "AARRU" because it sounds like a dog. Sure, a dog on a bike with tastey ankles. It's total paranoia. We're staring at every run-down home and trailers (profiling, I'm sorry). Then a pack of three dogs come charging from a rather nice home (profile failure). It could have been a hundred, but I was gone. Dave had dropped back and was riding beside the van (white goose). Nice dogs, actually. Mercifully, we reach the Trace.

Life returns to the surreal experience that has us spoiled for the whole week. Perhaps there are flaws, or perhaps we're bored, but I start to point out small dimples and discolorations in the road ...as in previous days. At one of the blur of historic stops about a once-proud native culture, Dennis spots some rather large nail-heads in the van's tire ...bolt-heads, actually - huge. So we send Dennis ahead to Tupelo to get it fixed and run some errands and find us some lunch.

Now Dave and I are alone and unsupported. Dave appreciates this feeling. I'm ambivalent. Along with being navigationally challenged, I quickly forget when the van is back there. I don't have a rearview mirror like Dave and on more than one occasion I've been startled by the van. Life is always interesting for me!

Dave detects a wobbles in his front wheel. A broken spoke. And we're unsupported. Before I thought to photograph the event, he had removed the offending piece, performed some rudimentary failure analysis, adjusted the other spokes to compensate and was ready to roll. I'd still be there.

I'm anxious to read Dave's blog because I thought we rode at a workmanlike pace. With the late start for worry #2, I was pondering worry #3, how long would it take me to finish. 6pm? Certainly well before 8pm. Honestly, I couldn't go much faster and still have enough for 138 miles. Tupelo traffic never materializes.

Around noon, we hit the big visitors'center. Incidentally, there must be a segment that ends near the bathroom instead of the main entrance, because Dave's got a 2015 KOM and I got nuttin' - 15 minutes behind. Dave's blog probably won't mention that I got there first. Anyway, I love that place. Books, maps, pins, giant maps made into the tile floor. But alas, we roll.

Eventually we hear a honk. Dennis is back. Lunch. Dennis got me a Turkey Reuben sandwich - he heard me say that I liked Reubens before I went vegetarian/ pescitarian (except on big bike rides when I'll eat turkey and drink regular Coke.) We are a laugh riot at small-town restaurants with all our quirks. Hopefully, Kenny is normal - my replacement for next week.

Soon Dave's exit arrives while mine is 70 miles further. It's tough. But it's what we had decided to do long ago. I look over my shoulder and watch Dave shrink out of view. Big exhale. Damn, miss him already. Okay, I hope I helped.

These memories will last a lifetime and I'm glad to share them with Dave. Many times, this poem has crossed my mind. Dave knows it by heart, or at least used to - as do I.

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

By John Walter Wayland

Back to part two. I'm tired, I've got no one to draft and I need to make good time. A pair of touring cyclists had passed, so I run them down. Two guys with Adventure Cycling doing the Underground Railroad tour. They're going to Toronto. One is a bluesman with a guitar on his back. (The other is not Ralph Macheo.) We chat until they exit. I pick up the pace again. A bit.

What's this? A hill. I flip my Garmin display to show elevation and rate of incline. 7%, ouch. Screw it, I've stayed in the big ring all week and I'm not downshifting now!

Not much of a descent. And another 7%-er. Where's Dave? Oh yeah, he's showered and having a beer about now. But the scenery has changed. There are rock outcroppings. And very light rain, and it seems darker. I'm feeling okay. It crosses my mind that Don Brennan might be with me. My smile surprises me.

We, I mean I, cross into Alabama. It looks different. There's more climbing, more differentiation. There's the Alabama/Tennessee state line and another historic marker. Now I'm in Tennessee ...seems like I was just in Mississippi.  Now I'm starting to focus solely on the mile markers. Whoa! Opening up before me after a welcome downhill stretch is the Tennessee River. Which means I've got a bridge to cross. Very cool, I thought this might be worry #4 or whatever it's up to. That was refreshing.

Back to the countdown. I'm really tired. My 17-18mph pace is now 15mph. I muster a few historic stops (to eat). I'm checking my water. Another mile marker. I pass a pair of touring cyclists. Wave.

I pass a guy heading south. When I stop to photograph a bridge (really just stopping to give my butt a break), he loops around. He's a local, trying to get back in shape. The Heart Across America story spills out. Time to roll, should be 45 more minutes.

In my focus on mile markers, I miss two things I wanted to see: the stepping stones at Rock Spring, and the Wichahpi Stone Wall. Oh well, nine miles to go. Four. One. Zero, and I'm still going. (No, it's not a navigation problem.) Okay, there it is. And no dogs.

Collingwood, Tennessee, is small. I find the Exxon station I need for my randonneur timestamp. Snickers and a chocolate milk. I ask for directions to Miss Monetta's Country Cottage while I pound down my purchase.

Miss Monetta's Cottages are basically single-family homes on the edge of town ...a B&B. It's awesome. So my bike is in the garage, I've woofed down the complimentary snacks and water and spent way too much time writing this. If I've shorted anything, it's Miss Monetta's. If I've neglected anything for PC reasons, it was dinner.

Summary: my wrists, butt, neck, ankles and every last muscle suffered today. It's been a long week. One more tomorrow. What's it been like for Dave?

Heart Across America Day 53 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 3)

Does anyone remember "if it's blue, this must be Boise", an old TV commercial? This sort of cycling has similarities to business travel: New city, new hotel, unpack just what you need, repack and roll. Most of the time we dispense with the hotel's alarm clock and use our phones. In Natchez, the clock was at some random time so I set it and then carefully set the alarm for 5:45 - specifically AM. But I had set the time 12 hours off. In Clinton, it was perfect. Here in Kosciusko, there was no alarm indicator, but it worked. Regardless, in every city so far, I have woken before the alarm.

I get coffee, banana and a muffin at 6:30. That means I was technically "early" for breakfast. Back to blogging.

I'm not late for breakfast yet, so I'll give you one thought I failed to publish so far. Across the river from Natchez is Ferriday, Louisiana (comment if you think it should be Faraday) - birthplace of Jerry Lee Lewis. Tomorrow, we will pass by Tupelo, Mississippi - the birthplace of Elvis Presley.

After oatmeal with Dennis and Dave, we roll. I'm certain we go left to where we exited from the Trace yesterday and then continue in that direction. Dave's electronic gizmo collection cluttering up his handlebars say the opposite. I'm wrong. Today we have sunshine, so I know east from west. I am not to be trusted. Dave says "68 miles, then we turn right."

To those of you reading Dave's blog as well as mine, I apologize for the lack of photos or video here. Read his first. Or check my Instagram or Strava.  The issue for me is that I'm writing on my phone and attaching photos causes irreparable problems.  Nonetheless, I took some *amazing* photos of swamps and trees and only-in-Mississippi sorts of things! Trust me. I start saying "left in, left out" as a memory tool - so I know which way to go as we exited each stop.

Would you like a glimpse behind the scenes?  Dave's the star, I'm comic relief and partial wind blocker. Dennis drives the grey goose, a Mercedes sprinter van that you've likely seen on earlier photos. The van generally trails anywhere from a few hundred yards behind us, to immediately behind us. When he's close, he's filming us with a hood-mounted Go-Pro. Sometimes, he's miles behind if he spends more time at some historic point of interest.

When we stop, he stops. My water bottle magically gets filled, I can get sunscreen, snacks or wipes for my glasses. I deny most things, being a randonneur, but I'm only human. There's no espresso machine. If Sean Maloney were here, there would be espresso. Once we get close to the finish each day, Dennis drives ahead to go check in.

Today is quite nice. The weather is nearly cloudless and the temps are mostly in the 70s. Cycling perfection.

We stop at the frequent points of interest. We aren't focused on speed at all. We see a line of trees that once represented a territorial border. Similarly, Line Creek marked another border. There are sections of the old Trace - a dirt path through the woods - so we ride on the old Trace. We climb "the wall" - a 6% grade hill that I just named. It's nice to climb. We met two couples from Texas at one stop, chatted, then now meet them again at the next stop!

This is a stop called Jeff Busby. Thomas Jefferson Busby was a congressman in the early 1900s. He's the one who made this National Park a reality. I think it was approved around 1930, but the very last section (ironically, mile zero in Natchez) was completed in 2005. At 603 feet, this is the highest point on the Trace.

It's a campground. At the other end of camp is the scenic overlook where you can almost see Alabama (I made that up, but I posted a photo ...trust me). The drive is paved. And another hill, an actual hill. It's called "Little Mountain" - says so right on the official sign. Dave wimps out and drops to the little ring but I'm out of the saddle feeling my instant oats. I wish I had my single-speed. We are rewarded with a fantastic view!  It's a low, wide valley completely void of civilization. More photos.  Had I pedaled another twenty feet, I probably would have scored a 2015 KOM. As I walk around, Strava tells me I just completed a segment. Hmm. (Editor's note: I checked Strava and my time was about 17 minutes to Dave's 4 minutes ...that's my story.)

Have I mentioned how much I like Dave? He gave me a slice of his cold pizza from last night. If you know me, well, I love cold pizza. Time for a fast descent down Little Mountain.

Alas, no cyclists going our way all day. But we did spot a small peloton heading south. We wave, they reciprocate. Here's a touring cyclists with double panniers. He waves. He 's turning a high cadence. I assume he's on his way to the tip of South America. Maybe not. Now here's a woman who may be on a Trek, but is not on a trek. Is she with the other guy? Do they not really like each other?

I begin to notice a mix of pine and deciduous trees ...maple? And less and less of that wonderful canopy over the road. Now the pavement is no longer sandy colored, but dark grey asphalt - still smooth. Around mile marker 205 we see a sign referring to tornado damage from 2011. It does look more sparse. Are we climbing or are my legs fading?

We notice more heat from the road. It's still nice, maybe 80 degrees. Dave's gizmo central indicates a subtle climb and a long descent. He's being cruel. Yes, a subtle climb. Then four or five bike lengths of descent. I question his sanity and ask politely about the oasis of free-wheeling that never materialized. He says we're at -1%. So I roll a bit at 20mph - like eating sand at a mirage.

And now the cycling gods respond to Carol's prayer and the canopy returns! Life is good. A few more stops for historical markers and we reach the exit for Houston.  For a few minutes, we endure the reality of public roads until our hotel. Nice. Good internet. Clean towels.

After the daily ritual of laundry and showering and recharging the electronics, we find food. No beer - it's a dry county - but good food. The locals seem to find us interesting ...or they fake it well.

Before dinner, we walk around the courthouse square. It's just like Alan Jackson's song "Little Man" ...just a set of streets, ...historic district, ...wouldn't sell beer. We stopped in the Recall pharmacy. My mom worked for years in a little drug store with a fountain. Her name is Elizabeth Jane but she's called Betsy. This drug store has a fountain. We talk to the pharmacist's wife, Jane ...Elizabeth Jane Pearson. Cool.

Oh, the clock comments at the beginning of this post? The clock here wasn't even plugged in.

Heart Across America Day 52 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 2)

The clock in my hotel has three-inch high numbers so I can read it without my glasses. In the three o'clock hour it's raining heavily. As forecast. Back to sleep. It's a gift, I can go back to sleep. 5:45am, the alarm goes off. I'm two minutes late for breakfast ...Dave's finishing his yogurt (no oatmeal).

The forecast was for rain overnight, a respite starting at 7am for a few hours before thunderstorms return. We should roll. But the nice thing about free breakfast (besides being free), is the familial atmosphere. You'd think a couple of guys wearing spandex shorts would repel people, but it doesn't. Carol and Gary fall prey to Dave's charm.

They appear to be retired and currently live in Sarasota, FL. They're going to Portage, MI to see grandson Todd graduate high school. I actually lived in Portage briefly and grew up 10 miles from there. And this may also surprise you, but my name is Todd! By now Carol has spun her chair around. The conversation shifts to the Heart Across America. As with nearly every encounter, they've been affected by heart disease of some sort. Carol already knows about the carotid artery scan from her nursing days. Gary's 97 yr old mom gets her's checked. Dave gives her a card so she can follow our progress. She offers to pray with us, so we all hold hands as she talks.  Her recall is amazing. Of course she remembers *my* name but she's got all the details including Dennis' roll as driver and defender. I see them leave with their cute little Schnauzer, Jessie Jane.

The timing is great for the weather but awful for commute traffic. Unlike yesterday's ride with a couple dozen cars all day, we have dozens at a time queued up behind Dennis in the van. Most are cautious and considerate as they pass. But some take undue risks. With virtually no shoulder, we stay right but oncoming traffic veers to their right and I see one hit the brakes to avoid a passing white pickup truck. The Natchez Trace is a National Park, people! - not a place to play chicken. A few miles of that and we are back to our old personal playground.

The skies are overcast and the roads are still damp. I don't have a fender. I apologize. Dave's bike has a stubby little fender that only protects a portion of his ...um, well, you know. He's not apologetic. And he doesn't need to be because there is no spray to speak of.  We get down to work.

Around mile 20, Dave yells "wabbit" ...a cyclist ahead!  The power ratchets up as we reel him in. The next five miles disappear as we take turns talking to Caleb Snyder. He's the track and field coach at Belhaven College in Ridgeland, out for a quick out-and-back before going to work. Interesting guy.

By now we're more than a third of the way and haven't taken a break. Oh sure, little historical turn-offs appeared every other mile yesterday. We give up waiting and pull off onto the grassy shoulder. I look for snakes. Can't be too safe. I call my randonneur friend, Michelle Williams. She writes the Crooked Letter Cycling blog and is the hub of cycling in this part of the Magnolia State. Caleb knows who she is... Nice. Just so friendly. Wish we had more time.

Espresso Gu since Sean Maloney isn't here to have a double and we're off again.  I must have joked about our average speed dropping below 19mph, because Dave's down on the drops and I'm playing catch-up. Fine, my turn. Oh yeah? We roll past an scenic stop. Peripherally, I see a wooden walk-bridge. So I get my reprieve from hammertown and we turn around. It's like a Louisiana bayou. Oooh, even better, we see people!

Reversing roles, I start chatting while Dave goes to take pictures. Mind you, Dave's camera has a two-foot long boom with a bike attached. Before long I know Linda and Donny Studnick's (or Studnička, it's Czech) life story. Donny is living with 100% blockage of one of his carotid arteries; the other is perfectly clear so surgery was not recommended. He drives. They laugh about the occasional wrong turn - not related to the carotid. Another joke about trying to focus the auto-focus camera. I love these two! And I'm thinking "you're going from Nebraska to Oklahoma City, and you're in Mississippi ...heading south?"

I gave them my card; hopefully they get to read this.  Send us a copy of that photo. (Unless it's blurry!)

Okay, hit resume on the cruise control. (You can hit the fast-forward button.) Wait, what's that in the road? It's sorta moving. It's a turtle. I suppose that says something about the traffic volume, he's almost all the way across. Dave nudges him. He clams up. Sorry, bad metaphor. I try to pick him up gently. I don't really know what happened but he startled me enough that I never really picked him up. Now he's shell-sided down and peeing like a racehorse. Fortunately, it's going the other way. I assume it a defense mechanism. He stops and I right-side him. He's okay now ...off the road, in the grass.

Resume cruising speed. "Dave! Did you see that snake?" Continuing to make questionable choices with nature, we loop back. About three feet long and as big around as your fist. Dave says he's alive. I regret this with every fiber of my being. I thought his head was smashed, but he's eating something that's already smashed. Morbidly fascinating. Perhaps cannibalistic, I think he's eating a snake! It's hard to tell from my safe position behind Dave. He asks if I want to take a closer look. I turn my bike around and leave. I don't like snakes.

Another uneventful 15 miles and we're in Kosciusko. Apparently there are several acceptable pronunciations - some taking great liberty with the actual order of the letters. I think Costco is one of them. My favorite is Cozy Couscous (I made that up).  I shouldn't joke; this is serious.  It's named for a Revolutionary War general from Poland named Tadeusz Kościuszko.  Before that it was called Red Bud Springs. It's part of the Mississippi Blues Trail, which I've noticed signs for throughout this trip.

Significantly, Oprah Winfrey was born here. (See how I gave her her own paragraph?)

It's barely noon and we hammered out 75 miles, hoping to avoid thunderstorms. We did. And now we are hungry. Dave wants pasta. Since he can easily make me suffer at speeds slightly over 23 mph, I am motivated to make Dave happy. Actually, I'm the only one who noticed the Italian restaurant. As we start to order, the waiter can't quite follow Dave's question. Now I can't, because Dave's switched to Spanish. Now we're getting special beer "from the back" ...not on the regular menu. I love Dave. And it's not just the beer talking.

Check Dave's version of the story, it might be different. Perhaps neither is accurate.

Heart Across America Day 51 (Natchez Trace Pkwy Day 1)

Canal Street in downtown Natchez runs along the mighty Mississippi River. I can see it from my third-floor hotel window. Even from a distance, you can see the strength of the current. It's heading to the Gulf of Mexico. We're heading north.

It's been 49 days since I rode with the Heart Across America. I should be fresh, they should be tired. It's appropriate that we're next to a bridge over the river, because there has been a lot of water under it since Day 1. The toll has been documented, but Dave looks great. Second wind, tail wind, whatever wind ...he's strong and very much in tune with what his body needs to achieve this continental goal. I'm literally along for the ride. After I drop off my rental car.

In 1809, the first stage coach was able to navigate the Trace. Of course, for thousands of years, the Choctaw and Chickasee and their ancestors used the Trace. Now, with GPS and carbon fiber bikes on skinny tires, we do the same.

We have a local cyclist, Curtis Moroney, to guide us out of town. Curtis is more than a local cyclist, he's a former racer and state champion and current go-to guy for all things cycling related in Natchez. He's a native Natcheezian. We met him last night and hung out at his house swapping cycling stories - I have no doubt several of them were true. This morning he's got to go into the office so he does an out-and-back to the 10-mile marker.

At least one car passed us, maybe two but no more in the first ten miles. We rode three abreast most of the way. He told more stories ...history, cycling friends, markers for local rides and races. It was really a pleasure to have him join us. He had a beautiful old Tommasini bike. Dave and I were subtly geeking out over it.

If all dogs go to heaven, then all bikes should do the Trace. Slowly undulating hills, barely perceptible at 3% or 4%, kept us exerting and relaxing. The road surface was as smooth as a billiard table with a sandy colored chip seal that only a National Park could have. Boringly perfect, we started pointing out imperfections as if they were road hazards. And we started sprinting for bridges (my fault) - I was winning until I told Dave what I was doing! Then I had to fake an unclipped pedal to save my ego. We stopped that, of course, with 60 miles to go.

The trees made a canopy and occasionally opened up inexplicably for a verdant meadow or grand oak tree. We stopped a few times for sights and food, but basically we just rolled on. As we approached the Sunken Trace, the skies opened up for a welcome rain. The thick, heavy drops came and went soon enough so we didn't need rain gear. For a few miles, fenders would have been welcome but riding side by side was fine. We talked the hours away and spent some time in comfortable silence.

Around mile 30 or 40, we saw cyclists. And more cyclists. Apparent touring cyclists on hybrid bikes mostly with street clothes (and one winter jacket). We waved, they waved. They seemed to be enjoying themselves on an easy ride.

I just can't tell you what a wonderful road this is. I can see how it might get boring, especially solo. But the lack of traffic, of turns, of any uncertainty, made it very serene.  There was plenty of time for reflection. Time for talk of family and how we miss them. Time to recharge, as if a 90 mile day could actually afford that.

Any bike ride has it's moments of concern. What's that noise? Did I feel a twinge? Heartrate, cadence, vibrations, weather, bonking ...the constant survey. Not much today. There was a noise, though. Not from our bikes. Distant. Like a train, no, like a subway train. Like a constant high-pitched note. Cicadas. Billions of them. Turned up to 11, Nigel. In some areas you could hear them distinctly, deafening. At mile 88 they almost completely shut off, or at least down an octave.

That's when we reached Clinton, on the outskirts of Jackson (the capitol).  Motto: You Belong Here.  Yes, from time to time, I heard Johnny and June singing "I'm going to Jackson..." Now, I'm gonna look around.

(Also read: http://heartacrossamerica.blogspot.in/2015/05/day-51-natchez-to-clinton-mississipi.html?m=1)

My Head's in Mississippi

I planned this trip months ago. When the Heart Across America crew first announced their cross-country bike route, I knew I wanted to ride somehow. One of my commute buddies, Greg, mentioned they would be riding a road in the southeast that is special for cyclists. I looked it up and immediately knew I wanted to ride it: the Natchez Trace Parkway.

It helped that it wasn't too far from my parents' house. And it was even better that they would come through on Mother's Day. So that's the plan: Mother's Day in Mississippi, then ride the Trace with the Heart Across America.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

It was 49 degrees when I woke up. Cold. In a few days I'll be longing for cool temps and low humidity. I had disassembled my bike and packed it the night before. My wife drove me to the BART station. The train took me to Oakland and a shuttle conveniently to OAK airport. Bike checked, tall Americano and I'm waiting to board.

I'm not one to talk to strangers, but I was compelled by the guy across from me. We exchanged small talk about West Coast Conference basketball and intern opportunities for psych majors. He was Marley Biyondolo, sophomore guard for Pepperdine University. He's from Australia. Nice kid.

Tracing to the Trace

In March, the Heart Across America crew left from Palo Alto, CA. Many of my friends joined Sean Maloney to kick off this great event. The camaraderie was fantastic, the scenery was awe inspiring and the optimism was high. I rode for a few days and then turned for home while a smaller group headed down the coast for San Diego. My flight from Oakland connects in San Diego.

From there, my flight takes me over the path they took in April. When I booked the trip, I was confident that they would stay on schedule. The schedule is in tact, but it's nothing like what anyone imagined. It's not an easy ride but no one expected tradegy. Read Dave's blog.

Smell the Humidity

Touch down in New Orleans, pick up my bike and now it's off to Gulfport to see my mom and dad for a few days.

It's late, so I grab some fried pickles and margarita pizza at Chili's. I order a Samuel Adams and they bring me two ...it's happy hour.  I stare at Strava for awhile to pick a route for the morning.  The Best Western has clean towels, comfortable beds and free wi-fi. And an in-room coffee maker.

5:15am, the alarm goes off. Need to roll before dawn to beat the heat. Except near the highway, there's not much traffic. Several dogs were up, though, and they wanted to chase. Within half an hour the humidity fogged my glasses! I managed to stay on course, not get lost and make it back in time for the free breakfast. And I was awarded with a KOM somehow. Okay, there were only seven riders on that segment's all-time list but still - a KOM is a KOM.

It was nice to visit with my parents again. It's been too long. I spent several days riding at dawn (top 10s, but no more KOMs), visiting, slowing down, nearly off the grid, going to bed early.

Clever Insights

I'll spare you the family minutia and offer my thoughts on riding in Mississippi. No one else was out riding, as far as I could see. Forensic Strava data shows they're here, but not many of them. Most seem to be triathletes and many segments were TT loops. Strava needs a sprinter award because "KOM" implies a mountain or at least a hill. Not here. There was an occasional depression near a bayou or creek and a fractional-percentage climb afterwards. 100 feet of climbing per 10 miles is typical - no way to hit the 100 feet per mile metric we seek back home.

There's hardly any shoulder, but drivers gave me the whole lane when passing. Some just trailed me for miles until they could pass. Either they were in no hurry (highly likely) or my high-viz kit created a spectacle (equally likely). Given the TT segments, I pushed a big gear all the time. Not much free-wheeling. The strangest thing was the cloudy glasses. It was so humid that they fogged up and wouldn't clear. I'm sure that my aero tuck was negated by the glasses halfway down my nose ...gramps can't see. Which also meant that I nearly had to stop to read street signs. Probably cost me another KOM (kidding).

No gators. Don't laugh! The aforementioned dog chases were my biggest concern. For those of you keeping score, there were more opossum than armadillo carcasses. No snakes (they have poisonous water snakes here).  Jim Stafford sang, "Black water Hattie lived back in the swamps where the strange green reptiles crawl, snakes hang thick off cypress trees like sausage on a smokehouse wall." Over and over in my head. The downside of solo cycling - song lyrics on endless loop.

Plot Twist

Finally, I had a cyclist sighting. Saturday at breakfast, after my ride, after my shower. By the way, hotel breakfast buffet consists of cheesy scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, sausage and mini cinnamon rolls. A few of the people were super thin, the rest took multiple plates if you know what I mean. Back to my cyclists. Full baby blue TREK kits; not the lean muscular types. From across the room I could detect an accent (anyone seen "Legally Blonde - the Musical? ...gay or European?). I interrupted them. Sweden! Riding cross-country from San Diego to Florida, a few more days to go. Cool. I shared my Natchez Trace plan and the shortest version of the Heart Across America story. Ya, good.

Cliche, perhaps, but I did laundry at my parents' house. Now it's time to go to Natchez.

Lean Legs & Ham 200k Permanent – Through the Eyes of History

On Saturday, 10 of my friends met me at Safeway to ride up Mount Hamilton. This particular route is a “Permanent” in Randonneur terms – meaning that it is a specified and approved route with certain checkpoints and time limits. The receipt for my cup of Americano from the Starbucks inside Safeway served as my initial check-in at 0700 hours.

Strava Map of My Ride

Dublin Boulevard runs east and west through Dublin, right along Interstate 580. Long before 580 was built, this was the Lincoln Highway. The Lincoln Highway was effectively “The Main Street Across America.” It was built in 1922 and actually pre-dates the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. – making it the first memorial to President Lincoln. Ironically for the eleven of us dodging traffic, it was the result of “The Good Roads Movement” which was initiated by cyclists in the early 1900s to promote pavement (instead of dirt roads, which automobiles seemed to tolerate). Back when most people rode bikes and only the wealthy owned automobiles. Some of the landmarks to the old highway are the F. H. Duarte “Highway Garage” on Portola Avenue in Livermore, the Summit Garage on Altamont Pass Road and the Mountain House Café.

The old highway follows Dublin Boulevard, then swings over to Dublin Canyon Road while we stay on Dublin Boulevard up to Schaefer Ranch, then we rejoin it on a fast descent to Palo Verde Road where an innocent sign marks its place in history. If you are curious, see the interactive map.

If the twentieth century seems rather recent for you, consider Castro Valley as the route heads up Palomares Canyon. Castro Valley is named after Don Guillermo Castro (not Donald, but “Don” as in the Amador Valley Dons, the University of San Francisco Dons, or the Godfather himself, Don Corleone). Castro was a soldier in the Mexican army and a rancher. The area was initially inhabited by the Ohlone Native Americans, then part of Mission San Jose and then granted to Castro (Rancho San Lorenzo). According to Wikipedia, Castro had a gambling habit and had to sell of portions of his land to pay gambling debts. On this cold morning, no one discusses this as we climb up the steep side and then sail down the other side to Niles Canyon.

Niles Canyon, of course, is a narrow little road with barely any shoulder for cyclists. In certain sections, train tracks run on either side. The popular rails are used by freight trains and the Altamont Commuter Express (ACE) train that many of us use to commute to work in Silicon Valley. The lesser used rail belongs to the ages. This was an extension of the First Transcontinental Railroad. Yes history buffs, this was connected to the Golden Spike at Promontory Summit in Utah where the Union and Central Pacific Railroads met shortly after the Civil War. It did for train travel what the Lincoln Highway did for automobile travel after it. But it does nothing for this band of cyclists. However, it does give us a little train station and a porta-potty where we stop and then pick up a few more riders.

After a short break, 14 of us roll past the town’s statue of its most famous mayor, Bosco the dog, and then the Corinthian-style Sunol Water Temple. For many of us, the next segment is familiar as our twice-weekly commute (when we are not on ACE), and hence the pace quickens to the surprise of the newcomers. Consciously slowing, conserving for the hundred miles and 10,000 feet of climbing remaining, we head past Ohlone Regional Park and up the hill. Down below us to the south is Calaveras Reservoir, an earthen dam. At its completion in 1925, it was the largest earth-filled dam in the world. Right now, the water is low to facilitate repair (technically, I think it is actually a full replacement). Signs warn of construction. The end date on the sign has a different font, reflecting the numerous extensions to completion date – currently slated for 2018. Local cyclists refer to this section as “the rollers” which end at “the wall”. Along the way, we join even more of our friends who had left Sunol slightly before us. Disconnected from the transcontinental history beneath our wheels, we talk of our friends and loved ones currently on a transcontinental ride called Heart Across America.

Atop the wall, some of our party turn back, some turn right and the rest proceed left - up the steep section of Felter Road, around to the backside of Sierra Road. Thanks to the Tour of California, Sierra Road is world famous. And we've all climbed it. But today, we are taking the easy way. Descending. Not to say that such a descent is easy, it certainly has risks and tight corners and distractingly breathtaking views of Silicon Valley and San Francisco Bay. The speed is forgotten at the bottom as we wait in vain for an interminable left turn light. Talk turns to those devices that are designed to help cyclists trigger the inductive sensor controlling the lights.

Soon enough we reach the title track of this ride, Mount Hamilton Road. The Spanish name for Mt. Hamilton was the Sierra de Santa Isabel and the highest point was originally known as Mount Isabel instead of Mount Hamilton. But on a surveying expedition for Josiah Whitney (of Mount Whitney fame), William Brewer invited his friend, Laurentine Hamilton to join. Near the summit, Hamilton - as a joke - ran ahead and pretended to lay claim to the summit. Brewer suggested the mountain be named after Hamilton only after Whitney declined to have the mountain named after him. But we are getting ahead of ourselves - and of our fellow riders.

First, we need to climb. The road was built in 1875–76 at a steady grade of less than 6.5%, sufficient to allow horse-drawn wagons to carry materials and equipment up the mountain for the observatory. The road rises over 4,000 feet in three long climbs. According to Wikipedia, the road has 365 curves, one for each day of the year. This may be true, depending on your definition of the term "curve." We didn't count them.

Lick Observatory is visible from most anywhere in Silicon Valley and is named for James Lick. Lick was not an astronomer; he was a carpenter and a piano maker. Apparently, in the years before California’s statehood, you could make a lot of money as a piano maker. Lick moved to California in 1848 and bought property in San Francisco. He convinced his friend from Peru to move also, Domingo Ghirardelli, who started a little chocolate factory that you may have heard of. The following year gold was discovered in them thar hills. Timing is everything. In 1874 he suffered a massive stroke. At the time he was the wealthiest man in California and he set about dispersing his wealth before he died in 1876. He had an interest in science and bequeathed the money for the observatory that we were slowly climbing toward. One stipulation was that Santa Clara County build a first-class road for it, and we are thankful. Somewhere at the base of one of the telescopes is a brass tablet stating: Here lies the body of James Lick.

After taking in the sweeping views, refilling our water bottles and snacking from the vending machines, we head down the back side of the mountain. SR130 becomes San Antonio Valley Road and is a white-knuckle ride downhill. It’s important to have plenty of water because there is precious little civilization out there. There is a community called San Antonio Valley (also San Antonio or San Antone) but I've never seen it. The 1956 Thomas Brothers map spells it San Antone – the way it is pronounced by locals, apparently (assuming they exist). In 1776, Anza and his explorers called the area El Cañada de San Vicente. The U.S. Postal Service established a Deforest Post Office in the area during 1892. It closed in 1909. Another 1924 map calls a group of buildings along San Antonio Creek, Deforest. The name comes from Ransford S. Deforest, the first Postmaster in the community.

In recent times, there has been talk of running a freeway through the area. The main proponent was former United States Representative Richard Pombo, the committee chairman and owner of extensive Central Valley property near the proposed freeway's path. The freeway plan has been quietly abandoned after Congressman Pombo failed in his reelection bid in 2006.

Blissfully unaware, we arrived at The Junction for a late lunch. I’m sure it has a rich history. But I am blissfully unaware.

With full bellies and low motivation, we start climbing again on Mines Road, heading toward Livermore. Large numbers are painted on the road, counting down the miles. As you might expect, this area had been a popular mining area. There are 87 mines listed online. Mineral deposits in the Red Mountain area of the San Antone Valley had been known since the 1870s and 1880s. Prospectors had located cinnabar (mercury), chrome and magnesite deposits. But it was not until the 1890s with the development of the steel industry that the magnesite deposits could be made to pay. The 1890s were heady times, trust me.

Local mines were opened approximately 14 miles south of Livermore off Mines Road, near a roadhouse aptly called the Fourteen Mile House. I think about this as we pass the number 14 painted on Mines Road, but I don’t mention it. Today, you can imagine that it would be difficult to transport minerals along this road. Imagine what it was like back then! The undeveloped nature of Mines Road up the Mocho meant that ore could only be brought down by pack mule. By this point, we are descending so the attractiveness of a pack mule has faded from my mind. Drafting at 30mph will do that to you.

During the 1920s and 1930s, mines were closed and then reopened. There was an upswing in activity during World War II with the need for domestic magnesite in the war industry (the Germans were the primary source beforehand), but after the war production dropped. By 1954 the mines were closed.

We spent some time on Tesla Road. I would love to devote many pages to Nikola Tesla, but this post is already too long. And I've always wanted to say that this is left as an exercise for the reader.

The city of Livermore is named for Robert Livermore, the rancher who was granted the Rancho Las Positas land. He was a Mexican citizen who converted to Catholicism in 1823 as required for citizenship. But he did not live there or found the city. He died in 1858 and is buried at Mission San Jose. Livermore was founded in 1869 by William Mendenhall. Cyclists and teenagers know of Mendenhall Road on top of the hill near Del Valle.

1896 Cycler's Map

In the 1890s, the roads through Livermore were some of the best roads between San Francisco and the Central Valley. And cycling was one of the main modes of transportation as it seems to be on Mines Road on this afternoon. See the 1896 Cycler’s Map and its key.

For a brief time, the east end of Livermore was not Livermore on the map. In 1864, a squatter appeared near what is now Junction Avenue. Alphonso Ladd planned to start a community called Laddsville. But fire destroyed most of it in 1871 and it was never rebuilt, the townspeople moving a half-mile down the road to Livermore. But the band of cyclists now reduced to a couple groups of three or four do not turn onto Junction Ave. We also do not venture down East Avenue, where bicycle races were held in the 1890s on the so-called “Lizzie Street course” (S. Livermore Ave.). Of note, the 1895 world record for the “paced” mile was set by Wilbur Edwards on this course with a time of 1:34⅟₂ minutes (38.5mph) on the hard-pack dirt roads. We coast down 4th street at a much slower speed. Then Stanley, Valley and Hopyard on our way back to the Lincoln Highway – I mean Dublin Boulevard.